Dachshund Through the Snow

by David Rosenfelt

  What that means is that international arrest warrants are out on him. Any country that is part of the system can detain and arrest Arrant, after which he would be extradited to one of the three named countries.

  But the background information makes it clear that Arrant’s transgressions are not limited to those three countries. He is an international pariah, and the crimes he is alleged to have committed range from murder, to financial frauds of various types, to espionage. He is rumored to be financed by Chinese interests, but nothing here proves that.

  The real stunner is that these Red Notices are more than ten years old; Arrant has not been seen in all that time.

  I need to keep reminding myself that he is connected to our case by the most fragile of threads. All we have on him is the name given to us by Holzer. Even if this is the same guy that Holzer was talking about, that Taillon was working for at one point, there is not even close to a guarantee that it has anything to do with Kristen McNeil’s murder.

  The question I ask myself is, Why would an international criminal want to kill an eighteen-year-old girl in Paterson, New Jersey?

  And my answer, unfortunately, is, Beats the shit out of me.

  “You know anything about this?”

  The voice asking the question belongs to Pete Stanton. He’s calling at seven o’clock in the morning as I’m about to take Tara and Sebastian on their morning walk. I can hear the whirring sound of Laurie on the stationary bike in the exercise room.

  If Pete is calling at this hour, it’s not to ask why the Giants attempted a field goal rather than going for a first down on fourth and one last week. This is clearly work related, to probably both his work and mine.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s all over the news.”

  “I just woke up, Pete. I don’t dream the news.”

  “Mitch Holzer is dead.”

  “Damn … murdered?”

  “Unless you would describe a bullet in his brain as natural causes. Of course, if your client was the shooter, you probably would.”

  This is stunning news and it immediately registers in my brain as a confirmation of sorts that Arrant is our guy.

  No coincidences.

  Even though people are demonstrating a disturbing tendency to get killed after meeting me, this one can’t be my fault. Holzer was the one out looking for Arrant; somehow Arrant must have found that out.

  “Why are you calling me, Pete?”

  “Because I told you about Holzer and now he’s dead. I’m guessing you have information about it.”

  “I might.” I’m not prepared to decide in the moment how much I want to share with Pete; I have to first calculate whether I would be helping or hurting my client’s position by doing so. “But as you know, I am notoriously tight-lipped.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “I’ll come in later this morning.”

  He’s not happy about it, but we arrange for me to be down at the precinct at eleven o’clock. Then I tell Laurie what has happened, and she finds the news important enough to cut her exercise bike ride short.

  We turn on the television to learn what we can about Holzer’s death. His body was found lying next to his car in a parking lot down the street from the bar where I spoke to him. He took one bullet in the back of the head, execution-style.

  Holzer was no amateur; if Arrant took him out so easily, then Arrant’s reputation is well justified.

  “And he’s obviously worried about something,” Laurie says. “If he did this, and I would say it’s likely that he did, then he killed Taillon, Siroka, and Holzer all to keep something quiet.”

  “Not necessarily. Taillon and Siroka, yes. But Holzer said that he was putting the word out about Arrant. Arrant has been invisible for ten years; he’s got countries after him. Maybe he just didn’t want any scrutiny at all. Although I don’t know how Arrant could have such street connections in Paterson that he found out about Holzer. According to Holzer, they had no direct contact.”

  “So you think it’s possible that Holzer’s death could have nothing to do with our case?”

  “All of it could have nothing to do with our case. We’re just making educated guesses and hoping.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  I nod. “You’re right, I don’t.”

  We talk about how much I should be telling Pete about what I know, and then Laurie expresses concern for my safety, since I had spoken to Holzer and learned Arrant’s name. Knowing Arrant’s name seems to reduce one’s life expectancy.

  I tell Laurie that I’m not worried, that for Arrant to go after me would bring huge publicity and unwanted attention to him. Besides, I don’t know anything of consequence, so I’m not a threat to him, at least not at this point.

  I head downtown for my meeting with Pete, who starts the conversation by saying, “We’ve got a lot of people getting shot around here. And you seem to be hovering over all of it.”

  “I do what I can.”

  “So tell me about Holzer.”

  “After you mentioned him as being Taillon’s backup, I went to talk to him.”

  “Where?”

  “At the bar where he hangs out on Market Street. I was there the other night.”

  “You went down there to talk to Holzer? You?”

  An insult is implied there, but I ignore it. “Marcus,” I say.

  Pete nods. “We had a report that a muscle guy that worked for Holzer wound up in the hospital with a busted skull.”

  I nod. “I think Marcus happened upon him after he fell. He tried to catch him, but he was a moment too late.”

  “I’ll bet. Go on.”

  “I asked Holzer if he had any idea who killed Taillon and Siroka because I think it is all about the Noah Traynor case. I believed that whoever had hired Taillon to have me followed also had him killed when I found out about it.”

  Pete frowns his disagreement at this, but doesn’t interrupt, so I continue, “He didn’t know, but he had an idea. And the idea had a name.”

  “And the name was?”

