Dog Eat Dog

by David Rosenfelt

  “They’re pretty good, huh? That’s one thing I missed when I moved to Atlanta.”

  “Outstanding. I would stop and have one now, but I’m already going to be late for a meeting.”

  “About the case?”

  “Yeah. I’m going to see the guy who wants to put you in prison for the rest of your life. I’ll give him your regards.”

  When I enter George Steinkamp’s office, a dog greets me at the door.

  He’s some kind of grayish poodle mix, no more than a dozen pounds. He’s adorable and his tail is wagging, a sure sign that he doesn’t know I am a defense attorney.

  “Toby Allen, show some manners.” George Steinkamp smiles. “No sniffing people you haven’t been introduced to.”

  “I’m Andy,” I say to Toby Allen. Then, to Steinkamp, “Your dog has a different last name? Maybe from a previous marriage?”

  He laughs. “It’s a middle name. We have a neighbor with a dog named Toby, so this distinguishes him.”

  “This is a dog-friendly area. Everybody seems to have one.”

  Steinkamp nods. “A friend once observed that in California everyone wants to know what kind of car you drive. In the South it’s which church you attend. And here it’s what kind of dog you have.”

  “I’ve got a couple myself.”

  He nods. “I know. You’ve got a whole rescue foundation as well.”

  “You’ve been checking me out.”

  Another nod. “Advance scouting. Always good to know the opposition.”

  “It doesn’t have to be that way. You can drop the case and we can go picnicking with our dogs.”

  He smiles. “I think not. But as much as I’m enjoying our chat, sit down and let’s talk about the case. I expect it won’t take long.”

  I sit in the chair across from his desk, and he and Toby Allen retreat behind it. “We here in Maine, and I assume it’s true in New Jersey as well, prefer to avoid trials. They’re expensive and usually we know how they will turn out anyway.”

  “So you here in Maine, like New Jersey, offer plea arrangements?”

  “We do. Sometimes I’m in favor of them, and sometimes I’m not. But often, as in this case, it’s not my decision.”

  I can turn him down now or wait for the offer. I decide to wait, just to see what it reveals about how he views the strength of the state’s case.

  “So … forty to life, no possibility of parole.”

  “Dogs are great, aren’t they?” I ask. “Although I’m not crazy about the face licking. I’m not sure why they do that.”

  “He killed two people. Put a gun to their heads and blew their brains out.”

  “The jury returned a verdict already? The least they could have done is call me and let me know. I didn’t even get a chance to thank them for their service.”

  “Jantzen left a signed confession at the scene. Actually, better than that, because confessions can be forged.”

  “He pled not guilty because he’s not guilty.”

  “So you’re turning this down? Want to talk to your client first?”

  “Yes, as to the turning it down. No, as to talking to my client.”

  “Fair enough. I’m glad you feel that way. When crimes like this are committed, I prefer it when a jury has a chance to weigh in.”

  “I’m happy for you.”

  He smiles. “You liking it here? We’ve got everything you have in the big city … moving-picture shows, restaurants where you sit down and get cloth napkins … bakeries with fancy bread-slicing machines … you name it.”

  “If it’s so great, how come I can’t get a decent lobster roll?”

  He smiles, knowing that I’m joking. “Yeah, that’s a big problem around here.”

  I turn to Toby Allen. “I’ve some family coming up that you would love. Let’s arrange a playdate.”

  It’s getting close to dinnertime; the older I get the more comfortable I am with eating early. Before I know it I’ll be sucking down oatmeal through a straw for lunch and going out for the early-bird dinner.

  So I head for King Eider’s. I’m finding that I like the nightly ritual of eating at the bar with my new buddies, none of whose names I know. I’m even sort of getting into the Red Sox, and not just when they play the Yankees.

  At around ten o’clock I leave with the game in the seventh inning. I want to get back in time to call Laurie before she goes to sleep. I walk to my car, which is not in the main parking lot, because that lot was full when I arrived.

  When I get back there, I’m almost at my car when I hear a voice say, “Hold it right there, lawyer.”

  I don’t like the sound of this at all, and not just because I hate being identified as a lawyer. I turn, and two guys are standing in front of a pickup truck with those huge wheels that make the truck seem fifteen feet all. They are big guys, well suited to driving this truck.

  “Hiya, fellas.” It’s as clever a line as I can come up with under the circumstances.

  “We don’t like you helping that killer, and we’re going to show you how much we don’t like it.”

  “Okay, I hear you. Let me just deal with one thing first, and then we can talk it out.”

  “We’re not here to talk.”

  “I understand. Just give me a second.”

  I take out my phone and dial 911; it’s not easy to do with my hands shaking. After a few seconds I talk into the phone. “Two guys are threatening me in the parking lot on Elm Street, across from the used-book store. License plate ERW548. Thank you.”

  I disconnect the phone and turn to the two guys. “Okay, we have just a couple of minutes before the cops come. Although you probably shouldn’t do anything stupid, since they have your license plate number.”

