Nervous Water (15 page)

Horowitz and the female Brookline officer came over to where Marcia Benetti and I were sitting against the wall. Horowitz squatted down in front of me. The officer remained standing.

“This is Detective Cohler, Brookline PD,” Horowitz said, jerking his head at her.

I looked up at her. She was, I guessed, around forty. She had dark curly hair, cut short, an angular face, and thin, cynical lips. “Nice to meet you,” I said.

“Me, too.” She held out her hand and smiled quickly. It was a pleasant smile.

I shook her hand.

Horowitz jabbed my arm with his forefinger. “You don't have any idea who did this?”

“No.”

“You didn't see anything?”

I shook my head.

“He's black,” said Horowitz. “The vic.”

“African American,” I said.

“Right,” he said. “So how'd your uncle feel about his daughter dating a black man?”

“My uncle?”

He nodded. “Ignorant Maine lobsterman, right?”

“Less ignorant than you might think,” I said. “Anyway, Uncle Moze told me he never met Webster. He wanted to, but Cassie kept putting it off. I don't think Moze had any idea what color his skin was.”

“As if Cassie thought he'd be upset if he knew?”

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

“You believe him?” said Horowitz. “Your uncle?”

“Sure I do,” I said. “It's irrelevant, anyway. My uncle's in the hospital. I kinda doubt that he snuck down here in his hospital johnny and did this.”

“Sure. Okay.” Horowitz sighed. “Start at the beginning, then. Bring us up to the time when you poked your head in there and got it whacked.”

“You know some of it already.”

“That's okay,” he said. “I want Detective Cohler and Marcia to hear it, too.”

I started with my visit to Uncle Moze the previous Saturday. I told them how Moze had apparently been punched in the chest and how he was hospitalized with a heart attack. I recounted my return to his house with Charlene Staples, the Moulton police officer. I told them about my two trips to Madison, about my encounter with Dr. Richard Hurley, about how I filched Cassie's cell phone from her car, about Howard Litchfield and what he might have seen, about Hurley's children Becca and James, about the deaths of his two previous wives. I told him about my two visits with Grantham Webster.

In other words, I told them everything I could think of.

Horowitz didn't interrupt. Benetti was taking notes. Cohler was staring down at the floor. I had the sense that she would remember every word I said.

When I was done, each of them asked me some questions, either to clarify or to elaborate on something I'd said.

Then Horowitz said, “Okay, Coyne. You didn't see anything. But I bet you got a theory.”

I shrugged. “Hurley's the obvious one.”

“Because you don't like him?”

I smiled. “Not just that. Cassie's missing. He didn't report it. He's the spouse. Grannie Webster was her old boyfriend.” I paused. “Besides, Hurley owns a handgun.”

Horowitz's eyebrows shot up. “Huh?”

“Your friend Hazen,” I said, “the Madison cop, he told me that a couple weeks ago—which would be sometime around when Cassie disappeared—Hurley reported his gun was missing. It's a Smith and Wesson Chief's Special. Thirty-eight.”

“Missing,” he said.

“Convenient, huh? Report your gun missing before you go shoot somebody with it. Then throw it in the river.”

“An old trick,” said Cohler. “A staple on TV cop shows.”

“The one he held against my head was a revolver,” I said. “He cocked the hammer right next to my ear.”

Horowitz and Benetti exchanged glances. “There's another obvious suspect,” he said.

“I know,” I said. “Cassie.”

He nodded. “Say she took the gun.”

“If she's even alive,” I said. “And assuming you can conjure up a motive for her to kill Grannie.”

“She and Webster were together,” Horowitz said. “Then they split. There's a motive in there somewhere.”

“You think Cassie's the one who punched her father, too?” I said.

“That Maine cop you talked to seems to think so, huh?” He shrugged. “You said yourself that your uncle said it was Cassie who hit him.”

“He was drugged up, confused, semicomatose. He'd been obsessing on Cassie. Hardly a reliable witness.”

“You got a better suspect?”