  “Arrant. That’s all he knew. Arrant. He said he had put the word out on the street to find the guy, but so far had no luck.”

  “Arrant,” Pete repeats, as if trying to figure out if the name had any meaning to him. It doesn’t seem to. “That’s a last name?”

  “It is; look him up. If it’s the same guy, he’s wanted by more countries than you could place on a map.”

  “What does that mean? Interpol?”

  “You’re not as dumb as you look.”

  “I’ll check this out.”

  I hand Pete copies of the documents that Sam got for me, including the official ones from Interpol. He looks at me with suspicion. “Where did you get these?”

  “From the international criminal fairy.”

  He looks at the documents for a while. “What the hell is this guy doing here?”

  “He’s covering up something big that’s been going on for a long time. And it’s got to be more than just the murder of Kristen McNeil.”

  Pete nods. “Okay, you’ve given me the information. What’s the quid pro quo?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean what do you want from me?”

  “I want you to catch him.”

  The truth is that the Paterson Police have no chance of getting Arrant.

  That’s not even a criticism of them. If the entire world has been looking for him for a decade, he’s not about to let himself get nabbed by a Jersey police department.

  It’s even questionable whether catching him would help us. He doesn’t sound like the type to wilt and tell all because the cops are shining a hot light on him. And he’d probably be in custody for about twenty minutes before the FBI would come in and take him away. We’d have as much access to him then as we do now.

  We’re going to somehow have to connect him to our case without physically having him, or talking to him. I just wish I knew how.

  Wit
h Holzer, Taillon, and Siroka out of the way, Arrant may even have already left the area. This does not sound like a guy who overstays his welcome; for all I know he could be in Lithuania by now.

  I am interested in how he came to view Holzer as a danger. I understand that Holzer had been asking around about him, but Holzer was a local street guy whose base of operations was a downtown bar. Somehow Arrant must have been tied into that world, enabling him to access information, as unlikely as it may seem.

  “Maybe we should call Cindy Spodek,” Laurie suggests after dinner, and after Ricky has gone to his room to do homework. Cindy is an FBI agent, number two in the Boston Bureau, who we have exchanged information with in the past. She’s a good friend of Laurie’s and a semi-good friend of mine.

  “Maybe … let me think about it,” I say.

  “What’s the downside?”

  “It could set off a chain reaction that would make Arrant aware that we know about him. I doubt he could know that Holzer mentioned his name to us, so he would have no reason to see us as a threat.”

  “I disagree. Remember, he’s the one who most likely ordered Taillon to get you followed.”

  I nod; she has a point. “Okay. Let me think about it. Maybe we’ll call Cindy tomorrow. For now I need to walk and think.”

  She knows what I mean: I do my best thinking, such as it is, while walking Tara and Sebastian in the park. “I still think we should have you protected; just in case,” she says.

  I’m always torn in situations like this. I want to be protected, because it feels very protective. But I never want to admit it, especially to Laurie. Which is ridiculous, since she knows better than anyone that I am totally unable to protect myself. “I’ll think about it,” I finally say.

  So Tara, Sebastian, and I head for Eastside Park. I’m not sure why I think so much more clearly in these circumstances. It’s not that I’m at home in nature, such as it is. No one is going to confuse Eastside and Yellowstone Parks. But something about the quiet and tranquility, especially at night, helps me concentrate without exerting effort to do so.

  The dogs also help. Life is simple to them: they want to smell the smells of the park, each time as if it’s the first, yet they’ve been here so many times before. That simplicity makes sense, and it’s something to enjoy and emulate, and maybe even envy.

  Clear thinking doesn’t always mean solutions, and we’re halfway into the park and I haven’t come up with anything. I am no closer to answering the core question than I was when I first took the case: Why was Kristen McNeil killed?

  We’re pretty far into the park and about to turn around when Tara tenses up and comes to a halt. I don’t know what she has seen or sensed, but it has her on edge. Sebastian … not so much. He wouldn’t react if John Philip Sousa appeared ahead of us, marching his band to Fair Lawn.

  Then I see a glint of light come from behind a cluster of trees, and I go cold with panic. But the noise I hear is even stranger and more unexpected, a low, human voice. I think the word I hear is “Get.”

  Suddenly the noise changes and becomes much louder. It starts as a rustling in the grass, then explodes into what seems like a combination of growling and yelling, some human, some canine.

  The latest noise seems to come from the area where I saw the glint of light. In the moonlight I can make out what is happening: a man is on the ground, being attacked by a dog.

  None of this makes sense to me, and I look to see if the dog is Tara. But it obviously can’t be because I am still holding on to both Tara’s and Sebastian’s leashes. Tara is excited and pulling on hers, seemingly trying to get in on whatever the action is. Sebastian seems bored with the whole thing.

  Then I look to the side and see another human approaching the action. He leans over and picks something up, and I realize with some horror that he has picked up a gun. “Off,” he says in a voice that’s familiar to me, and the dog lets the guy go and backs off.

