A Fine Line by William G. Tapply

talk to him.”
    “Can you point him out to me?”
    “Wait here,” he said. He turned, ducked under the tape, and headed back to the standing walls with the emptywindows and the piles of brick and blackened wood that had once been the Beau Marc warehouse.
    A few minutes later, the fireman reappeared. With him was a tall rangy man wearing a yellow hardhat, a blue T-shirt, blue jeans, and rubber boots. The letters BPD were stenciled on the hardhat. He had a clipboard in one hand, and a cell phone was clipped to his belt. The fireman pointed to me, and the tall guy nodded and came toward me.
    “I’m Lieutenant Keeler,” he said. He took off his hardhat and wiped his forehead with his wrist. He had close-cropped red hair. His eyes and face were red, too. He looked about forty. “You got something for us?” he said.
    I told him about the phone call I’d received around four A.M. on Saturday morning, and how I lived directly across the harbor from the warehouse.
    “You didn’t recognize the voice, huh?” he said.
    “No.”
    “You thought it was just some crank call?”
    I shrugged. “He sounded drunk. His voice was muffled. I figured it was a wrong number.”
    “But he said Beau Marc Industries? Pier Seven?”
    “I didn’t recognize those words when he said them,” I said. “But when I heard them on the news this morning, I realized that’s what he said.”
    “When did you say this was?”
    “Friday night. Early Saturday morning, actually.”
    Keeler shook his head. “What do you make of it?”
    “I don’t know,” I said.
    “I mean,” he said, “why you? Who’d call you about a fire he was going to set the next night, right where you’d be sure to see it?”
    “I don’t know,” I said. “This was an arson fire, then?”
    He nodded. “And it sounds like you talked to the arsonist. So why would he want to tell you about it, have you see it?”
    “The only thing I can think of . . .” I shook my head. “It makes no sense. I don’t see how there could be any connection.”
    “What?” said Keeler. “Connection with what?”
    I told him about Walt Duffy’s murder and how Ethan had gone missing. “Does that make any sense?”
    Keeler shook his head. “Nope. But the fact that it makes no sense might only mean we’re not seeing it. If there is no logical connection, then it’s a damn strange coincidence, isn’t it?”
    I nodded. “It is. That’s why I thought I should tell you about it.”
    “You did the right thing. Thank you. I expect I’ll want to talk with you some more. Right now things are pretty hectic here. How can I get ahold of you?”
    I gave him one of my business cards. He looked at it, then looked up at me. “Lawyer, huh?”
    I nodded.
    “Lawyers deal with a lot of weirdos, don’t they?”
    “Some lawyers do,” I said.
    “You ever deal with any arsonists, Mr. Coyne?”
    I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”
    “Well,” he said, “there’s always a first time.” He raised his hand and touched his forefinger to his brow in what might have been a salute. “Appreciate it, sir. We’ll be in touch.”
    He fitted his hardhat back onto his head, turned, and trudged back to the rubble.

    I picked up some muffins at Dunkin’ Donuts on the way home, and when I got there I told Evie about my conversation with Lieutenant Keeler. It was her opinion that I’d misunderstood the phone call, that the caller had, in fact, been a drunk with a wrong number, just as I’d originally thought, that Walt Duffy’s death had overwrought my imagination, and that I should stop perseverating on it.
    I didn’t agree with her. But I didn’t pursue it. I figured it would only upset her.
    We ate muffins and drank coffee and read the Sunday
Globe
, and when the sun came out in the afternoon, we walked along the waterfront and ended up in the North End. We decided to have an early supper at one of the little restaurants there. We drank red wine and ate pasta and listened to the Italian