One Dog Night

by David Rosenfelt

  The only way to do that is to review the discovery evidence repeatedly, until we know every nuance. By definition, there are dangers for us on every page; we must know them and counter them.

  The preparation for a murder trial is intense and all-consuming, but there is no substitute for it, so Hike and I settle down for the long haul.

  Fun time is over.

  For Judge Walter Holland, the trial seemed surreal.

  On the surface, it seemed to be business as usual. Two sets of lawyers arguing over minutiae that absolutely no one, other than themselves and the people they represent, cared about.

  Both sides had positions that they repeatedly affirmed to be correct beyond question. Should their firms happen to have been employed by the other side, they would have taken equally passionate stands a hundred eighty degrees from where they were in this trial.

  But for Judge Holland, things were anything but normal. He was trying to act impartial, to pepper each side with the same intensity and amount of difficult, probing questions. He was the “trier of fact,” and personal bias or other considerations could have no part of his process.

  Of course, he ordinarily didn’t have to “act” impartial, since he had always been impartial. It was something he’d prided himself on, something he always took for granted. It’s not that he hadn’t had personal biases, everyone does, but until this trial he’d been able to check them at the courthouse door.

  The irony was that he had no idea why he was being called on, why the marker was finally being cashed. The stakes in the trial were potentially significant, but certainly no more so than many other cases he’d presided over, and probably less than most. But he’d waited six long years for this to happen, and the hammer was being dropped for a very significant reason, even if he didn’t know what that reason was.

  He could only hope that this was the last time that hammer would be dropped. For that he was relying on the honor of people with absolutely no honor at all.

  It was a terrible position to be in, and it was entirely his own fault.

  After the lunch break that day, one of the lawyers reported that their next witness had taken ill, and they were requesting an adjournment for the day. In the morning, if that witness was still unavailable, they would have another witness there to take his place.

  Judge Holland was happy to grant the request; he would have been happy to grant a year’s adjournment. Every day in court was terribly painful for him, the culmination of six years of pain. This delay would give him time to get home and be with Alice and Benji.

  Work had always consumed a great deal of his time, and more of his mind, but lately it had been even worse. Alice had been characteristically understanding, possibly because he had never confided the truth to her. Benji had been preoccupied with wondering what he would be getting for Christmas, and making out lists of possibilities.

  It was on his way home that Judge Holland got the call on his cell phone. Somehow the man known as Loney only called when he was available to take it; it was as if he was watching him. Holland wouldn’t put it past him.

  “Short day today, Your Honor?”

  Asking questions that he already knew the answer to was one of the eight billion things about Loney that annoyed him.

  “Didn’t feel very short.”

  “You were hard on our side,” Loney said.

  “I was hard on both sides. That’s my role.”

  “Good. Because it’s very important that you completely understand your role. Right through to the end.”

  “You have nothing to worry about,” Holland said. “I’m going to do this the way we agreed, and then I’m never going to hear from you again.”

  “You don’t enjoy our little chats?” Loney asked, the cold amusement evident in his voice.

  “I don’t.”

  “That pains me,” Loney said, laughing a mocking laugh. “I cherish our time together. But you have a full life, what with Alice and Benji.”

  As it always did, the mention of his family sent a chill through him. “Don’t call me again. I don’t want to hear your voice ever again.”

  “You know something, Judge? Sometimes we don’t get what we want.” Then he laughed again. “Except for me. I always get what I want.”

  When he clicked off the call he was still laughing.

  I haven’t really been keeping Tara up to date on the case.

  At least not as much as I should. After all, she’s the reason I took it on, and she has an emotional investment in it. Filling her in is the least I can do.

  The truth is, I consult with Tara a great deal on all my cases. I often find it helpful to verbalize my thoughts and ideas, and she is a willing listener. She’s also discreet; when I tell her something, I can be sure she won’t go barking it around the neighborhood.

  So tonight I am planning to take Tara for a walk through Eastside Park, down near the ball fields, where nobody will overhear us. It’s a setting that Tara loves; the park provides a seemingly endless supply of alluring scents.

  I take out the leash, but then decide to check something in the case file, and we don’t leave right away. Tara is not pleased by the delay, and she barks at me a few times.

  “Can you be a little flexible on this?” I ask her. “Don’t forget, I’m only working this case as a favor to you.”

  Her look tells me she’s not impressed by my argument, and she barks a few more times. I take the leash again, and we’re off.

  “Among the many things I don’t understand,” I tell her after we’re about a block away, “is why this all started up now. Why would someone wait six years to have Butler go to the Feds with his accusations? Something must have happened, it might even still be happening now, that has put someone in jeopardy.”

  Tara’s not barking a word; she knows better than to interrupt my train of thought at times like this. I almost wish she would; there’s something in the back of my brain that I can’t seem to get to come to the front where I can see it.

  “I’m missing something,” I say. “Actually, I’m pretty much missing everything.”

