Seventh Enemy (20 page)

Alex and McNiff talked for another fifteen minutes or so. Nothing new was said. Finally Alex glanced at her watch and said, “I’ve taken enough of your time, Mr. McNiff.” She shut off her tape recorder and stowed it and her notebook in her briefcase.

He walked us out to the porch and held out his hand to Alex. “I hope you’ll look at those pamphlets I gave you,” he said.

“Sure. I will.”

He turned to me. “Mr. Coyne, please convey to Walt my wishes for a speedy recovery.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

“And I hope you’re enjoying your brief appearance on our list.”

I smiled. “Oh, it’s a lot of fun,” I said. “I always wanted to make somebody’s enemies’ list.”

He touched my arm. “We’re
not
after you, you know.”

“It’s comforting to hear you say that.”

W
E GOT INTO ALEX’S
car. I lit a cigarette. “Thanks,” I said.

“Huh?”

“For giving me a chance to tell McNiff my side.”

“I think he heard you.”

“We’ll see if it gets me expunged from his list.”

“I hope it does,” she said. “Even if it costs me a helluva story.”

“I hope it does, too.”

“He’s good, isn’t he?” she said.

“Yes. Very convincing, I thought. Get anything useful?”

She shrugged. “Everything’s useful. I’ll get a story out of it.”

“SAFE Leader Denies Group’s Responsibility for Kinnick Shooting,” I said.

“Something like that. What’d you think?”

“I think Gene McNiff knows nothing about what happened to Walt. I think he’s upset about it. Not necessarily because of Walt. Because it looks bad for SAFE.”

“I agree,” she said. She started up the car. “Hungry?”

“Getting there. I could use a drink.”

“Me, too. Know anything around here?”

“There’s a place in Acton, if you like Italian.”

“I like Italian. Lead on.”

We followed the pretty winding country roads to 2A in Acton and pulled up behind the restaurant a little after six. Inside we were greeted by the owner, who served as his own maître d’. He gave us a courtly bow. “Good to see you, Mr. Coyne,” he said. To Alex he said, “And nice to see you again, too, miss.”

He led us to a secluded little table in the corner, gave us the wine list, and left.

“What was that all about?” said Alex.

“What?”

“He said it was good to see me again. I’ve never been here in my life.”

“You picked that up, huh?”

“Oh yes. We reporters are quick that way.”

“I never told you about Terri.”

“Want to?”

I shrugged. “We ate here a lot. She lives right down the street. This was our table.”

“Do I look like her or something?”

“Well, aside from the fact that her hair’s long and black and yours is short and kind of auburn, and her eyes are practically black and yours are greenish-blue—yes. I mean, you’re both very beautiful. I can see why our host is confused. Another man blinded by beauty.”

Alex smiled. “What happened?” she said.

I lit a cigarette and exhaled slowly. “She dumped me.”

“Why?”

“I’m still working on that one.”

Alex put her hand onto mine. “In my experience,” she said, “I’ve found it’s a lot easier to be the dumpee than the dumper.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Easier. But it hurts more.”

She leaned forward. I met her halfway. She kissed me on the chin, then the cheek, then the mouth. We held that one for a moment. Then she pulled hack. “It still hurts, huh?”

“A little.”

“It’s good to see.”

“What?”

“That you hurt. I mean, that you
can
hurt. That you admit it.”

I reached across the table, touched her jaw, and gently steered her mouth close enough that I could kiss it again. “I’m feeling a tiny bit better,” I said.

“Maybe we can work out a rehabilitation program for you,” she said. Then she turned her head, looked up, and grinned.

A young waitress was standing beside us, smiling. “Wine,” I said. “A good first step on any recovery program. Let’s have some wine.”

When we left the restaurant, it was nearly ten. There were only a dozen or so cars left in the parking lot. One of them, parked by itself at the dark end of the row, was a blue Ford Escort. When we climbed into Alex’s car, I gestured at the Escort and said, “Drive around that way.”

She frowned for an instant, then nodded. She backed out of the space, then swung around past the Escort. Her headlights briefly lit the other car’s interior. Nobody was sitting in it.

She continued out the driveway. “Just another blue Escort,” she said.

“Driver slides down so we don’t see him,” I said.

