Invisible Writing

Published Works

About the Author

Guestbook

Links

A Fine Line

Reviews

Brady Coyne (Past Tense; Scar Tissue: etc.) has been around for almost two decades now, and the low-key, fly-fishing Boston lawyer with an overly developed need for self-reliance has never been in better form. Among Coyne's clients who are also personal friends is Walt Duffy, a nature photographer recently derailed by paralyzing accident. Duffy asks Coyne to carry a packet of letters, purported to be from explorer Meriwether Lewis to ornithologist Alexander Wilson, to a noted book dealer for authentication. Soon thereafter, Duffy is dead from a suspicious accident; his son, Ethan, is missing; and Coyne is about to embark on a case that will once again test not only his ability to survive but his willingness to accept help and support from others. As the case escalates from accident to murder, an amorphous group of ecoterrorists using arson as a primary weapon, begins to emerge as suspects. A deadly arsonist uses our hero as a pawn, forcing the attorney to comply with his demands or put others at deadly risks. At the same time police and FBI press Coyne to cooperate. Coyne's tendency to draw into himself and face the problem alone may be the wrong decision, especially since it threatens his depending relationship with girlfriend Evie Banyon. Tapply consistently delivers well-written, well constructed and thoroughly entertaining mysteries, and his latest is a fine addition to the series.

--Publisher's Weekly (a starred review)

For close to 20 years, author William G. Tapply has been entertaining readers with crime novels featuring Brady Coyne, attorney to Boston's elite and a confirmed slacker: "I hadn't worked hard all my life because I wanted to be a conscientious attorney," Coyne admits. "I'd expended all that effort and energy so that I could become a lazy attorney, and I'd succeeded rather well." The latest entry in this long series, A Fine Line, finds Coyne investigating the possible homicide of a client, a once famous photographer tragically crippled in a rock-climbing fall. Numero uno on the suspect list is the photographer's son, a counterculture college student with more piercings than your average pincushion. Trouble is, the boy is nowhere to be found. And he may be involved with an eco-terror group suspected of numerous bombings in recent years. Complicating matters is Henry, an affable Brittany spaniel owned by the deceased photographer, now in Brady's care despite his best efforts to give the dog to anyone who shows the tiniest spark of interest. By turns taut, funny and reflective, A Fine Line is a timely piece (ripped from the headlines, as they say), guaranteed to please Tapply's legions of readers and newcomers alike.

-Bruce Tierney

William G. Tapply belongs to a select group of U.S. crime authors dubbed "literary." This is usually attached to the nasty-nice phrase "work that transcends the genre," which means the author is wasting his talents on detective novels and should get to that real book he (or she) is capable of. Some crime writers have taken this idea to heart, usually with disastrous consequences. P. D. James's The Children of Men springs to mind, along with Dashiell Hammett's unfinished coming-of-age book.

Tapply has written lots of other books, most of them on fishing -- his other passion -- and his reverence for nature. He has teamed with other authors, most recently with Philip R. Craig in First Light, to give his series character, Brady Coyne, another layer of depth.

In short, Tapply is an author's author, a writer whose work is a beacon for critics in search of excellence and authors in search of guidance. His characters are complex and fascinating. His plots, usually with a family history motif, are psychologically rigorous and he doesn't rely on violence or sex to maintain pace or suspense. Tapply is a writer whose work I look forward to eagerly.

A Fine Line is the 19th outing for Tapply and Coyne; when this series should be doddering, it seems to be just getting started. The setting is, as usual, Boston. Brady is summoned to the home of his old friend, photographer Walt Duffy, a fascinating and complex man, a specialist in the photography of birds, world-famous, irascible, charming. He once climbed mountains, lived in tents.

Now, an accident has left him a paraplegic. His world is the birds in his back yard. He summons Brady to take a rare set of prints for appraisal and all seems normal. A few days later, Brady finds Walt dying, murdered, and his son, Ethan is missing. Within days, Brady learns that Ethan is wanted by the FBI. It appears Walt was involved in some form of ecological terrorism and Brady, to save the son, must find the murderer of the father.

This is the best Tapply yet, which is saying plenty.

-Globebooks.com

Excerpted from Chapter 3 of A Fine Line:

I’d already put in six boring hours of lawyer work, and now Herm Alberts, my last appointment of the day, was hemming and hawing, trying to decide whether he wanted me to draw up a prenuptial agreement for him. I was trying to help him understand the pros and cons, and trying not to reveal my personal feelings about the whole distasteful subject, when Julie buzzed me.

The only time Julie ever interrupted a client conference was if one of my sons was trying to reach me, and my sons virtually never called me at the office. So naturally I assumed something bad had happened.

I asked Herm to excuse me and picked up the phone. "What’s wrong?" I said.

"It’s Mr. Duffy," said Julie. "He insisted on talking to you."

"Insisted?" Nobody pushed Julie around.

"I used my judgment, Brady," she said. "Which is what you pay me to do so you won’t have to. Mr. Duffy told me it was very important, and I believe him. I’m quite sure it’s more important than helping some rich man who’s more concerned about his money than the woman he supposedly loves."

"I pretty much agree with you on that sentiment," I said. I glanced at Herm, who was thumbing through some documents I’d given him. "So why don’t you tell Walt I’ll call him back in about a half hour."

"I suggested that," she said. "I think you better talk to him."

I sighed. "Okay. You’re the boss. Put him on."

I put my hand over the receiver and said to Herm, "This’ll just take a second."

He shrugged. "No problem."

I uncovered the receiver. "Walt?"

"I know you’re in the middle of something," he said. "Thanks for taking my call. I was hoping you could come over."

"To your place?"

"Where else would I be?"

"When?"

"As soon as possible."

