Authors: Jeremiah Healy
I tried Nancy at the DA’s office. The secretary told me Ms. Meagher was still on trial in the conspiracy case. She also told me that Ms. Meagher had left word that seven-thirty at my place for take-out Szechuan or Thai would be quite acceptable. I thanked the secretary and let her know that seven-thirty sounded fine to me.
Directory Assistance helped me find Defense Resource Management out in the 508 area code. I asked the first voice that answered for the office of the general counsel and the second voice for Anna-Pia Antonelli.
“May I tell Ms. Antonelli who’s calling?”
“John Cuddy.”
“And will she know what this is regarding?”
“Maybe. If not, tell her it’s regarding Steven Shea.”
The voice lost a little of its professional resiliency as I was told to please hold. I timed the passage of eight seconds before a firm female voice came across the line.
“Is this Mr. Cuddy?”
“It is.”
“Gil Lacouture of Augusta told me you might be contacting us. Have you seen Steven?”
“Yes.”
“How is he doing?”
You can never really gauge things over the telephone, but it sounded as though Antonelli was more interested than polite.
I said, “He’s holding up well. A little pale, probably lost some weight, but I’d be worried if he hadn’t.”
A pause. “Thank you for saying that. I take it this call is toward a meeting?”
“The sooner the better.”
“Should I come to you, or would you like to come out here?”
“Out there, I think. I’d like to see a couple of other DRM people as well.”
Another pause. When the voice came back on, it was carefully bland. “Any ones in particular?”
“Yes. Dwight Schoonmaker and Tyrone Xavier.”
“I’ll try to set something up for tomorrow afternoon. Mr. Davison won’t be back from Houston till then.”
“Davison?”
“Keck Davison is our president.”
Nice to be in demand. “Office politics aside, I want to spend some real time with Schoonmaker and Xavier.”
“Anything we can do to prepare for you?”
“Shea said his secretary was a memory.”
“Yes. She’s off around the world somewhere.”
“Then I guess that’s it for now. Can you call me to confirm the time tomorrow?”
“Yes. And I’ll give you my direct dial here to save you the trouble of going through insulating layers to reach me.”
Antonelli said the last lightly, not arrogantly. We exchanged numbers and rang off.
“Calem Police, Sergeant Dwyer.”
“Paul O’Boy in Detectives.”
“Wait one.”
I heard some electronic burping, then a voice that brought back another case, a case he and I had managed to botch together.
“Detectives, O’Boy speaking.”
“This is John Cuddy.”
“Cuddy … Cuddy?—Oh, shit. Now what?”
“Thought I might come out to see you tomorrow.”
“How come?”
“I’m working on a case, like to talk to you about it.”
“Don’t tell me. Three of our citizens with arrows through them.”
“That’s the one.”
“Cuddy, you ain’t exactly
persona grata
around here, you know?”
“That’s why I need to talk to you.”
Some paper shuffling came over the wire. “Awright, awright. I guess we kinda owe you one.”
“How about I buy you breakfast?”
“Next town over, there’s a Hojo’s on 128.”
“I can picture it.”
“Eight o’clock okay?”
“See you then, O’Boy.”
More paper shuffling. “I’ll be counting the hours.”
“Claims Investigation, Mullen.”
“Harry, John Cuddy.”
“John! How you doing?”
“I’m okay. How about you?”
“Jeez, fine, fine. Thanks to you.”
I’d had a chance to close a case in a way that saved Harry his job when those around him were losing theirs.
Mullen’s voice suddenly grew cautious. “Uh, what can I do for you, John?”
“A little favor.”
“Sure, sure.” He sounded more “maybe, maybe.”
I said, “The name Sandra Newberg mean anything to you?”
“Newberg? You mean—the woman from Accounting who got herself killed up in Canada there?”
“Maine, Harry.”
“Maine, Canada, same difference. What’s that got to do with you?”
I told him.
Mullen’s voice became more cautious. “What do you want from me?”
“A rundown. Very quiet. Anything from her time at Empire that might tell me why what happened happened.”
“Jeez, John. I don’t know. …”
“Harry.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to help you out. It’s just, well, it’s gonna be awkward. Most everything’s getting folded up around here, and most everybody’s blown to the four winds.”
