Seventh Enemy (17 page)

Senator Marlon Swift and I did share membership in a different, even more exclusive, club: the SAFE Top Ten Enemies’ club. It gave me a fraternal feeling for the senator. So I would endure the oppressive leather furniture polished by generations of wealthy Republican WASP backsides, the mahogany woodwork stained dark from a century of Cuban cigar smoke, the dusty martinis and the baked finnan haddie served by murmuring old butlers in full livery, and all the dour old bankers and brokers reading their
Wall Street Journals
at the Commonwealth Club to meet with Brother Swift.

When I told Julie I had an audience with Senator Swift at the Commonwealth Club, she arched her eyebrows and said, “Well, la-dee-da.”

That’s about how I felt about it.

I
’D AGREED TO MEET
the senator at six, but I waited until six-fifteen to lock up the office for the ten-minute stroll over to the Commonwealth Club. It’s not my habit to be late for appointments. Julie thinks it’s important to keep people waiting, on the theory, probably sound, that it puts them at a psychological disadvantage. I sometimes defer to her judgment, but I don’t agree with it. It’s a game. I don’t like to think of my law practice as a game.

But in the case of my engagement with Senator Marlon Swift, I wanted him to be there when I arrived, because I didn’t feel like having to wait for him. I didn’t know if he subscribed to the same theory Julie did. In my experience, the more important a man thinks he is, the more likely he is to play the keep-’em-waiting game.

Politicians generally think they’re pretty important.

A small brass plate over the doorbell read “The Commonwealth Club.” Elegantly understated. I pressed the buzzer. A shriveled-up little man with sharp blue eyes pulled open the door a moment later. He was wearing a tuxedo that hung a little loosely on him. He appeared to be at least eighty years old. “Sir?” he said, looking me up and down.

“Brady Coyne,” I said. “Senator Swift is expecting me.”

“Of course.”

He stood aside for me. I walked into the foyer, which was as big as my entire apartment. White Italian marble, dark wood wainscoting, textured wallpaper, massive oil portraits, brass sconces, and a crystal chandelier.

I looked around appreciatively. “Pretty nice,” I said to the old guy.

His eyes twinkled, but all he said was, “Yes, sir. Right this way, please.”

I figured the butler lived in a triple-decker in Southie and had been taking the T over here to his job every day for the past fifty years. If he answered the door, he sure as hell wasn’t a member. Probably an Irish Democrat. I wanted to ask him about himself, but he had already begun to lead me through the foyer and into the spacious sitting area.

Leather furniture, dark woodwork, subdued lighting, exactly as I had imagined. Some of the chairs were occupied with men smoking and drinking and studying newspapers. Television sets glowed silently here and there, tuned to a cable channel that flashed Dow Jones numbers. What conversation I heard was soft and conspiratorial.

On the back wall a large window with tiny panes overlooked a small courtyard. Senator Marlon Swift sat in a leather chair gazing out at the tidy gardens.

“Senator?” said the butler.

He looked up, saw me. and pushed himself to his feet. “Mr. Coyne,” he said, extending his hand. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. What will you drink?”

I shook his hand. I was tempted to ask for a Bud, no glass necessary, but decided I had no reason to offend. “Jack Daniels on the rocks, please,” I said.

The old butler made a tiny bow and left. The senator gestured to the chair opposite his. I sat, and he did, too. “Another beautiful spring day,” he said.

I smiled and nodded.

“Sox are off to a good start this year.”

“Yes,” I said.

“How’s Walt doing?”

“He seems to be out of danger. It was touch and go for a while.”

He nodded. “Good. Nice guy, Walt. I’ve fished with him, you know. His friend Ms. West worked with me on some legislation a while back. His testimony last week was courageous. Didn’t really surprise me, though. Walt’s a straight shooter.” Swift glanced at me and grinned. “Poor figure of speech, I guess.”

I smiled and waited.

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He was, I guessed, about my age. He didn’t look particularly senatorial. His sandy hair was thinning on top, and he wore dark-rimmed glasses. He was a little shorter than me, on the thin side. “Um, Brady,” he began. “Can I call you Brady?”

“Sure.”

He grinned shyly “My friends call me Chip.”

“Okay”

“This is difficult,” he said.