“Besides Hurley?” I shrugged. “You can probably come up with motives and scenarios for any number of people. Think about all the people in Webster's life that have no connection to Cassie. Family, colleagues, students, old lovers, college roommates. You don't know anything about him.”

“True,” said Horowitz. “But I will. I'll know everything about him. But the thing of it is, he called you, set up the appointment for four this afternoon, said he expected to have information for you. Information about your cousin.”

“He didn't actually say it was about Cassie,” I said. “I inferred it.”

“What else could it be?”

“Maybe he just wanted to hire a top-notch attorney.”

“Right,” said Horowitz. He didn't bother smiling. “So he had another appointment right before yours. I'm thinking that was when he expected to get the information he intended to pass along to you. That's why he wanted you to wait till then.”

“If I'd gotten here earlier,” I said, “he would've still been alive.”

“As it was,” said Horowitz, “you were early enough to bump into the shooter. What you got for being early was a whack on the head. That'll teach you.”

“Yes,” I said. “A good lesson.”

“Lucky he didn't plug you, too.”

I nodded. I'd already thought of that. “Did you find an appointment book on his desk?”

“Oh, sure.” He rolled his eyes. “A clue. Just like in the movies.”

“I just thought…”

“Mr. Coyne,” said Detective Cohler, “you visited Webster here in his office yesterday, you said?”

“That's right.”

“I wonder if you'd mind taking a look in there, see if you notice anything, before forensics gets here.” She glanced at Horowitz, and he nodded.

“Sure,” I said. I pushed myself to my feet and braced myself against the wall until a moment of dizziness passed.

Henry scrambled to his feet, gave himself a shake, and looked up at me expectantly.

“He might have to pee,” I said to Cohler.

“Ask him if he can hold it,” she said.

“He's got a sore leg,” I said. “Who'd kick a dog?”

Cohler shook her head.

“Lie down,” I told Henry.

He shrugged and lay down.

I went across the hall and stood in the doorway to Webster's office.

“Put your hands in your pockets,” said Horowitz. “Don't touch anything.”

I shoved my hands in my pants pockets and stepped into the office. The smell of burned cordite was strong. I hadn't noticed it before.

I closed my eyes and tried to remember how it had looked when I'd dropped in on Webster the previous day. I tried to play out the scene step by step, beginning at the moment I looked in and saw him working at his computer to the time I stood up and we shook hands and I walked out.

Then I opened my eyes and looked slowly around the office. At first, the only difference I noticed was the chair that had tipped over when I hit my head on it.

Then I said, “Okay.”

“Okay what?” said Detective Cohler.

“There was a wire rack right there beside his computer.” I pointed. “It held about a dozen CDs. It's gone. When I got here the other day Webster was working on his computer. When he stopped to talk with me, he copied whatever it was onto a CD. Then he ejected it, slid it into its plastic case, and put it in a rack. It looked like a little vertical bookcase.”

“So our killer stole the rack of CDs,” said Horowitz. “He was looking for information.”

“Or else he just didn't want anybody else to have it,” said Cohler.

“There's something else,” I said.

The three of them turned and looked at me.

“Did Webster have a cell phone in his pocket?” I said.

“No,” said Horowitz. “No cell phone. In his pocket or anywhere else.”

“The other day he had a cell phone on his desk,” I said. “It rang once when I was talking with him. It was his ex-wife. I went out into the hall and closed the door. It was obviously a private conversation.”

“Ex-wife, huh?” said Cohler. “I suppose you didn't, um, overhear his end of the conversation.”

I squeezed my eyes shut for a minute. “When he first answered and heard who it was, he said something like, ‘What do you want?' Not exactly bubbling with friendliness. Then he asked me to give him some privacy. I went out and closed the door and tried not to listen. Mostly it was murmuring that I couldn't understand, but at one point he raised his voice and I heard him say something like, ‘Forget about it. It's not going to happen.' When I went back in he apologized, said it was his ex-wife, as if that explained it.”

“You didn't catch a name, did you?” said Marcia Benetti.

I looked at her.

“The ex-wife,” she said. “Did he call her by name?”

