"That's what I meant by maybe."
"Go on."
"Well, just looking at his suits and car and all, I get the impression he might be hurting for cash. He's supposed to have this great house over in Cambridge, but he's sure around the school a lot more than the professors who consult in the corporate and tax areas. Also, I never really see people coming to see him, although I guess he could do a lot of that over the telephone."
"Anything else?"
"About the money thing or Strock in general?"
"Either."
Russo took a little more beer, then pushed it aside. "God, I hate to drink in the afternoon. Makes me worthless for the rest of the day." She shifted around to me. "About the money, I guess all I know is that Professor Andrus is supposed to be really rich, and Strock's jibes at her go beyond the usual joking. Makes you think he really resents something about her."
"What about Strock in general?"
Russo closed her eyes, then opened them. "I don't want you to think I'm fixated on this Kimberly thing."
"But?"
"Well, if somebody like Strock has the eye now, it wouldn't surprise me that he's had it for a while."
"And not for just law students?"
"There are a lot of stories you hear, about how… how well a divorce lawyer can do sexually with all the distraught people who come to him, or her, I suppose, as a client."
"And you figure Strock might have been like that?"
"I don't know. But if he was, and he's not getting the opportunities from practice anymore, maybe there've been some other Kimberlys."
I thanked Nina Russo and gathered up my box of files. As I said good-bye to Bandy, the deejay promised his faithful listeners a program entitled "Throbbing Gristle, a Retrospective."
I was able to hail a taxi on Columbus Avenue, giving the driver the address for my condo because it was closer than my office. I made a ham sandwich on rye and washed it down with more ice water as I began reading the Andrus files. I decided to save the anonymous folder for last, focusing first on the letters with identified names and addresses. The tones ranged from fastidious politeness to unintelligible harangue. Doctoral candidates expounding from Ivy League schools to functional illiterates exploding in Walpole State Prison. Every letter containing the buzz word "cunt" or "slut" came from a man. Those using "bitch" were all male except for a woman from Alberta.
It grew redundant quickly, so I started flipping faster, pulling out the ones I wanted to read more carefully, especially any repeat correspondents. Then I turned to the anonymous file. None used snipped-out words or letters. Many of them were block-printed with frequent misspellings.
After sifting and sorting, I was left with three people who had written more than one signed letter, were reasonably local, and had used one or more of the buzz words. The first was named Steven O'Brien, a rabid pro-lifer from Providence, Rhode Island. O'Brien believed Andrus to be part of an "international atheist plot to overthrow all that is decent." He referred often to the incident in Spain, calling Andrus a "slut" for doing in her own husband.
The second repeater was Louis Doleman, showing an address in West Roxbury. His letters, six over four months, chronicled the decline and "premature" death of his daughter from leukemia. Apparently "Heidi" had taken up the "sudo-religion" that the "Devil's bitch" Andrus "esposed." After reading the professor's "witchery," the daughter had taken her own life.
The third repeater's name was Gunther Yary. His smudgy letterhead proclaimed him Grand Marshal of the American Trust, some kind of skinhead group. The return address sounded like a storefront in a white section of Dorchester. It seemed Gunther and his "followers" believed strongly in "heterosexuity" and not in the "preverted" hoax of "mercy death" that "Zionists, Faggots, and Niggers" created to wipe out the last "vesttiges" of native Aryan stock. Yary employed all three buzz words and more.
I wedged the correspondence of O'Brien, Doleman, and Yary into a waterproof plastic portfolio and had copies made at one of the Copy Cops on Boylston Street. Then I deposited the Andrus check in my client's account at the Shawmut and continued toward police headquarters on Berkeley.
Even though the door was ajar, I knocked on the frame before looking in. Lieutenant Robert Murphy was cradling the telephone receiver on his left shoulder, signing a series of documents while somebody on the other end of the line talked to him. Murphy motioned me in. His black hand provided a photographer's backdrop for the gold pen he held.
I didn't like it when Murphy smiled at me.
Into the receiver, he said, "No problem… happy to help…right, right. Bye." As the receiver slid down his chest, Murphy caught it in his left hand. "You must be getting psychic, Cuddy."
"Who was it?"
"Don't suppose you know a Met sergeant named Nick Russo?"
"You're the second person who's asked me that today."
Murphy hung up. "Yeah, well, it seems he got a call from that first person after she talked to you. Seems that first person had second thoughts about your word being your bond."
"I plied her with strong drink."
"I bet you did. Think a cop's kid'd be smarter than to talk with a P.I., even without law school and all."
"She will be next time."
"Suppose that's how everybody learns, all right. You get your permit to carry back yet?"
"August."
"You ever hear the story, about Jesus and the lepermen, and one of them come back to thank him for the cure?"
"I called to thank you. Three different days. Left a message each time."
"Maybe some saviors, they get asked in person, they like to get thanked in person."
"You're right, Lieutenant, and I appreciate what you did for me."
Murphy let his lids get sleepy, showing about as much eye as teeth. "That A.D.A.?"
"Which prosecutor is that?"
"You still seeing her?"
"Yes."
He kept watching me.
"Lieutenant?"
"Just getting into the Christmas spirit, Cuddy. Not trying to pull anything."
"Or suggest anything."
Murphy made a face and shook his head. "Well, it's obvious you got no feeling whatsoever for the holidays. And you're back here in person. That means you'll be wanting another favor, huh?"
"You know a detective over at Area A, William Neely?"
"Neely? Yeah, from a time back. Why?"
"l'm representing somebody in his neighborhood. The client got some threats, and I'd like to talk with him about them. Wondered what kind of guy he is."
Murphy glanced out his window and then back. "This client, he or she?"
"She."
"She go to Neely?"
"Her secretary got referred to him."
"Her tough luck."
"Why?"
"This between you and me, or you going to be explaining it to real folks?"
"You and me."
"Neely, he fancies himself an old-time hard-ass dick. Runs a few informants, reacts when the brass gets edgy. Otherwise, low profile and count the days."
"To retirement time."
"Uh-huh."
"I don't see what I've got jeopardizing his pension."
"What do you got?"
I went through it, without names.
Murphy said, "Neely, he got the complaint to start with, it'll stay with him unless somebody gets nasty enough with a deadly weapon."
"I wasn't trying to go over his head here, Lieutenant."
"Sure you were, Cuddy. And once you meet Neely, you'll realize you were right to try too."
"Any suggestions on how to approach him?"
"Neely ever took a promotion exam, he got stuck on name and address. Play up to the man, let him talk."
"Okay. Thanks."
I was at the door when Murphy said, "Oh, and Cuddy?"
"Yeah."
"Neely's got a nickname. 'Beef'."
"Beef."
"Yeah. Don't say it to him, but use it, huh?"
"Use it how?"
"Take the man to lunch."
I looked at my watch. "But I thought I'd go over there now."