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

his head.
    She turned to me. “Think, now. Were they here when you came yesterday and found Duffy’s body?”
    I tried to visualize it. “I don’t think so,” I said. “My attention was on Walt, of course. I mean, he was lying on the ground right there. But . . . no. His computer and his cell phone and his camera were not here. I remember thinkingI’d call 911 with his cell phone, but it wasn’t there.”
    “They’re not inside the house,” said Currier. “And they’re not out here.”
    “Well, then,” said Mendoza.
    “You think somebody killed Walt for his high-tech gadgets?” I said.
    She smiled. It was the first time I’d seen her smile since I’d met her in my office. It transformed her face. “People have been killed for a loaf of bread,” she said. “Let’s talk about the son.”
    “Right,” I said. “Ethan killed his father so he could steal his computer.”
    She shrugged. “Tell me about Ethan.”
    So I told her how Walt had separated from his wife about twelve years ago, when Ethan was six or seven. I’d handled Walt’s end of the divorce. His wife couldn’t tolerate the fact that he traveled the world photographing birds and was never home, and, from what I’d inferred, even when he was home he wasn’t a very attentive husband or father. Walt told me that his wife believed he had women friends scattered across the globe and never lacked for company when he was on the road. He hadn’t denied it.
    In any case, after the divorce Ethan was raised by his mother. Walt went through the motions as a father—attended the school plays and concerts Ethan was in and met him for dinner now and then—but he didn’t have much of a relationship with his son.
    Then came Walt’s fall at the Quabbin. It left him paralyzed, and Ethan, who was a senior in high school when it happened, enrolled at Emerson College in downtown Boston to study screenwriting and moved in to help take care of his father.
    “You suggested that Duffy was cruel and ungrateful to his son,” said Mendoza.
    “He was worse at the beginning,” I said. “He was all wrapped up in his condition. He was used to going everywhere. Climbing and hiking. Walt Duffy was a bundle of energy and enthusiasm. Suddenly, his legs didn’t work anymore. He was angry and depressed, and he took it out on anyone who happened to be there, including me when I was with him. Ethan especially, of course. Ethan was handy. But it seemed to me that lately he was mellowing a bit. Accepting his situation, maybe, appreciating what Ethan was doing.”
    “But still . . .”
    I nodded. “He could be nasty and sarcastic to Ethan, yes. But Ethan had a pretty good attitude about it. He shrugged it off, made jokes about it. He loved Walt. You think . . . ?”
    “We’re trying to find the boy, Mr. Coyne.”
    “The fact that he didn’t come home last night.”
    “Yes. It raises questions.”
    “He told me he has a summer job in some record store in Central Square.”
    “Yes, you mentioned that to Sergeant Currier yesterday. We found the store. Place called Vintage Vinyl on Mass. Ave. Ethan Duffy didn’t work there last night. He was scheduled to, but he never showed up.”
    I blew out a breath. “That doesn’t sound good.”
    Mendoza shrugged.
    “You never told me what happened to Walt,” I said.
    “No,” she said. “I didn’t.”
    “He was my friend and my client,” I said. “It was I who found his body, for Christ’s sake. I’ve got a right to know.”
    “I told you he died.”
    “From banging his head on the bricks, yes. But how did—?”
    “Okay,” said Mendoza. She narrowed her dark eyes at me. “We’re keeping this under our hats for awhile, understood?”
    I nodded. “Understood.”
    “Mr. Duffy didn’t take a spill,” said Mendoza. “And he wasn’t pushed. According to the doctor who operated on him, the only way he could’ve sustained that injury was if somebody hit him with great force on the back of his head with