A Fine Line by William G. Tapply Read Free Book Online

When she answered, I said, “Hi, honey. It’s me.”
    “Oh, Brady. Hi. Is everything all right?”
    “Not entirely. Walt Duffy—one of my clients—died last night.”
    “I got your message,” she said. “You said he’d been hurt. I’m so sorry. I met him once, remember?”
    “That’s right,” I said. “You talked about decoys. I’m sorry I crapped out on our picnic.”
    “Under the circumstances . . .”
    “I was worried you might be upset.”
    “Well, of course, I was upset. It was lovely at the pond, and I brought some great food. Couldn’t eat it all myself. I missed you.”
    “I meant . . . like, angry.”
    “Why should I be angry?”
    “Well . . .”
    “We’re supposed to be past that, you and I,” she said. “I knew when you didn’t show up that something must have happened. I was a little concerned that you might’ve had an accident. But angry? Nope. Not me.”
    “I’m relieved,” I said.
    “Dammit, Brady,” she said, “we’ve talked about this. You seem to have these expectations of women. Negative expectations, I mean. We’re not all selfish angry bitches whose main purpose in life is to lay guilt trips on men, you know.”
    I found myself smiling. “I know. I apologize for the factthat it even crossed my mind. What about tonight?”
    “A picnic?”
    “Let’s play it by ear. They’re forecasting thunderstorms. I’ll meet you at your place after work. Okay?”
    “Okay,” she said softly. “I look forward to it.”
    We drove from my office in Copley Square to Walt’s townhouse on Beacon Hill in Sergeant Currier’s cruiser. Mendoza rode shotgun, and I rode in back.
    Currier pulled into the back alley. Saundra Mendoza pulled away the yellow tape and we went in through the door in the brick wall. They didn’t bother slipping on rubber gloves, nor did they warn me not to touch anything, which meant, I assumed, that their forensics people had already been there.
    The cops glanced around the patio, and then we went into the house. “Just tell us if you notice anything,” said Mendoza. “Anything out of place or missing.”
    I led them to Walt’s library where he kept his treasures. It was a large, dimly-lit inside room with no windows. It had air conditioning and a humidifier, which Walt kept fine-tuned to preserve his collections. Framed oil paintings, etchings, pen-and-ink drawings, pastels, and watercolors—all of birds—hung on the walls.
    Three walls contained shoulder-high bookcases. On top of the bookcases Walt had lined up his collection of antique decoys and bird carvings. None of them seemed to be missing. The glass doors of the bookcases were all locked. Inside were hundreds of volumes of first editions and rare old books. There seemed to be nothing missing there, either.
    The fourth wall—the one that included the doorway—was lined with steel file cabinets. These, I knew, held Walt’s collection of letters, manuscripts, and bird-related documents. They were locked, too. There was no evidence that any of the locks had been tampered with.
    We went through the rest of the three-story townhouse, floor by floor, room by room, and we ended up back in the garden.
    “Nothing, huh?” said Mendoza to me.
    I shrugged. “Not that I could detect.”
    “Think about the last time you were here. Before yesterday, I mean. Picture it. Tell me what you see in the picture.”
    I shut my eyes. “It was two nights ago,” I said slowly. “Walt was sitting right there, on his chaise. He had those Meriwether Lewis letters in a manila envelope on the table. And . . .” I opened my eyes and looked at her.
    “And?” she said.
    “His computer,” I said. “Walt had one of those new Apple laptops. He always kept it handy. And a camera and a cell phone, too, come to think of it. He always had them within arm’s reach.”
    “There’s no laptop computer here now,” she said. She turned to Currier. “No cell phone or camera, either. You didn’t notice them?”
    He shook