This book is dedicated to Les Pockell. Without Les, Andy Carpenter would no longer exist. Trust me, that was the least of his many accomplishments.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Begin Reading
Also by David Rosenfelt
Copyright
When they came into the room, Noah Galloway looked at his watch.
It made no sense; he knew that as he was doing it. Noah had waited for them to arrive for six years, three months, and twenty-one days, and it was of no consequence what time of day it was when he finally saw them. Nor did he have any doubt who they were and why they were there. They might as well have been carrying a sign.
What mattered was that life as he knew it was over.
The audience giggled a little when he checked his watch; it’s not the kind of thing you do during a speech. It makes it look like you’re either bored, or anxious for it to end, or both. Noah remembered that the first President Bush got in political trouble when he did it during a debate with Clinton and Perot. But Noah was now in that kind of trouble times a thousand.
He was glad he was near the end of the speech, with only about a page and a half left. It was going to be hard to concentrate on the rest, but he’d muddle through. No sense cutting short the last speech he would ever give.
What remained of his ego also forced him to finish. While at that moment no one considered the speech in any way important, Noah knew that it would be replayed over and over on television, and would go viral within minutes. He didn’t want to seem flustered, or panicked.
He would go down with what little was left of his dignity. He owed that much to Becky and Adam.
The four men had stopped, two on the left and two on the right, on each side of the stage. They were all dressed in dark grey suits, with apparently identical blue shirts and grey ties. They looked like a semiformal bowling team, waiting to receive their championship trophy.
“The battlefield extends farther than the streets of Detroit, the harbor in Miami, and the border with Mexico. It extends around the world; drugs are a global epidemic and all of us are facing the scourge together.
“Tomorrow, as most of you know, I will have the privilege of flying to Istanbul, where I will meet with representatives of fifty-one nations. I am not going there to dictate policy, to tell anyone it’s ‘our way or the highway.’ I am going there to convey our President’s message, and I am going there to listen.”
Noah saw no reason to change the basic text of the speech; no one would care about the words anyway. He knew full well he was no longer going to Istanbul, and within minutes the world would know that his transgressions were a lot more serious than an inaccurate speech.
“Much in our modern world can be seen in both black and white; it seems as if everything comes with a ‘plus’ and ‘minus’ attached. Airplanes let us travel quickly across the planet, but the skies are much dirtier and louder for it. The Internet brings lightning-fast information, but that information is often abused and incorrect. Social networks let us connect with thousands of people, but the word ‘friend’ is devalued in the process.”
“But the abuse of drugs offers no such choice, no inherent dichotomy. There is no upside to it, no rationalization we can make. It destroys and it debases all that it touches, with nothing positive left in its wake.”
Noah paused and looked around the auditorium. He was at the same time sorry and glad that Becky was not there, that she was taking Adam to the nursery-school parents’ visiting day. It would be a horrible thing for her to witness; he could imagine the shock on her face, the outrage that would over time turn to devastation and, ultimately, acceptance.
But he knew that he would have to face her eventually, and that would be just as awful. He had let her down even before he knew her; let her down in a way that was horrible and unforgivable.
“So there are some who say we are in a war, and some who would not use that terminology. But it is certain that we are in a battle, a battle to reach our full potential as human beings. The good news is that the enemy is not hiding. He does not plant IEDs, or shoot from a covered position.
“This is an enemy we know, one which we can and will control, because the enemy is ourselves.”
The applause was polite and restrained, which was to be expected. The platitudes he’d given them were nothing they hadn’t heard for many years from many officials, and bitter experience had told everyone that actions would speak much louder than words. And over time those actions had not spoken very loudly at all.
Noah understood that, just as he understood he would not be taking any more actions, ever again.
Noah smiled, turned, and left the stage. Out of the corners of his eyes he noticed the four men rise at the same time, and move to where they would approach him. He walked to the right to meet two of them in a place that would be out of the sightline of the audience.
“Mr. Galloway, Special Agent Joseph Scarlett, Federal Bureau of Investigation.” As the man talked, he took out and showed his identification to Noah, providing visual confirmation of his words.
Noah didn’t say anything, but was conscious of the other two men coming up behind him, to prevent him from trying to escape. Their presence wasn’t necessary; Noah was not going to cause any trouble.
Agent Scarlett proceeded to tell him that he was under arrest, and he read him his rights. Noah was only half listening; he was in a bit of a daze, trying to process the fact that after all these years, his horrible secret was not a secret any longer.
Scarlett was finished speaking, and seemed surprised that Noah was not responding, not even asking why he was being arrested. “Is there a statement you would like to make, sir?”
Noah paused a moment before saying, “No.” Then, “Take me away.”
“I don’t understand tailgating,” I say, as Laurie Collins rolls her eyes.
I’m finding that people roll their eyes a lot around me these days. Since Laurie and I live and spend a great deal of time together, it happens to be her eyes that do the bulk of the rolling.
