“Because I can’t sing and dance,” I said.
21.
Epstein called me from his car.
“Doherty’s dead,” Epstein said. “Want to ride along?”
I did.
There were a couple of cruisers, and a couple of unmarked cars and a coroner’s wagon parked near the water behind UMass, Boston. Doherty was not recognizable, a sodden something wedged in among some boulders. Frank Belson was there.
“Been in the water awhile,” he said. “Hard to say where he went in.”
“Cause of death?” Epstein said.
“Have to wait till they open him up,” Belson said. “Body’s been banging against rocks and things.”
“Any estimate when?”
Belson shook his head.
“Same thing,” he said. “You know what they’re like in the water. When did he go missing?”
Epstein told him.
“Consistent,” Belson said. “Coulda died then.”
“No sign of his car?” Epstein said.
“Not yet,” Belson said. “Makes me think he didn’t go in here.”
“We can check the currents,” Epstein said.
“Sure,” Belson said.
Epstein nodded. He walked over and stood looking down at the remains. I saw no need to.
“Currents are kind of unreliable around here,” I said.
“That’s for sure,” Belson said. “But we check them anyway.”
“That may be the defi nition of police work,” I said.
“Philosophical,” Belson said. “You in this?”
“He was having trouble with his wife,” I said. “He hired me to look into it.”
“And?”
“She was cheating on him,” I said.
“You tell him?”
“Yes.”
“Where is she?” Belson said.
“She was shot to death,” I said. “Couple of days ago.”
“In Cambridge?”
“Yes.”
“That don’t simplify anything,” Belson said.
“No.”
“So what are you doing here now?”
“Epstein invited me,” I said. “Interested party.”
The wind off the ocean was hard. Belson had his hat clamped down against it. Everyone was hunched a little.
“Aren’t you always,” Belson said. “If I remember, the wife was shot by someone who got shot himself.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Too bad.”
“Been nice and neat if the other guy hadn’t done it. Doherty shoots his cheating wife and then goes and jumps off a bridge someplace.”
“Clear two cases,” I said.
“No such luck,” Belson said. “Coroner doesn’t come up with a neat explanation, we’re going to have the bureau up our ass for the foreseeable future.”
“You can work with Epstein,” I said.
“Sure, they leave it with him,” Belson said. “But they bring some of those guys up from DC . . .”
“I know,” I said.
“You know anything I don’t know?” Belson said.
“Christ, where do I start?” I said.
“About this case,” Belson said. “You holding anything back.”
“No.”
“You always hold something back,” Belson said.
“Don’t generalize,” I said.
Belson nodded. Epstein still stood, motionless, looking at the remains of Dennis Doherty, while the photographers photo 86 graphed and the measurers measured and the routine went on around him.
Two more unmarked cars arrived and men got out wearing dark jackets that said FBI on them.
“Help is on the way,” I said.
“Oh fuck,” Belson said.
22.
Hawk and i were working out at the Harbor Health
Club. Probably out of some loyalty to his own past, and because he liked Hawk and me, Henry Cimoli kept a small boxing area in the club that was otherwise full of gleaming machinery and chrome-coated weights. Hawk was hitting the little double-end jeeter bag with his left hand and I was doing combinations on the heavy bag. The more repetitious the exercise, the more you are likely to coast. I concentrated on punching through the bag. Hawk seemed to hit the jeeter bag without any effort or thought, except he hit it square every time and it danced rhythmically. He shifted hands without breaking the rhythm.
“You know what be bothering me,” he said.
“The question of intelligent design?” I said.
“I already know that,” Hawk said. “What I’m thinking is that if Vinnie ain’t there to drill the mystery shooter, that everybody be assuming that her husband shot her and killed himself.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So maybe somebody set it up that way,” Hawk said.
“And Vinnie showed up and ruined it,” I said.
Hawk began to hit the bag alternately with both hands. The rhythm was uninterrupted. I paused and watched. It was Hawk in essence. Like everything he did, it seemed effortless, as if he were thinking of something else. And yet the perfectly focused energy seemed to explode through the bag.
“Not their fault,” Hawk said. “They had no reason to think he’d be there.”
I went back to working my combinations on the heavy bag.
“That theory might lead one to speculate,” I said between punches, “that Doherty was murdered too.”
“Would,” Hawk said.
“And one might wonder who was responsible.”
“Alderson seem to be the honky in the woodpile,” Hawk said.
“She went straight there after her husband kicked her out,”
I said.
“She in there ’bout an hour,” Hawk said.
“Plenty of time to tell him what happened,” I said. Hawk shifted his feet a little and went back to hitting the small bag with his left hand.
“So why didn’t she spend the night?” I said.
“Maybe Alderson only like to fuck part-time,” Hawk said.
“It would explain why she went to the hotel,” I said.
“Lotta rejection,” Hawk said. “And the next day, she dead, and her husband missing.”
“Probably dead by then too,” I said.
“She know ’bout you?” Hawk said.
“Yes.”
I put a fi nal fl ourish of combinations on the heavy bag.
“Epstein tells me they haven’t found that tape among Doherty’s possessions,” I said.
“Doherty got no reason to get rid of it,” Hawk said.
“No. Be useful in a divorce proceeding.”
“Maybe he knew there wouldn’t be none,” Hawk said.
“You mean he hired someone to kill her?”
“People do.”
“Not him,” I said. “Not his style. He might have shot her in a rage and then put the gun in his mouth. But he wouldn’t hire some guy with no ID to do it, and then drown himself later.”
“Okay,” Hawk said. “Maybe Alderson don’t want people to know he been fooling around with Jordan.”
“Killing two people to cover it up seems extreme,” I said.
“Maybe he don’t want people knowing other things,” Hawk said.
“If he does and he stole the tape he’ll be disappointed,” I said. “I edited it down to just the lovey-dovey stuff.”
“But you still got the original.”
“Yes, I do,” I said.
“Anybody know that?” Hawk said.
“Not yet,” I said.
“So maybe they think they got all there is,” Hawk said.
“Maybe.”
“On the other hand,” Hawk said, “they know somebody made the tape.”
“Yep.”
“So they ain’t free and clear yet,” Hawk said.
“Nope.”
“Unless Jordan told them ’bout you.”
“My guess is that she didn’t,” I said. “She was pretty desperate to get them back, more than she should have been, since her husband had already heard them.”
“She worried about Alderson,” Hawk said.
“Maybe.”
“So maybe she don’t tell him,” Hawk said.
“Maybe.”
“Doherty could have told them ’bout you before he died?”
“He was FBI,” I said. “They may have thought he did it himself.”
Hawk finished up with an elegant flurry of punches, and stepped away from the jeeter bag and looked at me. He nodded.