First degree ac-2

by David Rosenfelt

  "You mean there are times they come to you?"

  I can see him regain a measure of pride. "Sure. Most of the time."

  I take him through the three hours he spent in the neighborhood in question. Basically, he hung out in the cellar of the house he was visiting, except for about a half hour when he went out to get something to eat.

  "Did you eat at a restaurant?" I ask.

  "Nah, I went to one of those big supermarkets--Food Fair, I think it's called. They make these really good sandwiches."

  "Did you pay with a credit card?"

  "A credit card?" he asks, indicating how absurd the question is. I might as well have asked if he had paid with a walrus.

  He doesn't think anybody in the store would remember him, and the truth is, it's not as if Brad Pitt had come in that night for the sandwich. Oscar is a number of things, but memorable is not one of them. I let him off the hook with no more questions for now and tell him we'll be meeting again in a day or two.

  As I'm leaving, he asks, "Man, I got things to work on. Am I gonna be stuck in here long?"

  "I think it makes sense to go ahead and order furniture and drapes, if that's what you're asking."

  It turns out that wasn't what he was asking.

  GEOFFREY STYNES IS NOWHERE TO BE FOUND.

  Not that I'm spending a lot of time looking for him. But I've more than half expected him to look me up, to complain about my taking on Garcia as a form of breaking privilege, or at least a conflict of interest. I don't think such claims would have merit, but I did expect him to make them.

  These kinds of thoughts are running through my mind as Laurie and I are having dinner at my house. She mentions that I'm being quiet, but doesn't push to find out what's on my mind.

  We are just finishing dinner when Vince Sanders calls. "I checked out Geoffrey Stynes," he says.

  "And?" I ask.

  "And I also checked out the tooth fairy, Rumpelstiltskin, and Tinker Bell. They don't really exist either."

  "You're losing me."

  "That must happen to you a lot," he says. "Maybe you should wear a bell around your neck."

  "What the hell are you talking about?" Vince can be somewhat difficult to chat with.

  "There are two registered Geoffrey Stynes with that spelling," he says. "One was born four months ago Wednesday, and the other is ninety-two and in a rest home. In addition to that, none of the sources I checked, and I checked a shitload of sources, have heard of him. Which causes me to wonder why the hell you're wasting my time."

  I can't say too much, because Laurie is sitting right near me and I don't want to answer a lot of questions. "Interesting" is all I can muse out loud.

  "You sure you want to share a major piece of news like that?" Vince asks. "What if I got captured and tortured? They might force out of me the fact that Andy Carpenter thought it was interesting."

  "Hold out as long as you can. Your country needs you."

  "Don't forget," he says, "if there's a story here, it's mine."

  "You know, for some people, doing a favor for a friend is payment enough."

  "Then you should have asked them," he snarls, just before he hangs up.

  The rest of the evening is quiet. Laurie reads, and I pretend to read while all the time thinking about the case. It's uncomfortable for me that there is a great deal I can't share with her, it's the first time I've had this experience. My sense is also that there are things she isn't sharing with me, most of them centering around Oscar Garcia.

  In fact, for all I know, she might also be pretending to read. If she is, then she's more intellectual than I am; she fake-reads higher-quality stuff. Tara is more honest than either of us; she doesn't just pretend to chew on a toy, she actually chews on it.

  It's about eleven o'clock when I get tired of fake-reading and Laurie and I go to bed. Once we get into bed, we go to sleep. We have passed the point in our relationship where we have sex at every opportunity. We're still up in the eighty percent range, but sometimes I find myself longing for the good old days.

  I get up earlier than Laurie, because I had arranged to meet with Kevin at eight in the office. When I arrive, he is polishing off his standard breakfast: one bagel, toasted, with cream cheese, one bagel, not toasted, with butter. There are people who can stuff their faces and not gain a pound; Kevin is most definitely not one of those people. The main eating difference between Kevin and Vince Sanders is that Vince overeats only fattening, unhealthful foods. Kevin will eat anything: put a barrel of wheat germ in front of him and he'll inhale it.

