The Twelve Dogs of Christmas

by David Rosenfelt

  “You’re in real estate?” I ask.

  “I am. I buy and sell it for myself and for my clients.”

  “Were you successful in convincing him to sell?”

  He smiles. “Not even close. Once he heard that trees would have to be cut down, he wasn’t interested. Didn’t even want to hear how much my client was offering.” He laughs at the memory.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I remember I asked him if he had other offers, and he said, ‘I hope not.’ That’s not something I heard very often.”

  “So, bottom line, you’ve felt since that day that you guys were just in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

  He nods. “Yes, which was a weird feeling. At first, it was like, ‘There but for the grace of God’ and ‘Boy, that puts things into perspective.’ But those things kind of fade, and you just put it behind you and move on. I’m not sure how I’m going to react to this new situation, that there was someone out there waiting to kill the person I was having dinner with.”

  “Have you ever given any thought to the possibility that you were the target?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m still breathing.”

  I nod. “Makes sense. Well, it’s a story you’ll be able to tell your grandkids.”

  “I’m not married.”

  “Then you can tell somebody else’s grandkids.”

  It’s time for a talk with Tara.

  Very often, when I need to step back and look at the big picture of a case, I do it by taking Tara for a walk and talking it out. She doesn’t actually answer me—after all, she’s a dog—but she’s insightful and a very good listener. And she almost never laughs at me.

  I also take Sebastian with us, but he really isn’t of much value when it comes to matters involving the criminal justice system. I take him because I know he enjoys the walks and because if I don’t take him out, I’m afraid he might piss in the house.

  “Tara, when people get set up, they get set up for a reason,” I say, and since she doesn’t quarrel with my point of view, I continue. “And when murders are involved, it’s usually a damned serious reason. Murders can be irrational and sudden and done in the moment; but frame-ups are carefully planned.”

  Again, she doesn’t answer, which is just as well, because some other dog walkers have appeared near us. Since I don’t want to look like a nutcase, I’m going to have to telepathically communicate my thoughts to Tara for the duration of the walk.

  Hennessey was killed and Pups framed not because she’s a pain in the ass or because her dogs barked or because she turned away a potential puppy adopter. That much I know. Unfortunately, among the things I don’t know is who did it and why they did it.

  Which means I know nothing.

  It’s not like Pups has been out there living the fast life. She’s been basically a hermit for as long as I’ve known her, even when Jake was alive. She mostly stays at home and takes care of her puppies.

  Ironically, the evidence that the same gun was involved in both murders, while making the case against Pups infinitely more difficult for the defense, also makes me more convinced of her innocence.

  I believed Pups when she said she didn’t kill Hennessey; I have never known her not to be straight. But if generally truth-telling people are ever going to lie, then a prime time would be when creating an alibi for a murder.

  But I simply do not believe that Pups killed her husband; from what I know, it makes no sense to me. She didn’t run off afterward with someone else or change her lifestyle in any way. And I certainly don’t believe she’d be dumb enough to hang on to the gun, only to resurrect it for another murder and then leave it where it could be found.

  There are two areas of inquiry that we need to focus on, and the first is Hennessey. Pups swears that neither she nor Jake had any connection to him, that the only reason she knew he existed was because he filed the complaint with the zoning board.

  The zoning board was prohibited by law from telling her who filed the complaint, but Hennessey had mentioned it to some neighbors, possibly as a way of recruiting them to his cause. But all the other neighbors had long been fine with what Pups was doing, so instead three of them told her that Hennessey had filed the complaint. When she confronted him with it, he made a halfhearted denial, but it never seemed to be about anything other than the dogs.

  The other area to which we have to pay attention is money. Pups has a lot of it, and it could be that someone wants a shot at it. I don’t know how her being convicted of murder would help them get it, though. It’s not like she has any heirs, and, if she did, she’s not going to be around much longer, anyway.

