Authors: William G. Tapply
Farm Pond Road turned out to be several miles into the countryside, much farther from the real-estate office than it appeared on the map. I drove slowly, unsure of what I was looking for, since the phone book had not given a number to go with the street address. Melanie Walther had mentioned a farmhouse, a view of a mountain, horses. I hoped I’d be able to pick out Hayden’s place.
It was easier than that. His mailbox was labeled “Hayden” in glow-in-the-dark stick-on letters.
I pulled into the curving driveway beside a white-shingled old farmhouse. Behind it was a small barn. A Volvo station wagon was parked in front of the barn. I sat in my car for a minute, regretting my decision to dress in my customary Saturday morning garb—baggy old brown corduroy pants, scarred cowboy boots, turtleneck, and parka. My gray wool three-piece suit and tweed topcoat would have enabled me to present myself more credibly.
I got out and went to the door. I rang the bell, waited, peered inside into the richly carpeted foyer and beyond to a winding staircase, and listened for footsteps. I rang the bell again and waited some more before concluding that no one was inside.
I went around back. It was one of those crystal-clear winter days when the sun’s light is intensified by its reflection off the snow, the air so crisp and cold that a deep breath burns the lungs. When I stepped into the dark mustiness of the barn, I was momentarily blinded, so that I heard the voice before I could see its source.
“Who’s there?” she said. “Who’re you, anyhow?”
“Mrs. Hayden?”
As my eyes adjusted I detected first her shape and gradually her features. She was leaning on a long-handled shovel. Beside her was a wheelbarrow. Her brown hair was cut very short on the sides and the back. She wore a red beret, blue jeans tucked into calf-high boots, several layers of sweaters, and leather work gloves.
She was tall and lanky and awkward-looking. Large eyes widely spaced, crooked nose, expressive mouth.
She was frowning at me. “I’m Brenda Hayden, yes.”
“My name is Coyne,” I said. I took a step toward her and then, as I noticed her grip tighten on her shovel, I stopped. “I’m a lawyer. An associate of Lester Katz.”
She came toward me, her head cocked to one side in inquiry. “Who?”
“Brady Coyne,” I said. I took out my wallet and removed a business card. I held it toward her as if it were a peace offering.
“No, I mean the other name.”
“Oh. Lester Katz. You know Les Katz.”
She stood in front of me and absentmindedly took the card from me. She didn’t look at it. “I don’t know anybody named Les Katz.”
I tried to remember Les’s description of Hayden’s wife. He’d told me she had spectacular blond hair and an equally spectacular body. He’d likened her to Farrah Fawcett. This Brenda Hayden was the antithesis of Farrah Fawcett.
I was confused. “I’m looking for Derek Hayden’s wife. Maybe—”
“I’m Derek Hayden’s wife. Do you know something…?”
She stopped and looked down at my card. Then she looked up again. Her eyes were dark. In the dimly lit barn they seemed to be all black pupils. I read sadness and confusion in them.
“The Derek Hayden who works for American Investments?” I said.
She smiled and nodded. “Oh, so you’re here on business, then. Well, Derek isn’t here now.”
I shook my head. “I’m not here on that kind of business. I’m looking for your husband. I was at his office yesterday. They said they haven’t seen him for over a week. So I thought…”
I let my voice trail away to the implied question. Brenda Hayden studied me for a minute. Then she said, “Come on inside. We’ll have coffee. We can talk.”
I followed her into the big modern kitchen in the back of the farmhouse. It was dominated by a big maple hutch, which displayed a collection of antique pewter. A cold woodstove hunkered in the corner. I sat at the oval table and she poured two mugs of coffee. Then she sat down across from me.
“You’re an attorney,” she said. “What do you want with Derek? Is he in some kind of trouble?”
I shrugged. “Maybe. I’m not sure. I need to talk to him, that’s all. I was hoping he’d be here. Can you tell me how to reach him?”
“What does this have to do with what’s-his-name—Les Katz?”
“Just that you hired Les to follow your husband, and Les was my friend.”
She frowned. “And why did I hire Les Katz to follow my husband?”
“You thought he was having an affair, evidently.”
She peered at me over the rim of her coffee mug. She seemed faintly amused. “That,” she said after a long moment, “is a crock.”
“A crock?”
