Seventh Enemy (14 page)

“I’ll he here till six or so.”

“Okay.”

He hung up without saying good-bye. Horowitz wasn’t big on formalities.

I stared at the stack of remaining paperwork on my desk. It failed to inspire me. I looked up the number for the Boston legislative office of the senior senator from Massachusetts. A chipper young woman answered. “Senator Kennedy’s office. May I help you?”

“I don’t suppose I could talk to the senator,” I said.

“He’s in Washington, sir. If you could tell me what it’s about…”

“Well, it’s sort of personal. Not political or legislative or anything like that.”

“The senator’s office checks in with us every day,” she said. “If you want to leave a message, I’ll see that they get it.”

“Well, okay,” I said. I cleared my throat. “Perhaps the senator is aware that he’s number four on the enemies list of the Second Amendment For Ever. That’s the New England gun lobby. I just wanted to alert him to the fact that the man listed number one has been shot, and—”

“Can I have your name and phone number, sir?”

“Sure.” I gave them to her.

“Thank you. As you were saying?”

“Well, Walt Kinnick—that’s SAFE’s enemy number one—he was shot over the weekend. Not killed, but badly hurt. And I just figured that the senator should be, um, aware of it.”

“An assassination attempt? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I guess so. Yes.”

“I’ll see that the senator’s office gets the message. Mr. Coyne. Thank you.”

I called the junior senator’s office and conveyed the same message to the enthusiastic young man who answered. He, too, thanked me.

The rest of my fellow enemies, except for Wilson Bailey way down at number ten, were out-of-state politicians. I decided I’d done my good deed for the day and didn’t call them.

I sighed and reached for my stack of paperwork.

I was moving semicolons around on a will when Julie buzzed me. “Alexandria Shaw on line one,” she said.

“Who?”

“The reporter. Brady.”

“Oh, right. Okay.” I poked the blinking red button on my telephone console and said. “Brady Coyne.”

“Mr. Coyne, it’s Alex Shaw from the
Globe
.”

“Sure. Hi.

“I’d like another interview. Can we set something up?”

“Boy, I don’t know. I’ve been away, and—”

“I heard about Walt Kinnick. I know he’s in Mass General. I know you were there when it happened.”

“You must be a helluva reporter,” I said. There’s at least one state police lieutenant who didn’t know that.”

“I am,” she said. “I’m a terrific reporter. Look. I think there’s an important story here, Mr. Coyne.”

I hesitated for a moment, then said, “I do, too.”

“I’ll buy you a drink.”

“One?”

“Sure. Then you can buy me one.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “Where and when?”

“You know Papa Razzi on Dartmouth Street?”

“Italian, right?”

She laughed. “Good for you. Six-thirty okay?”

“Six-thirty’s fine. And Ms. Shaw?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t expect too much from me.

“I understand. You’re a lawyer. I never expect much from lawyers, Mr. Coyne.”

I dictated some letters to Julie. The state trooper arrived right after she left at five. I gave him the plastic bag containing the three spent rifle cartridges I had found in the woods near Wally’s cabin and told him that I had not handled two of them so they might get fingerprints off them.

He nodded quickly and said, “Thank you, sir,” by which I figured he meant, “We know our job, dummy.”

After he left I tried to call Charlie, but he had already left the office.

No one answered at Doc Adams’s house.

I stirred legal papers around on top of my desk. After the events of the weekend, practicing law felt frivolous and make-believe. It felt—well, it felt like
practicing,
and I had trouble concentrating on it. I alternated glancing at my watch and swiveling my chair around to gaze out the window behind my desk. The slanting late afternoon sun glowed against the brick buildings and reflected gold on the glass, and I mourned another precious day in May that had been sacrificed to the ungrateful gods of Earning a Living.

On the Deerfield, trout would be eating insects off the surface of the water.

Wally Kinnick lay in a hospital bed, bristling with plastic tubes.

I was willing to bet that somebody, somewhere, was plotting another assassination.

At six-twenty I switched on the answering machine, locked up, and strolled over to Dartmouth Street. I tried to remember what Alexandria Shaw looked like. All I could remember was big round glasses perched low on her nose and her habit of poking at them with her forefinger.

And her legs. She had good legs. I knew better than to remark on them. But I remembered them.