We’re on Route 3, heading toward Giants Stadium, stuck in game traffic even though the game will not actually start for four and a half hours.
“Here we go,” she says, frowning, as she addresses the empty backseat. “Ladies and gentlemen, presenting classic Andy Carpenter.”
Since she thinks I’m going to launch into one of my negative rants, I decide to surprise her and gain the upper hand by not doing so. Instead, I’m going to drop the subject.
Except I can’t.
“You mean you like tailgating?” I ask.
She nods. “I do, Andy. It’s fun, the food is usually good, and I like the people.”
I point across the highway and say, “See that place? That’s a sports bar. It also has fun, good food, and likable people. You know what else it has? It has heat.”
“Cold weather doesn’t bother me.”
“How could that be? It’s supposed to bother you. It’s bothered people for thousands of years. It’s the reason they invented indoors.”
Laurie decides not to continue the debate, and instead looks up ahead at the approaching exit and says, “We’re looking for parking lot ‘Blue 11.’”
“It will be all the way around on the opposite side of the stadium.”
“Why do you say that?” she asks.
“Because the place I’m going is always on the opposite side. That’s how they design these stadiums.”
We pay for the parking, though when I ask where Blue 11 is, the person taking the money motions that we should talk to the attendant up ahead. We drive up to the attendant, whose sole function seems to be waving a small baton, directing people to keep driving forward. It’s luck
y they planted him here, otherwise people might decide to drive backward away from the stadium.
I roll down the window, letting in the frigid air again. “We’re looking for Blue 11.”
“Other side of the stadium, buddy.”
I smile at Laurie. “I rest my case.”
We drive around to Blue 11, a trip which takes slightly longer than it took Lewis and Clark to go wherever the hell it was that Lewis and Clark went. That’s mainly because they didn’t have thousands of cars to contend with, or idiots throwing footballs and trying to pretend they didn’t lose their athletic ability during the Carter administration.
When we finally get there, we can’t find a place to park, since tailgate parties take up about five parking spaces for each party. We find a spot in Blue 6, right next to a line of more than twenty portable toilet sheds, each one with a line of at least ten beer-filled tailgaters waiting to use it.
We walk over to Blue 11. That doesn’t mean we’ve found our group; it merely means that we’re in the right neighborhood.
“Andy … Laurie … over here!”
I look over and see Pete Stanton standing in front of a van, its back door open. There are trays of food in the back of the van, adjacent to three small barbecues and two coolers, no doubt filled with soda and beer.
Surrounding all this sustenance are a dozen men and four women, all bundled in parkas and assorted “Giants” outdoor weather gear. Everybody looks frozen, which is no great surprise, since it’s twenty-two degrees and windy out here.
Pete is one of my best friends, a fact I currently regret, as that friendship is the reason I’m in the process of freezing my ass off. A while back I successfully defended the Giants starting running back, Kenny Schilling, when he was on trial for murder. Kenny has since been inviting me to stand on the sidelines during a game, an invitation that includes my bringing two guests.
I’ve been declining for years now, preferring the comfort of Charlie’s sports bar, but I recently made the mistake of mentioning the possibility to Pete. He went nuts, and convinced me to accept Kenny’s offer. Pete would, of course, join me, rather than sit in the nosebleed seat he usually occupies.
Laurie thought it would be fun, and chose to come with us. She is one of those life-half-full people. In fact, I think she’s the only one I’ve ever met that I don’t hate.
To show his gratitude, Pete made matters worse by inviting Laurie and me to join him and his buddies in their traditional tailgate ritual. Pete’s a lieutenant in the Paterson Police Department, and his buddies are all cops. Since I’m a defense attorney, I expect they would rather Pete had invited a Philadelphia Eagle.
Laurie, who occupies the dual role of love of my life and my private investigator, started her career in the Paterson Police Department, so she knows most of our fellow tailgaters. She spends at least five minutes hugging everybody there, with the notable exception of me.
It’s the second time in three weeks that I’ve spent time with this group of people. I attended a funeral service with Laurie for two young officers, Kyle Holmes and Carla Harvin, who were killed in the line of duty. They responded to a domestic-violence 911 call, and walked into a barrage of gunfire.
The officers are believed to have been lured there for the purpose of killing them, and the murders are seen as executions. The killers fled the scene, and no one has been arrested.
One of the reasons I agreed to do this today is that Pete has been particularly down since the tragedy, perhaps because Kyle was someone he had taken under his wing since his arrival from the police academy. It clearly brings home the danger, in a manner that is impossible for any denial mechanism to cope with, of just what it is that these people face every day.
Of course, that doesn’t mean I want Laurie to spend half the day hugging them, and it seems to take forever before she’s finished with the ritual, She then comes over, not to hug me, but to point to an adjacent van, also open at the back and apparently part of our party.
“Look, Andy, a television.”
