Void in Hearts (17 page)

“We don’t know for sure that Hayden’s dead, of course,” she said. “But, yes, that’s the presumption. And that’s how I heard of you. Which is why I’m here.”

“To tell me all this?”

She nodded. “Among other things. I’ve pieced it together. Have you?”

Again I tried to move my head. I succeeded and regretted it instantly, as an arrow of pain shot down my left arm and lingered in my elbow and fingers.

“Are you all right?” She was frowning at me.

“I’ve got this pinched nerve. Gotta be careful.” I hunched my shoulders and carefully shifted my position against my pillow. “I think Concannon killed both Hayden and Les. Hayden because he was going to expose their scam, and Les because he witnessed Hayden’s murder. Then he beat up Becca and ran me down, looking for that film that he thinks shows him zapping Hayden. Concannon’s our man.”

“So,” she said after a moment, “I’m wondering if you could help us.”

“I am in no shape to help anybody. Besides, how do I know you are who you say you are? Maybe you really are Hayden’s girlfriend. Maybe it really was Hayden who killed Les.”

“I’m sorry.” She unzipped her bag, which had been resting on her lap, and extracted a thin leather case. She handed it to me. I flipped it open. It contained her picture and an impressive card identifying her as Sharon Bell, Special Agent, Securities and Exchange Commission.

I gave it back to her. “Nice photo,” I said.

“Think so?”

“Better than anything Les got of you. You are, of course, more beautiful in person.”

“I am a very ordinary-looking woman, Mr. Coyne.”

“I often find that ordinary-looking women are the most beautiful,” I said. “Okay. I expect they’ll let me out of here pretty soon. How do you want me to help?”

“I can’t promise you it won’t be dangerous.”

I tried to shrug. I was having trouble expressing myself in body language. “I can’t promise I won’t chicken out when you tell me, either. But I’m willing to listen.”

“
YOU APPEAR TO BE
in some pain, sir,” said Lucas as he led me through the upstairs bar to the back stairs of Barney’s.

“I prefer to think of it as discomfort. It hurts less that way.” The truth was, my neck felt as if it were filled with shards of broken glass, and my left arm ached with the dull persistence of an old war wound.

The doctor had instructed me to wear the collar all the time. I nodded when he said it, and he smiled at me. “You won’t, I know. So you will suffer. Don’t call me. There’s nothing I can do for you. Whiplash injuries don’t heal. Wear the neck brace and you’ll feel better.”

I didn’t wear it, of course. I couldn’t stand the idea of people staring at me.

The doctor also advised me to avoid tension-producing situations.

Lucas was an ancient black man, a vision of Uncle Remus, with round laughing cheeks and a fringe of cotton hair encircling his head. He had waited tables at Barney’s for as long as I had been going there. Before that he had been a porter on the Boston and Maine.

The back stairs wound down to the cellar dining room, a long, narrow room without windows. Three walls were paneled with old barnboard. The other was brick. Photographs depicting scenes of Boston in the Gay Nineties hung here and there in simple black frames. Pale orange lights glowed dully from pewter sconces. The tables were aligned along one wall, widely separated from each other.

Barney’s could be found only if you knew where to look, which was down a narrow alley off Boylston Street opposite the Common. It was favored by lawyers and Republicans for the privacy it guaranteed. Barney’s was a prime battlefield for the civilized jousting and feinting of the political and legal warriors who battled there. At Barney’s no one rushed patrons through a meal. Lawyers commonly spent entire afternoons there, huddling with clients or adversaries, plotting, conniving, giving and taking, advancing and retreating, until the law’s work could be done. Waiters seemed to possess a sixth sense that enabled them to materialize tableside at the precise moment when a fresh martini was needed. We lawyers often showed up in midmorning and, allowing ourselves to be deceived by the perpetual dusk in the cellar dining room, began immediately to consume the offbeat variety of beers that Barney’s specialized in. At some point, my adversary or I would ask for the Oysters Rockefeller. Later perhaps a bowl of the fresh fish chowder, washed down by a Riesling of Lucas’s choice.

And much later we would stumble up those stairs, blink at the afternoon sunlight, and congratulate each other on a day’s work well done.

It was a leisurely, discreet sort of place. It was very expensive.