  They turn and start climbing into their truck, but the guy getting into the driver’s seat takes the time to say, “You just made a big mistake, lawyer.”

  They leave, and once I’m sure they’re gone, I do as well. There’s no sense waiting for the police, since I don’t get cell service back here and never reached 911.

  Now my only question is whether to tell Laurie about this incident when I call her. The negative is that it will cause her to worry, and the positive is that I will appear heroic.

  I’m definitely going to tell her.

  “I think Marcus should come up there,” Laurie says. “At least until I can get there … maybe he should stay a few days longer than that.”

  Perhaps I shouldn’t have told Laurie about the evening’s events. Rather than praising my heroism, she’s telling me that I need protection.

  “I can handle these guys myself.” We both know this claim is patently ridiculous.

  “Andy, don’t take this the wrong way, but you said they left in their truck.”

  “So?”

  “So if they’re old enough to drive, you can’t handle them yourself. You might be able to outsmart them, like you obviously did tonight, but you can’t count on doing that every time.”

  “It’s fine. I’ll be careful.”

  “Marcus can pay them a quick visit; he can reason with them.”

  Marcus Clark is one of the three human members of the K Team, Laurie’s investigative group. I would say that he is also the toughest, scariest human being on earth, but that might be too limiting. Five minutes with Marcus and the two big guys from the parking lot would be begging me to go fishing with them.

  The truth is that it would be a relief to have Marcus up here looking out for me, but there’s no way I will ever admit that. I’m not sure why that is. I’m a physical coward and Laurie knows that to be true no matter what I say. Yet I try to maintain what we both know is a ridiculous façade.

  “Laurie, I’m fine. If that changes, I’ll let you know. I was hoping we could focus on my coolness in the face of danger. It was really something to behold.”

  “I choose to focus on the danger part.” Then, apparently giving in, she asks, “How’s the case going?”

  “It isn’t. I’m getting nowh
ere, which is no surprise, since I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I have to operate under the assumption that Matt is innocent, otherwise I’m just spinning my wheels. That leaves three possibilities, and none of them stand out at this point.”

  “What are they?”

  “One is that Peter Charkin was the target. Two is that Tina Welker was the target. The third possibility, the scariest one of all, is that it was just a robbery gone bad, a home invasion.”

  “Which makes it random.”

  “Right. And therefore almost impossible to solve. I can take apart the victims’ lives, but if the victims had nothing to do with their killer, then it won’t get me anywhere.”

  “So we focus on the two victims and hope it wasn’t random.”

  “That’s the plan,” I say, with no enthusiasm whatsoever.

  “We’ll get there.”

  “Right. And it’s not like I’m not making progress. I’ve only been here a week and I’ve already managed to piss off two big guys with a truck.”

  “By the way, there’s a new plan for getting Ricky to camp.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He doesn’t want me to take him. He wants to go on the camp bus with all the rest of the kids.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s growing up and he’s at the age where being with his parents can be embarrassing.”

  “How long will that last?”

  “Hard to say. At least a decade. Maybe until he has kids that are embarrassed by him.”

  “So that means I can’t meet him at the camp when the bus arrives.”

  “You’re catching on quickly. I know you’re disappointed, Andy. So am I. But I’ll drop him off at the bus and then head up to Maine. Tara, Sebastian, and Hunter will enjoy the ride.”

  “Any word from Hunter’s previous owner?”

  “Not so far.”

  “Maybe he’s the guy you should send Marcus to visit.”

  I get off the phone so that I will have time to feel sorry for myself before I go to sleep. I’m missing everyone at home, which is probably why they call it home.

  I think my outlook would be better if I were accomplishing something here, so I need to make that happen. To that end I pick up the discovery documents and read through them for the third time.

  I’m going to show them how a hotshot, big-time New York lawyer from New Jersey operates.

  My first stop is the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Office.

  Even though Damariscotta has its own small police department, it overlaps with the county sheriff’s. Since the sheriff covers the whole area, this seems like the logical place to give my report.

  I stop and speak to the officer manning the reception desk. The name tag on his chest says that he is Sergeant Melvin. I’m assuming that Melvin is a last name, so I don’t introduce myself as Lawyer Andy.

  “My name is Andy Carpenter. I want to report an incident that happened last night in Damariscotta. Two very large guys threatened me.”

  “Threatened you how?”

  “I’m a defense attorney and they told me they would teach me a lesson because I’m representing a particular client.”

  “Wait a minute. Carpenter … are you the lawyer that’s defending the guy who killed those two people?”

  “Is allegedly a word that people ever use here in Maine?”

  “Yeah, there are people that use it. Me … not so much.”

  “Anyway, here’s the license number of their truck.” I hand him a piece of paper on which I wrote the number.

  He looks at it. “Did they do anything to you other than talk?”

  “No.”

  He smiles. “You fought them off?”

  “I outsmarted them.”

  “What do you expect us to do with this? Talking nasty isn’t considered a capital crime around here.”

  “In a perfect world, you would give them a warning. At the very least, you’ll have this in case something happens.”

  “I’ll tell the sergeant.”

