Muscle Memory (20 page)

If Mick’s divorce had proceeded, he would’ve been wiped out. I knew that, and I hadn’t hidden it from Mick. Kaye would’ve gotten the house and most of their savings and investments. Mick would’ve been left with his problems with the IRS, and Russo, who I figured held Mick’s gambling debts, would never collect what Mick owed him.

But with Kaye dead, whatever Mick had was all his to dispose of as he chose. Her life insurance was a bonus. Russo’s boys could descend upon him and pick him as clean as a murder of crows on yesterday’s roadkill.

Vincent Russo knew all this, of course. Men like Vincent Russo knew these things.

A couple of things about this theory didn’t really fit. First, Kaye’s murder was hardly in the style of the Vincent Russos of the world. It was messy and passionate. Of course, he could’ve set it up to look that way. But in so doing, he’d have been pointing the finger directly at Mick, and that contradicted his interests. If Mick were convicted of Kaye’s murder, Russo wouldn’t be able to collect what Mick owed him. If Russo had set it up, he would’ve made absolutely sure it couldn’t be pinned on Mick.

Or maybe I was giving Vincent Russo way too much credit.

I continued smoking, sipping my Rebel Yell, and gazing out over the harbor. But I came up with no new insights. Vincent Russo was looking for Mick. He was willing to hurt anybody—even Danny and Erin—to collect what Mick owed him. Sure. He might’ve ordered Kaye’s murder.

When my glass was empty, I went inside. I loaded the coffee machine, stripped down, took a long hot shower, brushed my teeth, and went into my bedroom. I felt a bit more relaxed. Maybe I’d get some sleep after all.

Then I saw that the answering machine beside my bed was blinking. Wink-wink, pause. Two calls.

Sylvie, maybe. Or maybe even Alex. I wouldn’t have minded a message from either of them.

I pressed the button. The tape whirred, beeped, then clicked. I heard the fuzzy buzz of the empty tape playing. There was no message. Just one minute of static before the disconnection.

Another beep, another click. More recorded silence.

I was sitting in the backseat of a big car—it might’ve been a limousine—parked close to the bank of a pretty, slow-moving river. Through the tinted window I was watching Billy, my older son, who stood knee-deep in the water casting dry flies to the huge rainbow trout that were sipping insects off the glassy surface. The slashes along the sides of those trout were crimson, the color of fresh-spilled blood, and when they rose for an insect, they porpoised, their entire bodies arcing out of the water, their eyes big and greedy.

Billy was casting beautiful, graceful loops, and he seemed to raise a trout on every cast, and every time he hooked one, he turned to me with a big grin, raised his fist in the air, and shouted, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying.

I rattled and shook the handle on the inside of the car door, trying to get it open so I could leap out and join my son in the river, but the handle broke off in my hand. I tried using it as a hammer, banging and smashing at the window, trying to break the glass so I could get out of that car, and all that banging set off the car’s alarm, which kept shrilling—

I groped on my bedside table for the phone, knocked it off its cradle, fumbled it to my ear. “Yeah,” I mumbled.

“You sleeping?”

I pushed myself into a sitting position in bed and switched ears. “Mick? Is that you?”

“Sorry to wake you up. We gotta talk.”

“Sure,” I said. “No problem. Are you okay?”

He chuckled. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

“Lousy trick,” I said. “Erin and Danny—hell, all of us—we’re thinking…”

“I know,” said Mick.

I rubbed my face. “Have you been trying to reach me?”

“Yeah. I let it ring, but you weren’t answering.”

“What the hell time is it?”

“Little after three.”

“Actually, I appreciate the call. You interrupted a nightmare.” I flicked on the light beside my bed, found my cigarettes, got one lit. “Mick, what the hell are you doing? Where are you?”

“I wanted you to know I was okay. I thought you’d be worried.”

“Yeah, well, of course I was,” I said. “We all are. What’s going on?”

“I just had to get away,” he said. “I needed some space. Christ, it was worse than being in prison.”

“All that blood?”

He chuckled. “Nosebleed. It’s what gave me the idea.”

“Brilliant,” I said. “You had me fooled. It was the goldfish that did it more than the blood.”

“Huh? Whaddya mean?”

“Breaking the goldfish bowl, killing the fish. I figured you loved that fish that Erin gave you. When I saw that dead fish, any thought I might’ve had that you set it up just went right out of my head.”