  We walk for another hour, during which time I get absolutely no clarity. I would stay out longer, but Laurie is home, and it’s nearing bedtime. The outbreak of nuclear war would not be enough to get me to miss bedtime with Laurie.

  Unfortunately, this particular bedtime is going to be somewhat delayed, as Pete’s car is pulling up in front of the house when I get home. Whenever I visualize Laurie and me in bed together, Pete is nowhere to be seen.

  “To what do I owe this rare pleasure?” I ask. “And how long will you be staying?”

  “I ran the fingerprint from the beer bottle.”

  “Great, but you didn’t have to deliver the news personally,” I say.

  “Oh yes, I did.”

  He says that in a somewhat ominous fashion, but I’ll find out what’s going on soon enough. “Come on in.”

  When we get inside the house, Laurie is in the den reading. “Laurie, honey, look what I found outside in the street. A pathetic urchin. Do we have any porridge we can spare?”

  “Don’t listen to him, Pete,” she says.

  “It’s hard not to; he never shuts up.”

  “You want a beer?” I ask.

  “I’m on duty.”

  “You want a Shirley Temple?” When he doesn’t answer, I ask him who the print on the bottle belonged to.

  “Guy by the name of Ray Camby. Local muscle, available for hire.”

  Camby is the name of the party that the phone was linked to in Montana. “Originally from Montana?” I ask.

  “How the hell do I know? And who gives a shit?”

  “Anything else you can tell me about him?” I ask. “Without being surly?”

  “Well, there is one other thing, sort of a funny coincidence.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, it’s the darnedest thing. Seems they fished Camby’s body out of the Passaic River this morning. You have a beer with him,
and then he turns up dead. What are the odds against that?”

  “Poor guy,” I say. “Do you know where the services are being held? I feel like I should send something.”

  “Boys, boys…” Laurie admonishes.

  “How do you live with this pain in the ass?” Pete asks her.

  “I stay heavily medicated,” she says.

  He nods and turns back to me. “You want to tell me what you know about Camby’s death here, or you want to come to the station and answer the questions?”

  “That’s a tough one,” I say. “Go down to the station with you, or stay here with Laurie and Tara. It’s a coin flip, that’s for sure.”

  “Playtime’s over. Talk to me.”

  I nod. “He took a bullet in the head at the Castle Inn; it’s a motel on Route 4. Room 131 in the back.”

  “You were there?” he asks.

  “No, but I had inside information, which will remain inside.”

  “Did Marcus kill this guy?”

  “No,” I say. “Absolutely not. I would have much preferred Camby remained alive to answer questions. Not as grueling as these, of course. Camby had been following me; Laurie noticed him.”

  Laurie nods. “He was killed before Marcus could question him, Pete. That’s the truth.”

  Pete nods. For some reason he believes Laurie and thinks I’m full of shit. It wounds me terribly.

  “Why was he following you?” Pete asks.

  I shrug. “It would have been nice to ask him that. But you can bet it had something to do with the Galloway case.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Good point, Sherlock. It’s just a coincidence. Just like it’s a coincidence that Danny Butler got killed, and that he came forward after all these years to talk to the Feds…”

  As I’m saying this, what I couldn’t think of while I was walking with Tara hits me between the eyes. “Pete, why did Butler go to the Feds?”

  “He said he had information implicating your boy.”

  I shake my head. “But why the Feds? This was a local case; you’d been working on it for years. In fact, the Feds had to drum up the Interstate Commerce thing to even get involved. Why would Butler go to them? Why not you?”

  “Good question,” he says, after thinking about it for a few moments.

  “Maybe he didn’t think you’d believe him,” Laurie says.

  Pete considers this for a while as well; he seems to be pondering something that he is not inclined to share with us.

  The silence becomes interminable and I prompt him with, “Pete?”

  He finally says, “Maybe.”

  “Any idea why that would be?” I ask. “And if you can answer in under twenty minutes, we’d appreciate it.”

  He just nods, turns, and leaves the house, leaving Laurie and me staring at each other. “What the hell was that about?” I ask.

  “I imagine we’ll find out eventually,” she says. “I’m going to bed. You coming?”

  “Is that a serious question?”

  It’s the routine that was getting Becky Galloway through the day.

  Nothing exciting, just the normal chores in a life that would never again be normal. But she had come to embrace them, to focus on them, and it provided a small sense of security and calm, amid the chaos.

  Going to the market, paying the bills, taking Adam to and from school … these were the kinds of things that filled Becky’s day. And every moment she thought about them was a moment she didn’t obsess over Noah’s nightmare situation.

  So Becky had learned that in fact life really does go on, and dealing with it could be a welcome distraction. But at night, in the dark with the lights off, well, that was another story.

  Becky had decided to plant a wide array of flowers in the garden behind their house. The actual planting wouldn’t take place until spring, but planning it now helped divert Becky’s mind from real life.

