Client Privilege (13 page)

“It said, ‘Assault with intent.’”

“What does that mean?”

Suzie picked up her fork and poked at her scallops. “Usually, that means with intent to rape.”

“What was the disposition?”

“No process to issue,” she said. “Nothing happened.”

“Did the form indicate why?”

“The box that was checked said, ‘At request of complainant.’”

“Karen Lavoie changed her mind.”

Suzie nodded. “Yes.”

I took a bite of my haddock while I tried to digest all of this. The fish was a bit overcooked. The information didn’t settle that well, either. I squeezed some lemon onto the haddock. “So you photocopied this form and gave it to Churchill?”

She nodded. “Yes. Then I put the original back where it belonged. And the next thing I knew, Wayne had been murdered. Maybe it had something to do with that form and maybe not. But ever since then I’ve been petrified that someone would find that photocopy and wonder where it came from. I mean, sooner or later someone’s gonna tell the police that Wayne and I were seeing each other. So when I heard you were in talking about this Karen Lavoie, whose name was on that complaint application, and Sarah said you were an attorney, I knew I had to talk to you. I mean, I was about ready to burst. I had to talk to somebody.”

“You know who Chester Y. Popowski is, don’t you?”

“Sure. He’s the Superior Court judge. Look, Mr. Coyne. There was no process to issue on that complaint. And it was seventeen years ago. I can’t see what good it was to Wayne.”

I did. But I wasn’t going to tell her. “Nothing, I’m sure. One more thing. Did you, by any chance, give your friend the judge’s home phone number?”

She looked down at her hands and nodded. “All the judges have unlisted home phones,” she mumbled. “The secretaries know ’em.”

“Jesus, Suzie.”

She looked up at me. “I know. That’s another thing. I feel like such a fool. I just didn’t think—”

“No. You didn’t think.” She appeared to be on the verge of tears. I’m a sucker for a teary woman. I reached across the table and took her hand. “What’s done is done,” I said. “You’re not a criminal.”

“I feel like a criminal, believe me.”

“Suzie,” I said, “I want to ask you a question.”

She looked up at me. “Yeah, okay.”

“I heard that Wayne did coke.”

She lowered her head. “What difference does it make?”

“It could make a great deal of difference.”

She nodded, still staring at the table in front of her. “Yes, I see that.” She sighed. “Sure. Wayne did coke. Nothing, you know, out of control. I mean, lots of people…”

“Where did he get it?”

Her head jerked up. “Why?”

“Do you know where he bought it?”

She shrugged. “How should I know?”

“He might’ve mentioned it to you.”

“He didn’t. I don’t know. Look, Mr. Coyne. I’m kinda upset about that other thing. Really, just because Wayne and I might’ve done a line now and then doesn’t make us big criminals or something.”

“Actually,” I said, “it does.”

“You’re not gonna…?”

I smiled at her. “Don’t worry. You’ve retained me. I can’t say anything.”

“Okay. Good.” She ran her fingers through her hair. It seemed to compose her. “Well, you’ve made me feel a little better, Mr. Coyne. I just hope those police…”

“Look,” I said. “If anybody should try to question you about that photocopy, don’t tell them anything. Just call me, okay? I will serve as your lawyer if you need one.”

She smiled. Dazzlingly. “Thank you. That’s what I needed to hear. How much trouble am I in, do you think?”

I shook my head. “At worst, you used poor judgment. There’ve been a lot worse things done than what you did.”

“Boy,” she said, “I’ll say. Somebody killed Wayne, just for one thing.”

They sure did, I thought.

“Mr. Coyne?”

“What, Suzie?”

“Helen?”

“The gossip. Yes.”

“Well, she was talking, you know, and she mentioned something. About Karen Lavoie?”

“What was it?”

“She said that a couple times just before she quit, Karen came to work with like bruises on her face? And wearing long sleeves and high necks, as if she was trying to cover up her skin?”

“Now look, Suzie—”

“I was thinking, you know, that complaint? I mean, assault?”

“Forget it, Suzie.”

She shrugged. “I mean, if Wayne knew about that…”

I wasn’t sure what she was thinking. But I had my own thoughts. Because now I knew that Pops had lied to me. And now the conclusion I had rejected became more convincing. He had more to hide than an innocent affair a long time ago. He had a motive for murder.