“No, I don't think so.”

Benetti turned to Horowitz and arched her eyebrows.

He shrugged.

“What?” I said.

“Marcia's thinking it might've been the ex-wife who shot the professor and hit you on the head today.”

“I got hit pretty hard,” I said.

“What?” said Marcia. “You don't think a woman could hit you hard enough to hurt you?”

“I didn't—”

“A gun butt is a pretty hard object,” Horowitz said. “Do a number on the manliest of men, even when wielded by a slight person of the distaff persuasion.” He grinned. “No shame in being bested by a woman, you know.”

“I'm not ashamed,” I said. “And I wouldn't say I was exactly bested. I was taken unawares. That's different.”

Cohler, I noticed, was smiling.

“So you're thinking the killer took Webster's cell phone?” said Horowitz.

“If it's not here. Most people carry their cellulars around with them. He had it with him the other day. It would have the names and numbers of people he knew stored in it. That might be useful to somebody.”

Horowitz was looking up at the ceiling. I hadn't said anything he hadn't already thought of.

“Mr. Coyne,” said Cohler, “I'm wondering if in that instant before you got hit maybe something registered. A scent, perhaps? The rustle of clothing?”

I tried to think. “No,” I said. “I didn't even notice the cordite odor until just now. It happened too quickly to notice anything. When I got here, the door was half open. I saw him sitting there with his back to me. I didn't know he was already dead. I spoke his name and pushed the door open and started to go in and…”

“Maybe something will occur to you,” she said.

“If it does,” I said, “I'll let you know.”

She glanced over her shoulder toward the open door, where Henry was waiting. “You think your dog might've bit him?”

“Henry?” I shook my head. “He's the most trusting, least vicious dog in the world.”

“Even when somebody hits his master on the head?”

“That,” I said, “would provoke a growl. Not a particularly fearsome growl at that.”

She shrugged. “Too bad.”

Horowitz had wandered over to the corner of the room. “Hey, Coyne,” he said. “Come here. Something I want you to take a look at.”

I went over to where he was standing.

He pointed at the floor.

I squatted down.

“Don't touch,” said Horowitz.

It was the broken remains of a small framed photo, about a five-by-seven. The wooden frame was splintered. The glass was shattered.

The photograph was lying faceup on the floor. It pictured Grantham Webster and Cassie Crandall, their heads and the top halves of their torsos. They were standing side by side. Cassie was leaning against him with her arm slung casually around his neck. They appeared to be about the same height. They were squinting into the sun showing a lot of white teeth. They looked happy. Carefree. Stoned, maybe.

Webster was bare-chested. He had sloping shoulders and a narrow chest. Cassie wore a skimpy lime-colored bikini top that showed plenty of cleavage. She had a slender model's body. She was so deeply tanned that her skin was almost as dark as Webster's.

In the background a flat turquoise sea—certainly not the Atlantic of New England—stretched away to the horizon. There was no foreground in the photograph. They could've been on a boat or on a beach.

“That's your cousin,” said Horowitz. It wasn't a question.

I nodded. “Webster had this photo on his desk. It was facing away from me, so I didn't see who was in it when I was here the other day.”

“So what do you think?”

“I think Webster must've still loved Cassie,” I said. “Keeping this photo on his desk.”

“Even though she dumped him,” he said.

“I also think,” I said, “that whoever did this was the same one who punched my uncle.”

Horowitz nodded and pointed to a fresh triangular gouge on the wall. “Threw the photo,” he said. “Just like you were saying happened in your uncle's house. Lots of anger there.”

“Or jealousy,” said Cohler.

“Anger and jealousy,” said Marcia Benetti. “They go together.”

There were voices out in the hallway. Benetti stepped out of the office. A minute later she poked her head in. “Forensics is here,” she said.

Horowitz, Cohler, and I went into the hallway. Four new people were there, two women and two men. Each of them was carrying a big satchel. They wore white jumpsuits with
FORENSICS
stenciled across their backs and a Massachusetts State Police emblem stitched on the shoulder. One of them was squatting down patting Henry.