One Dog Night

by David Rosenfelt

  “You know what ‘probable cause’ is?” Camby asked, and Danny thought he saw Loney look over at him, as if he was annoyed that Camby asked the question. In fact he didn’t get the feeling that Loney had much use for Camby at all.

  Danny nodded, even though he wouldn’t know probable cause if it walked into the room and bit him on the ass. “Sure. Makes sense.”

  “Good,” Loney said. “Because once the evidence is found, a mass murderer will pay for his crimes. And you’ll be well compensated. It’s a win-win for everyone.”

  Danny had to that point lived a life with very few wins, so a “win-win” sounded really good. He spent twelve hours over the next few days rehearsing exactly what he would tell the FBI, and the exact manner in which he would tell it. Lying was not exactly new ground for Danny, and he had no doubt he could pull it off.

  And he did. Once they paid him the fifty thousand, half in hundreds and half in twenties, he made an appointment with an FBI agent named Neil Mulcahy, and told him everything. It went off like clockwork, and over the next week Mulcahy had him repeat the tale four times, to at least six other agents.

  For a while Danny heard nothing, until he saw on the news that Galloway was arrested. Then he waited for Loney’s call. He wasn’t fearful that his benefactors would renege; they would be afraid that he could recant his testimony and implicate them in the bribe.

  In fact, Danny thought he might be able to hold them up for more money, in return for his silence. That would certainly be preferable to a crummy job as a driver.

  He would play it by ear and decide just how to take the most advantage of the turning point.

  I need to be entertained.

  I’ve never been into quiet, reflective thinking, or meditation, or introspection, or any of that stuff.

  I can be alone; that’s no problem at all. But if I am I want the TV on, or a book to read, or someone to talk to, or something, anything, to do. My best thinking comes when I’m doing something other than thinking.

  But the time I am absolutely at my most comfortable, when I don’t need or want outside diversions at all, is when I’m walking Tara. It’s my version of yoga, but without the bending and chanting.

  Tara is a golden retriever. I don’t say she’s my golden retriever, because that would reduce her to a possession, and I don’t think of her in those terms. She is my partner, my friend, and the greatest living creature on the face of the earth, bar none.

  I’m over the top about dogs, that’s pretty much a given among everyone I know. My ex-client Willie Miller and I run the Tara Foundation, through which we rescue dogs and place them in good homes. It takes up most of Willie’s time and much of mine, as well as a decent amount of money, but we love it.

  I also have frequently handled cases involving dogs, some of which have been my clients. The fact that I’ve been successful at them has done little to reduce the sarcasm and ridicule I receive in the community. Nor has that reaction in any way deterred me.

  But Tara is on an entirely different plane, even from other great dogs. I rescued her from the animal shelter at two years old. She’s getting up there in age now, with white showing in her face, and I have been thankful for every day I have had with her. And today is no different.

  We plan to head out for our walk at eight in the morning, like always. That gives me time to watch the first hour of The Today Show, which is when they cram in the real news of the day. It’s a perfect time for me to watch TV while getting in my exercise on the treadmill, and some day I’m actually going to get a treadmill to try out the theory.

  Of course, the show would have more time for news if they’d leave out the fake “good mornings.” Matt or Meredith start the show by teasing the upcoming stories, then they turn to Anne Curry at the news desk, always including a “good morning, Anne.” She responds with “good morning, Matt, good morning, Meredith,” and then launches into her news recap.

  Now, it’s not like the news desk is in Iowa; it seems to be maybe fifteen feet away from the anchor desks, in the same studio. Are we to believe that these people have been beamed into place an instant before going on the air, without having had the opportunity to wish each other a good morning? Or is it at all possible that the “good mornings” are in fact contrived by some TV executive, who has decided it would be appealing to the audience to see the warmth and politeness between these talking heads?

  The mystery is always solved when the show comes back from the seven-thirty break, and everybody goes through the same “good morning” routine again. I wonder if I’m the only one who is annoyed by this. Perhaps they have market research that shows that the rest of the audience has their collective eyes filled with tears at these heartwarming exchanges.

  After they wish Al Roker a heartfelt “good morning” and he gives the weather, the first story is not surprisingly about the arrest of Noah Galloway. Unfortunately, since the FBI is being typically tight-lipped about details, there is little of substance that is added, and it’s basically a rehash of the fire and its devastating and tragic effects. Substantial attention is given to what is known about Galloway, and the potentially serious political ramifications for an administration that was about to place an apparent mass murderer in a position of power and influence.

  Dylan Campbell, a county prosecutor that I detest, is shown on camera saying that he is confident the case against Noah is strong. I’m not surprised that the Feds are letting the case be tried locally, and I’m also not surprised that Dylan angled to get the assignment. He would relish the publicity.

  While I am not that interested in the skimpy report, Tara seems quite taken with it, barking and moving around in an animated, excited fashion. More likely she is anxious to get started on the walk, so we start out twenty minutes early.

  We have three possible routes that we take through Eastside Park and then around to Broadway, where we eat bagels at an outside table, no matter how cold it is. I put butter on my bagel; she eats hers plain. I get coffee; she gets water.