And there was nobody I could tell.

J
ULIE HAS LEARNED OVER
the years not to schedule me for anything important on Fridays. Hanging the
GONE FISHIN’
sign on the door on Friday is one of the most important perks of being a lone-wolf attorney. During the season I usually do go fishing on Fridays. Except when I play golf. Four days a week at the office is plenty.

Occasionally I am obliged to do unpleasant things on Friday. Like appear in court. I have learned, however, that judges, like lawyers, like to go fishing on Friday too. It’s rare that I can’t at least get the afternoon off.

Julie doesn’t like it. Julie worries that I don’t take my practice seriously enough, that I won’t, as she puts it, “generate sufficient income” to support the life-style I have chosen. As a result, she works a full day on Friday to compensate for my sloth.

Julie generates lots of income for both of us.

So when she walked into the office at nine the next morning, she looked me up and down and said, “Going fishing, huh?”

I was wearing a pair of corduroys, a green flannel shirt out of the L.L. Bean catalog, and my comfortable old pair of cowboy boots.

“In a manner of speaking, yes, I’m going fishing,” I said.

“Mrs. Covington is anxious to see you, you know.”

“You can, I’m certain, soothe her savage and ample breast.”

Julie sighed. “You’re the boss.”

“Who are you kidding?”

She grinned. “I’ll schedule her for next week.”

“Need me for anything else?”

She rolled her eyes. “You have a nice day, Brady. You planning to go sit on the ice somewhere with Mr. McDevitt or Dr. Adams, drinking bourbon and waiting for those little flags to pop up?”

I shook my head. “No, nothing so exotic. I’m going to Medford.”

“How exciting.”

“You can do one thing for me. If I bring you a cup of coffee, one sugar, no cream, will you see if you can get directions to Centralia Street for me?”

“Centralia Street in Medford?”

“Please.”

“I suppose this isn’t a client or something.”

“Well,” I said, “it’s not exactly a vacation trip, but no, it’s not, strictly speaking, business either.”

She shrugged. “Go get my Java.”

I went to the coffee urn. She went to her desk. In a moment she was deep in conversation on the telephone. I placed her mug in front of her and she looked up, smiled, and blew me a kiss. I placed both hands flat on my chest and feigned a swoon. Then I poured some coffee for myself and went into my inner office. Before I had finished my first cigarette, Julie came in. She put a piece of paper in front of me. It told me how to get to Centralia Street.

“It’s not actually very central to anything,” she said.

I looked it over. Pretty straightforward. I stubbed out my cigarette, took a final slurp of my coffee, and got up. “How do you do things like this?” I said.

“Like what? Getting directions?”

“Yes.”

“The good old NYNEX Yellow Pages. I called a real estate agency in Medford and asked. They told me.”

“I could’ve done that.”

She patted my arm. “Sure you could,” she said.

I retrieved my parka from the coatrack and descended through the building to my car.

Julie’s directions confused me a little at an intersection outside of Medford Square. When I realized I had taken a wrong turn, I pulled over and reread what she had written. She had it right. I had misread it.

Mounds of dirty old snow covered the sidewalks along Centralia Street. Empty trash barrels stood in clusters at the ends of short driveways. Cars were lined solidly on the right side of the street. Winter parking regulations were in effect. The houses were large, square, and old. They were crammed close to each other, separated only by the driveways. Multi-family, most of them, with a pair of front doors side by side. Porches jutted off the fronts of all of them, some screened, some open. Most of the porches were cluttered with bicycles and toys and brown Christmas trees.

I found the street number that the telephone directory had given for John W. Lavoie. I parked on the wrong side of the street, locked the car, and mounted the porch. There were two doors, and two bells by each door. A four-family. John W. Lavoie and his wife, the parents of the elusive Karen Lavoie, lived on the bottom floor of the left side. I rang the bell.

After a minute or so the door opened. “Yes?” said the man who stood there.

He was small, compact, perhaps sixty. He was wearing a red plaid shirt buttoned right up to his throat and tucked into a sharply creased pair of brown wool pants. His sparse white hair was slicked back on his skull. His face was pink from a recent shave, and he wore plastic-framed glasses.

