New Tricks ac-7

by David Rosenfelt

  He grunts. “When he came up with that arthritis drug… he didn’t give me an exclusive on the story.”

  In Vince’s mind, giving someone else a story is original sin. “That was fifteen years ago,” I say.

  It takes Vince a lot longer than that to give up a grudge. “Feels like yesterday.”

  “Who did he give the story to?”

  “The New England Journal of Medicine,” he says, frowning at the recollection. “Those hacks.”

  Unlike most pharmaceutical semi-titans, who own or run companies in which other people do research and make discoveries, Walter Timmerman was himself a chemist and researcher. Twenty years ago he developed a drug called Actonel, which revolutionized the study of DNA by allowing for a much smaller sample to result in a reliable test. The implications to the justice system were enormous.

  As important as that discovery was, it was not what made Timmerman absurdly wealthy. That came later, when he developed a drug that greatly reduced the pain, and therefore increased the mobility, of arthritis sufferers.

  “Do you know the son?” I ask. “Steven?”

  Vince nods. “Yeah. Good kid. Nothing like his father.”

  “You like him?” I ask, making no effort to conceal my astonishment.

  “Hey, I’m not in love with him. He’s a good kid, that’s all. He did me a favor once.”

  “What kind of favor?” Vince generally doesn’t like to ask for favors, for fear of having to return them. I’ve done him a couple of major ones, though he’s done more for me.

  “He got his father to make a big donation to a charity of mine. And then he showed up and worked a couple of events; just rolled up his sleeves and did whatever was needed.”

  Vince is a huge fund-raiser for an organization called Eva’s Village, a Paterson-based group whose mission is to feed the hungry, shelter the homeless, treat the addicted, and provide medical care for the poor. It is such an amazingly worthwhile charity that I don’t know how Vince ever got involved with it. But he hits me up for a donation every year.

  “You think he could have committed two murders?” I ask.

  Vince sneers, which is pretty much his natural facial expression. “I said he’s a good guy. How many good guys murder their parents?”

  I can’t think of too many, and I’ve already reached my three-beer quota, so I call for the check.

  Vince and Pete are fine with that.

  BEFORE I GO TO SLEEP, I CALL LAURIE.

  At times like these, I like to tell her what I’m thinking, so she can tell me what I’m really thinking.

  This time I reveal that I’m getting semi-obsessed with the Timmerman murders, even though I know very little about the circumstances and only barely knew one of the victims. “It must be because I was almost a victim myself,” I say.

  “Or because you’re anxious to get back to work,” she says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Andy, when you’re working on a case, you’re engaged intellectually in a way that’s unlike any other time. I think you need that more than you like to admit.”

  “That’s crazy. I had a very satisfying intellectual discussion with Vince and Pete tonight at Charlie’s.”

  “I can imagine,” she says. “What did you talk about?” “Faulkner and Hemingway.”

  “What about them?

  “Vince said neither of them can hit the curveball, and Pete said that Vince is an asshole.”

  Laurie laughs, probably as appealing a sound as exists in the world. Then, “I’m serious, Andy. I’m not telling you to get involved in this case, other than to take care of Waggy, but I do think it might be a good idea for you to get back to work.”

  By the time I wake up in the morning, I’ve decided that it’s possible Laurie knows what she’s talking about. I place a call to Steven Timmerman at the number that was in the records the court provided me. He answers the phone himself, which for some reason surprises me.

  I tell him that I’m trying to determine the proper home for Waggy, and that while I know this is a tough time for him personally, he should let me know when he would be ready to meet with me.

  “How about today?” he asks.

  I’m fine with that, and I tell him so. He asks where I would like to meet, and I suggest his home. Since I might wind up putting Waggy there, I want to get a sense of what it’s like.

  He tells me where he lives, and I’m not pleased when I learn that it’s in New York City. I love the city, but it’s my least favorite place in the world to drive.