“I hired
nobody
to follow Derek. I do
not
suspect him of having an affair. If I did, I wouldn’t hire someone to follow him. I’d ask him. I’d have every confidence that he’d tell me the truth.” Her eyes began to brim. “Aw, shit,” she mumbled.
“Mrs. Hayden—”
She snorted and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “I haven’t seen Derek in ten days. What the hell is going on, anyway?”
“That’s what I want to find out,” I said softly.
“Why? What’s your connection?”
I hesitated before answering. “It’s all very speculative,” I finally said. “I’d rather not get into it.”
“You afraid you’ll upset poor weak little old me?”
I smiled. “No, that’s really not it. I just don’t have very many facts to speculate with yet.”
“What has he done, anyway?”
I shrugged. “Disappeared, it would seem.”
“Since when is that a crime?”
“I didn’t say it was a crime.”
She smiled. “No, you didn’t say it. Look, Mr. Coyne. I am frankly at my wits’ end. Derek left for work a week ago Tuesday. Like he always does. He called me from the office, said he’d be tied up all evening. That’s not unusual. Sometimes he spends the night in town. It’s a long commute, and if he works too late he misses the train. So when he didn’t come home, I didn’t think much of it. But when he didn’t call the next day, I called his office. That was on Thursday. Melanie—that’s his secretary—she said he hadn’t come in. And we haven’t seen him since. Or heard from him.” She made an exploding gesture with her hands. “Poof. Just like that. Disappeared.”
“Have you notified the police?”
She flapped her hands, a gesture of frustration or confusion. “No. I—I expect to hear from him. I keep thinking today, tonight…”
“Maybe you should,” I said quietly.
She peered at me solemnly and nodded. “Yes. I suppose you’re right. He’s a missing person, I guess.”
“You say he drove to work,” I said after an awkward silence.
“He drives to the Alewife MBTA stop. Leaves his car there and takes the subway to Park Street and walks to the office from there. I assume that’s what he did that day.”
“Tuesday, that was.”
“Yes.”
The Tuesday before the early Wednesday morning when Les Katz was struck down by a hit-and-run driver, whom I assumed was Derek Hayden. “What kind of car does your husband drive?”
“An Audi 5000. He got it just a couple of months ago. His pride and joy. Twice a week at the car wash. Changes the oil about as often as he brushes his teeth. He spent over four thousand dollars on a stereo system for it, complete with a CD player. He’s earned it. He works hard. He makes a lot of money. He even got a dumb vanity plate for it.”
“What’s it say?”
She smiled and shook her head. “It says TARZ. That’s what his buddies used to call him. It’s short for Tarzan, I think, which had something to do with his aggressive way of playing basketball. Listen. I hope you can find my husband, Mr. Coyne, and I don’t really care why you’re looking for him. He has been acting strange, and the only thing I know about that is that it is not a reflection of our marriage. We are in good shape. I know that.”
“How do you mean, strange?”
“Nervous. More late hours. More trips. I assumed it was just business pressures. He wasn’t sleeping very well. He’d get up in the middle of the night and when I’d wake up and go downstairs, I’d find him sitting in the living room, no lights on, no TV or radio or anything. Just sitting there. I’d ask him what was the matter, and he’d pull me into his lap and hug me and not say anything. I mean, if he was having an affair…”
“Assuming he wasn’t,” I said.
“Assuming he wasn’t, then I just don’t know. Business, I suppose. Maybe Arthur could tell you.”
“Concannon?”
“Yes. You know him?”
“I met him. He didn’t seem very forthcoming.”
“He’s been very kind to me. He’s as upset about this as I am, although I imagine it’s more for business reasons. I’ve talked with him several times. He keeps asking me if I’ve heard from Derek.”
“What about friends, relatives, anybody who might be in touch with your husband?”
She nodded. “Everybody I could think of I talked to. Trying not to upset anybody, you understand. Sort of indirect. But nobody seems to know anything.”
I sat back and sighed. “Strange,” I said.
She nodded. “Want more coffee?”
I shook my head. “No, thanks. Look, Mrs. Hayden—”
“Why don’t you call me Brenda. I mean, I’ve shared all these deep, dark secrets with you.”
“Fine. And I’m Brady, then.”
She combed a wisp of hair away from her forehead with her fingers. “What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know. Call me if you hear from Derek. Or have him call me.”
“Sure. Okay.”
“Otherwise…”
“The girls are very confused. I don’t know what to tell them.”
“The truth, I guess.”