Mick was silent for so long that I said, “Mick? You still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.” He blew out a breath. “Listen, I didn’t do that to Neely.”

“You didn’t? Then who—”

“Fucking Russo,” he said. “Who else? See? I got out of there in the nick of time, man.”

“Mick, listen to me,” I said. “I’m your lawyer, right? Here’s what I want you to do. Wherever the hell you are, go to the nearest police station, okay? Do it right now, as soon as we hang up. Tell them who you are, tell them there’s a warrant out for your arrest, and tell them to lock you up and call the state police. Tell them to get ahold of Lieutenant Horowitz, and—”

“Wait a minute,” he said. “They want to arrest me?”

“Yes, Mick. So go to the police.”

He was silent for a long minute. Then he said, “I’m not turning myself in, Brady.”

“Mick, God damn it, listen to me. I had a sit-down with Russo tonight, and—”

“What? Whose idea was that?”

“His.”

“Christ, I’m sorry, man. You okay?”

“Sure. I’m fine.” I stubbed out my half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray beside the bed. “Mick, I’ve got to tell you something.”

“What?”

I took a deep breath and blew it out. “You are without question the worst fucking client I’ve ever had. You keep lying to me, you disobey me, you ignore my advice, you’re—you’re accused of murdering your wife…”

Mick laughed quickly. “I know you can’t just fire me, Brady. And listen. I did not murder Kaye, okay? What do you think I’m doing?”

“I think you’re panicking. I think you’re afraid and confused and—and completely fucked up, and I wish to hell you’d listen to me.”

I heard Mick speak to somebody, and then I heard a voice in the background.

“Brady,” Mick said into the phone, “I only got a minute. I wanted you to know I was okay, that’s all.”

“Well, good. That’s a relief. I saw your kids yesterday.”

He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “How’re they doing?”

“They seem like great kids, Mick. They’re—they’re devastated. Kaye, and now you. You should be with them.”

“Yeah, well I’d be in jail now—or maybe dead—if I wasn’t here, right?”

“Maybe, but—”

“I couldn’t stand it, Brady, having my kids look at me thinking I killed their mother. I don’t want them to see me until they know I didn’t do it.”

“They don’t think you did. But I bet they’d like it if you told them face-to-face. You’ve got to turn yourself in, let me do my job. As long as you’re out there—”

“Yeah, Russo. I know. I can’t do it, Brady. Not now. Not yet.” He paused. “Hang on,” he said. I heard muffled voices. It sounded like Mick had covered the receiver with his hand to engage in an argument. “Listen,” he said to me a minute later. “I really gotta go. I just want to know that you’re still in my corner.”

“Of course I am. Even if you are a crappy client.”

He paused. “I was there,” he said softly.

“Where?”

“At my house. That night.”

“I know that,” I said. “And so do the police. The guy across the street, Mitchell Selvy, he saw you leaning against your car. He told the police. I talked to him. I met your neighbor Darren, too.”

“Darren, huh? What’d Darren have to say?”

“He acted strange. When I mentioned Kaye, he got very flustered. Tried to hit me with his spinning rod.”

“Yeah, that’s Darren,” he murmured. I heard him take a deep breath. “Brady, I went inside. I—I saw Kaye’s body.”

“Jesus, Mick.”

“Oh, man…”

“Mick,” I said, “Listen to me.”

“I’m not—”

“My job is to protect you, give you good advice, right?”

“I’m not gonna turn myself in, Brady. Fuggedaboutit.”

“I’ve got to tell Horowitz about this conversation, you know.”

“Sure. Of course you do. Go ahead.”

I sighed. “Be careful, Mick.”

“I’m okay.” He hesitated. “If you see Danny and Erin…”

“I’ll tell them you’re okay.”

“Tell them I love them, willya?”

“I will. Of course.”

“Look,” he said, “I really gotta go. Hey, Brady?”

“Yes?”

“Keep an eye on your mail.”

“What?”

“See ya, bud.”

“Mick, wait—”

But he’d disconnected.

I
GOT TO THE
office before Julie, as I usually do on Monday mornings. I turned on Mr. Coffee and the other important office machines, poured a mug for myself, took it to my desk, and tracked down Horowitz at the State Police barracks at Leverett Circle.

“I was actually gonna call you,” he said.

“Why?”

“The ME’s all done, and Katherine Fallon’s body has been released. Figured you should know.”

“Have her kids been told?”