She reached over and touched my leg. “It must be scary,” she said softly.

“Yeah, it kinda is. There’s a little shopping mall just over the hill. Why don’t you pull in there and douse your lights.”

“Sure.” She hit the accelerator, zipped over the hill, darted into the lot in front of an all-night convenience store, and switched off her headlights.

We watched the road. A couple of minutes later a blue Escort rolled past us, beat the yellow traffic light, and continued east on 2A toward Boston. We watched until its taillights disappeared.

I sighed. “Millions of Escorts on the road.”

“Yeah,” said Alex, “but now you’ve got me paranoid, too.”

“Hey,” I said, “you’re not on any enemies’ list. You just hang around with the wrong people. Let’s go home.”

Alex pulled up in front of my apartment building a little before eleven. “Nightcap?” I said.

“Oh, Christ,” she grunted.

“What?”

“‘Nightcap.’ That’s beneath you. You mean, do I want to go up with you and make out on your sofa. Right?”

“Make out? I haven’t heard anyone say that that since I was sixteen.”

“Isn’t that what you mean?”

“Something like that, I guess.” I smiled. “Something
exactly
like that. Yes.”

“And if things progress nicely, maybe you can persuade me to spend the night.”

“I didn’t—”

“Well, I’m warning you,” she said. “I have to get up early, and I’m very grouchy in the morning.”

“I can live with that,” I said. “Let’s have that nightcap.”

I
WOKE UP ABRUPTLY.
Alex was sitting astride my hips shaking my shoulders. In the dim light from the hallway I saw that she had put my old Yale T-shirt back on again. “Hey,” she said. “Wake up for a minute.

“Was I snoring?”

“No. Listen. I want to know something.”

“What time is it?”

“Three-ten.”

“Jesus, Alex.”

“If you knew more about this, would you tell me?”

“About what?”

“The Kinnick thing.”

“No.”

“No what?”

“No, I wouldn’t necessarily tell you.”

She rolled off me and lay on her back beside me with her hands under her head. I turned onto my side. She rolled over to meet me, and I slid my arm around her. My hand snaked under the T-shirt and traced the curves and angles of her back, down over her smooth rump, than back up again. “There might be things I couldn’t tell you,” I said into her hair.

“Lawyer stuff.”

“Kinda.”

“I understand.”

“Well, good.”

She was silent for a moment. Her fingers moved on my back. Then she said, “But do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Know something? Have some facts?”

“Yes.”

“That you can’t tell me.”

“Right.”

“Like who’s following you around in a blue Ford Escort?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t know who’s doing that. Assuming I’m not imagining it. Which I probably am.”

“You think you’re paranoid,” she said.

“I don’t know. Do you?”

“It depends.”

“If somebody really is following me for purposes of finding a propitious moment to shoot me, and it scares me, is that paranoia?”

“I don’t think so. I think that’s just sensible.” She burrowed her face against my shoulder. “What about ideas?” she mumbled. “Hypotheses, scenarios? Do you have ideas you aren’t sharing with me, too?”

“Not really.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I haven’t come close to figuring it out, but I’m thinking about it.”

“But you don’t want to share your thinking with me.”

“Right.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s tied into what I know. I can’t separate them. You should understand this.”

“I do,” she murmured. “I was just wondering.”

I hugged her against me. The T-shirt had ridden way up over her hips. “Let’s go back to sleep, then.”

Her hand crept onto my thigh. “Fat chance,” she said.

“Your coffee’s on the table.”

I opened my eyes. Alex was sitting on the bed, fully dressed. Her hip pressed against mine, separated by the blanket that covered me. I reached up to touch her face. Her hair was damp. She bent down and kissed me quickly on the forehead. “I’m out of here,” she said.

“What time is it?”

“A little after seven.”

“What’s your hurry?”

“I got a story to write.”

“‘Veteran News Hound Seduces Vulnerable Attorney,’” I said.

“That’s the one.”

I reached up, hooked my arm around her neck, and pulled her down to me. I nuzzled her throat.

“Oh, shit,” she mumbled. Again?”

A half-hour later she was sitting on the side of the bed pulling on her pants and I was propped up in bed sipping lukewarm coffee. “I think I’m going to try to reach Wilson Bailey today,” she said.