  Waggy a city dog? I don’t think so.

  I find a parking place at 89th Street and West End Avenue. The Upper West Side is the part of Manhattan I like best; it has the excitement and pace of the city, but with the feel of a real neighborhood. Just by walking on the street you know that real life is being lived there.

  Steven lives on the fourth floor of a brownstone between Riverside Drive and West End on 89th. There is nothing pretentious about it at all, though I’m sure that it’s expensive, real estate prices being what they are.

  I’m not put off by the fact that there is no yard for Waggy to ultimately run around in. Many people have the mistaken notion that dogs shouldn’t live in apartments, because they therefore won’t get exercise. The truth is that dogs don’t go outside by themselves to do calisthenics; they have their needed physical activity when their owners take them out. New York has dog owners as good as anywhere in the country. You only need to take a walk through Central Park to realize that.

  I ring the buzzer at the street level, and Steven’s voice comes through the intercom. “Come on up,” he says.

  “Okay. Where’s the elevator?”

  “There isn’t any. The stairs are on your left.”

  “It’s a walk-up?” I say, trying to mask my incredulity.

  He laughs; I guess I’m not real good at incredulity-masking. “Yes. I hope that’s okay.”

  “It’s fine,” I lie.

  Waggy a walk-up dog? I don’t think so.

  The inside of Steven’s apartment is as unassuming as the exterior. My guess is that he didn’t put a dent into his father’s fortune by decorating this place.

  He shakes my hand when I enter and notices that I’m still out of breath from the three flights of stairs. “Sorry about the stairs,” he says. “I’m used to it, but most people aren’t.”

  “No problem,” I gasp. “You mind if I borrow your oxygen tent?”

  He laughs and gives me a chance to catch my breath. While I’m doing so, I notice that there are a number of pictures of Steven and his father, but images of his late stepmother are nowhere to be found. One of the pictures, in which Steven appears to be no more than ten years old, includes the now destroyed house in Alpine.

  He sees me staring at it and says, “I guess we got out just in time, huh?”

  “That’s for sure,” is my less-than-clever retort. The incident has left me a little shaken, and seeing the house triggers that feeling again.

  “I loved that house. I guess you always love the house you grew up in. You feel that way?”

  I nod. “I do. That’s why I’m still living in it.”

  “I envy you,” he says. Then: “You feel like a slice of pizza? There’s a place on Broadway that’s the best in the city.”

  Now he wants me to go back down the stairs? “Why didn’t you suggest that before I climbed Mount Brownstone?”

  “I figured you wanted to see my place, because hopefully Waggy will be living here soon. Now that you’ve seen it, we can talk over pizza,” he says. “Or we can stay here; whatever you like.”

  I opt for the best pizza in the city. The stairs on the way down fortunately turn out to be far easier to navigate than the same stairs on the way up.

  I think it’s a gravity thing.

  NEW YORK HAS BY FAR THE BEST PIZZA in the world.

  This is not a debatable issue among serious-minded pizza eaters, of which I am one. And not only is the pizza the best, but it is every
where. There are apparently thousands of pizzeria owners who have mastered the art, and they’ve all chosen to gather on this tiny piece of real estate called New York City. If you live here and throw a dart out your window, you will hit a great piece of pizza.

  What is bewildering to me is why it has come to this. I can’t imagine there is anything about the ingredients or expertise necessary to make New York pizza that would disintegrate if transported across city or state lines. Why doesn’t one of these pizza geniuses set up shop in Teaneck? Or Philadelphia? Or Omaha? They would throw parades for him; he would be presented with ceremonial keys to those city’s ovens and hailed as an unchallenged genius.

  Instead they fight among themselves for a small “slice” of the pizza market, and the rest of the country is left to munch on pizza that comparatively tastes like cardboard soap.

