Tight Lines (12 page)

“I’m sorry” was all I could think of to say.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Well, thanks for listening.” There was a pause. “I didn’t think you’d be there.”

“I’m here.”

“I’m probably keeping you from company.”

“No. I was just having some ice cream and watching TV.”

She laughed quickly. “Wild night, huh?”

“Yeah. Wild.”

Another pause. “Hey, Brady?”

“Yes?”

“No, sorry. Forget it.”

“What?”

“I was just wondering. Do you play chess?”

“Chess? Yes, I play sometimes. I’m not very good.”

“Me neither.” Pause. “Hey, you don’t feel like coming over, having a game, do you?”

“Negative question, huh?”

“Dumb question, I guess.”

“It’s pretty late, Jill.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Bad idea.”

“No,” I said, “it’s not a bad idea. If it’s not too late for you, I’d enjoy a game of chess.”

“Really?”

“Sure.”

“Hey, great. You can park right beside the building. There’s a service entrance around back and a driveway goes around to it. My door’s on the side. You’ll see my little Toyota there. You can just park right behind it. Knock on my door. Just—just don’t bang and start yelling, okay?”

I laughed. “Sure.”

“Well, good. See you real soon?”

“I’m on my way.”

As soon as I hung up I regretted it. Jill Costello’s problems with her husband were not anything I wanted to become enmeshed in. But on the other hand, she was a maiden in distress, and she had called me. I was her noble knight.

Get real, Coyne, I told myself. I’d been thinking about Terri all evening, wondering if I’d see her again. She had said it well. Sometimes solitude becomes loneliness.

Nobility. Right.

Some knight.

I slipped on my sneakers and sweatshirt and went down to my car. It took me about fifteen minutes to get to Beacon Street. One game of chess, one beer, I promised myself. Then I’d get out of there.

The driveway was barely the width of two compact cars or one full-sized delivery truck. Jill’s little Toyota was parked right against the building. I pulled in behind her. A bare bulb glowed over a plain steel door. I rapped on it and called, “Jill. It’s Brady.”

A minute later the heavy door creaked open. She was wearing a baggy orange sweatshirt and a pair of black running shorts. Smooth bare legs, bare feet. Her hair hung loose down her back, held there by barrettes behind each ear. Her face was scrubbed and clean. Her lipstick looked as if it had been freshly applied. So did her smile. She looked like one of the high-school volleyball players my son Joey dated.

“Oh, hey, this is great,” she said. “Come on in.”

She reached out, grabbed my hand, and pulled me in. Quickly she closed the door and threw the dead bolt. We were standing in an unfinished hallway that disappeared into darkness on the left and right. Straight ahead of us a door stood ajar. She tugged me through it and into her apartment.

The chessboard was all set up on her table. Her books and papers were neatly stacked on the side. Down the other end of the room her bed was folded back into a sofa. I deduced that she had cleaned up for me.

I sat at the table. She got a couple of bottles of Miller’s from the refrigerator and sat across the chessboard from me. She took a white pawn in one hand and a black one in the other, held them behind her back for a moment, then extended her closed fists across the table to me. I tapped one. She opened it. I got black.

“I wasn’t sure if this was proper,” she said.

“What?”

“Me calling you. I mean, you said you’d look at my papers for me, that’s all.”

I waved my hand.

“I’ve been married for a while,” she went on, her eyes studying the chess pieces. “I don’t know how to…” She looked up at me.

I smiled. “Your move.”

It took about six moves for me to realize that I was overmatched. She used an opening I’d never seen before, forced a pawn swap that prevented me from castling, and soon got both of my knights for just one of her bishops.

“I concede,” I said.

She grinned. “So soon?”

“I may not be good, but I do know when a game is over.”

“Want to try again?”

“One more.”

I took white, tried the conservative King’s Gambit opening that was most familiar to me, and played a cautious, defensive game. It took an hour for her to maneuver a passed pawn into a position where I couldn’t stop it. I tipped over my king.

“That was a good game,” she said. “You’ve never studied chess, have you?”

I shook my head. “It shows, huh?”

She nodded. “You do unconventional things. You make me stop and think. But you make mistakes.”

