Shadow of Death by William G. Tapply Page B

snoozing on the floor beside the bed, followed me. He went over to the back door, prodded it with his nose, and whined. I let him out into the backyard.
    After my shower I slipped into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, poured a mug of coffee, fetched my portable telephone, pulled on a fleece jacket, and went outside to join Henry.
    The sky was just beginning to turn from purple to pewter, and already some early birds were at the feeders. The nip of autumn was in the air. Pretty soon all the summer birds would be gone, and we’d be left with the year-rounders, the finches and chickadees and titmice, the juncos and nuthatches
and woodpeckers, who would depend on us for their meals during the frozen months.
    I sipped my coffee and thought about what I had to do. It was a little after six in the morning.
    The hell with it. I dialed Ellen Stoddard’s unlisted home phone number.
    After four rings she answered with a throaty, “Yes?”
    â€œEllen,” I said, “it’s Brady.”
    â€œYou woke me up.”
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    â€œI don’t get much sleep these days, you know.”
    â€œIt’s kind of important.”
    She sighed. “I suppose it is.”
    â€œThat detective I hired to follow Albert?”
    She said nothing.
    â€œHe was murdered,” I said.
    â€œOh, dear,” she said.
    â€œHe was a friend of mine.”
    â€œI’m so sorry.”
    â€œI want to talk to Albert.”
    â€œYou can’t do that, Brady.”
    â€œEllen, for God’s sake, you’re a prosecutor. You, of all people, know what needs to be done. Somebody killed a man. Albert probably has no connection to it, but—”
    â€œAlbert’s not here,” she said.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œYou can’t talk to Albert because he’s not here. I haven’t seen him since Friday morning.”
    â€œWhere is he?”
    She sighed. “I have no idea.”
    â€œI mean,” I said, “would you expect him to be there?”
    â€œOf course I would,” she said. “He’s my husband. We live
together. We sleep together most nights, have breakfast most mornings and drinks before dinner and everything, just like regular married people.”
    â€œSo—”
    â€œIt’s not like Albert,” she said. “Not like him at all.” She hesitated. “Brady, why don’t you come over. I think we better talk about this.”
    â€œNow?”
    â€œYes. Now. Before Jimmy arrives. Before I have to wiggle into my panty hose and fix my face and go read a Winnie-the-Pooh story to the third-graders at the Baker Elementary School in Dorchester and remind the reporters about my commitment to public education.”
    â€œI’ll be there in less than an hour,” I said.
    I went into my room, fired up my computer, and printed out the two photos of the ramshackle little house in the woods that Gordon Cahill had e-mailed to me the afternoon before he died. That took ten minutes.
    I wrote Evie a note and headed out. It took me another ten minutes to walk to the T station at the end of Charles Street, about fifteen minutes to ride the Red Line outbound to the Harvard Square stop, and ten more minutes to walk from the T stop to the old Federal-period hip-roofed house behind the wrought-iron fence on the quiet side street off Garden Street in Cambridge where Albert and Ellen Stoddard had lived for as long as I’d known them.
    As predicted, it took me less than an hour. I was one lawyer who didn’t like to be late.
    As I mounted the front steps, the door opened and Ellen stepped out onto the porch. She was wearing blue sweatpants and a red Mt. Holyoke sweatshirt and white socks. No shoes, no makeup. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail.
One curly wisp fell over her forehead. She looked about ten years younger than she did on TV.
    She gave me a quick hug, then pulled me inside. “Let’s go to the