A Fine Line (9 page)

She smiled. “Do what you want, Brady. Be happy.” She bent to the window and kissed me again. “Good night. Love you.”

“Me, too,” I said.

When I got home, I realized I’d left Henry’s dog food at Evie’s. I’d have to scrounge up something from my refrigerator for his breakfast.

I found an old sweatshirt and dropped it on the floor beside my bed. Henry sniffed it suspiciously, pushed it around until he got it the way he wanted it, then curled up on it, let out a long snuffling sigh, and went immediately to sleep.

He’d had a hard day.

The light on my answering machine was blinking. I hoped it was Ethan, telling me he was okay and wanted his dog back, or maybe one of his classmates telling me where I could find him.

There had been three calls, all hangups. I hit star-69, which would give me the number of the last call.

But the recorded voice informed me that I could not reach the number by that method. Whatever that meant.

W
hen I woke up the next morning, Henry was straddling me, licking my face. I rolled onto my belly and buried my face in my pillow. Henry poked at my head with his nose. When I told him to cut it out, he jumped off the bed, sat on the floor, and whined.

I looked at my alarm clock. It was a little after five-thirty.

I sat up on the edge of the bed and rubbed my face. “I can’t do this,” I told him.

He went over to the door and poked it with his nose, then turned and whined at me.

“Do they have litter boxes for dogs?” I asked him.

He wagged his tail.

So I pulled on my jeans and sneakers, got Henry on his leash, took the elevator down six floors, and we went to my neighborhood park, a lovely little strip of greenery—a sort of miniature Boston Common—along Commercial Street. There were paths and trees and gardens and bushes and benches. Kids sometimes rollerbladed there, but mostly it
was a place where folks from nearby business establishments ate lunch on a nice day and nearby residents went for an evening stroll. I unleashed Henry there and let him snuffle around and take care of business, while I sat on a bench and smoked a cigarette.

Henry stayed close by, and when I spoke to him, he lifted his head and perked up his ears. “Don’t go away,” I told him, and he sort of nodded and resumed snuffling around.

I’d been there a few minutes when a pretty college-aged blond woman approached me. A golden retriever was leading her around on a leash.

“You should keep your dog leashed,” she told me.

“Henry won’t go anywhere,” I said.

“Well, he could get run over, you know.”

“I told him not to do that.”

She shrugged. “Anyhow, you’re supposed to take care of his poop.”

“Take care of it?”

“Clean it up, bring it home.”

“Bring it home,” I said. “Then what?”

She smiled. “I guess that’s up to you. Just so you don’t leave it here.”

Her dog had eyes for a bed of irises, and she allowed herself to be hauled in that direction. She smiled at me over her shoulder, and I waved.

This young woman seemed to have her hands full with that one golden. There were city people, I knew, who kept many dogs in their apartments. Some of them owned five or six dogs. They walked them several times a day, their whole gang of dogs on leashes. It was a big responsibility.

I liked Henry. But I didn’t like the idea of scraping up his
leavings and carrying them home with me, and I profoundly disliked waking up at five-thirty in the morning.

Mainly, I didn’t like responsibility.

We walked to my office, I in my lawyer suit with my briefcase in one hand and Henry’s leash in the other, and Henry trotting along beside me.

When we got there, he was exhausted. He curled up in the corner and went to sleep. I was pretty tired myself.

In the middle of the morning, I called Detective Mendoza’s cell phone.

“It’s Brady Coyne,” I said when she answered.

“Mr. Coyne,” she said. “What’ve you got for me?”

“Nothing. Unless I can talk you into a dog.”

“No Ethan Duffy, huh?”

“I was hoping you—”

“You talked to the guy at the record store,” she said. “You talked to Ethan’s mother. You talked to the registrar at Emerson College. You’ve been busy.”

“You’ve been keeping tabs on me.”

“I’m a cop,” she said. “It’s my job. Snooping around isn’t your job, though.”

“Walt Duffy was my friend,” I said. “Mostly, I want to return this dog to its rightful owner. You haven’t found Ethan, then?”

“Not yet. We’re keeping an eye on his place on Mt. Vernon Street, and we’ve got the Sudbury cops watching his mother’s place. We know our business, Mr. Coyne.”

Friday is generally a slow day at my office, especially during trout season. Julie schedules no appointments, and unless I’ve got to be in court, we use the day to catch up on phone
calls and paperwork. Often we quit early on Friday afternoons, and that was our plan for this pretty Friday in June.

I had Julie dig out Walt Duffy’s file for me. As I’d remembered, aside from his collection of books, manuscripts and artwork, which he’d bequeathed to museums, Walt had left everything to Ethan. All that really amounted to was his townhouse on Mt. Vernon Street and whatever was in his bank accounts—which I knew wasn’t much. Every time Walt got some money, he spent it on his collection.

I was staring out the window trying to imagine Ethan whacking Walt on the back of the head with a brick when the phone buzzed.

When I picked it up, Julie told me it was Benjamin Frye. She said he sounded agitated.

I hit the blinking button on my console and said, “Ben. What’s up?”

“You
, goddamn it. You sicced the pigs on me.”

“Did you say pigs?”

“The cops. The police. I hate the police. The police hate me.

“Have you done anything wrong, Ben? Need a lawyer?”

“Maybe I’ve got a baggie or two in the bottom drawer of my file cabinet. That’s not the point. They always treat you like you’re a fucking criminal, make you feel guilty whether you did anything or not. Why’d you have to give them my name?”