  Finally it’s all clear to me, even in this limited light. Corey Douglas and Simon have come to my rescue, even though I don’t yet know who they have rescued me from.

  Corey is holding his own gun; it could be the one he picked up, but I don’t think so. “Turn around. Hands against the tree,” he says to the man, who has just gotten to his feet.

  The man does as he is told, but then whirls around, another gun having somehow appeared in his hand. But he doesn’t get to use it because the deafening sound is Corey shooting him square in the chest. The impact of the bullet sends him backward, crashing into the tree, then he crumples to the ground.

  Corey goes over to make sure the guy is not getting up. “He’s dead,” he says, after feeling the guy’s neck for whatever people in this situation feel necks for. Corey takes out his iPhone and activates the flashlight app, shining it in the dead guy’s face. “You know who it is?”

  I walk over and look. “I know who it is. Interpol has one less guy to find.”

  “Laurie told me to keep an eye on you,” Corey says. “She said definitely not to tell you. She didn’t say why, but I assumed it had something to do with you being an asshole.”

  “I’m glad you and Simon were here.”

  “I owe you. We owe you.” I think he means he and Simon. “Remember?”

  I nod. “Owed … past tense. We are way more than even now.”

  “Who is he? What did you mean about Interpol?”

  “He’s an international criminal, and a killer as well. The entire world is looking for this guy, and you nailed him.”

  Corey pats Simon’s head. “We nailed him.” Then, “I’ll call in the department.”

  “I want to see what he has on him first.”

  “Hey.” The cop in Corey thinks that I should not touch a thing.

  “I’ll replace it all exactly as I found it.”

  So using my own iPhone flashlight, I take everything out of Arrant’s pockets. His wallet has nothing in it to identify him by his actual name; instead he has two different sets of fake identification. I memorize the names, put the wallet back, and keep looking.

  There is probably $3,000 in cash, which I have no interest in. There is also a hotel key, one of the magnetic kinds that slide into the door. It is from the Marriott in Saddle Brook, maybe ten minutes from where we are standing … or in Arrant’s case, not standing.

  Corey is on the phone and doesn’t seem to be looking, so I slip the key into my pocket. It doesn’t make me feel great to deceive the guy who just saved my life, but I’ll get over it. Simon is watching me but doesn’t say anything, maybe out of friendship and respect for Tara.

  Within five minutes Eastside Park is lit up like it’s daytime. At least ten police cars with lights flashing and two ambulances are here. Once the EMTs certify that Arrant is dead, which will be rather easy to do, they’ll call in the coroner’s van. Then, when forensics is finished doing their work, he’ll be carted off.

  I call Laurie to tell her what happened, and while she’s upset, that feeling is obviously offset by my being safe and talking to her. “You had Corey on me without telling me.”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  We decide that Laurie will get a neighbor to come over and watch Ricky while she comes to the park to retrieve Tara and Sebastian. I’m going to be here for a long time, answering questions and signing statements. But bringing Ricky with her is not an option; as parents we try not to bring him to check out dead bodies.

  I get off the phone when Pete pulls up and comes over to Corey and me. “That’s Arrant?”

  I nod. “That’s him. Try not to let him escape.”

  Pete turns to Corey. “I assume you did the shooting? All Andy can do under pressure is piss in his pants.”

  Corey nods. “It was me. He drew a second weapon after Simon got him to drop the first one. Everything by the book.”

  Pete doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. The scene speaks for itself; I was obviously walking the dogs in the park and Arrant was there to take me down. It didn’t work
out for him, thanks to Corey and Simon.

  Tara did her part also, just less dramatically. Her tensing up at sensing Arrant’s presence caused me to stop walking toward him, which may have been crucial. But it’s just like Tara to let everyone else take the credit.

  Finally Pete says, “Let’s get this over with.”

  The “getting over with” part takes about three hours. We do it down at the precinct, so the interviews can be recorded. It’s all straightforward and there will not be repercussions. It’s made even easier for Pete that Corey is no longer on the force; “officer-involved” shootings are much more complicated.

  This is going to be fairly clean for Pete and the Paterson Police. They will alert the Feds, and Arrant will instantly become their problem. If ballistics can help Pete nail Arrant for the murders of Taillon, Siroka and Holzer, then it will be a clean sweep.

  We’re done at around 1:00 A.M. and the cops drive us back to my house; Corey’s car is parked just down the street. But Corey doesn’t head for the car; instead he waits for me to go inside.

  “You can go; I’m fine by myself.”

  “All evidence to the contrary. I do what Laurie tells me. I’m with you until you are in the house. Then she takes over.”

  “Are you going to kiss me good night?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Good. Corey … you saved my life. You and Simon. You both were amazing. So thank you.”

  “We did our job, just like you did when we were in court.”

  With that, I go into the house, and they turn and walk away. Laurie is waiting with some fresh coffee and a hug, not necessarily in that order. I go over the events of the night in slightly less detail than she would want because I’m tired. But I don’t leave out anything crucial.

  When I’m done, I take out the hotel key and show it to her.