“I have some friends who play,” I said. “They’ve showed me some things. Mostly I play with my sons. We play fast and wild.”

“You’d be good if you studied it. You’ve got a feel for it.”

I shrugged. “I guess I don’t care if I’m good at chess. I’m not patient enough to think more than a few moves ahead. I tend to react rather than plan. I like to improvise. Old sports habits, I guess. I’m sorry I’m not better competition.”

“You take white again. I’ll get us another beer and we’ll try one more game.”

“One more,” I said. “That’ll be enough humiliation for one night.”

I managed a draw this time. I suspected she took it easy on me, but I didn’t mention it.

She sat back in her chair and drew her feet up so that she was hugging her bare legs with her chin on her knees. “It’s really nice to have you here,” she said.

“This was fun.”

“It makes me feel almost—I don’t know—normal.”

“I’m glad you feel better.”

“So how’s it going with Mary Ellen?”

I shrugged. “I still haven’t caught up with her. Her mother’s pretty upset.”

She nodded solemnly, her blue eyes big and tragic as she looked at me. “And I think I’ve got it tough,” she said softly. “That poor woman.”

“I just hope she shows up before…”

She nodded. We sat in silence for a minute or two.

“Hey,” she said. “We can go sit where it’s more comfortable.” She jerked her head in the direction of her sofa. “Watch a little TV? I could put on some music. Or we could just talk.”

“I think I should get going, Jill. It’s pretty late.”

“One more beer?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Sure. Right.” She smiled and dropped her eyes.

“It’s not that…”

“No, you’re right.” She unfolded herself from her chair and stood up. “Coffee or something before you go?”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.”

She took my hand and led me into the hallway. We stood inside the steel door. I turned to her and she put her arms around me. She hugged my waist and put her face against my chest. I had forgotten how short she was. She mumbled something into my sweatshirt. I patted her back awkwardly. “I didn’t understand what you said,” I said.

She tilted her head back to look up at me. It had the disconcerting effect of pressing her pelvis against me. “I just said that you’re a nice man.”

“Thank you.”

“No, I mean it. You could’ve stayed. You could’ve stayed the night, probably. I think I would’ve let you. Maybe I wanted you to. But I really didn’t. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

She bowed her head and mumbled, “You find me attractive, though, huh?”

“Very. But you’re married.”

“Yes, I am. It makes everything confusing and complicated for me.”

She hugged me again. Then I left. I waited outside until I heard the dead bolt clank into place on the steel door. Then I went to my car.

I was just inserting the key into the door lock when he hit me. It was a heavy blow on my right temple, and it sent me sprawling against the side of my car. Then he hit me again, a hard fist against my cheek. I staggered dizzily and went to the ground. He kicked me in the ribs. I brought my arms around my head and tucked my knees into my chest.

“Just stay away from her,” he growled. He kicked my shoulder. Pain arrowed into my stomach. “I mean it, pal. You leave Jill alone or I’ll kill both of you.”

H
E WENT OVER TO
the steel door and pounded on it. “Jill! Hey, baby, come on,” he yelled. “We gotta talk. Come on, honey. Open up, willya.”

He sounded pitiful.

I managed to get to my feet. I leaned against my car and conducted a quick survey of my body. Small lump beside my ear. Tender place on my cheekbone. Sharp pain in my ribs. Duller pain in my shoulder. No blood. No broken bones. No concussion.

He’d been wearing sneakers when he kicked me. And I sensed that he’d held something back. Johnny Costello was not an accomplished or wholeheartedly enthusiastic mugger.

But he’d made his point.

He was still banging on the door, but not yelling anymore. After a minute he stopped. He came over to where I was standing. He was breathing heavily. “You okay?” he said.

“Oh, sure. Pisser.”

“Look, I’m sorry, okay?”

I shrugged. “Forget it.”

“Just stay away from her. She’s my wife.”

“She was frightened.”

“That’s none of your business. You keep out of it.”

“I’m her lawyer,” I said. “So it’s my business.”

“Lawyer, huh? Well, fuck you. Both of you.”

I turned and unlocked my car door. I opened it and started to get in. He grabbed my arm. “Hey,” he said. “Hey, Mr. Lawyer. I’m talking to you.”

