Who Let the Dog Out?

by David Rosenfelt

  “Might as well,” she finally says, which serves as evidence that she does not consider what we are doing to be particularly important. Laurie believes in old-fashioned, pavement-pounding police work. She recognizes the value of using technology, but it is rarely her first or preferred option.

  Instead of going home, we head down to my office on Van Houten Street. I haven’t been there since Pete’s trial ended, and if I never go back I’d be fine with it. I’m not exactly a workaholic.

  The only reason we’re going there now is that Sam’s office is down the hall. This way I can talk to Sam, and at the same time drop off a rent check that I forgot to mail. Sofia Hernandez owns the building and operates the fruit stand on the main floor. If I bring her the check in person, she gives me a cantaloupe, and they’re always ripe.

  My assistant, Edna, is not in, which does not exactly represent a news flash. She’s training for a crossword puzzle tournament, and since she hardly ever works even when we have a client, there is no reason at all for her to come in when we don’t.

  The office is a little dusty. Sofia’s daughter, also named Sofia, is supposed to come in and tidy up once a week. I think she may have missed a couple of weeks, but I don’t want to get her in trouble by telling her mother. I also don’t want to jeopardize my cantaloupe perk.

  We’re about to head down to Sam’s office when he shows up. “I thought I heard you. We have a case?”

  Sam considers himself a cross between Sherlock Holmes and Eliot Ness, and closer to the latter. His work as my investigator has soured him on accounting, but that is unfortunately how he makes his living. He wants to be around when the shooting starts, which represents quite a change for him. A few years ago he would have said that Smith & Wesson was an accounting firm in Passaic.

  “We don’t have a case. We have a research project.”

  “Oh,” he says, obviously disappointed.

  “But it involves a murder, and I can’t promise, but there’s a chance you can shoot someone.”

  “Cool. Is it the murder on Twenty-sixth Street? The guy who got his neck sliced?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “We looking for the slicer?” he asks.

  “At this point we just want to learn about the slicee.”

  “Gerald Downey, right?”

  “Right.”

  Laurie enters the conversation for the first time. “Sam, we think someone hired him to steal something. So we want to know who he’s been in contact with the last couple of weeks, and maybe if he received any unusual amounts of money.”

  “What did he steal?”

  “A dog.”

  “A valuable dog? Like a show dog?” he asks.

  “No. A mix.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “Yes, Sam,” I say. “Weird is exactly the word for it.”

  “If you run down to the jail now, you can get yourself a client,” Pete says. Pete knows I have no interest in a client, so if he’s calling me at home to tell me that someone is in jail, it must relate to the Downey case. “You made an arrest?”

  “I performed extraordinary police work, which resulted in the perpetrator being brought to justice, and our community made safer.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Guy’s name is Tommy Infante. He’s a business associate of Downey’s and they had a dispute. It didn’t end well.”

  “What about Cheyenne?” I ask.

  “What does that mean?”

  “The dog. Where does she fit in? Was she Infante’s dog?”

  “Give me a break, Andy. The dog doesn’t fit in; it’s a dog. The dispute had nothing to do with the dog. Leave me alone with the damn dog.”

  “The victim stole Cheyenne an hour before he got killed. That’s how you found the body in the first place.”

  “So mention that in the eulogy.”

  “Do me a favor—”

  Pete interrupts. “Another one?”

  “It’s only just begun. Can you call over to the jail and clear the way for me to see Infante?”

  “You’re a pain in the ass,” Pete says, and hangs up. His gratefulness to me for representing him seems to be wearing off.

  I ask Laurie, who has overheard my side of the conversation, “You up for a romantic afternoon at the jail?”

  “One of us has to pick up our son at school, unless we get him an apartment there.”

  I’ve got a feeling I’m not in line for the father of the year award, because I had completely forgotten about that. I’ve spent almost forty years trying to learn how to take care of myself, and doing so for another human being does not come naturally.

  So I head down to the jail, all by myself, alone and dateless. Laurie’s getting overconfident; doesn’t she realize that I could pick up the phone and get a hundred women who would jump at the opportunity to go to the jail with me and meet a murderer?

  Tommy Infante is in an area of the jail where the accused but not yet convicted are held. It’s not as depressing as prison, where hope is pretty much nonexistent. In this pretrial phase there is always the possibility, at least in the accused’s mind, that something will happen to derail the process. Maybe the prosecutor will decide there isn’t enough evidence to go forward, or they’ll arrest somebody else.

  The possibility that something great like that could happen is slim, but who knows? It’s like if you’re a fringe major league player being called into the manager’s office. You’re hitting 190, so it’s likely he’s going to tell you he’s sending you down to the minors, but there’s always a chance he just wants to compliment you on your hustle, or the play you made in the third inning. You’ve got hope and a chance until you don’t have them anymore.

  I tell the clerk at the visitor’s desk who I am and that I want to see Infante. Pete has done his job and called them, so that part goes smoothly. However, they still have to make sure that Infante is willing to see me, so I sit and wait while that effort is made.

  Everything takes forever within the workings of the jail, which makes little sense. By definition, no one has anyplace to go or very much to do, so you’d think they could move a little quicker. I’m very surprised when only twenty minutes have passed before the clerk’s phone rings, with the word that Infante will see me.

  I’m also surprised when they don’t bring me to the visitor’s area, where people talk on phones through the glass. Instead I’m led to an anteroom, which must mean they think I am here as Infante’s lawyer. I do nothing to dissuade them from thinking this, since I prefer the privacy.

