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Authors: William G. Tapply
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do before you got in the shower?”
I called Pops, for one thing, I thought. He could easily verify I had left a message on his machine somewhere around ten. But I couldn’t tell Sylvestro that. “I made some tea. Relaxed. Called a client. It was probably closer to eleven when I got into the shower.”
“This client. Wanna say who it was?”
I shook my head. “Come on. You know better.”
Sylvestro waved his hand, as if it were not important. “Mr. Coyne, the last time we talked, you told us that you phoned your wife at eleven. Now you’re saying it was eleven-thirty. Why have you changed your mind?”
“I’m not changing my mind. I’m just remembering it differently.”
“Had a chance to talk it over with her, huh?”
“Yes. She and I talked after you visited her.”
“She called you, then, right?”
“Yes. She left a message on my machine.”
“But you weren’t home when she called.”
“I was home. I was in the shower.”
“The previous time we talked, you didn’t tell us that she had called you and left a message.”
“I didn’t think it was important.”
“Do you own any weapons?” said Finnigan.
“Yes, as a matter of fact. I do. I bet you already knew that.”
Finnigan gave me his unpleasant smile. He had small, pointed teeth, like a northern pike.
“I own a Smith & Wesson thirty-eight,” I said. “It’s in my safe. Want to see it?”
“What about a thirty-two handgun?” said Finnigan.
“No. Just the thirty-eight.”
“We don’t have a warrant, Mr. Coyne,” said Sylvestro. “Are you offering to show us your thirty-eight?”
“Sure.”
I got up and went to the wall safe that the architects of my building evidently felt every office suite should have. I have found no use for it except as a place to store my Smith & Wesson. I rarely remove the gun from its hiding place. I don’t like carrying it around with me. Once I shot a man with it, and the state police kept it for three months. When they returned it to me, I wasn’t that happy to see it.
I lifted up the calendar I had hung over the safe, twisted the dials, and opened it up. I reached inside and found the chamois cloth that I kept the gun wrapped in. I took it out and brought it over to the cops. I handed it to Sylvestro.
He unfolded the chamois. “You got a license for this weapon, Mr. Coyne?”
“Of course.”
“Thirty-eight,” he said to Finnigan. He sniffed the muzzle, popped the cylinder, and held it up to the light to peer into the barrel. Then he handed it to Finnigan, who also sniffed it. Finnigan wrapped the chamois around it and gave it back to me. I sat in the chair with the gun in my lap.
“Own any other weapons?” said Finnigan.
“No. Just this one.”
“Did you kill Wayne Churchill?”
“No.”
“Did you follow him to his house after he left Skeeter’s?”
“No.”
“Did you have an appointment to meet him there after your discussion at Skeeter’s?”
“No.”
“Did you threaten him when you argued with him at Skeeter’s?”
“I told you. I can’t discuss what he and I talked about.”
“He threatened you, then.”
I didn’t say anything.
“How well did you know Churchill?” Finnigan was leaning toward me. Every time he asked me a question he pounded his right fist on his thigh.
“I never met him before that night.”
“Why did you meet him that night?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Oh, sure. Protecting a client.”
Sylvestro put his hand on Finnigan’s shoulder. Finnigan was shaking his head back and forth. He leaned back and folded his arms. “You’re in big trouble, friend.”
“Come on,” said Sylvestro to him. “Lay off.”
“Are you intending to arrest me?” I said.
Finnigan glowered.
“No, Mr. Coyne,” said Sylvestro. “We didn’t come here to arrest you. We came here hoping you could help us understand what happened the night before last.”
“Then you gentlemen are out of line.”
Sylvestro nodded. “You’re right.” He
I called Pops, for one thing, I thought. He could easily verify I had left a message on his machine somewhere around ten. But I couldn’t tell Sylvestro that. “I made some tea. Relaxed. Called a client. It was probably closer to eleven when I got into the shower.”
“This client. Wanna say who it was?”
I shook my head. “Come on. You know better.”
Sylvestro waved his hand, as if it were not important. “Mr. Coyne, the last time we talked, you told us that you phoned your wife at eleven. Now you’re saying it was eleven-thirty. Why have you changed your mind?”
“I’m not changing my mind. I’m just remembering it differently.”
“Had a chance to talk it over with her, huh?”
“Yes. She and I talked after you visited her.”
“She called you, then, right?”
“Yes. She left a message on my machine.”
“But you weren’t home when she called.”
“I was home. I was in the shower.”
“The previous time we talked, you didn’t tell us that she had called you and left a message.”
“I didn’t think it was important.”
“Do you own any weapons?” said Finnigan.
“Yes, as a matter of fact. I do. I bet you already knew that.”
Finnigan gave me his unpleasant smile. He had small, pointed teeth, like a northern pike.
“I own a Smith & Wesson thirty-eight,” I said. “It’s in my safe. Want to see it?”
“What about a thirty-two handgun?” said Finnigan.
“No. Just the thirty-eight.”
“We don’t have a warrant, Mr. Coyne,” said Sylvestro. “Are you offering to show us your thirty-eight?”
“Sure.”
I got up and went to the wall safe that the architects of my building evidently felt every office suite should have. I have found no use for it except as a place to store my Smith & Wesson. I rarely remove the gun from its hiding place. I don’t like carrying it around with me. Once I shot a man with it, and the state police kept it for three months. When they returned it to me, I wasn’t that happy to see it.
I lifted up the calendar I had hung over the safe, twisted the dials, and opened it up. I reached inside and found the chamois cloth that I kept the gun wrapped in. I took it out and brought it over to the cops. I handed it to Sylvestro.
He unfolded the chamois. “You got a license for this weapon, Mr. Coyne?”
“Of course.”
“Thirty-eight,” he said to Finnigan. He sniffed the muzzle, popped the cylinder, and held it up to the light to peer into the barrel. Then he handed it to Finnigan, who also sniffed it. Finnigan wrapped the chamois around it and gave it back to me. I sat in the chair with the gun in my lap.
“Own any other weapons?” said Finnigan.
“No. Just this one.”
“Did you kill Wayne Churchill?”
“No.”
“Did you follow him to his house after he left Skeeter’s?”
“No.”
“Did you have an appointment to meet him there after your discussion at Skeeter’s?”
“No.”
“Did you threaten him when you argued with him at Skeeter’s?”
“I told you. I can’t discuss what he and I talked about.”
“He threatened you, then.”
I didn’t say anything.
“How well did you know Churchill?” Finnigan was leaning toward me. Every time he asked me a question he pounded his right fist on his thigh.
“I never met him before that night.”
“Why did you meet him that night?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Oh, sure. Protecting a client.”
Sylvestro put his hand on Finnigan’s shoulder. Finnigan was shaking his head back and forth. He leaned back and folded his arms. “You’re in big trouble, friend.”
“Come on,” said Sylvestro to him. “Lay off.”
“Are you intending to arrest me?” I said.
Finnigan glowered.
“No, Mr. Coyne,” said Sylvestro. “We didn’t come here to arrest you. We came here hoping you could help us understand what happened the night before last.”
“Then you gentlemen are out of line.”
Sylvestro nodded. “You’re right.” He
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