Read Online Follow the Sharks by William G. Tapply - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William G. Tapply
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I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was going to get this call.”
“What has happened?”
As I recounted the story, Julie’s eyes filled with tears. She had a two-year-old daughter. It wasn’t hard to imagine what was going through her mind. My own sons were in college, and I had no trouble identifying with Jan and Eddie Donagan.
When I finished, Julie said, “So what now?”
“I want you to get Sam Farina on the phone for me. Then type up the transcript of that telephone call.”
She nodded.
“Tell me,” I said. “What exactly did the woman who called say? Can you remember her exact words?”
“She just asked for you. She said, ‘May I speak with Mr. Coyne, please?’ I said, ‘May I ask who’s calling?’, of course, and she said, ‘This is urgent. I must speak with Mr. Coyne.’ So I buzzed you.”
“Did you notice anything about her voice? Any accent? Young, old, or what?”
Julie frowned. “Youngish, I’d say. Mature, you know, but young. Kind of a low voice. You’d probably call it sexy.”
“From the little she said to me, yes, I’d call it sexy. Anything else about it?”
“Well, maybe a hint of a Boston accent. When she said, ‘Mr. Coyne’ to me it came out ‘Mistah.’ The way we all talk around here.”
I smiled and nodded. “Anything else?”
She shrugged. “No. She didn’t say that much.” Julie frowned and shook her head slowly. “Oh, those poor people. What’s going to happen?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
There were eight of us in Sam Farina’s living room that afternoon. Besides Sam, Jan, Josie and me, Eddie was there, perched uncomfortably on the edge of one of the kitchen chairs that had been dragged out to accommodate us all. The Winchester cop, Basile, was flanked by two other men. One was a sturdy, white-haired guy who looked like he pressed weights. Basile introduced him as Inspector Bill Travers of the State Police. The other was a skinny little olive-skinned FBI agent with a face like a tomahawk named Marty Stern. Stern wore heavy horn-rimmed glasses, which he would nervously grab from his face and wave around in the air when he talked. Stern seemed to be running the show. He spat out questions like a prosecutor.
“How’d they know you drove a BMW?” he said to me, after he had read over the transcript of the telephone conversation I had handed to him.
“I don’t know.”
“You drink Wild Turkey usually?”
“Whatever.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I drink whatever there is. I do prefer bourbon.”
“With olives in it?”
“Never.”
“Why you figure they called you?”
“It’s no secret Brady’s my lawyer,” said Sam.
“I asked him,” said Stern, whipping the glasses off his nose and stabbing at me with them.
“It’s no secret I’m Sam’s lawyer,” I said with a smirk. “Where are you headed with this, anyway?”
Stern sighed. “Be kinda nice to know who called you, huh?”
“Sure.”
“That’s where I’m headed.” He sighed again. “It’s gotta be somebody who knows you all, who knows that Coyne was here Saturday, is how I figure it. Dontcha think?”
He looked around at all of us. Then he answered his own question. “The answer is, I’m right.” He jammed his glasses back onto his face, pushing them onto the bridge of his nose with his forefinger. He studied the transcript I had given him. “Okay,” he said after a minute. “Two things. First, we get the boy back. First priority. We do nothing to screw that up. Second, we catch them.” He peered at Sam. “Can you raise this kind of money?”
Sam nodded. “Just about. A hundred and fifty grand is just about what I can raise in twenty-four hours.”
“Like they knew that, too, huh?”
Suddenly Eddie pounded his knee with his fist. “Jesus Christ! Can we just get on with it, huh? Brady didn’t kidnap E.J. Neither did Sam. Why don’t you cut the bullshit. This is ridiculous.” He got up from his chair and glared
“What has happened?”
As I recounted the story, Julie’s eyes filled with tears. She had a two-year-old daughter. It wasn’t hard to imagine what was going through her mind. My own sons were in college, and I had no trouble identifying with Jan and Eddie Donagan.
When I finished, Julie said, “So what now?”
“I want you to get Sam Farina on the phone for me. Then type up the transcript of that telephone call.”
She nodded.
“Tell me,” I said. “What exactly did the woman who called say? Can you remember her exact words?”
“She just asked for you. She said, ‘May I speak with Mr. Coyne, please?’ I said, ‘May I ask who’s calling?’, of course, and she said, ‘This is urgent. I must speak with Mr. Coyne.’ So I buzzed you.”
“Did you notice anything about her voice? Any accent? Young, old, or what?”
Julie frowned. “Youngish, I’d say. Mature, you know, but young. Kind of a low voice. You’d probably call it sexy.”
“From the little she said to me, yes, I’d call it sexy. Anything else about it?”
“Well, maybe a hint of a Boston accent. When she said, ‘Mr. Coyne’ to me it came out ‘Mistah.’ The way we all talk around here.”
I smiled and nodded. “Anything else?”
She shrugged. “No. She didn’t say that much.” Julie frowned and shook her head slowly. “Oh, those poor people. What’s going to happen?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
There were eight of us in Sam Farina’s living room that afternoon. Besides Sam, Jan, Josie and me, Eddie was there, perched uncomfortably on the edge of one of the kitchen chairs that had been dragged out to accommodate us all. The Winchester cop, Basile, was flanked by two other men. One was a sturdy, white-haired guy who looked like he pressed weights. Basile introduced him as Inspector Bill Travers of the State Police. The other was a skinny little olive-skinned FBI agent with a face like a tomahawk named Marty Stern. Stern wore heavy horn-rimmed glasses, which he would nervously grab from his face and wave around in the air when he talked. Stern seemed to be running the show. He spat out questions like a prosecutor.
“How’d they know you drove a BMW?” he said to me, after he had read over the transcript of the telephone conversation I had handed to him.
“I don’t know.”
“You drink Wild Turkey usually?”
“Whatever.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I drink whatever there is. I do prefer bourbon.”
“With olives in it?”
“Never.”
“Why you figure they called you?”
“It’s no secret Brady’s my lawyer,” said Sam.
“I asked him,” said Stern, whipping the glasses off his nose and stabbing at me with them.
“It’s no secret I’m Sam’s lawyer,” I said with a smirk. “Where are you headed with this, anyway?”
Stern sighed. “Be kinda nice to know who called you, huh?”
“Sure.”
“That’s where I’m headed.” He sighed again. “It’s gotta be somebody who knows you all, who knows that Coyne was here Saturday, is how I figure it. Dontcha think?”
He looked around at all of us. Then he answered his own question. “The answer is, I’m right.” He jammed his glasses back onto his face, pushing them onto the bridge of his nose with his forefinger. He studied the transcript I had given him. “Okay,” he said after a minute. “Two things. First, we get the boy back. First priority. We do nothing to screw that up. Second, we catch them.” He peered at Sam. “Can you raise this kind of money?”
Sam nodded. “Just about. A hundred and fifty grand is just about what I can raise in twenty-four hours.”
“Like they knew that, too, huh?”
Suddenly Eddie pounded his knee with his fist. “Jesus Christ! Can we just get on with it, huh? Brady didn’t kidnap E.J. Neither did Sam. Why don’t you cut the bullshit. This is ridiculous.” He got up from his chair and glared
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