I shrugged and waited.

“I live in Marshfield, and—oh, thank you, Albert.”

The old butler set my drink on the table beside me. I looked up at him. “Thanks,” I said.

“Sir?” he said to Swift.

“Not now, thanks.”

After Albeit had slid away the senator leaned back in his chair and stared out the window. Without looking at me, he said, “You and I have some mutual friends, Brady. They speak highly of you. They say you’re a man of your word. You can be trusted.”

I said nothing.

“Discreet,” he said. “That’s the word they all use. ‘Brady Coyne is discreet,’ they tell me.”

“I’m also a pretty good lawyer.”

“Um.” He turned his head. “They say that, too. Brady, I want to share something with you.”

“And you want me to give you my word that I won’t tell anybody what you’re going to tell me.”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“You’re not my client, Senator. Privilege is not operative.”

“I know. Your word is good enough.”

“I think I know what you’re going to tell me,” I said. “You’re putting me on the spot.”

He shrugged. “I understand that. My choice is not to tell you. I just figure that you’re the one person who can use what I have to say—”

“Without involving you,” I finished.

“That’s it.”

“Okay.” I nodded. “You’ve got my word.”

He held his hand out to me and I shook it. Then he returned his gaze to the courtyard outside the window. “I commute from Marshfield,” he said quietly. “I own a real estate office down there. My brother runs it. My, um, my Senate duties occupy me. But I drive up and back every day, because I love the peacefulness of the country.” He shrugged. “It’s not exactly rural, but the air smells of salt and you can see the stars at night. I have several acres that abut conservation land, and every evening, regardless of what time I get home, I change into my running togs and take my two setters out for a slow jog through the fields and woods.” He smiled, still looking out at the courtyard. “I don’t pretend that it really keeps me in shape. But it cleans out my head.”

“Senator—”

“Chip,” he said. “Please. Anyway, it was after sundown before I got out with the dogs last night, and we had nearly finished our run, when…”

He turned and looked at me, and I saw the fear in his eyes.

“They tried to shoot you,” I said.

“Christ, yes,” he said. “I was in the Army, Brady. I know a gunshot when I hear it, and my reflexes took over. I fell to the ground and flattened myself out. It was only an instant, and then it was over. There were several rapid shots. I heard them zipping through the trees over my head. Then I heard someone running through the woods. I lay there a long time after I couldn’t hear him anymore.”

“Did you call the police?”

“Hell, no.”

“Don’t you think you should have?”

He nodded. “Of course I should have. But I didn’t. And I won’t. That’s why I’m telling you. I’m not sure I can explain it to you.”

“You really don’t have to explain anything to me, Chip. But if somebody took a potshot at you…”

“I know. You’re on that list, too.”

I shrugged.

He smiled. “Politics is a complicated business, Brady. I have nothing to gain, and much to lose, if this—this assassination attempt were to become known.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Like I said. It’s complicated. My subcommittee reported favorably on that assault-weapon bill. Mine was the deciding vote. My record on gun control remains unblemished.”

“You support it?”

“Yes. Always. My constituents support gun control. So, therefore, do I. I’m in a powerful position. Chairman of the Senate Subcommittee on Public Safety.” He shrugged. “SAFE is more powerful than me, though. As I mentioned to you on the phone the other night, I work with them. Their influence is very important to many of the public safety issues that come before my subcommittee. On the subject of gun control, however, I’ve been at odds with them for years. They always get their way.”

“I still don’t see—”

“I had a phone call on my machine yesterday when I got home.”

“Just one?”

He shook his head. “I’ve had plenty of phone calls in my career. Many of them hostile. But yesterday’s was—it was different.”

“What did he say?”

“Well, it was a death threat. He mentioned SAFE. But it wasn’t so much the content of it. It was the tone and the syntax.”

“Calm,” I said. “Cool. Intelligent. Articulate. Not what you’d expect from a gun-crazy fanatic.”

“Why, yes,” he said. He arched his eyebrows and peered at me for a moment. Then he smiled and nodded. “Exactly. Cool and articulate. Which made it sound—more frightening.”

“I hope you saved the tape.”

The senator rolled his eyes. “I’m afraid not.”

“Walt Kinnick had a message like the one you describe the night before he was shot,” I said. “He didn’t save that one, either.”