“Except for you, Harry.”
He got my drift. “Gimme a coupla days, okay?”
“The sooner the better.”
“Soon as I can, John.”
“Thanks. And take care, Harry.”
After some other telephone calls, I drove to the condo on Beacon Street. Leaving the Prelude in the parking space that backs onto Fairfield Street, I walked around to the front entrance on Beacon. From the stoop you can just see a pie-wedge of the Charles River and, on the Cambridge side, the academic buildings stolidly constructed by MIT in the forties and the speculative buildings hastily thrown up by developers in the eighties.
At home, Ed McMahon had sent another cheery package, but there was no important mail or message. The sun was coming in through the seven stained-glass windows in the living room, reflecting off the polished oak-front fireplace and the pink Italian tiles someone had lovingly grouted around the hearth a hundred years ago. I suddenly had a pang. When the doctor came back from the Midwest, I was going to miss the place.
I shook it off and climbed out of my business clothes and into my running clothes. Given the weather, just shorts, T-shirt, socks, and shoes. Before going out the door, I set a bottle of chardonnay on its side in the freezer.
I went downstairs and then across the half block of Fairfield with its private parking spaces shadowed by the two buildings flanking it. I used the ramp over Storrow Drive to get onto the river’s macadam paths. The BU kids and sewer crew were gone, but the construction and noise and dirt weren’t. I began to wish I’d brought my jogging stuff to Maine.
Back at the condo, I changed shirts, moved the chardonnay down to the refrigerator compartment, and went over to the Nautilus club I’d joined. Elie the manager and I hadn’t seen each other for a while, him catching me up on his scuba diving and photography, me telling him what I could about what I’d been doing.
I did a full circuit of the machines, double sets on some and triple sets on the stomach one. Elie walked past me during the third set, saying, “Big date tonight, huh,” just quietly enough for nobody else to hear it.
About twenty minutes later, Elie let me use the club phone to call The King and I restaurant up the street. Finishing my workout and warm-down, I picked up the food just as it was coming out of the kitchen.
Which gave me all of half an hour to clean up before Nancy arrived.
She said, “Something smells awfully good.”
“Spring rolls, honeyed pork with mushrooms, and pad Thai.” I opened the door wide so Nancy could come past me into the condo. She was wearing a gray suit, plain white blouse, black-toned pantyhose, and one-inch black heels.
Battle dress.
Nancy said, “Somebody try to poke your eye out?”
“Black fly bite. The welt will go away in about a week, I’m told.”
Her eyes moved. “Your hair’s still wet.”
“I just got out of the shower.”
She dropped a briefcase onto the rug in the foyer. The case sounded heavily loaded. “Pity I wasn’t a few minutes early.”
As Nancy reached her arms up for a hug, that faint, sweet pong of perfumed sweat came off her. Didn’t hurt the hug, though.
She let go first. “I need a shower, too.”
“Already laid out a towel and facecloth for you.”
Nancy arched an eyebrow and subtly shot a hip sideways. “Want to join me?”
“Pity you weren’t a few minutes early.”
She dropped the pose. “Quoted against myself again.”
“Tough day?”
“There’ve been worse.”
“I have another bottle of chardonnay in the fridge.”
“No more than two glasses for me tonight. I have to be on for tomorrow.”
“Come visit in the kitchen when you’re finished in the bathroom.”
Five minutes later, I pulled the components of our dinner from the microwave and spooned them into serving bowls. Nancy had changed into one of my rugby shirts, which covered her like a short dress, sleeves bunched up to the elbow to free her hands for food. We helped ourselves and carried our plates into the living room, sitting on the floor, backs against the couch, dishes on my landlord’s coffee table. I poured us each some wine, and we clinked glasses.
She sniffed hers. “A delicate bouquet with an overlay of oak in the rounded nose.”
I doodled with an index finger on her thigh. “I think it’s an impertinent little beauty with just a hint of vanilla and great legs.”
“You’re making me feel better.”
“Want to talk about your day?”
“Not tonight. Other than the insects, how was Maine?”
As we ate, I told her about the case, the way I usually couldn’t because of her potential conflict of interest as a prosecutor. I sort of skimmed over Cinny, as part of Lacouture’s own conflict, but there was a change in Nancy’s expression as soon as I mentioned her.