  “I imagine he’ll call in a SWAT team?”

  Another smile from Sergeant Melvin. “Something like that.”

  On the way to meet with Rachel Manning, I call Sam Willis. He answers on the first ring, as always. “Andy, talk to me.”

  “I need you to run down a license plate.” I give him the number. “It’s a Maine plate.”

  “You got it. I’ll get back to you.”

  “Thanks. And just me, Laurie doesn’t need to know about it.”

  “Roger.”

  “Roger doesn’t need to know either.”

  Buoyed by somebody’s having finally paid attention to me, I head up to Rockland, about a half hour north, to see Rachel Manning. Rockland is a town filled with restaurants, and Rachel works as a waitress at a place called Archer’s.

  It’s right on the water, open and airy with glass walls providing a great view from every table. Lobster boats are visible out on the water; I hope they are productive, because I still have a lot of eating to do in my time here.

  Because it’s three thirty in the afternoon, no customers are eating here. As I walk in, a woman dressed in white waitress garb signals me from a table in the back. She’s obviously been waiting for me and either recognizes me because I’m famous, or because I’m the only person likely to show up at this hour. I’m going to go with the famous explanation.

  “Hi,” she says. “Sorry to drag you all the way up here.”

  “No problem. Thanks for talking with me. Nice place.”

  She nods. “And we have the best lobster rolls in the state.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  “Not until five o’clock; that’s when the kitchen opens again.”

  We talk briefly about nothing in particular. She tells me that she has lived in Maine since she was one year old, but will never be considered a Mainer. “You’ve got to be born here. No exceptions.… But you wanted to talk about Tina Welker?”

  “Yes. You were her friend?”

  “Her best friend. We finished each other’s sentences.”

  “That could get annoying,” I say, for no other reason than I find it annoying when people do that to me.

  She doesn’t take offense. “It never did. I miss Tina every day. She really cared about people, which is probably why she had the job she had.”

  “She was a nurse,” I say, though obviously Rachel would know that.

  “Not just a nurse; she did radiation therapy on cancer patients. You don’t do that unless you love people and want to do whatever you can.”

  “Did she talk to you about her boyfriends?”

  “Of course. Every one of them.”

  “She dated a lot?”

  Rachel nods. “Guys loved Tina. And Tina loved guys.”

  “Any of them jealous? Did she ever talk about one of them getting angry that she wasn’t with them exclusively?”

  Rachel shakes her head. “Not that I know of, and I would know. Tina always made it clear to her dates that she wasn’t the ‘going steady’ type. She didn’t sneak around behind anybody’s back.”

  “Did she ever express concern for her safety? Ever mention anyone she might be afraid of?”

  “No, not really afraid…”

  “Somebody you think I should know about?”

  “Well, there is that neighbor. I don’t think he was a threat or anything; Tina didn’t think so. But he gave me the creeps. I saw him a few weeks ago; that’s why I’m thinking about it now.”

  “Which neighbor is that?”

  “He lived a couple of houses down from her. He used to complain that she was making too much noise, playing music and that kind of stuff. But the people in the house between them never said anything.”

  I’m surprised that I haven’t read anything about this in the discovery documents. “Did you ever tell this to the police?”

  She shakes her head. “No, I don’t th
ink so.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Not sure. Bennett, or Barnett, or something like that.”

  “Why was she concerned about him?”

  Rachel shrugs. “I think he just bugged her; and she thought he stared at her a lot when she was outside. One time he sort of asked her out, said they should have coffee or something, but she wasn’t interested. Anyway, thinking back, Tina was more concerned about the hang-ups.”

  The “hang-ups” Rachel is talking about were in the police reports. In the couple of weeks before the murder, Tina had complained to the phone company that she was getting crank calls from someone who would hang up when she answered the phone.

  The cops were never able to determine who was making the calls; but they had a theory that it might have been the eventual killer trying to determine when she was home.

  “Did she have any idea who was making those calls?” I say.

  “Not that she ever told me.”

  “Did you know Peter Charkin?”

  She frowns. “Yeah, I knew him.”

  “You didn’t like him?”

  “No, especially not for Tina. I think he was into drugs, and he always seemed to have money to throw around. He was just … I guess the word is erratic. But Tina liked him, so I never said anything. By the end, she was going out with only him, which was very unlike her. And…”

  Rachel doesn’t continue, just stops for a good ten seconds, so I say, “Usually the word and is followed by other words.”

  She nods. “And it didn’t seem like he made her happy. I talked to her briefly on the phone the night before she … she died … and she was upset and really short with me. It wasn’t like her.”

  “But she didn’t say why?”

  “No, but he was at her house, so I’m guessing they were having an argument or something.”

  “Did Tina ever do drugs?”

  “Never. No chance. She didn’t need them. Tina created her own happy, you know?”

  “The truck is owned by Henry Stokan. He’s got something of a record: arrested twice for assault and once for possession with intent to sell drugs. One of the assault charges was dropped, and he got probation on the other. Got a year in jail for the drug charge; it was pled down to possession. He served six months.”