She nodded. “Yes. That’s what I’ve done. They remain confused.”
“How old are your daughters?”
“Eleven and eight. Their father dotes on them. Bought them a pony. They seem to miss him very much. They’re spending the weekend with their grandparents. As for me, to tell you the truth, I’m almost getting used to it. Isn’t that odd? It’s not even been two weeks, and I’m getting into this pattern. Except at night, I just do my chores, live my life, and don’t think too much about old Tarz. It gets lonely at night.”
I pushed myself away from the table and stood up. Brenda rose and came around the table. We walked to the door. “You should report him missing,” I said.
She nodded. “I guess you’re right. It just makes it seem—ominous, I guess.”
I opened the door. “You’ll call me?”
“Yes. And you call me, too, okay?”
“If I learn anything,” I said.
“Please.”
I climbed into my car and pointed it at the city. As I drove, I tried to figure out what I had learned. Les Katz had been hired by Hayden’s wife to follow him. Les described the wife as a blond Farrah Fawcett look-alike. Then Les was run down and killed, and Hayden disappeared.
Hayden’s wife denied hiring Les. And she looked nothing like Les’s description of her.
It was all very confusing. I slid a Sibelius symphony into the tape deck as I drove and decided not to try to ponder what was, for the time being, imponderable.
Route 2 heading east from Harvard circles a rotary in Concord at the prison that, when I was growing up, we called the Concord Reformatory but now has been upgraded to a Massachusetts Correctional Institution. Through several traffic lights, a sharp right angle up a hill through Lincoln, over Route 128, and then a long, wide stretch of eight-lane highway to Cambridge. From the top of the hill in Belmont, the city of Boston lay spread out before me, sharp and clear in the smogless January air. I saw the Prudential and the John Hancock and the lesser spires, steeples, towers, and smokestacks, and I was able to locate with precision where my office building stood in Copley Square. It was a place to go on this Saturday when there was nowhere to cast for trout or swat around a Maxfli. In my searching for Derek Hayden, I had neglected my deskwork, which would surely put Julie into a foul mood, since she tended to take that stuff very seriously. I’d clean up my desk and earn myself a peck on the cheek Monday morning when she came to work.
As Route 2 funneled toward the complex intersection at the Arlington-Cambridge line, the great new concrete MBTA station loomed, a uniquely anomalous mixture of formlessness and function. The Alewife station, where Derek Hayden habitually parked his new Audi 5000.
Why not? I thought. I turned in, took my ticket from the machine, and began my tour of the parking garage. Slots were at a premium, even on a non-commuter Saturday. I looked for an Audi 5000, license plate TARZ—color unknown, thanks to my stupid failure to ask.
It turned out to be dark metallic blue. It was on the fourth level. I found a slot nearby, parked my BMW, and strode over to Derek Hayden’s pride and joy.
I circled it slowly, bending to examine the right front bumper and fender that, as I reconstructed Les Katz’s fatal collision, had to have been the point of impact. I found no dent, no scratch, no broken headlight, no evidence of recent repair or touch-up.
Brenda told me that Derek kept his automobile spotlessly clean. But this one was coated with a uniform film of fine gray dust. It had been sitting there for some time. Ten days? I didn’t know how to judge that.
I went back and sat in my own car. Slowly but inexorably my nicely wrought scenario was coming unraveled. Derek Hayden’s wife didn’t hire Les Katz. Hayden didn’t run over Les, at least not in his own car. Nor did he flee with his lady friend, again, at least not in his beloved Audi.
Okay. Brenda Hayden might have lied to me. Why shouldn’t she lie to a stranger? And Les I knew to be a satyr and prone to exaggeration to the point of outright mendacity. It would have been entirely in character for him to describe Brenda Hayden in wildly distorted terms on the mistaken assumption that it would impress me. And Hayden could have run down Les with somebody else’s car. The girlfriend’s, perhaps. And hers could have been the one they then used to flee in, leaving the Audi behind. That would serve as a neat diversion when it was eventually found.
I started up my BMW and followed the exit signs out of the parking garage.
The most likely scenario, I realized as I joined the solid stream of shopping traffic in the Fresh Pond bottleneck, was much simpler and therefore more elegant. Les Katz had been run over by a drunk who didn’t know him. Derek Hayden had nothing to do with it. A random event, nothing more. Most of them are. That was the way the world basically turned.