“This Cinny. She bear any resemblance to Daisy Mae?”
“Just physically.”
“Cute.”
“Seriously, Nance, you should see this part of Maine. It’s so fresh and clean.”
“Sounds like a new soap.”
“No, really. Animals, wilderness, lakes. It’s like you remember it being not so far from here in the old days.”
“Maybe your old days, John.”
I set my knife and fork on my empty plate. “It’s the kind of place, you see it, you want to spend more time in it.”
Taking the last of her wine, Nancy looked startled. “What, do you mean like … live there?”
“Crossed my mind.”
“John, you’re a city boy.”
“So were the folks in wagon trains.”
“You’d be bored to tears in a week!”
“Never know till I tried.”
She moved her hand over our dishes. “You sample any of the restaurants up there?”
“Just the one at the inn, and it was terrific.”
“How about Augusta?”
“They had restaurants there.”
“Papa Gino’s, Burger King …”
I couldn’t keep back a smile. “Kentucky Fried was prominent, too.”
“Oh, well. That makes all the difference in the world.”
“So, you’d argue against it, huh?”
“In my usual style.”
“Which is?”
“Tongue in cheek.”
Nancy took both my hands, guiding them up and under the rugby shirt as she leaned in for a kiss.
I
GOT TO THE
Howard Johnson’s before Paul O’Boy.
Even at eight
A.M.
I had my choice of seats. I slid into a booth with fake cowhide the same shade as my waitress’s garnet uniform. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, with pouches under the eyes that suggested her day had started a lot earlier than mine. The nametag read DOLLY, a silly little hat bobby-pinned into a wave in her hair. Something about the hat made you think she wore the hair that way only on the job. I ordered iced tea and said I was waiting for somebody else. The information didn’t seem to boost her spirits any.
My iced tea arrived at the table as Paul O’Boy came through the door. Stumpy in build, he was wearing a blue polyester sport coat and clashing green slacks, carrying a scuffed briefcase he might have used as a book bag in fifth grade. The face looked roughed over, like the sculptor hadn’t liked the first try but didn’t have time to finish the second. O’Boy still had a few wisps of hair in the center of his head, though you’d have to see the fringe of red around his ears to be sure of the color. Either way, he’d never be able to wear Dolly’s hat.
“Hey, Cuddy, how you doing?”
I shook with him but didn’t get up.
Our waitress came over and said, “Coffee?”
O’Boy looked at her, smiled idiotically, and said, “Dolly, you vouch for the decaf?”
She grinned in spite of how tired I thought she felt. “Not even to Saddam Hussein.”
“Then bring me regular, black. I’ll make it up somewheres today.”
“You got it. By the way, sausage looks good this morning.”
O’Boy said, “I ate here every day, my doctor’d have my coronary for me.”
Dolly laughed. Both of us ordered, and she moved off toward the kitchen as he put his briefcase under the table-top and took the bench seat opposite me.
Thinking how O’Boy had wanted to meet outside his turf, I said, “You know her?”
“Never saw her before in my life.”
“She’ll remember you.”
“You talk to people, use their first names, Cuddy. Something I learned from my partner in uniforms, the guy who broke me in. You use a first name, it defuses a lot.”
“What did it defuse here?”
“Dolly there, she’s going to remember me as a nice guy, salesman type, not a cop. You she won’t remember from Adam.”
On our case together, O’Boy had that ability some cops develop to seem dense while not missing a trick. I had a feeling he hadn’t missed many lately.
After some more small talk, O’Boy loosened a tie made from the same material as his jacket. “So, what do you need from me?”
“Like I told you on the phone, I’m looking into The Foursome murders up in Maine.”
“And you figure that since the people were from Calem, we ran courtesy checks on them for the cops up there.”
“I figure more than that.”
He crossed his arms, elbows leaning on the Formica. “Like what, for instance?”
“I figure you’ve run down all the folks from Calem, living and dead, who might be involved in this, avoid a backfire later that looks bad in the papers.”
O’Boy started to say something, then stopped as Dolly brought us our food with the widest grin yet. She served him first, O’Boy thanking her for the recommendation on the sausage as soon as he tasted it. She spun on her heel a little as she left us again for the kitchen.