“Walt Duffy died,” I said. “They were asking me about it. I told them about the Meriwether Lewis letters.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Sorry about Duffy. Crabby bastard, but he knew his stuff. Anyway, it’s hard to hate a guy who likes birds, you know? What happened to him?”

“The police didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me?” He laughed quickly. “Cops don’t tell you anything. I think they thought I already knew about it. As if I was going to cross myself up, let it slip.”

“He fell and banged his head on the bricks,” I said. “He died in surgery.”

“They think somebody pushed him or something, huh?”

“I guess so,” I said. “So what about those letters?”

“Well,” he said, “they wanted me to hand ’em over. When I refused, they threatened me.”

“Why did you refuse?”

“You kidding? Those things are fucking priceless. You ever see a police evidence room? You want two-hundredyear-old letters from Meriwether Lewis to Alexander Wilson collecting dust and cigar smoke and mouse turds on some shelf in a police evidence room?”

“I’d say you showed good judgment,” I said. “How did they threaten you?”

“In that nasty, suggestive way that cops do it that you can’t really put your finger on but you know they’re doing it. That Mendoza, she’s a nasty one. I surmise she pulled my sheet.”

I found myself smiling. Ben Frye had been arrested many times when he was younger, and he was quite proud of it. He’d spent nights in American jails from Birmingham to Chicago to San Francisco to Boston. He’d been convicted just once. That was when he lay down in the middle of Mass. Ave. in Harvard Square and went limp when they dragged him to a paddy wagon. The judge fined him a hundred dollars for disturbing the peace.

Ben always thought that was supremely ironic, since he’d been carrying a sign that read “Peace Now.”

“So where are the letters?” I said.

“Oh, don’t worry. I got ’em. Now I want the damn things off my hands. Come and fetch ’em.”

“What about tonight? I’ll buy you dinner, you can give me the letters. Remington’s? Say six-thirty?” Remington’s was a pleasant restaurant-bar on Boylston Street, just around the corner from Ben’s office on Temple Place.

“You can buy me dinner,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop being pissed at you. I’ll see you there.”

It wasn’t until I hung up that I remembered Henry.

What the hell was I going to do with Henry? I couldn’t bring a dog into the restaurant.

He’d been with me for just two days, and already I felt like I had a cinder block chained to my ankle.

I went out to the reception area. Julie looked up at me with her eyebrows arched. “What?” she said. “You’ve got that look on your face.”

“Please come in,” I said. “We’ve got to talk.”

She followed me into my office. I pointed at the sofa. “Have a seat.”

She remained standing there. “You act like you’re going to fire me.”

“I’m thinking about it.”

She smiled. “No you’re not. Why don’t you just tell me what’s on your mind.”

“Actually I was thinking of giving you a raise.”

Julie looked up at the ceiling and sighed. “Come on, Brady. For heaven’s sake, spit it out.”

I went over to the sofa, sat down and patted the seat beside me. Julie came over and sat.

I cleared my throat. “I really need . . . I mean, I wonder if I could convince you to take Henry for the weekend.”

She shrugged. “Sure. Okay.”

“Please? It would—what did you say?”

“I said sure. I wouldn’t mind taking Henry for the weekend.”

“You wouldn’t?”

“No. If it would help you.”

Henry, who’d been sleeping in the corner, apparently heard his name mentioned. He stood up, stretched, came over to where Julie and I were sitting, lay down in front of us, and gazed up at her.

“Do you mean it?” I said.

“I sort of expected this, Brady. Megan will love it, and Edward likes dogs. I like dogs, too, of course. Henry seems like he’ll be easy. Just for the weekend, though. You’ll have to take him back on Monday.”

“I thought Megan was allergic to animals.”

Julie smiled. “I made that up.”

“What if she falls in love with him?”

“That’s the only thing that worries me,” she said. “It’s not like you can give him to us. He’s not yours to give away.”

“It feels like he’s been my dog for years,” I said. “He’s running my life. He woke me up at five-thirty this morning.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“You sure you want to do this?”

“Are you trying to talk me out of it?”

I reached over and gave Julie a hug. “You’re amazing.”

“True.”

“I was prepared to order you to take him off my hands,” I said.

“That would never work,” she said.

Around four-thirty, Julie came into my office. “I turned off all the machines,” she said. “I’m leaving.” She went over to where Henry was snoozing in the corner, scooched down beside him, and scratched his forehead. “You ready to go?” she said to him.

He looked up at her and yawned.

“He likes three scoops of the dry stuff and half a can of Alpo at suppertime,” I said, “plus a little smackerel of something in the morning. He likes to sleep on a ratty sweatshirt. I think he likes the smell of manly sweat. I bet Edward’s got one he can spare. He’ll wake you up by lapping your face sometime between five-thirty and six. You should let him off the leash so he can ramble around the backyard. He needs all the exercise he can get. He’ll come when you call him. He’s really a very obedient dog. He loves to be scratched between his ears. Oh, and don’t forget . . .”

I stopped. Julie was grinning at me.

“What?” I said.

“You sound like a new parent, giving instructions to your very first babysitter.”

“Hell,” I said, “it’s just a dog.”

“Don’t worry about Henry. We’ll be fine.”

“Worry? I’m not worried.”

She smiled.

“It’ll be a relief,” I said. “Not having that damn dog running my life.”

“I’ll have him back to you on Monday.”

I waved my hand. “Keep him as long as you want.”