There in the back of the van is a small TV, with rabbit ears for an antenna, and wavy lines where a clear picture is supposed to be. “Now that’s more like it,” I say. “Lucky we didn’t go to that sports bar with fifty flat-screen TVs; that could have set off my plasma allergy.”
“It’s possible you may not be fully into the spirit of this,” she says.
Pete comes over. “What’s the matter?” he asks. “You look miserable.”
“Apparently you can tell a book by its cover,” Laurie says.
“I am not miserable,” I protest. “Sitting at Charlie’s, drinking beer and eating one of those thick burgers with crisp french fries … that would be miserable. Plus, it’s so damn hot in there; it’s gotta be seventy degrees. And you can have that indoor plumbing; I’d rather stand on line to piss into a plastic hole any day of the week.”
Pete punches me lightly in the arm, then says. “Come on, man, this is part of the game.”
“Really? Who’s winning?”
I decide to give up and pretend to be enjoying myself, and before too long I actually am enjoying myself. It would be more fun if it weren’t so cold that I can’t feel my feet, but feet-feeling is overrated, and by the fourth beer I don’t care much either way.
About an hour before the actual game is to start, I tell Pete and Laurie that we have to head into the stadium; there’s a member of the Giants publicity department that is going to meet us and escort us down to the field.
Pete is only too anxious to get there, and as we depart he tells his friends, “If you losers are looking for me later, check out the fifty-yard line.”
We start walking toward the stadium, but stop when we hear, “Hey, Pete, look at this.”
It’s one of Pete’s fellow officers, pointing toward something on the TV in the back of the van. “Not now, man,” Pete says. “We got better things to do.”
But the officer is insistent, so we walk over. On the television is a press conference, with a breaking-news banner across the bottom.
“FBI: Arrest made in Hamilton Village arson murders.”
Pete stares at the screen, and I would know what was going through his mind even if I didn’t see the look on his face. I let him deal with it for a full minute, during which time he never takes his eyes off the screen, and doesn’t even seem to blink. Laurie knows what is happening as well, so she doesn’t say anything either.
Finally, “Come on, Pete,” I say. “We’re going to be late.”
“Go ahead without me,” he says. “Enjoy the game.”
The game is proving tough to enjoy.
There are a number of reasons for this, the first being that the temperature here on the sidelines makes the parking lot feel like Cancún. My hands are so cold that if I were Eli Manning I wouldn’t even be able to grip the football.
Which brings me to the second reason I’m miserable; Manning has thrown three interceptions and Kenny Schilling, our host, has fumbled twice, once inside the Eagle five-yard line. The Giants are losing 21–3.
They’re probably pleased that the game is only in the early third quarter. I’m not.
Laurie seems to be enjoying herself, so I don’t want to suggest we leave. I keep inching over toward the heaters behind the Giants bench, but the equipment manager is giving me dirty looks.
At least people in the stands can turn to alcohol to keep warm; on the field it’s prohibited. If I had some I’d drink it anyway; the worst that could happen is they’d throw me out or send me to a warm jail. Either result would be fine with me.
I instinctively feel that if I can keep my mind active, it will prevent it from freezing. So while the Eagles continue what will no doubt be another time-consuming touchdown drive, I think about Pete, and the news report we saw in the parking lot.
The Hamilton Village murders date back six years, and it was one of Pete’s first cases after achieving lieutenant status. It was a fire, quickly determined to be arson, in a small apartme
nt building in a low- to middle-class Paterson neighborhood.
The fire started just past midnight on a winter morning, and the building was quickly engulfed in flames. By the time the fire department arrived there was nothing they could do, except listen to the last of the screams of the people inside.
There was no way to be sure how many of them might have escaped, had the exit doors not been locked and bolted from the outside. Twenty-six people died that day, including six children, and their death was ensured by the arsonist. It was not done to destroy a building; it was designed to destroy the inhabitants of that building.
Newspaper reports at the time quoted fire officials as saying that certain chemicals were used in setting the blaze that made it the most intense fire they had ever had to combat.
Pete quickly determined that one of the apartments had been used as a base from which to sell drugs, and therefore the theory was that those people were the targets, while everyone else had the misfortune to live in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But there was no way to confirm that theory, because despite an enormous police effort, the killers were never found.
They say that every homicide cop has at least one unsolved case that haunts him. The Hamilton Village case is Pete’s, and it’s twenty-six for the price of one.
“You’re thinking about Pete?” Laurie has just come over, though I hadn’t noticed.
“How did you know?”
“The Giants just got a pick-six, and you didn’t even look up.”
Among the great things about Laurie is the fact that she knows a “pick-six” is an interception returned for a touchdown. Having said that, it’s not her best quality. Not even close.
“I tried to look, but my neck was frozen.”
“It will be a weight off of him,” she says.
“But he wanted to solve it himself.”
She nods. “I know. But this is better than nothing. Way better; it puts the slime who did it off the streets.”
“The alleged slime.”
One Dog Night Page 1