It was where I chose to meet Arthur Concannon.

A few days after I was released from the hospital, I had gone to Concannon’s office. Melanie Walther greeted me warmly, calling me by my first name. I was vaguely surprised that she remembered me. I asked if she had heard from Derek Hayden, and she shrugged and shook her head.

“I have something for Concannon,” I told her.

“He’s in his office, if you want to wait a minute.”

“Don’t bother him. Just give him this.” I handed her a sealed envelope.

“Is that it?”

“It? What?”

“What you came here for?”

There was a mischievous query in her voice. I nodded. “Yes. That’s it.”

The note that was sealed inside the envelope said: “I am Lester and Rebecca Katz’s attorney. I have a business proposition. If you would care to hear it, please meet me downstairs in Barney’s at four Thursday afternoon. If you do not appear, I will take my business elsewhere.” I stapled my business card to the note.

Lucas seated me at the table at the end of the room. “A beer, sir?”

“What is the beer du jour?”

“A nice dark from Israel. We serve it warm.”

I rubbed my neck and grimaced. “I’ll try it. Keep an eye out for my guest, please. I’m expecting him at four-thirty.”

I had mentioned four in my note. I assumed he’d be late. He wouldn’t want to appear too eager.

Lucas returned with my beer. It was bitter and heavy and I knew too many of them would set the steel drums to beating inside my head.

I wondered if Concannon would show up. My guess was that he wouldn’t—unless he was as guilty as Sharon Bell deduced. If he had done all she thought—committed fiscal felonies, hired Les to follow his partner, killed said partner, killed Les Katz, beat up Becca, run me down—he might be unable to resist the bait I had trolled in front of him.

On the other hand, he might figure the best way to gain his end would be simpler: He might decide to try again to kill me.

At four-fifteen Lucas returned to my table. “Another, sir?”

“I didn’t enjoy that one very much. I think I’ll switch to my usual.”

Lucas nodded. “A little heavy for my taste, too.”

He was back in about a minute with a double shot of Jack Daniel’s on ice with a side of branch water.

I sipped and smoked and tried not to play out scenarios. The truth was, I didn’t know what I’d say to Concannon if he did show up. Sharon Bell had tried to coach me. But it made my head hurt and my neck ache. I told her that my doctor had instructed me to avoid tension and that I’d just have to play Concannon by ear. This did not seem to fill her with confidence. I didn’t let on that it didn’t inspire me, either.

It was close to five when I looked up to see Lucas leading Concannon along the length of the room toward my table. He stood beside me for a moment, looking uncertainly at me. I neither stood nor offered my hand. Finally he shrugged and sat across from me.

“Sir?” said Lucas. “Something to drink?”

“Bring him one of those beers,” I said.

“I want Scotch,” said Concannon. “Dewars. No ice, no water, no soda.”

Lucas nodded and left. Concannon and I stared at each other until Lucas returned and placed a glass on the table in front of Concannon, who lifted it and allowed himself the tiniest of sips.

“Okay,” he said. “Here I am. You probably find that enormously significant.”

“I suppose I’d find your failure to appear significant, too.”

He shrugged, sipped, and allowed his mouth to twitch in what I assumed was an expression of amusement. “You mentioned a business proposition. What is it?”

“I’m not very good at obfuscation and misdirection. Pussyfooting. Beating around bushes.”

Concannon nodded. “Generally a waste of time.”

“I’ve got those photos you want so bad. They’re for sale.” So much for Sharon Bell’s coaching.

His expression didn’t change. “Photos, Mr. Coyne?”

“The ones Les Katz took the night you killed him. The ones you beat up Becca and ran me down to get.” I smiled. “Those photos.”

His grin broadened. “I have a word of advice for you, Mr. Coyne.”

“What?”

“Don’t try to bullshit a bullshitter.”

“Wouldn’t think of it. This is the deal—”

Concannon held up a hand. “Before you make your pitch, I want you to know something. Okay?”

“Shoot.”

“You are going to offer me some sort of bargain. I am neither going to accept nor reject it. I will wait until you’re done. Then I will thank you for the drink and leave. You’ll hear from me—if you hear from me at all—some other time. Satisfactory?”

I nodded. “Satisfactory.”

He took a healthier swig of his Dewars and waved his hand. “Let’s have it, then.”

