"I wanted to know if there was any movement on Rita Ferris, or Billy Purdue, or on that Coupe De Ville."
Ellis laughed dully. "Ixnay on the first two, but the third one is interesting. Turns out the Coupe De Ville is a company car, registered to one Leo Voss, a lawyer in Boston." There was a pause on the other end of the line. I waited until I realized that, once again, I was supposed to be playing the role of straight man in a conversation.
"But…?" I said at last.
"But," said Ellis, "Leo Voss is no longer with us. He's dead, died earlier this week."
"Damn, a dead lawyer. Only another million to go."
"We live in hope," said Ellis.
"Did he fall, or was he pushed?"
"That's the interesting part. His secretary found him and called the cops. He was sitting behind his desk still dressed in his running outfit-sneakers, socks, T-shirt, sweatpants-with an opened bottle of water in front of him. Their first impression was that he'd had a heart attack. According to the secretary, he'd been feeling ill for a couple of days. He thought it might be flu.
"But when he was autopsied, there was evidence of inflammation of the nerves in the hands and feet. He'd also lost some hair, probably only in the previous day or two. Tests on a hair sample turned up traces of thallium. You know what thallium is?"
"Uh-huh." My grandfather had used it as rat bait, until its sale was restricted. It was a metallic element, similar to lead or mercury, but far more poisonous. Its salts were soluble in water, almost tasteless and produced symptoms similar to influenza, meningitis or encephalitis. A lethal dose of thallium sulfate, maybe eight hundred milligrams or more, could kill in anything from twenty-four to forty hours.
"So what sort of work did this Leo Voss do?" I asked.
"Fairly straightforward stuff, mainly corporate, although what he did must have been pretty lucrative. He had a house in Beacon Hill, a summer place in the Vineyard, and still had some money in the bank, probably because he was single and there was no one putting fur coats on his credit card."
Doreen, I thought. If Ellis could have afforded it, he'd have pasted pictures of her outside churches as a warning to bridegrooms.
"They're still going through his files, but he seems to have been squeaky clean," concluded Ellis.
"Which probably means that he wasn't."
Ellis tut-tutted. "Such cynicism in one so young. Now I've got something for you: I hear you were talking to Willeford."
"That's right. Is that a problem?"
"Could be. He's gone, and I'm starting to resent arriving in places to find that you've already been there. It's making me feel inadequate, and I get enough of that at home."
I felt my grip tighten on the phone. "Last I saw of him, he was sitting in the Sail Loft nursing a drink."
"Willeford never nursed a drink in his life. They don't survive in the glass long enough to be nursed. He give any indication that he might be planning to go away somewhere?"
"No, nothing." I recalled Tony's Celli's interest in Willeford and felt my mouth go dry.
"What did you two talk about?"
I paused before I spoke. "He did some work for Billy Purdue: tracing of birth parents."
"That it?"
"That's it."
"He have any luck?"
"I don't think so."
Ellis went quiet, then said distinctly: "Don't hold back on me, Bird. I don't like it."
"I'm not." It wasn't quite a lie, but I'm not sure that it qualified as the truth either. I waited for Ellis to say something more, but he didn't push the issue.
"Stay out of trouble, Bird," was all he said, before he hung up.
I had just finished cleaning off the table and was in my bedroom slipping on my boots when I heard the sound of a car pulling up outside. Through the gap in the drapes I could see the rear of a gold Mercury Sable parked near the side of the house. I took my Smith & Wesson, wrapped it in a towel and walked onto the porch. And as I stepped into the cold morning sunlight, I heard a voice that I knew say:
"Why would anybody plant so many trees? I mean, who has that kind of time? I can't even find time to get my laundry done."
Angel stood with his back to me, staring out at the trees at the edge of my property. He wore a Timberland fleece top, a pair of brown corduroy pants and tan work boots. At his feet was a hard plastic suitcase which was so pitted and battered that it looked like it had been dropped from an airplane. A piece of blue climbing rope and the whim of fortune held it closed.
Angel breathed in deeply then bent over as his body was racked by a fit of coughing. He spat something large and unpleasant on to the ground before him.
"That's the clean air getting the shit out of your lungs," said a deep, drawling voice. From behind the raised trunk door of the car Louis appeared holding a matching Delsey case and suit carrier. He wore a black Boss overcoat beneath which a gray double-breasted suit shimmered. A black shirt was buttoned to the neck and his shaved head gleamed. In the open trunk, I could see a long, metal storage case. Louis never went anywhere without his toys.
"I think that was my lung," said Angel, using the tip of his boot to poke with interest at whatever piece of matter had expelled itself from his body. As I looked at them both, my spirits lifted. I wasn't sure why they were here instead of back in New York, but, whatever the reason, I was glad. Louis glanced at me and nodded, which was usually as close as Louis ever came to looking pleased about anything.
"You know, Angel," I said, "you make nature look untidy just by standing there."
Angel turned and raised an arm in a sweeping gesture.
"Trees," he said, shaking his head in bafflement and smiling. "So many trees. I ain't seen this many trees since I got thrown out of the Indian Scouts."
"You know, I don't think I even want to know why," I said.
Angel picked up his case. "Bastards. And I was just about to get my explorer's badge too."
"Didn't think they had badges for the shit you was exploring," said Louis, from behind. "Badge like that could get a man thrown in jail in Georgia."
"Funny," barked Angel. "It's just a myth that you can't be gay and do macho things."
"Uh-huh. Just like it's a myth that all homosexuals wear nice clothes and take care of their skin."
"That better not be aimed at me."
It was nice to see that some things hadn't changed.
"How you doin' today?" said Angel, as he pushed past me. "And lose the gun. We're staying, like it or not. You look like shit, by the way."
"Nice suit," I remarked to Louis, as he followed Angel.
"Thanks," he replied. "Never forget: no such thing as a brother with no taste, just a brother with no money."
I stood on the porch for a moment, feeling a little stupid holding the towel-wrapped gun. Then, figuring that the matter had obviously been decided long before they got to Maine, I followed them into the house.
I showed them to the spare bedroom, where the furniture consisted only of a mattress on the floor and an old closet.
"Jesus," said Angel. "It's the Hanoi Hilton. If we knock on the pipes, someone better answer."
"You gonna supply sheets, or we have to roll some drunks and steal their coats?" asked Louis.
"I can't sleep here," said Angel, with an air of finality. "If the rats want to feed on me, fuckers should at least have to go to the trouble of climbing up a bedframe."
He brushed past me again, and seconds later, I heard his voice calclass="underline"