  So part of this afternoon was spent at the garden supply store on Route 17 in Paramus, trying to decide what plants would go best with each other, and which would thrive in the soil behind the house. She had long consultations with the very knowledgeable store employees, and she agonized over the decision as if it had the slightest consequence on her pain-filled life.

  She finally made her choice, spent more than she should have, and only left the comfort and sweet smells of the place because she had to pick up Adam at school.

  She went out to the parking lot, and loaded up everything in the trunk. Then she got into the car and looked in the rearview mirror, so that she could back out.

  And saw nothing.

  The mirror had no reflection, it was somehow empty, and even before Becky realized it had been covered with black tape, she felt the hand on her neck. She screamed and jumped in fright, but could not move, such was the power in the fingers that were holding her down.

  “Calm down, Becky,” Loney said. “Calm down and be quiet. You’re going to get through this.” He pressed tighter on the back of her neck, a not-so-subtle message that she was powerless to resist him.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want you to listen to me, very carefully. It will be quick, and then you can go pick up Adam at nursery school. You should be on time, but if you’re not, Mrs. Dembeck will wait with him.”

  Loney’s words sent a chill through her; this man knew where Adam went to school, and who his teacher was. The familiarity was the most frightening thing she had ever experienced.

  “Okay? We understand each other?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Your husband is a mass murderer, Becky. Everyone already knows that. All I want is for him to admit it to the world. Plead guilty, reject the travesty of a trial, and live out his life in prison.”

  She was not about to argue Noah’s guilt or innocence with this man; she did not want to provoke him. “I’ll talk to Noah about it,” she said. “I will.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Becky. Don’t say what you think I want to hear to get rid of me.”

  “I swear, I’ll talk to him. I’ll try and convince him.”

  “Becky, Becky, Becky…” he said, as if he was disappointed in her. “You haven’t even let me convince you yet.”

  “Please don’t hurt me.” She would have added, “or Adam,” but she didn’t even want to give voice to that possibility.

  “No need for that at all,” Loney said. “I just wanted to point out that with Noah in prison, you’re going to need money to live. If he pleads guilty, that will never be a problem for you. You have my word on that.”

  “Okay.”

  “Of course, if he goes ahead with the trial, you and Adam won’t need money to live, because you won’t be alive.” He paused for a moment. “Becky, we can get to you both. Anywhere.”

  She tried not to let her voice reveal the terror she was feeling. “I understand.”

  “Good; understanding is important. Now get out of the car and walk back into the store. Do not turn around, or I will have to shoot you. Come back in ten minutes, and then go pick up Adam. Do not call the police, or neither of you will live until tomorrow. Do you understand all of this?”

  “Yes.”

  There was some movement and she saw his gloved hand place something on the front passenger seat. It was a large box, gift-wrapped.

  “Please accept this gift as a token of our understanding. You can open it when you get back.”

  Becky did exactly as he said, getting out and walking into the store, her legs shaking so much that it was hard to walk. When she came back out he was gone, but the package was still on the front seat.

  She didn’t open it then, instead driving toward Adam’s school. But then she realized that she didn’t want him in the car with it without knowing what it was, so she pulled over a few blocks from the school, took a deep breath, tore off the wrapping paper at the top, and opened it.

  It was money, hundred-dollar bills spread out across the top. Sitting on top of the bills, bizarrely, was a
CD labeled Danny Boy, by Bing Crosby.

  Becky had never seen anything like it, and couldn’t imagine how much money could be in the fairly deep box if it was filled with these bills. She started to dig into the box, pushing the bills to the side, until she hit something solid.

  She moved all the bills to the side to see what was there, and that was when she screamed. She threw open the car door and staggered out, landing on all fours, throwing up in the grass along the sidewalk.

  Left behind in the car was the box with the money. And underneath that money, encased in plastic, was the severed head of Danny Butler.

  You could walk right through it, and not know anything was happening.

  Of course, there would be no particular reason for you to walk through it, unless you made a habit of strolling through desolate, uninhabited land in east Texas.

  There was some equipment there, a few machines and some deconstructed oil rigs, but that was to be expected. This was land that was owned by an oil company, just like millions of acres in this part of the country.

  It was bought up cheap, and there was no certainty that it had oil reserves worth even that cost. But like much land both on and off shore, there was the potential for cashing in, so the companies bought it all up.

  Only seven percent of such owned land was developed; the rest could sit there for a decade or more, waiting its turn. This particular piece, officially designated TX43765, held no more promise than any of the others.

  Also, this land was owned by Milgram Oil and Gas, which was not exactly a behemoth in the industry. Milgram had to be careful with its resources, financial and otherwise, and was less inclined to drill on this kind of land than its larger competitors would be.

  Milgram couldn’t afford many dry wells, especially at this point, when they were being drained by an ongoing legal takeover fight. So they paid attention to the sites that were more likely to be moneymakers, and devoted the rest of their available cash to their wind-turbine program. That was the area that they hoped would save the company.