“Mr. Lavoie?” I said.

He nodded. “Yes. That’s right.” His voice was soft, almost apologetic.

“I wonder if I might talk with you for a minute.”

He peered at me through his glasses. His pale blue eyes were magnified through them. “Are you selling something? My wife handles all that.”

“My name is Coyne, sir. I’m a lawyer.”

He frowned. “A lawyer?”

I gave him my best, most reassuring smile. “I need to talk to your daughter.”

“Karen doesn’t live here. She was married some time ago.”

I nodded. “I know. But—”

A woman appeared behind the man. Her long black hair was just beginning to go gray, and she had fine cheekbones and clear, pale eyes. Only the complex cross-hatching of lines on her face betrayed her age. “Who is it, John?” she said, frowning past his shoulder at me. She was a few inches taller than her husband.

He turned to her. “It’s, um—” He looked back at me. “I’m sorry…”

“Brady Coyne,” I said to her. “We spoke on the phone.”

She frowned for an instant, then smiled. She touched her husband on the shoulder. “Well, for heaven’s sake, John, invite the gentleman in. You’re letting out all the heat.” She smiled at me. “Come in out of the cold, sir.”

John W. Lavoie opened the door wide for me, and I stepped into a small foyer. To the right a flight of stairs led up to the second floor. I blew into my hands. “Chilly out there. Thank you.”

“Let me take your coat,” said Mrs. Lavoie.

I slipped out of my parka and handed it to her. She carried it with her into the living room and laid it carefully on a chair. I followed her. Her husband came in behind me.

“Please, have a seat,” she said. “May I get you some coffee?”

I nodded. “Please.”

“How do you like it?”

“Just black.”

She disappeared through a doorway that opened into a dining room. Beyond that, I assumed, lay the kitchen.

The living room was large. Several oversize windows looked out onto the street and to the side of the house next door. Venetian blinds had been folded up to let in the daylight. The furniture was old and threadbare and decorated with crocheted yellowing antimacassars. A twenty-four-inch television squatted in one corner. All of the furniture was aimed at it. Several framed color pictures sat on top of it. The largest and fanciest frame displayed a bride and groom. The bride had dark hair and the same cheekbones I had seen on Mrs. Lavoie. She looked very young and, aside from those cheekbones, quite plain. The groom was a big blond guy. He looked bulky in his tuxedo. He had a large, meandering nose and a wide expressive mouth.

Karen Lavoie, in her wedding picture, looked grim. Her husband looked frightened.

There were a half-dozen or so other photos atop the TV. All were of a child in varying states of growing up. All seemed to be of the sort one gets at bargain prices by standing in line in a K mart on a Saturday morning. The child was of the male persuasion. Fair like his father as an infant, but in what appeared to be his most recent photo he had grown into a dark and brooding adolescent. I could almost hear him complaining about being dragged to K mart to stand in line with a bunch of squalling infants to be photographed. The photo failed to hide the acne pits on his cheeks.

The only other decoration in the room was a framed painting of Jesus Christ hanging from the cross. Beams of light played from behind His emaciated body. Crimson streaks of blood dribbled down His arms. A dried palm frond had been stuck behind the picture.

The room was tidy and clean. I was struck by the complete absence of reading matter. Just a copy of
TV Guide
along with the photos on top of the television console.

I sat on one of the soft chairs. John Lavoie settled on the sofa diagonally across from me. “I’m sorry to barge in on you like this,” I said to him.

He smiled softly and waved his hand. “It’s no problem. It makes her happy.” He jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen. “She’d invite Jack the Ripper in for coffee,” he added with an impish grin.

“I hope you can help me,” I said, wondering if he had equated me with a mass murderer.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t quite catch your name?”

“Coyne. Brady Coyne.” I took a business card from my wallet and handed it to him. He glanced at it and dropped it onto the coffee table in front of the sofa. I reached toward him with my hand extended. He took it and we shook.

“John Lavoie,” he said, nodding as if to reassure himself.

“If you could just tell me how I could reach your daughter…”

“What’s your business with Karen?”

“It’s a legal matter.”

“Has she done something wrong?” He frowned. “Is Karen in trouble?”

“Oh, no. I have a client who she knew several years ago. There’s a possibility that she can help him.”