  Steven takes me to Sal and Tony’s Pizzeria, on Broadway and 101st Street. Either Sal, or Tony, or both, are truly artists, the pizza is beyond extraordinary. They serve the slices on those cheap, thin, paper plates that cannot even support the weight of the slice, but that’s okay. They clearly are investing their money in the proper place, in the pizza.

  Steven starts telling me about Waggy, though he admits he doesn’t know very much. Waggy is the only son of Bertrand, a Westminster champion who was widely regarded as the finest show dog this country has ever produced. Bertrand died suddenly in his sleep about a year ago, an event that sent the dog show world into mourning.

  “What about his mother?” I ask.

  “Another dog in my father’s stable. I think she did some shows for a while, but Bertrand was the star of the family. Apparently they all hoped that Waggy would follow in his father’s footsteps.”

  “They?” I ask. “Not you?”

  He grins. “Personally, I don’t give a shit. I think a dog should be a dog, not a performer. Waggy should have fun.”

  “He would have fun living with you?”

  He nods, perhaps a little wistfully. “I think so. I know a lot about fun, or at least I used to.”

  “Not anymore?” I’m finding myself liking him, much as Vince had predicted.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know… it’s all tied in to my father… I’d rather not go there. Self-psychoanalysis isn’t a requirement to take care of Waggy, is it?”

  “Have the police talked to you about the murders?”

  “Twice, including this morning. I think they’re floundering, because the guy in jail couldn’t have blown up the house. Maybe they think I did it.”

  “Does that worry you?”

  He shakes his head. “No, I just figure the truth will win out. That’s more your field; isn’t that the way it works?”

  “In theory,” I say. “Do you have any idea who could have done it?”

  “Blowing up the house? Or killing my father?”

  “Let’s start with your father.”

  He shrugs. “I assume the guy they arrested. But I can tell you one thing for sure. My father didn’t go to downtown Paterson looking for drugs or a hooker.”

  “Those things didn’t appeal to him?” I ask.

  “It wouldn’t matter if they did, he could have made any drug he wanted in his lab, and he would have had the hookers come to him. It would never have been my father’s style to do what they say he did; he would never put himself in a situation he couldn’t completely control.”

  Steven gets up to get us another couple of slices, and I use the time to check my phone messages at home. There are two. The first is from Laurie, giving me her flight information for her trip here. No matter what the next message is, it can’t be as good as that one.

  It isn’t. It’s from Pete Stanton, telling me that he’s done some checking into the Timmerman murders, and he’s learned that Billy Cameron’s client has been released, and that Steven is going to be arrested. “The kid lives in the city,” Pete says. “They’ll probably take him down there. Looks like you’ve got yourself a second dog.”

  While waiting for Steven to come back to the table, I find myself with a dilemma. He clearly has no idea what is about to hit him, and will be unprepared for it. Besides the emotional jolt, he will not have time to take care of any matters he might want to before going into custody.

  I would not be breaking any confidences by telling him about the impending arrest. Pete attached no such restrictions on it, and in any event I wouldn’t mention Pete. My instincts tell me that Steven was not involved in the murders, but my instincts have been known to be wrong on many occasions. For example, I’m positive the Knicks will win the NBA title every year.

  On the other hand, I could conceivably be exposing myself to some legal jeopardy by telling him. Were he to take flight to avoid arrest, I could be subject to an obstruction of justice charge. I’m confident I could beat it, but in the hands of a prosecutor who disliked me, it would be a major annoyance. And the percentage of prosecutors who dislike me hovers right around one hundred.

  I still haven’t decided what to do when Steven comes back with the pizza.

  I take a bite. “This really is good,” I say.

  End of discussion.

  I CAN SEE THEM as we approach Steven’s apartment.

  There are at least half a dozen men standing and sitting in strategically positioned places within a hundred feet of the entrance to the building. To me they are so obvious that they might as well be singing the Miranda warning a cappella, but Steven has no idea what awaits him.