  A few people either nod or say hello to me, but everybody stops to pet Tara. She accepts the petting with a smile and a wag of her tail, and has the good manners to stop chewing during the process.

  I’m not sure why, but I do my best thinking during these walks, and much of my trial strategy is planned that way. But today thinking is not a priority; I have no current clients, and no desire to get any.

  We get back around nine-thirty, and I’m mildly surprised to see a car in front of the house. It’s the only car parked on the street; there’s an ordinance that during the night all cars must be in driveways or garages. The fact that this one is parked in front of my house leads me to the possibility that someone is visiting me, or Laurie, or Tara. Or not.

  I am Andy Carpenter, deducer supreme.

  Tara and I walk in the front door and immediately see Laurie in the kitchen with a woman, once again validating my intuitive powers. We walk toward them, Tara leading the way.

  The woman gets down on one knee to vigorously pet her, and says something which is hard for me to make out. It sounds something like “henner.”

  When I reach them, Laurie says, “Andy, I’d like you to meet—”

  The woman interrupts, holds out her hand, and says, “Becky.”

  “Hi, Becky,” is my clever retort. Never let it be said that Andy Carpenter doesn’t keep a conversation humming.

  “Becky has a story to tell you,” Laurie says, in a way which leads me to think this is not going to be just any story.

  “I love a good story,” I say, though I’m not sure I’m looking forward to hearing this one. When strangers tell me stories I usually wind up with clients, and when I wind up with clients it means I wind up doing work.

  “Then you’re in for a treat,” Laurie says.

  “So you’ve heard the story?” I ask.

  She nods. “Just now. You want some coffee?”

  I say that I do, though at this point I think I’d prefer scotch on the rocks, or an a
rsenic spritzer. I’ve got a feeling I should have prolonged the walk with Tara, like until August.

  We settle down with our coffees, and Becky starts telling me what she already told Laurie. “I’ve been married for four years, and I met my husband a year before that,” she says. “So what I’m going to tell you is what he’s told me over the years.

  “He’s led a very difficult life. I won’t bore you with the details, at least right now, but some of those difficulties have been of his own making, though most have not. He reached his personal bottom, as they call it, about six years ago.”

  The way she says “personal bottom” causes me to ask, “Drugs?”

  She nods. “Yes. And alcohol. And anything else that can take away one’s connection to life.”

  I’m trying hard not to cringe; is this woman asking me to somehow defend her husband on some resurrected drug infraction? I doubt that’s where this is going, because Laurie has reacted strangely to the visit. It’s somewhere between a gleam in her eye and a worry about what might come next.

  Becky continues. “About a year and a half prior to that, in an effort to bring some normalcy to his life, he had gotten a dog.”

  There is a two-by-four bearing down on my head, but I don’t have time to duck. “This dog,” she says, petting Tara. “Her original name was Hannah.”

  I don’t know what to say, and I want her to get through this story as quickly as possible so I can find out where it’s going. Wherever it’s going, Tara is not going anywhere.

  “My husband came to understand that with his problems, and his complete lack of sobriety, he couldn’t care for her. He loved her very much, and he was afraid for her safety.”

  “So he dumped her in a shelter?” I ask. I have always felt that the person who did that to Tara had to be the lowest sort of vermin on earth.

  “He had nothing else to do, or at least that’s what he believed. He had lost all his friends, and his newer acquaintances were certainly not likely to give her the home she deserved.

  “So he took her to the shelter, and then he went back there every day, to make sure that nothing bad happened to her. If her stay there was prolonged, he would have taken her back rather than subject her to the cruelties of the system.”

  She is obviously referring to the fact that dogs not adopted after a period of time are put down, usually because of overcrowding.

  “It was only three days later that you came and adopted her. He was there at the time, and he followed you home from a distance. He wanted to see where she was going to live.”

  “Why didn’t he introduce himself to me?” I ask. “He could have told me things about her.”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. Hopefully you can ask him that. But for a period of time after you took Hannah … Tara … he watched you with her, to make sure you were treating her well. On one occasion, when the drugs made him careless, he entered your property and tried to peer into your house.”

  All of a sudden I know where she is going, and I have a pit in my stomach the size of Bolivia.

  “Noah Galloway,” I say.

  This has disaster written all over it.

  If what Becky Galloway is saying is true, that Noah was Tara’s original owner, then it’s a secret that they have kept for seven years. The fact that she’s making the revelation now, when he’s just been arrested, is no coincidence.

  And the fact that I am a defense attorney who doesn’t want a new client, especially this one, is where the disaster potential comes in.

  I’m trying to remember if Tara’s strange, excited behavior before our walk this morning was connected to footage of Galloway on the news, but I just can’t be sure. I hope it wasn’t, because she certainly seemed happy, and if there was a growl involved, I didn’t hear it.

  “Would the fact that you’re choosing to reveal this now be in any way related to the fact that I’m a criminal attorney?”

  She nods, without apparent embarrassment. “Very much so. I’m hoping you’ll consider representing Noah.”