VERY
GOOD LEGS, IN
fact. Smooth, tanned, shapely legs.

The Monday after-work crowd was sparse at Papa Razzi’s Trattoria, and I spotted Alexandria Shaw’s legs astride a barstool. She was wearing a blue and green print dress. It had ridden up several inches above her knees. She was holding a cigarette in one hand and a whiskey sour glass in the other. I took the empty stool beside her. “This wasn’t taken, I hope,” I said.

She turned and smiled at me. “Saving it for you. Had to fight off about a hundred hunky guys.” She put her cigarette into an ashtray and held her hand out to me. “Thanks for coming.”

I took her hand. “I rarely turn down a free drink,” I said. She wasn’t wearing her big round glasses. Her eyes were the same blue-green color as her dress. They were widely spaced and tilted slightly upward at the corners. She had high, pronounced cheekbones.

She smiled. “You’re staring at me.”

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” I said. “You’re not wearing your glasses.”

“The magic of contact lenses.”

“I didn’t know you were beautiful.”

She shrugged. “Beauty usually gets in the way.”

I pondered that one. With me, apparently, she did not expect her beauty to get in the way.

The bartender came over and took a cursory swipe in front of me with his rag. “Sir?”

“Bourbon old-fashioned, on the rocks. And another sour for the lady.”

“I want to hear all about your adventures,” she said.

I remembered my strained Sunday night phone conversation with Gloria. Gloria hadn’t wanted to hear anything about my adventures.

Alex Shaw is a reporter, I reminded myself. Not an ex-wife.

“I imagine you do,” I said.

She smiled.

“I’m not sure I trust you,” I said.

“You’re a lawyer, Mr. Coyne. You’re not expected to trust anybody I’ll bet you can take care of yourself.”

“And you’re a reporter, undoubtedly skilled at dealing with people who think they can take care of themselves.”

She smiled in an obvious burlesque of seductiveness, lifting her chin and drooping her eyelids. Then she laughed and crossed her eyes. “You’re an eyewitness to a murder attempt,” she said. “I’ve already got the facts of the story. But I want…” She shook her head. “There’s a
real
story here. I don’t know if you can help or not.”

Our drinks arrived. We clicked glasses. We sipped. She took out a cigarette. I held my Zippo for her. She steadied my hand with hers, dipped her cigarette into the flame, and looked up at me through the smoke she exhaled. I had the sense that Alex Shaw was accustomed to getting men to tell her things, regardless of how well they thought they could take care of themselves.

I snapped the lighter shut and dropped it onto the bar. “What are you trying to do?”

“Interview a source.”

“Why didn’t you wear your glasses?”

She shrugged.

“You’re not going to, um, try to seduce me into saying something I don’t want to say, are you?”

“Seduce? Oh. my.”

I smiled.

“Make it Alex, okay?”

“Sure. And I’m Mr. Coyne. Fair?”

She rolled her eyes. “Fair.”

“Tell me, Alex,” I said. “What’s your angle?”

“Angle, Mr. Coyne, sir?”

“On gun control. On the Second Amendment For Ever. Are you trying to make a case?”

“A case?” She snorted. “Lawyers make cases. Reporters make stories. I want to know what happens, and why it happens, and who’s responsible for it happening, and where it happens, and when. That’s it. The story. Gun control? I could give a shit. Honestly. I’m reporter, not a columnist. SAFE? Hey, if they make stories, I love ’em.”

“Fill up your space.”

“Right,” she said. “Survival of the vulgarest.”

“Well, you’re probably wasting your time with me.”

“I seriously doubt it,” she said. “Look. Can’t we just relax, have a couple drinks, and talk? Like friends? How could that be a waste of time?”

“I don’t know anything,” I said.

“In that case, you certainly can relax.”

I sipped my drink. “I didn’t really see anything,” I said. “I was inside when I heard the shots. So I—”

“How many shots?

“I’m not sure. Four or five, maybe. There was one, then a pause, then several in rapid succession. Anyway, I ran outside and we found Wally on the ground in the woods. He’d been hit in the stomach. It looked bad. There was a lot of blood. I really thought he was going to die. Diana ran back in and—”

“Diana?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Who’s Diana?”