  I only walked back here because my car is parked along the way, but I decide to pass the car by and continue walking. I may not have prepared Steven for what is about to happen to him, but I’m not about to abandon him when it does.

  As we approach I see the men pretending to be carefree and moving aimlessly, but actually executing a pincer movement. Suddenly they close in, and their actions are so swift and stunning that they take me by surprise-and I knew exactly what was going to happen.

  One of the officers grabs Steven and turns him toward the building, while another moves me away so that I can’t physically intervene. Obviously, being New York cops, they don’t know me, so they are unaware that I am not a physical intervener. But I’m a hell of a verbal intervener.

  Steven is stunned and is muttering something unintelligible as the officer tells him that he is under arrest, and then quickly recites his rights to him. The officer concludes with, “Do you understand what I have just told you?”

  Steven does not answer; it’s possible he isn’t even aware that the man is speaking.

  “Do you understand what I have just told you?” the officer repeats.

  Finally Steven nods and says, “Yes… yes.”

  “Do you wish to speak with me now?” the officer asks.

  This time Steven doesn’t speak; he just turns to me. The look on his face is a desperate plea for help.

  “No, he does not wish to speak to you now,” I say.

  “Who are you?” the officer asks, looking at me for the first time.

  “I’m his attorney.”

  “Well, isn’t that a happy coincidence.”

  Steven is taken to the Manhattan County jail, where he is booked and fingerprinted. Before they leave, I instruct him not to talk to anyone at all, and I assure him that I will meet him down there.

  I do so, and while I am there I formally agree to waive extradition so that he can be transferred to New Jersey. Lieutenant Dennis Simmons of the New Jersey State Police expresses his appreciation for my cooperation, though we both know I had no choice. Refusing permission would have only delayed the process by a day or so, while Steven would have been sitting in a jail either way.

  By eight o’clock in the evening, Steven has been rebooked and is probably not very comfortably settled in the Passaic County jail. I know from having other clients recount their experiences what he is going through; the fear is palpable, and unfortunately warranted.

  I won’t be able to see him un
til the morning, so I go home and call Kevin. I bring him up to date on the day’s events, and assure him that for the moment we have a client who is not another canine.

  “Andy, you and I both know that it doesn’t matter whether he is guilty or innocent; he’s entitled to the best defense he can get. And he’ll get it no matter who represents him.”

  That is such an obvious statement that I have no idea why Kevin felt the need to voice it. “I know that, Kevin.”

  “Do you also realize that if he’s guilty, then he left the house that day thinking you were going to go inside and get blown apart? Along with his stepmother and the dog?”

  Amazingly, that hadn’t occurred to me. “I hadn’t thought about that until you just said it.”

  “Do you still want him as a client?”

  “You know what? I’m not sure.”

  “Think about it, Andy. Because if they really wanted to, they could charge him with attempted murder of his own attorney.”

  I call Laurie to discuss it with her, but she’s not at home. Since it’s nine o’clock in Wisconsin, my mind would ordinarily start imagining her out to dinner with Brett Favre or some other member of the Wisconsin jet set. The truth is that right now my mind is so preoccupied that I don’t even have the time or energy for petty, ridiculous jealousies. This situation is screwing up my priorities.

  My most reliable mind-clearing technique has always been to take Tara for a long walk. It somehow feels like getting down to basics. She is in complete touch with her world; the way she sees and smells everything… the way her ears perk up at any unusual sound… it somehow encourages me to trust my own instincts the way she trusts hers.

  It’s a little more difficult tonight, since I’m walking both Tara and the maniac known as Waggy. He is positively crazed with excitement by this walk, though we’ve pretty much followed the same route every day since he’s been here.

  I am taking very seriously Kevin’s comments about that day at the house. If Steven planted the explosives, or caused them to be planted, then he is obviously a cold-blooded murderer. And because he saw me outside the house, and knew I was going in, then he was fully content to be a cold-blooded murderer of me.