“Poignant human interest story,” I said, drawing circles on her bare back with my forefinger.

“That’s not the story I’m after. That’s an old story that I should’ve written when it happened but didn’t. Now the man is the number-ten SAFE enemy.”

“I forgot. You’re collecting interviews with potential assassination victims.” She was hunching herself into her bra. I give you a lot of credit,” I went on. “You really throw yourself into your work.”

“Mr. Bailey,” she said, “might be more forthcoming if I sit on him in the middle of the night.”

“Worth a try.”

She stood up and buttoned her blouse. Then she smiled. “I’ll call you later.”

“I’ve heard that one before.”

“I will.” She waved and headed for the door. “Have a good day.”

“Come give me a kiss.”

“No way, buster,” she said. “You saw what happened last time I did that.”

My bathroom mirror was still foggy. Alex had written “Hi” in the condensation with her finger. I was relieved to note that she did not dot the “i” with a little heart or a happy face.

While I showered, I thought about being followed by a nameless assassin in a blue Escort and wondered again if I were imagining it. Alex had reminded me that Wilson Bailey was number ten on the list. And from there my mind took a convoluted route to the realization that if I did get shot, there was nobody who knew what I knew who could warn Wilson Bailey that he was a logical target, too.

So before I left for the office I found my copy of the SAFE newsletter and dialed Bailey’s number in Harlow, Massachusetts. It rang four times before I heard the click of an answering machine. A cheerful female voice said, “Hi. You’ve reached the Bailey household. I guess no one’s home right now. Please leave a message and we’ll get back to you.”

It was, I guessed, the voice of Bailey’s dead wife. She had been gunned down in the public library. But her voice still lived on an answering machine tape. Wilson Bailey, I imagined, could not bring himself to eradicate this last surviving vestige of her.

She had used the pronoun “we.” There was no longer a “we” at Wilson Bailey’s house.

I had to clear my throat before I spoke to his machine. “Mr. Bailey,” I said, “this is Brady Coyne. I saw your testimony before the Senate Subcommittee on Public Safety last week. I have some important things I’d like to discuss with you. Please call me.” I left my home and office numbers.

Then I went to work.

Julie buzzed me in the middle of the morning. “It’s Lieutenant Horowitz again,” she said. “Line one.”

“Got it,” I said. I pressed the button and said, “Hey.”

“Where’d you get those cartridges, Coyne?” he said.

“I can’t tell you. I already told you that. What’d you find out?”

“Why the fuck should I tell you what I found out if you won’t tell me where you got them?”

“Because I might be able to figure something out, and then I could tell you and you could capture a vicious criminal and you’d be a hero.”

“Gee whiz,” he said. “Golly. You’d let me take all the credit?”

“Sure. You need it more than I do.”

“They were shot from the same gun,” he said. “I bet you knew that.”

“I suspected it. Can you say anything about the gun?”

“Can you say anything about how they came into your possession?”

“No.”

“God damn it, Coyne.”

“Somebody took some shots at somebody and left those cartridges behind. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Who? Where? When?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Because you gave your fucking word.”

“That’s it.”

“Well, the fingerprints on those cartridges were all smudged and I can’t tell you anything about the gun, and if I could, I wouldn’t, and fuck you very much,” he said, and he hung up.

Around noon Julie buzzed me again. “It’s her,” she said.

“Her?”

She chuckled. “Her with the cheekbones. Line one.”

“Thanks, kid.” I switched over and said, “Hi.”

“Hi,” said Alex. “How are you?”

“I didn’t sleep that well last night.”

“Me neither, actually. But I feel just fine.”

“Did you get your story written?”

“Yep. Funny thing. As I thought about it and listened to the interview, I became more and more convinced that McNiff was straight with me.”

“I thought so, too.”

“My story doesn’t have much to do with the Kinnick shooting. It’s just about SAFE. What they do, what they believe. Those pamphlets are pretty convincing.”

“So you buy their line?”

“Hey,” she said. “I’m a reporter, remember? I tell the story, that’s all. SAFE’s in the news. What they stand for is newsworthy. Whether I buy it or not is irrelevant. Wanna do lunch?”