  Kevin and I are alone; Edna isn't in yet. We could have met at ten and we'd still be alone. Since Edna doesn't do any actual work, she doesn't see the need to put in long hours. There's an irrefutable logic to that which I have given up trying to refute.

  Kevin met with the coroner yesterday, and even though there isn't much information of value, he is confident that he got all there was to get. The condition of the body makes it impossible to be definitive in the findings, but it appears that the cause of death was the decapitation, that Dorsey was alive when it was done. The lividity, and the resulting effects of the fire, make the coroner quite confident that death came within an hour before the fire. This fits in neatly with my knowledge that the murder took place behind Hinchcliffe Stadium, which is about forty-five minutes from the warehouse.

  Since the police know when the fire was set, they can make their estimate of the time of death unusually precise: Dorsey was murdered between two-thirty and three A.M. Right in the middle of the time Oscar says he was all the way on the other side of town, making his weekly payment to the mob.

  It is there that Laurie and I meet to begin the process. I am the attorney and Laurie is the investigator; I have no illusions about our roles and no desire to reverse them. But I like to be present at the scene at the beginning of each investigation; it connects me to the case in a way that feels helpful.

  The area itself is reminiscent of an earlier Paterson. The houses are modest and very well kept, and the streets have maintained their neighborhood feel. Kids play on the street in a carefree fashion; any criminal who would ply his trade by victimizing the people on these streets would have a built-in insanity defense.

  The head of northern New Jersey's version of what may or may not still be called the family is Dominic Petrone. I've met Petrone at various boring city functions which I've been coerced into attending. He's a gray-haired, well-mannered, obviously intelligent man who looks like a typical corporate CEO, which is exactly what he is. His corporation's products and services include drugs, prostitution, loan-sharking, money laundering, and an occasional murder or two. It's not easy work, but hell, somebody's got to do it.

  I've brought along a picture of Oscar, and I show it to some people on the street, asking if they recognize him. It's counterproductive; it makes them think we're part of law enforcement, which means we're anti-Petrone, which means we're the enemy. These people have no need or use for the police; all the protection they need lives right in their neighborhood. They would sooner rat out God than Dominic Petrone, and asking them questions only causes them to view us with suspicion.

  Of course, there is no chance that the person Oscar came to see was Petrone. Petrone is far too high on the totem pole for that; he would have people who would have people who would have people who would have people to deal with a roach like Oscar. And even they wouldn't be thrilled about it.

  Since we don't know which house Oscar came to, and we can't find anybody who remembers seeing him, what we basically do is wander aimlessly about, accomplishing nothing. The investigation is really heating up.

  We're about to leave when we see the Food Fair supermarket that Oscar said he had visited. The first thing we do is confirm that a different shift of employees would have been on that night, so there's no chance any of these people would remember him. Laurie will have to come back during the night and cover that base.

  We ask to speak to the manager, so that we can see if t
here are security camera tapes that covered the evening in question. If Oscar was here that night, he could have been part of a taped record.

  The manager is on a coffee break, so while we wait, Laurie decides to do a little food shopping. She goes off to get some things, while I walk over to the cash machine so I can at least offer to pay for it. They actually have a small bank branch right there within the supermarket, with three machines for additional service.

  I know from a similar situation on another case that our chances of finding anything on the store taping system are slim. Most stores simply run the tapes on a twenty-four- or forty-eight-hour cycle and then tape over them. But it's worth a try, and when the manager, Wally, comes back, we ask him about it. I know his name is Wally, and I know he's the manager, because above the pocket of his shirt it says, "Wally," and just below that it says, "Manager." These are the kinds of tricks I've picked up by accompanying Laurie on these investigations.

  "How long do you keep the security tapes after they're used?" I ask.

  "You cops?" Wally asks.