I glanced at my watch. It was ten after four. I figured I could get rid of Herm by four thirty or so. "I could be there around five, five-thirty, it looks like," I told Walt. "Is that okay?"

He hesitated. "I guess so."

"I can’t do any better than that."

"No, that’s fine. Thank you."

"You want to tell me what’s up?"

"No. Not on the phone." He hesitated. "I’ve gotta go."

And he hung up, just like that.

I tried not to think cynical thoughts about Walt Duffy, paralyzed from the waist down, spending day after boring day sitting inside his little walled-in patio on Beacon Hill with only his dog and his birds for company, dreaming up crises that demanded his lawyer’s immediate attention. But those were exactly the thoughts I had.

I couldn’t allow Walt to get in the habit of expecting me to visit him more than once a week, or to think he could summon me whenever he felt like it. Maybe he didn’t have much of a life, but I did.

I went back to my conference table and sat beside Herm.

"Look," he said, "if you’ve got something important, this can wait."

"It’s not that important," I said.

Not that Herm Alberts’ prenuptial agreement ranked as a crisis, either. Professionally speaking, I believe in prenups. It’s always better to have things spelled out, to be prepared for the unanticipated, to acknowledge the well-documented fact that bad things happen to good people. That’s why they invented life insurance and wills. Nearly half of American marriages end in divorce. Divorces are messy. Legal, binding contracts minimize the mess.

Besides, Massachusetts law tilts to the wife in divorce settlements.

But personally I hate the idea of covering your bases before you get married. It makes divorce too easy. Prenups seem to me to put a price tag on love. They’re calculated, cold, squinty-eyed. Getting married is about romance, about infinitely wondrous possibilities, about forever and ever, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health. Not money.

So my strategy with my clients is always to lay out the options and refuse to advise them. I insist they discuss it with their prospective spouses, I insist on meeting with both of them, and I require the spouse-to-be to consult with her lawyer before anything is signed. If it becomes emotional, as it often does, I urge the couple to get counseling -- which I don’t provide.

Better before they get married than afterwards.

Herm Alberts had not yet discussed the subject with the woman he loved, a forty-something divorcee named Lauren Metcalf who would lose her alimony -- and therefore virtually all of her income -- when she married Herm. Herm owned a chain of hardware stores and had a lot to lose, too.

It was a tough call, and I was glad I didn’t have to make it.

* * *

I shooed Herm out of my office around quarter of five and changed into my faded jeans and my old Adidas and my Yale sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off at the shoulders -- my picnic outfit, which I’d brought to the office with me in anticipation of my rendezvous with Evie at Walden Pond. I had driven my car to work that morning and parked it in the garage across the street for a quick getaway. I kept my old Army blanket in the trunk, as I had done since I was a teenager, where it was always handy for spontaneous fun in the woods.

But first I had to go see Walt Duffy. The question was whether I should drive or walk.

Walk, I decided. I’d get there twice as fast at rush-hour on a Wednesday afternoon, and I wouldn’t have to worry about parking illegally under a "Residents Only" sign on Beacon Hill -- or not finding a space at all.

Julie was shutting down the office machines when I went out to the reception area. She looked at me and arched her eyebrows. "Going fishing? That your worm-digging outfit?"

"You know I fish with flies," I said. "Evie and I are having a picnic. I’m supposed to meet her at Walden in --" I glanced at my watch "-- in a little less than two hours."

Evie blew out a breath and shook her head. "And stupid me insisted that you go see Mr. Duffy." The only thing that Julie considered more important than accruing billable hours was getting me married and settled down. She had high hopes for Evie and me. "Why didn’t you say something?"

"You weren’t about to take no for an answer."

"Sure," she said. "Blame me if you’re late."

"That’s why I pay you all that money," I said. "To take the blame whenever there’s blame to be taken."

"Well, don’t stand around here talking to me. Go take care of Mr. Duffy, and make it snappy. We women don’t like to be kept waiting."

"Don’t I know it," I said.

* * *

It was another spectacular June afternoon -- cloudless skies, warm sun, and a soft salty easterly breeze puffing in off the ocean. As I strolled down Boylston Street, I was acutely aware of what Julie called my "worm-digging" attire as I passed women in high heels and short skirts and sharp-dressed men in their summer-weight suits and ties.

I cut through the Public Garden and across the footbridge over the duck pond, crossed Beacon onto Charles, climbed Mt. Vernon Street, and banged the brass knocker on the door to Walt Duffy’s townhouse around five-thirty.

I’d give Walt a half hour, max, then walk back to Copley Square and rescue my car, and with any luck I’d only be a few minutes late for my picnic with Evie.

I waited, hit the knocker again, and when there was no response, I headed around to the back alley. Ethan was probably out walking Henry, and Walt couldn’t answer the door even if he heard me knock.

The alley behind Walt’s townhouse was about the width of an average driveway. It was lined on both sides by ten-foot brick walls with wooden doorways cut into them. I counted my way down and stopped at what I figured was Walt’s garden. I called his name, and when he didn’t answer, I checked the door. He’d left it open a crack for me.

As I stepped inside, a gang of sparrows flew off in a panicky whir of wings. "Walt, it’s Brady," I said.

Walt was not sitting on his chaise, and it took me a moment to see that he was sprawled on the brick patio on the other side of the table from where I stood.

"Walt?" I said. "You okay?"

He didn’t answer.

I went over and knelt beside him.

He was sprawled on his back. His crutches lay on either side of him, as if he’d been using them and somehow lost his balance, fallen backwards, and hit his head on the bricks.

A dribble of wet blood ran from one nostril halfway down his cheek. His eyes were half-closed and he was gasping in rapid, shallow breaths that barely moved his chest. A little puddle of blood was pooling under his head.