Disguises: BOONE-BELL, #3

By Frederic W. Burr

As "Disguises" opens, Boone is staying at Deborah's home while recuperating from his recent shooting. Given the extent and severity of his injuries, recovery is a slow and frustrating process for him. Deborah, having grown accustomed to having him in her home, suggests they consider living together. Hesitant but game, he tries to come to grips in his mind with what would be a very different lifestyle and living arrangement than he is accustomed to.

Marianne, his assistant and aspiring partner-to-be, receives a call from a widow in financially desperate straits, seeking information about her husband's death a year and a half earlier. From all indications, this will turn out to be a charity case with little to no chance of a good resolution. Boone finds it impossible to say no.

Attorney Clive Townsend, a source of referrals for Boone's office and close personal friend, meanwhile asks Boone to locate evidence helpful to a female divorce client. This request involves conduct that borders on illegality. For help, Boone calls on Tom McAvoy, an old friend from their days together in the military, having no idea of what will ultimately develop.

As if he doesn't have enough to demand his attention, a divorcée asks Boone to locate her adult daughter who left home several weeks earlier. The woman is concerned her daughter may about to 'do something bad.' Boone agrees to take the case with reservations.

As these cases unfold, he is forced to recall a lesson he learned much earlier in life. Everyone is not who, or even what, they seem to be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frederic W. Burr
• Release date: Mar 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9798223221500

Frederic W. Burr

A native of Cincinnati, Ohio, Fred enlisted in the Navy at the age of seventeen, and retired in the rank of Commander in the surface warfare community. He is a graduate of the University of Louisville and the Albany Law School of Union University. Retiring from the private practice of law in upstate New York, Pennsylvania and Kentucky after thirty-six years, he considers himself a fully recovered attorney. Fred and his wife Donna (who also writes) make their home in Kentucky.

Book preview

Other books by the author

Mutinies

The Ring

The Return

Lens Capture

For the Love a Pete

Grab an Egg

Uphill

Old Salts, New Navy

The Persian Paradox

Letters from Peru

An Uncertain Sea

Abby’s Maze

Abby’s Test

Journeys

Unaccountable

BOONE

Guardian Angel

In the end, all disguises must drop.

- Gregory Maguire

ONE

BOONE LOOKED OUT the passenger window of Marianne’s Toyota as she drove to the office. The trees were depressingly bare, with springtime leafing still a month away. It had been six months since the late Antonio Caruso had shot him, intending to leave him for dead in Washington Park Lake.

But for Marianne tailing him to what he had hoped would be a meeting with an informant, Caruso would still be alive, and Boone would be nothing more than cremains scattered into the Hudson River. She put a tight grouping of three rounds into Caruso’s center mass, and Boone thought there was a certain symmetry to that. Caruso had shot Boone three times as well, in his right arm, abdomen, and back before Marianne arrived on the scene of the ambush.

His recovery was still ongoing, but he had to admit he was making progress, if slowly. Both Marianne and Deborah had insisted he stay with Deborah during his recovery. He had made a show of resistance but knew he was in no shape to handle the stairs to his second-floor apartment in Latham after leaving Albany Medical Center.

At Deborah’s home on Trillium Lane in Westover, he had easy access to the street. In the beginning, he would shuffle like an old man half a block one way, and return. After resting, he would repeat his journey several times until lunch. After lunch, he napped for an hour, and then worked with twenty-pound weights with his left arm. With his right arm, he could barely lift a two-pound weight off the table at first. At least he had finally stopped passing blood in his urine. That was something.

What are you thinking about? she asked, interrupting his thoughts.

Nothing, he replied.

Liar.

He sighed before responding. Just thinking about my progress is all.

I think you’re doing great, she said.

Really? How so?

You can walk a mile in less than twenty-five minutes now, . . .

Yes, but I have to rest before walking back.

And you can do curls, flies and reverse curls with a ten-pound weight with your right arm, she went on.

And forty with my left, he said. They’re not cumulative, you know.

She looked up and off to the side as she put on her turn signal to pull into the Swan Street parking lot they both used.

After putting the car in park and shutting off the engine, she released her seat belt and turned to face him.

All I’m saying is, you should be pleased with your progress. And be glad that you can walk up the Swan Street hill to get to the office on your own. You’re not all the way back, but you’ll get there. Now, come on. We have stuff to do!

She got out of the car on her side, closed the door, and walked around the back of the car to his side. When his door didn’t open right away, she knocked on the window and said, You coming or not?

He opened his door, turned to put his feet outside the car before grabbing the overhead grip to help him get out of the car. After standing, he looked at her, grinned and said, Let’s go, coach.

As they walked up the hill, he could tell she was moderating her pace to match his slower gait, but said nothing. Once inside the building, she raced up the stairs while he waited for the elevator.

By the time he made it to the door into his side of the office, she had a pot of coffee started, the morning print edition of the Times-Union was lying on his desk and she was at her desk, listening to voice-mail messages from the previous evening, making notes as she went.

Resigned to the way things were, he poured a cup of coffee for himself and carried it over to his desk before sitting down in his office chair, already exhausted.

He opened the paper and scanned the headlines in the B-section. A Rotterdam woman was arrested after using a hammer to break down a door to get at her victim, who was trying to dial 9-1-1 for help.

A Hillsdale man was arrested for a knife-point robbery at the Colonie Center Macy’s and leading police on a chase in a stolen car which ended at the Albany County airport. According to the article, the suspect had three active warrants from surrounding counties.