  An heir, like maybe Jake’s estranged son, could just as easily show up and claim the inheritance after she has died. If someone has meticulously planned this out, they would likely have learned about her illness.

  But the most difficult question is, If someone were going to frame Pups for Jake’s murder, why wait a year and a half to do it?

  I get back to the house and thank Tara for her time. She hasn’t solved the case for me, but she’s helped me frame it. And Sebastian did his part; he pissed outside.

  Laurie gives me an update on what she and Marcus have found out about Hennessey. “He was no Boy Scout,” she says. “But we haven’t found anything to tie him to either of the Boyers.”

  I decide to latch on to the positive part of what she said, the reference to his not being a Boy Scout, and ask her to fill me in.

  “He’s had a couple of drug arrests, but for using, not distribution. He was also arrested on a breaking and entering, but the charge was dismissed. I’m trying to find out why, but it’s likely lack of evidence.”

  “Any family?”

  She nods. “Yes. A wife and two small kids, living in Hackensack. He seems to have bailed out on them a few months ago, which is when he moved into the house across from Pups. I don’t know if he walked or was pushed, but I have the wife’s contact information. We could talk to her.”

  “Where did he live eighteen months ago, when Jake was killed?”

  “Camden. He was a carpet salesman. Lost his job, and then one opened up in a store on Route Seventeen. So he took it, lasted a year, and then lost that one too. No evidence that he’s been working since.”

  “We should talk to the wife,” I say.

  “We? Meaning you and me?”

  “Yes. I don’t always do that well talking to women.”

  “I’ve noticed that,” she says.

  Teresa Hennessey greets us at the door in her nurse’s uniform.

  The first thing she does, after inviting us in, is to apologize for that fact. “I’m sorry … I just got home from work about a half hour ago,” she says. “And with the kids … I haven’t had a chance to change.”

  She points to her two toddlers sitting in front of the television, one on each side of a black Lab, who seems as into the cartoons as the kids. I’m not a good judge of kids’ ages, but these are probably two or three years old. I’m a pretty good judge of dogs’ ages, and the white face on this one makes it a very good bet that he’s older than the two kids combined.

  The kids are eating with their hands from bowls in front of them. It looks like dry Froot Loops, and they are so intent on the televised cartoons that half the Froot Loops are winding up on the floor. The dog happily does the cleanup work.

  The best way to describe the house is “lived-in.” It’s small and sparsely furnished, and the carpet is fraying. This is a woman and family that is barely getting by.

  “Absolutely nothing to apologize for,” Laurie says. “We appreciate your seeing us, and we’re very sorry for your loss.”

  Teresa just nods without saying anything. It’s hard to say what she feels about the size of that loss.

  “How are your children doing?” I ask.

  “You mean about Randy? I haven’t told them yet. They may not even know who I’m talking about. Even when we were together,
Randy wasn’t around much. Saying he was an absentee father might be giving him too much credit.”

  We walk over and sit down at a table in the next room, but Teresa is able to maintain a sightline to the children. “Can I get you coffee? Tea?”

  We both decline, and Laurie says, “As I told you, we’re representing the woman accused of killing your husband.”

  Teresa nods. “I know.”

  “We believe that they have the wrong person, and we want to make sure that the real killer is caught and punished.”

  “I understand.”

  “Can you think of anyone who would have had a reason to kill your husband?”

  “Randall was not the man I married,” she says. “We talked about raising a family together; I really thought he was going to be an outstanding father. Then he lost his job, and nothing seemed to go right for him. And he just withdrew; it was like he couldn’t handle that he was unable to be exactly what we wanted and needed.”

  We don’t say anything; we just listen as she continues.

  “Then he started using drugs; that seemed to come out of nowhere. Maybe he was doing it before and I didn’t notice, or maybe he stopped caring about what I knew and what I didn’t. But he was doing it in the house, and one day I left him with the kids, and when I came home, he was completely out of it. So I threw him out.”

  “This was three months ago?” Laurie asks.