He nodded. “We both blew it. Too bad. Anyway, I don’t want any publicity on this. I’m telling you because—well, you were thoughtful enough to call and warn me, and you already know what’s going on, and you might be able to use the information. And you’ve given me your word. I’ve got plenty of enemies, Brady. I guess every politician does. As far as I’m concerned, SAFE is just one of them. Listen. There isn’t a politician alive—even an insignificant state senator—who doesn’t think about assassination. It’s a disease. A communicable disease. The virus is spread through the newspapers, on television. I’m not just concerned about myself—though God knows I’m frightened. Two United States senators, others, are on that list.”

“I’m on that list,” I said.

“Exactly.”

“That’s why you wanted to see me?”

“Yes. To tell you that it would appear your fears are well founded. Walt Kinnick, now me. Number one. then number two. To warn you to be careful.”

“You should have told the police.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. It was a judgment call. If the police know, the newspapers will pick it up the way they did with the Kinnick thing. With no witnesses, no suspect, no evidence at all…”

“Your image, huh?” I said.

“Yes, I suppose so. My image. The war hero. The man who stands up to powerful special interests such as SAFE. The man with the balls to say no. The man of courage and conviction. The man who—figuratively, of course—dares his enemies to take their best shot. That’s my image.” He smiled. “It’s not necessarily
me,
mind you. But I’ve got an election coming up next fall. The polls are okay. I don’t want to upset them.”

“Appearances,” I said. “Machiavelli. You don’t actually need to be brave. But it must appear that you are.”

He nodded. “Yes. That’s politics. Do you understand?”

I shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter if I understand. Personally, I’d just as soon see that our shooter gets nailed. The sooner the better.”

“I know. That’s why I feel I must apologize to you. I’d like to see him nailed, too. I didn’t like lying there with my face in the dirt. It did not conjure up pleasant memories.”

“But your image…”

“Yes. No politician wants to come across as frightened, or panicky, or overreacting, or vulnerable. All of which,” he said with a small smile, “happen to describe me perfectly right now.” He waved his hand. “Anyway, I went out to the woods this morning to look around.” He reached into his pocket. “I found these.”

He opened his fist. It hold two empty brass rifle cartridges. “Take them,” he said. He spilled them into my hand. “I don’t want them.”

I looked at them. They were .223 Remington. They looked identical to the three I had found near Walt’s cabin. “How did you—?”

“Prudence,” he said, “is one of those important qualities that Machiavelli mentions. I have friends at Ten-Ten Commonwealth Avenue, Brady. After I talked to you on the phone. I inquired about the Kinnick shooting. My contact at Ten-Ten told me you had dug up some evidence.” He shrugged. “Now you have some more evidence. Please. Do not tell anybody where they came from.”

“Christ, I’m supposed to lie to the state cops?”

He waved his hands. “Or do nothing, if you prefer. It would be helpful, I think, to know for certain that we’re dealing with the same man with the same gun. But my name must be kept out of it. I have your word on it.”

I shrugged. “Yes. You do.”

“Thanks.” He glanced around the room. “Want another drink?”

“No, I guess not.” I leaned toward him. “Look, Chip,” I said. “Do us both a favor, huh?”

“What’s that?”

“Talk to Lieutenant Horowitz.”

He gave his head a small shake.

“Horowitz is discreet,” I said, “and maybe you can convince him that the state cops should be involved in this thing. Right now it’s just a hillbilly sheriff out in Fenwick.”

“I don’t know,” said Swift. “I’d like to help you out, but…”

“Help us all out,” I said. “He missed you last night. He might try again.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I thought of that.”

The senator invited me to have dinner with him at the Commonwealth Club. Poached salmon. I declined. I told him I’d made other plans for dinner.

My plan—which I had made at the precise moment that Albert admitted me into the club—was to stroll over to Skeeter’s Infield down the alley off State Street, climb onto a barstool, yank off my necktie, roll up my shirtsleeves, and have one of Skeeter’s big burgers and a couple of draft beers. The Sox would be on the tube and I could argue speed versus power with a banker or a broker or an electrician or an auto mechanic who had seen Ted Williams launch one into the bleachers and who would remember Billy Klaus and Al Zarilla.