I yanked myself out of his grip. “I heard you,” I said.

“I mean it, buddy. I don’t give a shit who you are. Next time…”

I slammed the door, started up my car, and backed out of the driveway, leaving Johnny Costello standing there staring into my high beams with his arms hanging down at his sides. He looked young and helpless and miserable.

And as I drove home through the deserted back streets of Boston, I found myself feeling almost sorry for him. More than anything, I guessed, he was bewildered by Jill’s behavior. He had no context for it. In his experience, a wife didn’t do the things she had done—defy her husband, enroll in college for a degree more advanced than his, walk out and find a new place to live, get a job, refuse to talk to him. A wife stayed home, kept house, brought up children, did as she was told. Like Johnny Costello’s mother probably had. Jill had forced him to see himself as a failure, according to a hoary but still widely held standard: He couldn’t control his own wife. Lacking philosophy or theology on it, he reacted the only way he knew. He banged on doors, he yelled plaintive threats and angry endearments, he halfheartedly beat up people like me who happened to get in the way.

I thought about Jill. I wondered if there wasn’t a gentler, more understanding way for her to handle her problems with her husband. I wondered if she wasn’t purposely antagonizing him. I wondered if that hadn’t been precisely the reason she’d invited me over. She probably figured Johnny would still be lurking around her door. She knew he’d see me. She knew it would drive him nuts. Maybe she even knew he’d try to beat the shit out of me.

I caught myself. I was thinking like one of those male judges who refused to grant restraining orders to frightened young women, whose instinctive sympathies went to men whose masculine pride got wounded. I knew better. Jill’s fear of Johnny Costello was well founded.

The hell with it. I’d had enough chess for one night. I hadn’t enjoyed being punched and kicked. But I didn’t like the idea of being Jill Costello’s pawn, either.

But I remembered the tears that I’d seen in her eyes. Her fear, her desperation seemed genuine.

Women had fooled me before. Many times.

When I got back to my apartment I stripped and took a long steamy shower. The aches in my body were superficial. I’d probably feel worse in the morning.

And I did. I ached all day Sunday, but by Monday I felt fine, and except for a few bumps and bruises I was none the worse for my encounter with Johnny Costello.

The bruise on my cheekbone showed, a faint purplish patch. Julie didn’t even comment on it, which meant she didn’t notice it.

Around ten in the morning she tapped on my door.

“Enter,” I called.

The door opened and she stood inside it. “There’s someone here to see you,” she said. She was frowning, and I detected a tense stiffness in the way she hunched her shoulders.

“What’s up?” I said. “What’s the matter?”

She shook her head slowly. “I don’t know. It’s Lieutenant Horowitz.”

“Oh, Christ,” I muttered.

I got up from behind my desk and went to the door. Julie went back to her desk. Horowitz was standing there. “Come on in,” I said to him.

He came in. I closed the door behind us. Without preamble, he said, “We found a body.”

“Mary Ellen Ames?”

“Looks that way. But we can’t be sure.”

I let out a long breath. “Jesus,” I said, thinking of Susan.

“We haven’t made a positive ID,” said Horowitz.

“You want someone to…?”

He shook his head. “Floater. We need dental charts.”

I waved him to the sofa in my conference area. He sat down. I took the leather chair across from him. “Tell me,” I said.

He fumbled a stick of gum out of his pocket, unwrapped it, folded it up, and fingered it into his mouth. I lit a cigarette.

“I faxed out the description and picture,” he said around his wad of gum. “Massachusetts, the other New England states, New York. Got a call this morning from a DA in Concord, New Hampshire. Said they might have a hit. A Jane Doe they’d had on ice for a week or so. The general descriptors seem to fit. White female around thirty. She—”

“There must be dozens of bodies that fit that description,” I said quickly.

Horowitz looked at me with his head cocked to the side. “You want to hear this or not?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “Yes. Sorry. Go ahead.”

“Some kids waterskiing found her down the shallow end of a place called Teal Pond. That’s near Keene. Southern part of the state. Apparently a kind of exclusive setup with a couple dozen cottages scattered around it. Drowned. She was nude. They found a capsized canoe in a different part of the pond.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” I said. “What makes you think this is Mary Ellen?”