  She shakes her head. “No, more like six months ago. He came back … he promised to change, but it didn’t work. We both knew it, and then he left on his own. Never told me; just took off.”

  “I’m sorry,” Laurie says. “This must be so difficult.”

  She nods. “It is, but we’re getting by. I’m only able to get part-time work so far down at the hospital, but there’s talk that something will open up soon. Right now, my biggest worry is how to get them toys for Christmas.”

  Then, as if she shakes herself out of her own thoughts, Teresa says, “But you’re not here to listen to my troubles. The short answer to your question is that I don’t know anybody who ever posed a threat to Randy, other than himself. But if he was taking drugs, then he was getting them from somewhere. Maybe he didn’t pay? I really have no idea. I wish I could help you.”

  We gently probe a bit longer but get nowhere. When an argument starts in the other room between the two kids over what to watch on TV, she goes to deal with it and we prepare to make our exit.

  Teresa joins us at the door and says, “Sorry about that. They’re a handful.”

  “Your dog seems to take it in stride.”

  She nods. “He’s great with them; he actually calms them down. That’s one thing I have to thank Randy for.”

  “What do you mean?” Laurie asks.

  “The dog showed up at our door one day, looking ragged and without a tag. We posted signs, but no one claimed him. Randy couldn’t bear to take him to the shelter.”

  I’m thinking that Randy’s attitude toward dogs changed somewhat over time, but I don’t mention it. Instead, we just thank her for her time and leave.

  Once we’re outside, Laurie says, “She has got all she can handle.”

  I nod. “Merry Christmas.” Once we’re in the car, I say, “I’ve got an idea.”

  “Andy Carpenter, here to save the world.”

  I don’t know how she knows me so well. “Not saving the world, but in this case we can make it a very little bit better.”

  She smiles. “How much better?”

  I’ve got to be careful giving this number. It needs to be high enough to be significant, but not too high that Laurie thinks it’s overdoing it. “Two fifty?”

  “Apiece?”

  “That would be my preference,” I say. “But I defer to you.”

  She smiles. “Why not? Go for it.”

  We head for the Toys“R”Us in Paramus, and I go in and buy a five-hundred-dollar gift certificate. It comes in a little envelope, and Laurie writes Teresa on it. We don’t sign it, though I would imagine Teresa will have an idea whom it came from.

  Once we’re back in the car, I call Sam Willis, who answers on the first ring with, “Got something for me?”

  “Yes, I do. Can you check into the finances of Randy Hennessey?”

  “Sure. Anything in particular you’re looking for?”

  “Just general stuff. Bank accounts, investments, that kind of thing.” I could get this information through a court-ordered subpoena, but Sam can perform his hacking miracles much faster.

  When I get off the phone, Laurie asks, “Was that for the case?”

  I shrug. “You never know. But if he’s got anything, Teresa should get it, and she might not be aware of it.”

  We drive back to Teresa’s house, and Laurie slips the envelope under the door. As we’re leaving, Laurie says, “Well, at least we accomplished something.”

  We’ve been assuming that Jake was the target in the shooting at the Bonfire.

  It makes sense, simply because of the fact that the same gun killed Hennessey. But the police had come to a different conclusion back then, so it would be nice to be sure that we’re right. Because if we’re wrong, then we’re wasting a lot of man and woman hours on a wild goose chase.

  According to the discovery and contemporaneous news articles, unlucky Little Tiny Parker was a member of a street gang called the Bloodz. I assume the misspelling is intentional, maybe designed to separate them from other, more literate, Bloods.

  Laurie has had Marcus checking into the gang, and he’s come back with the information that the leader is named Big Tiny Parker. My keen detecting instincts tell me that it’s not a coincidence that there are, or at least were, two Tiny Parkers in the same gang, distinguished only by their different size designations. Since Little Tiny was 250 pounds, Big Tiny must be the size of a side-by-side refrigerator/freezer. That is, unless the Bloodz are heavily into irony, in which case Big Tiny probably looks like Mary Lou Retton.