“We told them first. They’re next of kin. You’re just a law­yer.”

“What’d the autopsy show?”

“Blow to the head was lethal. All the carving, that was just for fun. She would’ve died anyway.”

“What about physical evidence? Any fingerprints?”

Horowitz sighed. “So far, nothing helpful.” He paused. “Lis­ten. You called me. So what did you want?”

“I left you a message yesterday.”

“About the two guys in Lexington? The neighbors? Got it. Already thought of it. But thank you. Good to know you’re trying to be cooperative. That it? You called to see if I got your message?”

“No,” I said. “I called to tell you Mick’s alive. He called me last night.”

Horowitz was silent for a moment. “Yeah,” he said thoughtfully. “Figures.”

I told Horowitz that I had no idea where Mick had called from and that I’d tried to convince him to turn himself in, but he’d refused. “There’s more,” I said. I told Horowitz about my encounter with Vincent Russo. I told him everything, including how Russo had implied threats to Danny and Erin, and how he might’ve had a pretty good motive to murder Kaye.

“Interesting,” mumbled Horowitz.

“You think Russo killed Kaye?”

“Hell, no. That’s dumb. Fallon killed his wife, regardless of what he’s telling you. Interesting that Russo’s using you.”

“What do you mean, using me?”

“Look, Coyne,” said Horowitz. “You did good, okay? You reported all this to the cops. You’re a good citizen. Now you can forget it. Go back to your wills and divorces. We’re looking for Fallon. Already got arrest warrants out for him all over the Commonwealth. State cops in contiguous states have been alerted, blah blah. So listen. If you hear from him again, for Christ’s sake find out where he is, and the only person you call is me.”

“Well, I know that. I’m an officer of the court. Jesus.”

“Don’t forget it, pal.”

“What about that other officer of the court?” I said.

“Which one is that?”

“Cooper. Barbara Cooper. You subpoenaed Mick’s deposition from her.”

“Yeah, we talked to her.”

“Learn anything from her?”

“Not much. Mrs. Fallon did not confide in Attorney Cooper. She seemed to think that the woman was afraid of her husband, but she offered nothing more substantial than her subjective impressions.”

“Based on her observations at the deposition?”

“I guess so. And based on things her client said. Mainly, Cooper was just trying to get a good settlement for her client. The way you would’ve.”

“Her way’s not my way,” I said. I paused. “Look. Can you fill me in a little here? You seem to know things about my client that I don’t know.”

“Specifically?”

“Specifically Mick’s gambling.”

“Here’s what we know for facts,” said Horowitz. “Mick Fallon was in deep with Jimmy Capezza down in East Providence. You know Capezza, right?”

“Heard of him,” I said. “Small-timer.”

“Not so small anymore. Anyway, Fallon’s been a sick gambler for twenty-five years. Rumor has it he shaved a point or two when he was playing college ball for Providence, and Cappy’s probably been holding that over his head all this time. Capezza’s as dumb as Fallon. Kept bookin’ his bets, and Fallon kept losing. Paid Cappy just enough to keep him off his back and taking his bets. Finally, oh a little more than a year ago, Russo bought Fallon’s paper off Capezza. Gave him about two bits on the buck for it, from what we hear, then started squeezing Fallon pretty tight.” Horowitz let out a long breath. “You didn’t know about this, huh?”

“I know Mick had a big gambling debt. I didn’t know it was to Russo. Not until last night.”

Horowitz was silent for a minute. Then he said, “Listen to me, Coyne. I’m talking to you as a friend here, believe it or not. I know Fallon’s your client, and I know you think he’s a good guy, just some poor slob who got in too deep and now everything’s crashing down on him. You feel sorry for him. That’s admirable. But the man whacked his wife, and you gotta come to grips with it.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I value your friendship.”

He chuckled. “Think about it, Coyne.”

I thought about it for the rest of the morning. I couldn’t square it with the Mick Fallon I knew. But objectively, I could understand Horowitz’s thinking. Mick was a desperate man. If Russo would hint to me that he’d hurt Mick’s kids, he would’ve undoubtedly suggested the same possibility to Mick. Get rid of your wife, pal, before she divorces you and cleans you out. Get control of your money so you can pay what you owe, or your kids’ve had it.

It explained what Patsy and Paulie were doing at Skeeter’s back in February, the night Mick threw them out. They had showed up there to get Mick’s attention, to remind him that Russo would never leave him alone until he got his money.