Shadow of Death Read Free Page B

weeks ago,” she said. “Attended most of the planning meetings, made some phone calls, helped raise money, even appeared in public with me a few times, as much as he hates that part of it. Anything I asked, really, he was happy to do. We even talked about my living in Washington and how his teaching obligations would mean he’d have to stay here, and he was all right with that. Then it all began to change.”

    â€œChanged how?”
    â€œI hardly see him. He comes and goes at odd hours. He’s avoiding me, Brady. It’s like he’s got some nasty secret and he’s afraid if he so much as says good morning to me he’s going to reveal it.” Ellen shook her head. “I can’t be any more specific than that.”
    â€œSounds like a man with a guilty conscience.”
    Ellen shrugged.
    â€œIs he working on a new book or scholarly monograph or something?”
    â€œI don’t think that’s it. He’s worked on books and monographs before and never acted like this.”
    â€œSo maybe he is having an affair.”
    â€œMaybe he is,” she said. “His world is full of pretty coeds. All I know is, the TV and the newspapers have started to notice.”
    â€œNotice what?”
    She waved her hand. “Just that Albert’s not around as much as he used to be. They’re asking questions, and whatever is going on, I refuse to have them find it out before I do. It’s none of their damn business. So will you do it?”
    â€œYou want me to hire a private investigator?”
    â€œI can’t think of anything else.”
    â€œI guess I can’t, either,” I said.
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    When I got back home, I dialed Gordon Cahill’s number.
    It rang four times, and then his sleepy voice mumbled, “Yeah, Cahill.”
    â€œGordie,” I said, “it’s Brady Coyne.”
    â€œChrist,” he muttered. “What time is it?”
    â€œTwo in the afternoon. Did I wake you up?”

    â€œAll-nighter.” He yawned. “What’s up?”
    â€œI got a job for you.”
    â€œTell me about it.”
    â€œI will when you get here.”
    â€œOh-ho,” he said. “One of your not-on-the-telephone jobs, huh?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œSo why me?”
    â€œYou’re the best, Gordie. Everybody knows that.”
    â€œYeah, bullshit.” He sighed. “You at home?”
    â€œYes. Use the back door off the alley.”
    â€œGimme an hour. Make sure there’s coffee.”
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    Henry and I went for a walk, and then I brewed some coffee and filled a carafe, and I was waiting at the table in the garden when there came a knock on the patio door. “It’s me,” called Gordon Cahill.
    â€œIt’s not locked.”
    He unlatched the door, came in, and headed straight for the coffee. He poured himself a mugful, then sat down across from me. “So this vulture is getting on an airplane,” he said. “He’s got a big paper bag under his arm.”
    â€œOh, jeez,” I said. “Here it comes.”
    â€œThe flight attendant says to him, ‘May I see what you’ve got in that bag, sir?’ The vulture opens the bag, and the stewardess looks in and sees that there are two dead raccoons in there. She looks at the vulture and shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry, sir. We’ll have to put one of these raccoons in with the cargo.’ The vulture says, ‘How come?’”
    Cahill paused, sipped his coffee, and peered up at me.
    I sighed. “Okay, Gordie. How come?”

    â€œAirline policy,” he said. “Only one carrion per passenger.”
    Aside from his unfortunate penchant for bad puns, Gordon Cahill was one of those utterly bland, forgettable guys who might sit beside you for nine innings at Fenway Park, and that same night, when he came into the bar where you were having a drink, you wouldn’t make the