man’s voice answered the phone. “The Honorable Chester Popowski’s office,” he said.
“This Robert?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is Brady Coyne. I’m the judge’s lawyer.”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“I must speak to His Honor.”
“I’m sorry, but—”
“When he gets out of court, tell him he must call me immediately. It’s extremely important.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Coyne. The judge isn’t in today.”
“Is he sick?”
“Actually, sir, he’s on vacation.”
“Vacation?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He never mentioned any vacation to me.”
“He flew down this morning. He’s joining his wife for a few days in Florida.”
“Oh,” I said. “Do you have a phone where he can be reached?”
“I’m afraid I don’t. They chartered a boat. I expect him back at the beginning of the week. I’ll have him call you then. Will that be all right?”
“I guess it’ll have to be. Leave him a message to call me instantly when he gets back.”
“Certainly, Mr. Coyne. I’ll do that.”
I hung up and muttered, “Damn!”
Doubt was gnawing at my mind. I wanted Pops to reassure me. I needed answers. Pops had them. And now he was gone, incommunicado. Damn convenient.
With the police and Channel Eight both at my heels, I couldn’t sit around waiting for Pops to decide to come home.
I lit a cigarette and tried to think it out. Churchill had told me he had what he called an “impeccable source.” Since it wasn’t Pops, it had to be Karen Lavoie herself. She was the key.
I guessed that she, like I, had read of Pops’ nomination to the federal seat. Still bitter from having been jilted, even after all these years, she saw a chance to get even with her former lover. She knew Wayne Churchill’s reputation. She approached him, told him about herself and Pops. Maybe she lied a little. Exaggerated. Made it sound even juicier than it already was.
Churchill liked her story. Maybe he paid her for it.
Maybe Karen Lavoie changed her mind. Tried to back out of it. And Churchill laughed at her.
Or maybe they were in it all the way together.
Maybe Wayne Churchill and Karen Lavoie were lovers.
Maybe she had even killed him.
Too many maybe’s. I needed some answers.
I found the big Greater Boston telephone directory in the bottom drawer of my desk. I looked up Lavoie. There was nearly a full column of them. No Lavoie, Karen. No Lavoie, K.
I closed the directory. There was no reason to assume Karen Lavoie lived in or around Boston.
I thought about it. Pops had known her. He had known her in several ways. Perhaps Karen had been a defendant who had come before him. Or a witness. It was a long shot. But no longer than finding her by telephoning every Lavoie in the phone book. It was something Zerk could help me with.
My console buzzed. I picked up the phone. “Yes, Julie?”
“I saw your light go off.”
“Okay. What’s up?”
“You came storming in here like a bear.”
“I’m sorry.”
“There’s a man here to see you.”
“What’s he selling?”
“He’s not selling anything. His name is Rodney Dennis. He’s the station manager at Channel Eight?” Julie made it a question.
“Right,” I said.
“He’d like to talk to you.”
I sighed. “Okay. Send him in.”
He had a high forehead, plastic-rimmed glasses, and a bushy sand-colored mustache. He was short and solidly built. When Julie let him in, he strode to my desk. I stood up and held my hand to him.
“Mr. Dennis,” I said. “You are persistent.”
“Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Coyne.”
I gestured to one of the chairs beside my desk, and he sat down.
“No interview,” I said.
He spread his arms. “No camera. No tape recorder. I want to talk to you.”
“Off the record,” I said.
“Absolutely.” He cocked his head and examined me. I judged that he wasn’t much over thirty. Bright, ambitious, single-minded, to have become station manager so young. “We’ll be frank, okay?”
“Go ahead, Mr. Dennis.”
“Wayne
“This Robert?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is Brady Coyne. I’m the judge’s lawyer.”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“I must speak to His Honor.”
“I’m sorry, but—”
“When he gets out of court, tell him he must call me immediately. It’s extremely important.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Coyne. The judge isn’t in today.”
“Is he sick?”
“Actually, sir, he’s on vacation.”
“Vacation?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He never mentioned any vacation to me.”
“He flew down this morning. He’s joining his wife for a few days in Florida.”
“Oh,” I said. “Do you have a phone where he can be reached?”
“I’m afraid I don’t. They chartered a boat. I expect him back at the beginning of the week. I’ll have him call you then. Will that be all right?”
“I guess it’ll have to be. Leave him a message to call me instantly when he gets back.”
“Certainly, Mr. Coyne. I’ll do that.”
I hung up and muttered, “Damn!”
Doubt was gnawing at my mind. I wanted Pops to reassure me. I needed answers. Pops had them. And now he was gone, incommunicado. Damn convenient.
With the police and Channel Eight both at my heels, I couldn’t sit around waiting for Pops to decide to come home.
I lit a cigarette and tried to think it out. Churchill had told me he had what he called an “impeccable source.” Since it wasn’t Pops, it had to be Karen Lavoie herself. She was the key.
I guessed that she, like I, had read of Pops’ nomination to the federal seat. Still bitter from having been jilted, even after all these years, she saw a chance to get even with her former lover. She knew Wayne Churchill’s reputation. She approached him, told him about herself and Pops. Maybe she lied a little. Exaggerated. Made it sound even juicier than it already was.
Churchill liked her story. Maybe he paid her for it.
Maybe Karen Lavoie changed her mind. Tried to back out of it. And Churchill laughed at her.
Or maybe they were in it all the way together.
Maybe Wayne Churchill and Karen Lavoie were lovers.
Maybe she had even killed him.
Too many maybe’s. I needed some answers.
I found the big Greater Boston telephone directory in the bottom drawer of my desk. I looked up Lavoie. There was nearly a full column of them. No Lavoie, Karen. No Lavoie, K.
I closed the directory. There was no reason to assume Karen Lavoie lived in or around Boston.
I thought about it. Pops had known her. He had known her in several ways. Perhaps Karen had been a defendant who had come before him. Or a witness. It was a long shot. But no longer than finding her by telephoning every Lavoie in the phone book. It was something Zerk could help me with.
My console buzzed. I picked up the phone. “Yes, Julie?”
“I saw your light go off.”
“Okay. What’s up?”
“You came storming in here like a bear.”
“I’m sorry.”
“There’s a man here to see you.”
“What’s he selling?”
“He’s not selling anything. His name is Rodney Dennis. He’s the station manager at Channel Eight?” Julie made it a question.
“Right,” I said.
“He’d like to talk to you.”
I sighed. “Okay. Send him in.”
He had a high forehead, plastic-rimmed glasses, and a bushy sand-colored mustache. He was short and solidly built. When Julie let him in, he strode to my desk. I stood up and held my hand to him.
“Mr. Dennis,” I said. “You are persistent.”
“Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Coyne.”
I gestured to one of the chairs beside my desk, and he sat down.
“No interview,” I said.
He spread his arms. “No camera. No tape recorder. I want to talk to you.”
“Off the record,” I said.
“Absolutely.” He cocked his head and examined me. I judged that he wasn’t much over thirty. Bright, ambitious, single-minded, to have become station manager so young. “We’ll be frank, okay?”
“Go ahead, Mr. Dennis.”
“Wayne
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