“Goddess of the hunt. Nobody. Forget it.”

She shrugged. “Okay. Continue.”

“That’s it, really. The ambulance came, they took Wally to the hospital in North Adams. He made it through the surgery and now he’s in Mass General. It looks like he’s going to be okay.”

“You didn’t see who did it?”

“No.”

“Did Kinnick?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did the police say?”

“To me? Nothing. The sheriff interviewed us. He was clearly going through the motions. He wanted it to be a hunting accident. It’s spring turkey season. Popular sport in the Berkshires.”

“Who’s the sheriff?”

“Guy named Mason. Fenwick, that’s the town.”

“Hunting accident, you said?”

I shrugged.

“You don’t believe that, do you?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“They hunt turkeys with shotguns, Wally was shot with a rifle.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I found some empty cartridges.”

“Do you have them?”

I shook my head. “I turned them over to the authorities.”

“That sheriff?”

“No. The state police.”

“But they don’t have jurisdiction.

“No. Not unless…”

“Unless Kinnick dies.” she finished.

“Right.”

“So what
do
you believe, Mr. Coyne, sir?”

I spread my hands. “It seems obvious.”

“Somebody from SAFE, huh?”

“It could be,” I said. “That’s what I think, but I guess it could be anybody. Someone like Wally, a public figure and all—who knows what nutcakes out there think he’s a bad guy?”

“You’re both on that enemies’ list of theirs.”

I touched her wrist. “Look,” I said. “You’ve already got your story. I haven’t told you anything you don’t already know, or suspect. Am I right?”

“You haven’t told me anything. Right.”

“I mean, that business about the rifle cartridges…”

“What rifle cartridges?” She smiled.

“Exactly,” I said. “So when you write your story, there’s no reason why I should appear in it.”

Her free hand touched mine where it lay on her wrist. She leaned toward me. “Listen, Mr. Coyne. If I’ve got the chance to interview the victim of an assassination attempt before he’s assassinated, it would make one helluva story. Don’t you agree?”

I took back my hand and used it to pick up my drink. “One helluva story, indeed,” I said. I took a sip. “Maybe you wondered why I agreed to meet with you.”

She smiled. “You wanted to see what I looked like without my glasses.”

“Actually, I didn’t know you were ever without them,” I said. “No, I just decided that if it
was
some whacko from SAFE…”

“A big newspaper story might get the organization to crack down on its membership.”

I nodded. “Something like that, I guess. And it would alert any potential, um, targets.”

She tilted her head and gazed at me solemnly. “There seems to be one target who’s already alert. Maybe even a little frightened.”

“He might not actually admit it,” I said. “But it could be true. And you might as well make it Brady, I guess.”

She smiled.

“And if you want to talk some more,” I said, “maybe we ought to get a table and have some dinner.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” she said. “I live just around the corner, on Marlborough Street. Why don’t I make something for us?”

“Yeah?”

“Sure.”

“You really know how to treat a source,” I said.

Her apartment was hallway down the Berkeley-Clarendon block, on the third floor. Tall windows admitted the sun’s soft setting afterglow into her living room. Both side walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. There was a big sofa with a patchwork quilt rumpled on top of it, a pair of unmatched leather chairs, a coffee table piled with newspapers and mugs and ashtrays. In the corner stood a scarred cherry dining table with a typewriter and stacks of books on it.

Terri Fiori and Sylvie Szabo, my former loves, both kept messy apartments, I remembered. Hell. I kept a messy apartment. And Alexandria Shaw’s place was messy.

Gloria, my ex-wife, kept a decidedly unmessy home.

There was probably something significant in that.

A stereo system had its own table by the front windows. Alex flicked it on. Somebody was playing the saxophone. It could have been Stan Getz.

She took my hand and led me into the kitchen. She waved at a cabinet. “Booze,” she said. “Help yourself. I want to liberate myself from panty hose.”

I found a bottle of Old Grand-Dad, a glass, and a tray of ice cubes in a freezer that needed defrosting. I made a drink and took it back to the living room so I could study her library.

It was a random collection, randomly organized. I found nothing on the subject of fly fishing. The closest thing was a paperback entitled
Breeding Tropical Fish.
I took it to the front window and stood there looking at the pictures and sipping my drink.