head.
I shrugged. “Too bad. He’s a nice dog. Did Julie offer you folks coffee?”
“Yeah,” said Mendoza. “We declined. We’re pretty hassled, and you and us, we’ve got to talk.”
“Seeing the two of you together, it makes me suspect that what I’ve been thinking isn’t far off the mark.”
“What have you been thinking?” she said.
“That there’s some connection between Walt Duffy’s murder and that fire the other night. Am I right?”
She shook her head. “Not exactly. It’s about Benjamin Frye.”
“What did Ben do?”
“He died.”
“
What
?”
Mendoza nodded.
I blew out a long breath, then pointed to my sofa. “Let’s sit.”
The two cops sat on the sofa, and I took one of the chairs across from them.
“So what happened to Ben?” I said to Mendoza.
“That fire?” she said.
I nodded.
She turned to Keeler. “You tell him.”
Keeler cleared his throat. “We found Mr. Frye’s body in there,” he said. “Took the ME’s office all day yesterday to identify him.”
“Jesus,” I said softly. “I had dinner with Ben just the other night. He was in that building?”
Keeler nodded.
“What the hell was he doing there?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. We were hoping you might help us.”
“Me?”
“Well,” said Mendoza, “just for one thing, you might’ve been the last person to see him alive.”
“The last time I saw Ben was Friday night,” I said. “Wehad dinner at Remington’s. That fire was Saturday night. I know he saw at least one person after me. He had to leave the restaurant before dessert to keep an appointment.”
“Who was it with, did he say?”
I shook my head. “He just said he had to get back to his office to meet somebody at eight o’clock. Business thing, he said. Ben was a rare-book dealer and appraiser, you know.”
Mendoza and Keeler exchanged glances. “Well, see, Mr. Coyne,” said Mendoza, “we went to Mr. Frye’s office and we found his appointment book. His last appointment was you. Remington’s at six-thirty Friday, right?”
“Right. But he told me—”
“There was no appointment after you.”
I shrugged. “So he didn’t write it down.”
“Did Mr. Frye say anything about East Boston or Pier Seven to you?” said Keeler.
“No.”
“He happen to mention Beau Marc Industries?”
“No.”
“What was Benjamin Frye’s connection with Walter Duffy?” said Mendoza.
“They were friends. They both collected old books and documents. Both into birds and nature stuff. Walt had some old letters that I gave Ben to authenticate for him. I think I mentioned that to you the other day. That’s why I met with Ben on Friday. He wanted to return Walt’s letters to me. He complained about you hassling him.”
Mendoza snorted. “Hassling? Jesus Christ.”
Keeler touched her shoulder, then turned to me. “That’s it?” he said.
“What, their connection?” I shrugged. “Far as I know, that’s all.”
“Not quite,” he said.
“Oh,” I said. “They’re both dead, you mean. I don’t know anything about that, I’m afraid.”
“Except you got that phone call.”
I nodded. “I don’t know what to make of that.”
Keeler frowned at me. Mendoza leaned toward him and whispered something. Keeler looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then shook his head.
Saundra Mendoza narrowed her eyes at me. “See, you’re the connection, Mr. Coyne,” she said. “Both of these men, they meet with you, and the next thing—I mean, the next goddamn
day
—they’re dead. You’re the one who finds one of the bodies. The other one’s body turns up in a fire that you’re telling us you knew was going to happen. An arson fire. We can assume that it was the arsonist who called you. The arsonist most likely is also the murderer. How can you say you don’t know anything about that?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t know the fire was going to happen. I didn’t understand what that guy said on the phone
I shrugged. “Too bad. He’s a nice dog. Did Julie offer you folks coffee?”
“Yeah,” said Mendoza. “We declined. We’re pretty hassled, and you and us, we’ve got to talk.”
“Seeing the two of you together, it makes me suspect that what I’ve been thinking isn’t far off the mark.”
“What have you been thinking?” she said.
“That there’s some connection between Walt Duffy’s murder and that fire the other night. Am I right?”
She shook her head. “Not exactly. It’s about Benjamin Frye.”
“What did Ben do?”
“He died.”
“
What
?”
Mendoza nodded.
I blew out a long breath, then pointed to my sofa. “Let’s sit.”
The two cops sat on the sofa, and I took one of the chairs across from them.
“So what happened to Ben?” I said to Mendoza.
“That fire?” she said.
I nodded.
She turned to Keeler. “You tell him.”
Keeler cleared his throat. “We found Mr. Frye’s body in there,” he said. “Took the ME’s office all day yesterday to identify him.”
“Jesus,” I said softly. “I had dinner with Ben just the other night. He was in that building?”
Keeler nodded.
“What the hell was he doing there?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. We were hoping you might help us.”
“Me?”
“Well,” said Mendoza, “just for one thing, you might’ve been the last person to see him alive.”
“The last time I saw Ben was Friday night,” I said. “Wehad dinner at Remington’s. That fire was Saturday night. I know he saw at least one person after me. He had to leave the restaurant before dessert to keep an appointment.”
“Who was it with, did he say?”
I shook my head. “He just said he had to get back to his office to meet somebody at eight o’clock. Business thing, he said. Ben was a rare-book dealer and appraiser, you know.”
Mendoza and Keeler exchanged glances. “Well, see, Mr. Coyne,” said Mendoza, “we went to Mr. Frye’s office and we found his appointment book. His last appointment was you. Remington’s at six-thirty Friday, right?”
“Right. But he told me—”
“There was no appointment after you.”
I shrugged. “So he didn’t write it down.”
“Did Mr. Frye say anything about East Boston or Pier Seven to you?” said Keeler.
“No.”
“He happen to mention Beau Marc Industries?”
“No.”
“What was Benjamin Frye’s connection with Walter Duffy?” said Mendoza.
“They were friends. They both collected old books and documents. Both into birds and nature stuff. Walt had some old letters that I gave Ben to authenticate for him. I think I mentioned that to you the other day. That’s why I met with Ben on Friday. He wanted to return Walt’s letters to me. He complained about you hassling him.”
Mendoza snorted. “Hassling? Jesus Christ.”
Keeler touched her shoulder, then turned to me. “That’s it?” he said.
“What, their connection?” I shrugged. “Far as I know, that’s all.”
“Not quite,” he said.
“Oh,” I said. “They’re both dead, you mean. I don’t know anything about that, I’m afraid.”
“Except you got that phone call.”
I nodded. “I don’t know what to make of that.”
Keeler frowned at me. Mendoza leaned toward him and whispered something. Keeler looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then shook his head.
Saundra Mendoza narrowed her eyes at me. “See, you’re the connection, Mr. Coyne,” she said. “Both of these men, they meet with you, and the next thing—I mean, the next goddamn
day
—they’re dead. You’re the one who finds one of the bodies. The other one’s body turns up in a fire that you’re telling us you knew was going to happen. An arson fire. We can assume that it was the arsonist who called you. The arsonist most likely is also the murderer. How can you say you don’t know anything about that?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t know the fire was going to happen. I didn’t understand what that guy said on the phone
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