  “Because he used to own Tara?” I ask.

  “Yes. Because you both love her. It’s a connection that I’m trying to use,” she says. “I’ll do whatever I can to help my husband.”

  “He put her in a shelter,” I say. It’s a fact that I simply will never be able to get over.

  She nods. “I know; he says that it was the hardest thing he had ever done. But he used every penny he had to get her the leg operation, and at the same time he felt powerless against the drugs. He couldn’t take care of himself; and therefore he couldn’t take care of her. He knew she would be better off.” She looks around the room, then pets Tara’s head. “And she is.”

  “How did she hurt her leg?” I ask. Tara has a plate in her leg, which was always a mystery to me. The operation would have been expensive, and I don’t often see shelter dogs that had received such good care. It’s inconsistent for an owner to spend that kind of money on a pet, and then to throw them away like that.

  “I’ll let Noah tell you all that; he knows all the details. Will you at least meet with him?”

  I look over at Laurie, but she’s not providing any relief. “Becky, I’m really sorry about your situation. And I’m sure your husband is innocent, but—”

  She interrupts me. “He says he did it.”

  The surprises are coming in rapid-fire here. “He does? Is that how he’s going to plead?”

  “I’m not sure what he’ll do. But he didn’t do it, Andy. No matter what he says.”

  I nod, trying to digest this. It doesn’t sound like it will go to trial, so Galloway’s lawyer might simply be called upon to plea-bargain. Less time, less effort, but I still don’t want to get near it. We’re talking about twenty-six people locked in a burning building.

  “He says he did it, but you say he didn’t?” I ask, my incredulity showing.

  “He believes he did it; he doesn’t specifically remember it. But there is no chance that he did.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Could you believe Laurie burned twenty-six people to death?”

  “No.” I could point out that I wouldn’t believe Laurie spent years strung out on drugs either, but I don’t. I just want this to go away.

  “Maybe I could speak with him, maybe with Hike,” Laurie volunteers. “And get some more information, to help you decide.”

  Laurie’s talking about the other lawyer in my two-person firm, “Hike” Lynch. I’m sure Laurie is aware that I’ve already decided against getting involved, so her saying that means she’s on Becky’s side in this one. Or at the very least she’s saying, what’s the harm in talking to the guy?

  Of course, there is no harm in it, other than the disappointment Becky would feel when I tell her I’m not taking the case. “Becky, if it means that much to you I’ll talk to him. But I want to be really clear; I don’t want to take on any new clients.”

  “I understand,” she says.

  “I can recommend other lawyers that are terrific.”

  She nods. “Let’s talk after you and Noah meet.”

  I turn to Tara. “That work for you?”

  She doesn’t answer, remaining her normal noncommittal self. I’ll have to ply her with biscuits to find out what she really thinks.

  These guys did what they said they would do.

  That’s a pretty terrific quality, Danny figured, especially when it belonged to guys who promised to pay him money.

  The morning after Noah Galloway was arrested, Loney was at his apartment with the payment of the other fifty thousand, again in cash. He was alone this time, without Camby.

  Danny had decided that while he might strong-arm them with threats to reveal their role to the police, there was no hurry for that. The trial was a long way off, and he could come forward at any time before then.

  Loney did throw him a bit of a curve ball, though. The job as driver for him and his family was still his for the asking, but it was in Vegas, not New Jersey. That was whe
re Loney was going to be for at least the next six months, and the increased cost of living that Danny would face there would be recognized with an increase of twenty thousand in the agreed-upon salary.

  This was getting better all the time. Danny had only been to Vegas once, almost fifteen years ago. On his thirtieth birthday. It probably would qualify as his favorite place on earth, but it was a city you didn’t want to be in if you had no money.

  Which was okay, because Danny had plenty of money.

  Loney gave Danny a plane ticket, one way, to leave that night. The fact that it was a coach fare was slightly annoying, but at least it was an aisle seat.

  “You can leave tonight?” Loney asked.

  Danny smiled and made a hand motion to show Loney the room he was standing in. “Why not?”

  Loney said that a car would pick Danny up at five o’clock, to take him to Newark for the eight o’clock flight. “Don’t get too comfortable out there,” he said. “You’re coming back here for the trial.”

  “No problem. One day on the stand is all it will take.”

  Loney nodded. “But that’s an important day. We’re going to rehearse you for it.”

  “Piece of cake,” Danny said. “So when I get there, where do I go?”

  “A driver will take you to the Mirage; you’ve got a prepaid reservation there for two weeks. During that time you’re going to need to get an apartment.”

  Danny said that he thought that was a really good idea, though at that point apartment hunting was the last thing on his mind. He had a hundred grand and two weeks at the Mirage, and he was going to enjoy every minute of it.

  “Don’t blow this, Danny,” Loney said, possibly reading his mind.

  “You don’t need to worry about me,” Danny said.

  “Okay. See you in Vegas.”

  “You going to be there?”

  Loney smiled. “See you in Vegas.”

  “Who are you guys?” Danny asked. “Come on, level with me.”

  “Concerned citizens.”