“Okay. Les got pictures. Becca gave the film to me. I got it developed. I know what’s on it. It’s what you wanted when you went to her house and when you ran me over later that night. Technically, the film belongs to Becca. She’d rather sell it than turn it over to the police. She asked me to try to arrange it.” I hesitated.

“Continue,” said Concannon.

“Twenty-five thousand dollars for the negatives and the prints. If the deal isn’t made within one week, it all goes to the cops.”

He nodded. “Twenty-five grand. One week.”

“The film is in a safe place,” I added. “If anything happens to me—”

“Sure, sure.” He waved his hand as if a fly were bothering him. “Is that your pitch, Mr. Coyne?”

“That’s it.”

He studied me with what appeared to be mild amusement for a moment. He lifted his glass and drained it. Then he stood up. “In that case, thank you for the drink, Mr. Coyne,” he said. And without offering me his hand, he turned and left.

I rubbed my neck. Avoid tension-producing situations, the doctor had said.

Lucas brought me another Jack Daniel’s without being asked.

I stopped at a pay phone near the Park Street subway entrance. Using a pay phone was a precaution I thought unnecessary but that Sharon Bell had insisted on. She was staying at a fancy hotel in Brookline. I figured Uncle Sam would end up spending more on this operation than he could hope to recover by prosecuting an investment company. But justice, of course, has value beyond measure.

She answered on the first ring. “Bell,” she said, businesslike.

“Coyne.”

“How’d it go?”

“I couldn’t tell.”

“Did he go for it?”

“I couldn’t tell that, either.”

“So where does it stand?” She sounded impatient.

“Look,” I said. “I offered him the deal. He neither accepted it nor rejected it. He’s too smart for that. He didn’t give himself away at all. He’ll let me know within one week if he wants to buy the film.”

“Or else he’ll come after you.”

“Yes. There is that possibility, as you seem to enjoy reminding me.”

“I’m having second thoughts about having talked you into this.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m having second thoughts about allowing you to talk me into it. But it’s too late to think about that now.”

“Be careful. Please.”

“I know. You’ve already got Les Katz’s blood on your hands.”

She was silent for a moment. “That’s not entirely fair,” she said finally. “But don’t think I’m not fully aware of it. Did you tell Concannon you’d taken precautions?”

“Sure. I’m no hero. Actually, with all the film and stuff at my ex-wife’s place, I’m wondering if there’s any way Concannon could figure that out.”

“Look,” she said, “if you’re worried—”

“Hell, of course I’m worried. But I figure, based on what we know of his style, his first move would normally be to beat the shit out of me. Hopefully, our little tête-à-tête this afternoon has preempted the necessity for that.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Right,” I said.

“Brady, I really think—”

“I am not going to lug that gun around with me. It’s uncomfortable. It makes my suits hang wrong.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed what a fashion plate you are.”

“Look, Sharon. The last time I took that thing out of my safe, I ended up blowing a hole in a man’s chest. He died.”

“You told me. He was an evil man. You probably saved two lives by doing it.”

“A moot point. I’ll take my chances without the gun.”

“I’d feel a lot better—”

“Your feelings, dear lady, have nothing to do with this. If you think I’m playing this charade out of patriotism, or some peculiar fondness for the Securities and Exchange Commission—or because you are a sexy wench—you’re quite thoroughly mistaken. This is for me and Les Katz and Becca. This is personal. It happens that just now your needs and my drives intersect, so I’m cooperating with you. If I want to do it without a weapon, and without a bunch of agents shadowing me everywhere I go, then that’s my choice.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then I heard her chuckle. “A pretty speech, sir.” A loud, rhythmic noise echoed in the telephone receiver. She was applauding.

“Sneer if you must,” I said: “But look. I’m a careful person most of the time. This time I’m forewarned. I’m looking over my shoulder a lot. Anyway, I don’t think Concannon wants to kill me. At least not right away. He might like to torture me some. It comforts me to think about it that way.”

“You are a most peculiar man.”

“Thank you,” I said humbly.

She sighed. “So we wait.”

“Yes. We wait for him to call.”

“We hope he does call.”

“Because if he doesn’t, it means we have misjudged him.”

“Or,” she said, “it means I have misread the entire situation.”