  “Marcus said Big Tiny will talk to you,” Laurie tells me.

  “Wonderful,” I say. “It’s at the top of my bucket list. Hopefully, he’ll bring Enormous Tiny with him also.”

  “Tonight?” she asks.

  “Why not?”

  Laurie calls Marcus, and he says he’ll pick me up at eight o’clock. It gives me time to have dinner with Laurie and Ricky.

  While we’re eating, Ricky asks me if I want to play a game of Madden Football with him later. We’ve played maybe ten or twelve games so far, and he’s dominated every one of them. “I can’t, Rick,” I say. “I’ve got to go see a very large friend.”

  I go outside at 7:59 and forty-five seconds, knowing that Marcus will pull up fifteen seconds after that. You can set your clock by Marcus; I don’t know how he does it.

  We drive to a bar in a depressed area of downtown Paterson. Marcus almost never talks, and this drive is no exception. I make a halfhearted effort at conversation with, “Got any plans for the holidays?” and his response is “Nunh.” Short and to the point.

  As we near the place, I ask if he’s sure that Big Tiny will talk to us. “Yunh,” he says, adding a little nod for emphasis. There are cars on the street, so we have to park down the block, in front of a diner. We get out and walk to the bar, which takes less than a minute.

  There are three very large, rather disagreeable-looking people standing near the door of the bar. I’m not liking this situation, though I’d like it a hell of a lot less if I wasn’t with Marcus. Of course, if I wasn’t with Marcus, I’d be home watching the Knicks game.

  As we walk toward the door, the three guys move in front of it, blocking our way. Marcus doesn’t say anything, so I jump in. “We’re here to talk to Big Tiny.”

  “Is that right?” the middle guy says. “What about?”

  “We have an appointment.”

  That gets a sort of laugh-cackle out of Middle Guy. He moves his arm slightly, and the next thing I know, there is an open knife in his hand. “You got an appointment? Is that what you
got? Well, I got one of these.”

  This is usually the part where Marcus disables the three of them, and I step gingerly over their prone bodies and enter the establishment in triumph. But this time he’s not doing anything. “Marcus, did you clear this ahead of time?” I ask.

  He doesn’t say anything, and after a few moments lightly takes my arm and pulls me away from the bar. We start walking back toward the car. As much as I’m delighted to have exited that confrontation without shedding any blood, backing down like this is very uncharacteristic of Marcus. Maybe he made an assessment that he wouldn’t prevail and wisely retreated. If so, that would be the first time.

  We get back to the car, and I take out the keys to unlock it, but Marcus says, “Nunh.” Then, in an absolute lengthy soliloquy, he points to the diner and says “In there.”

  “You want me to go in there?”

  “Yunh.”

  “Are we going to have dinner?”

  He just points again, and I go in alone. I sit at a table and order coffee as I see Marcus heading back toward the bar. I’m feeling guilty that he’s going it alone, but I’d feel worse if I was with him. Apparently, the situation was such that he felt he couldn’t handle it and protect me at the same time; I like the way the guy thinks.

  Fifteen minutes go by, and they feel like a hundred. Even though past history has told me that I shouldn’t be, I’m worried about Marcus. There were three of those guys, and they were probably all armed, and there might have been more in the bar. I decide that I’ll wait five more minutes and then call the police.

  Two minutes before my self-imposed deadline, Marcus comes back. He’s with a person who truly would make Little Tiny look like Little Tiny. This guy, who I assume is Big Tiny, has got to be 320 pounds, and he’s not even particularly fat. He could literally have me for lunch, with room for dessert.

  They enter, and Marcus points toward my table, so they take the two chairs opposite me. I have no idea how the relatively flimsy chair is able to hold “Big Tiny,” but it manages to do so.

  Big Tiny looks sullen and defeated, and all he says is, “So talk.”