  His response isn't exactly on point, and he says "cops" in such a way that, if we were in fact cops, he would try to lead us to our demise in the pesticide department. My sense is that somebody got the word to him that we've been snooping around, asking questions.

  "No," I say.

  "Then what?"

  "Then what what?" I counter. This repartee is on a very sophisticated level; I hope Laurie can follow it. A cashier within earshot is yawning; it's obviously over her head.

  "What are you?" he demands.

  "Tired of this conversation," I answer, just before Laurie sighs loudly and intervenes.

  "He's a lawyer and I'm a private investigator. We can get a subpoena and you can spend an entire day being deposed, or you can answer a couple of easy questions and then go back to stacking cans in aisle seven. Your choice."

  "Yeah," I say to add emphasis, but I refrain from sticking my tongue out at him.

  He's annoyed, but recognizes the futility of resisting a force as powerful as mine. "We run the tapes for twenty-four hours, then tape over them."

  I show him a picture of Oscar. "Have you ever seen him?"

  "No," he says immediately. He's not giving anything at all. Had I shown him pictures of Michael Jordan, George Bush, and Heather Locklear, his "no" would have been just as quick.

  "Do you wish you could be more helpful, because as a good citizen it's important to you that justice be done?" I counter.

  Laurie drags me off before he can answer, which is a shame, because I could tell he was just about to crack.

  On the way out, I keep in charitable practice by dropping a twenty-dollar bill in the March of Dimes canister, and then Laurie and I go our separate ways. She is going to snoop around Oscar's neighborhood, while I'm going back to my office for a meeting. Laurie doesn't ask for Oscar's address, which means she knows where he lives. This is curious, since I know from the police reports that he's only lived there two months. This means that Laurie's knowledge can't come from when she was on the force. Oscar had mentioned in court that she had been near his apartment, watching him. I don't ask her about any of this, and I don't ask myself why I don't ask her about any of this.

  The meeting scheduled in my office is one I'm actually looking forward to. It's with Willie Miller, and we are going to discuss the lawsuit I have filed on his behalf against my former father-in-law, Philip Gant, and the estate of Victor Markham.

  Victor and Philip committed a murder thirty-five years ago, and then committed another long after to cover it up. They arranged to frame Willie for the second murder, and he spent seven years on death row before he was cleared in the retrial. Philip wound up in jail and Victor took his own life. It was a terrible tragedy for all concerned, especially Willie, but there is one ray of sunshine: Both Philip and Victor were incredibly wealthy.

  There is no suspense attached to the winning or losing of this lawsuit, we are going to win. It's a slam dunk, and both sides know it. The only question is how much money Willie will get, and the other side is very concerned about a jury's actions in this regard, since they have asked for settlement discussions. Today Willie and I are going to talk about our position in advance of those discussions.

  In the months since his trial, and especially in the first few weeks, Willie became something of a media celebrity. He made the talk show circuit and brought a new twist to it. A street-smart kid who never left the inner city, Willie had no occasion to develop that filter through which most people talk to the media. So in these sessions he was just Willie Miller, and he spoke to interviewers in exactly the same fashion he spoke to friends on the street.

  The results were both refreshing and hilarious. Willie interrupted one interview to ask, "Hey, am I getting paid for this?" He asked another questioner about a female camera operator, and when told she was single, he asked her out on the air. She declined, but changed her mind and accepted after the show.

  There were embarrassing moments as well, though Willie never seemed to notice. When asked to compare the current world to the one he left seven years ago, he bemoaned the inflated prices of "gas and hookers."

  When I get to the office, I walk in on a priceless conversation between Willie and Edna. I pick it up in the middle, but it's immediately clear that Willie has shocked Edna by declaring that he has never seen or even heard of crossword puzzles. She had supposed that there were people in far-off lands, living in caves or trees, who were this deprived. But here, sitting in our office? Impossible.