Then there was an opinion piece on the death of former Assembly Speaker Sheldon Silver, who died at 77 years old while serving a prison sentence for bribery and corruption. He shook his head at the never-ending Democrat Party corruption in New York State government. Putting the paper to the side, he booted up his computer just as Marianne walked into his side of the office, her notepad in hand.

Anything good? he asked as she took a seat in front of his desk.

Maybe, she answered. We got a call late last night from a Debbie Boyd. She’s out in Schoharie and wants to know if we can help her.

With what?

It’s not clear. She says her husband died about a year and a half ago. There are things she doesn’t understand about it. There was only a small group life policy from his work, and she’s about to be evicted. I guess she rents.

What does she think we can do for her?

She doesn’t say. She just wants to know if you’ll see her.

He shook his head. Why don’t you call her and see if you get any more information out of her?

Okay, Boss, she said.

And don’t call me Boss.

You’re the Boss.

Look, he said. For record purposes, we might have an employment relationship, but based on how things really work here, I don’t think either one of us is a boss, as that term is generally understood. Tell me. Do you ever feel like you are my subordinate? Or am I being too pedantic here?

She grinned, her green eyes twinkling mischievously. Pedantic? No. Pediatric maybe, but not pedantic.

Before he could respond, she jumped up and said, I’ll give Mrs. Boyd a call, and returned to her side of the office.

He glanced around the office and sighed. Clearly, Marianne was keeping the office running while he was barely functional. With nothing to do, he wondered why he even bothered coming in with her.

A line button on his desktop phone console began blinking with an incoming call. He seized the handset before the first ring, grateful for something to do.

Boone here.

Morning, shamus.

He recognized Clive Townsend’s voice.

And good morning to you, counselor. How may we be of assistance to you?

You feeling okay? You’re not usually this polite.

What do you want? Is that better?

For now. Listen. I have a client.

Glad to hear it. What kind of case?

Divorce. I represent the wife. Anne Richards. That’s Ann with an ‘e.’

Okay, Boone said, trying to make a note on his pad with his right hand, which refused to cooperate. He gave it up.

And how do we figure in to this file?

Let’s just say your particular skill set might be useful to us.

His curiosity now aroused, Boone asked, How so?

My client is staying at a rental in Syracuse while the divorce is pending. And she tells me there is a briefcase in the marital residence which contains some important financial data. We’d like to, uh . . . shall we say? . . . obtain that briefcase, without having to serve a discovery demand.

Oh. This is interesting. I’m assuming the briefcase is the husband’s property. Right?

Yes. But let’s just say he is unaware of its location.

Maybe we should discuss this further in person, Boone suggested.

I was getting to that, Clive said. The Chambers at eleven-thirty?

See you then, Boone replied just as the dial tone cut him off.

He replaced the handset and looked up to see Marianne standing in front of his desk.

What’s up? she asked.

I’m meeting Clive for lunch.

Is it about a case?

Could be, he answered.

And . . .?

And, he said, realizing from her expression he had toyed with her long enough, would you like to come along?

That’s more like it, she said. The usual place?

He nodded, and then asked, You’re here because, why?

She sat down. I spoke with Mrs. Boyd. This is an odd case. The family lives in Schoharie, but the late Roland Boyd worked for SurePak in Wappinger’s Falls, over ninety miles away. During the work week, he stayed down there at . . . she consulted her pad, Roberts Mobile Home Park, and came home on weekends.

What’s weird about that? he asked. Lots of people do that when the job is some distance from home.

Well, he usually went back to the trailer park on Sunday evenings. But this time, he stayed over for their anniversary and left for work on Monday morning. He died in a single-car accident that morning in Walden, which is at least twenty miles out of the way to his job.

So, what does this woman want?

She wants to know what he was doing in Walden.

And this happened when?

A year and a half ago.

And she’s just now wanting us to look into it?

Marianne shrugged. I guess. What do you want me to tell her?

Did she ask about the cost?

Yes. I told her our hourly rates. She has a twelve-year-old son and no money. They lived off of her husband’s group life policy, and most of that is gone. She hasn’t paid her rent for two months, and is facing eviction.

Boone shook his head. It’s not like we’re fat with cash right now. Between my disability coverage and state police pension, we can barely meet our overhead.

I know, she said, but Clive always pays well, and usually gives you a retainer against a file, she said.

You feel sorry for this woman, don’t you?

Well, yes. I feel sorry for her. And if you spoke with her, you would too. It shouldn’t take that much time to look into the accident, maybe talk to some of her husband’s co-workers to see what they know and, . . .

Okay, okay, he said. We can talk to her, if you like. Can she come to the office? And why did she call us, anyway?

She liked our web page ad. I guess it was your twenty-eight years with the New York State Police that impressed her. But I’ll try to set up an appointment with her at the office. Okay?

Sure.

THE PAIR OF THEM FOUND Clive in the back dining room of The Chambers, his usual spot. Unlike Boone’s last meeting with him, when he was preparing for Marianne’s preliminary court hearing on a bogus murder charge, Clive was faultlessly dressed. In a medium gray wool pinstripe, crisp white shirt and black tie with narrow diagonal stripes, his black J. Murphy shoes polished like mirrors, he could have been a stand-in for Al Pacino in The Godfather. Until one got past the attire. With his brush-cut hair, cauliflower ear and nose that had been broken more than once, and massive hands like a stevedore, he evidently had once known his way around the ring.

As Boone and Marianne took their seats at his table, Clive looked at Boone, saying, Nice you could make it. Then, tilting his forehead towards Marianne but still talking to Boone, Even better, you brought her along.

Charming as ever, Boone said. So what’s this case all about, that you need our help?

"Our client is Anne Richards, who is filing for divorce from her husband, Daryl. He is a software