  Willie does not seem the least bit defensive about his admission, probably because Willie is not the least bit defensive about anything. He grudgingly agrees to let Edna attempt to teach him the basics, which only compounds the obvious cultural gap.

  "Indeterminate," she says, looking at the newspaper. "Seven letters."

  Willie is offended. "I know how many letters 'inde-' whatever has."

  Edna shakes her head. "I'm looking for another word for 'indeterminate.' It has seven letters and the third letter is 'u.'"

  "Why the hell are you looking for it?" he asks. "You already got that 'inde-' word. Look for one you don't have."

  "The word is 'neutral.'"

  "I thought you said it had seven letters." Willie starts counting on his fingers, softly mouthing the letters as he counts. When he finishes, his look is triumphant. "No way."

  I get a momentary nightmare flash of Willie playing Scrabble with Laurie, and then I break up this conference and bring Willie into my office. Willie is a black belt in karate, but I believe that if I hadn't shown up, Edna would have killed him.

  Just before Willie and I start talking, Pete Stanton calls. He has come up as dry as Vince Sanders did in the search for Geoffrey Stynes. He assures me that he's checked everywhere there is to check, which leads to the inescapable conclusion that Stynes was in my office under an assumed name.

  This complicates the situation considerably. If he signed the retainer agreement using a false identity, then that agreement has no legal standing. The murkier question is whether this relieves me of the constraints of the privilege. I could research this, but I don't, since right now murky works fine while I figure out what I want to do about maintaining Stynes's privilege.

  I decide to split the difference. Without revealing what little I know about Stynes's identity, I will utilize some of the information that I learned from him to help my client. I'm on shaky legal ground, but it's ground I'm prepared to defend if I have to.

  I call Laurie and carefully tell her that I have received information about some possible evidence in the Dorsey murder. I describe the area behind Hinchcliffe Stadium in the same fashion Stynes described it to me, and ask Laurie if she could check it out. I further tell her that if she finds anything, she should leave it untouched and call the police.

  My feeling is that the evidence may be helpful in demonstrating Oscar's innocence. I will not help the authorities by pointing them to Stynes, but if they get t
here on their own, I can live with it.

  Turning back to Willie, I briefly bring him up to date on the progress of the lawsuit. I tell him that both of the other parties have agreed to be represented by the same attorney, and we are to meet with him later in the week. I also reemphasize that which I've told him at least five times before: Any money that he gets from Philip Gant will in effect ultimately reduce the inheritance of my ex-wife, Nicole. Nicole and I have not spoken since her father's arrest, but it still represents a conflict of sorts for me. It is a conflict about which Willie continues to be unconcerned.

  I haven't yet discussed the possible award Willie might get, and a jury decision in this area is particularly hard to predict. Based on my initial settlement discussions, however, I think we could be looking at a five-million-dollar offer, and this is the number I tell Willie.

  Willie starts to make a noise that is somewhere between gurgling and blubbering. Whatever he is doing, it is not compatible with breathing, and for a moment I consider whether to call 911. Eventually, he recovers enough to commence gasping.

  "Five million dollars?" are the first words he can manage.

  I nod. "But I recommend that you reject it."

  "I should reject it?" He's having trouble processing the words. "You mean turn it down? Turn down five million dollars?"

  "Yes. I think you should hold out for in excess of ten, after my commission."

  "Ten what? Million?" he asks.

  I nod. "Million. We're talking about almost seven years. Isn't your life worth at least a million five per year?"

  He slows down, trying to gather his thoughts to deal with what he is hearing. "Damn straight," he finally says. "This is my life we're talking about." Willie is a really good "thought gatherer."

  "So we're agreed?" I ask.

  "Definitely. We are standing on the same corner, man. Singin' the same tune. Walking the same walk. All the way."

  "Good," I say. "One for all and all for one."

  He nods in agreement, then: "But what if they don't give us the ten?"

  "Then we'll get a jury to give us fifteen."