  I’m here for five minutes when Tommy Infante is brought in. He’s tall, at least six-four, and seems to be in reasonably good shape. He has a clean-cut look about him, and somehow seems out of place in this establishment.

  He’s in cuffs, and the guard simply points to the empty chair and says, “Sit down.” Once Infante does that, the guard unlocks one cuff from his wrist and attaches it to the metal table. He leaves without saying another word.

  Infante watches him leave, then turns to me and says, “Quite a talker.”

  The sarcasm is not world class, but it seems so incongruous to the surroundings that I laugh out loud. Of course, a lawyer laughing in these surroundings is even more incongruous. So we’re a couple of fun-loving, walking incongruities.

  “You don’t seem worried,” I say.

  “I’m plenty worried. But I’m feeling better that you’re here.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve heard about you. You’re a famous lawyer, so you’re probably good.”

  “That’s not why I’m here.”

  “Nobody sent you?” he asks.

  It’s a strange comment for him to make. “Who would have sent me?”

  He shakes his head. “My luck keeps getting worse. Why the hell are you here?”

  “Just before Downey was killed, he stole a dog from my rescue foundation.”

  He looks at me as if I’m nuts. “And?”

  “And I was wondering if you
knew anything about that. Or maybe if it was your dog.”

  He thinks for a moment, and then asks, “That’s really what this is about?”

  I nod. “It is. Sorry if you expected something else.”

  “Let me ask you a question,” he says. “When you have a client in my position, what’s the first thing you tell him?”

  “Not to say a word to anyone. Talk only to your lawyer.”

  “Right. And since you just told me you’re not my lawyer, why would I possibly want to talk to you, about a dog or anything else?”

  It’s a good point, and I tell him so. “On the other hand,” I say, “I’m trying to figure out what is going on, and I have investigators working on it. There’s a chance I can find something out which gets you off the hook.”

  “Getting off the hook is an appealing idea,” he says, and we launch into a mini-negotiation. At its conclusion, he hires me as his lawyer for an hour, and gives me an IOU for one dollar. It binds me to confidentiality regarding anything he might say.

  Once that is out of the way, his question is as deflating as it is simple and short.

  “Downey stole a dog?”

  “Why would he steal a dog?” Tommy presses, his confusion evident.

  “That’s what I just asked you,” I point out, though it’s become obvious Tommy is not going to enlighten me on the matter.

  “I have no idea,” he says. “I never saw Downey with a dog. He wasn’t even the dog type.”

  “How did you know him?”

  “We hung out in the same places.”

  “You were friends?”

  He hesitates. “At one point. Not lately.”

  “Why is that?” I ask.

  “We committed a robbery together,” he says, and then provides a legally insignificant correction. “He did the robbery; I drove the car.”

  “What did you steal?’

  “We hit a jewelry store in downtown Paterson. I needed the money; I’ve got a sick kid. Downey never paid me my share.”

  “So that helps them with motive,” I say, more to myself than to him.

  “It gets much worse. I ran into Downey in a bar, last Monday night. We had an argument about it, in front of a lot of people.”

  “Did you threaten him?”

  He nods. “I said if he didn’t give me my money, I would slit his damn throat.”

  The first thing they teach you in law school is that when someone gets their throat sliced, it’s never good to be the person who threatened to do the slicing. It has a tendency to make the police slightly suspicious.

  Infante says that he could never commit such a crime, and certainly didn’t do so. He says it was an empty threat, born out of frustration, and he knows how bad that looks.

  “Any idea what other evidence they have?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “They couldn’t have any, at least nothing legitimate. I didn’t do it.”

  “They wouldn’t make the arrest based on just the threat. They have to have something else.”

  “I didn’t kill the guy,” he says.

  I have no idea if he’s telling the truth, and even when I do have instincts in matters like this, I am wrong as often as right. “I’ll let you know if I find out anything that you can use.”

  “I need help,” he says. “I need you to help me.”

  My mind tells my mouth not to answer that, but my mouth rarely cares what my mind says. “I’ll take you through the arraignment, and then I’ll see to it you get a good lawyer.”

  I’m not exactly thrilled with the outcome of my meeting with Tommy. I got none of the information that I wanted, and instead wound up with a temporary client that I definitely did not want. It was a lose-lose.

  Heading home I find myself starting to accept the fact that I may never find out how or if Cheyenne is tied in to Downey’s murder. At this point it would seem the only possible way would be to discover who Cheyenne’s previous owner was, but I can’t figure out a way to do that.

  Cheyenne was found stray, alone on a Paterson street, and was taken to the shelter by an animal control officer. She was held there for the required five days, necessary to give an owner time to find her there. No one claimed her, and soon after that we took her out of the shelter and into our foundation.

  I get home just in time for dinner with Laurie and Ricky. We used to order in quite frequently, but since adopting Ricky, Laurie has been cooking a lot more. I think it’s some kind of motherly instinct, or something. Whatever it is, I don’t think I have it, because tonight I’d rather bring in a pizza.

  After dinner, Ricky and I go on our evening walk with Tara and Sebastian. It’s time that Tara and I used to have to ourselves, but I find that I enjoy the addition of Ricky and Sebastian. Maybe it’s a fatherly instinct.

  “Can I talk to you about something, Dad?” Ricky asks. I have to admit, even after these months, I still get a kick out of him calling me Dad.

  But I’m also a little worried about the subject of this upcoming talk. Ricky was in his house months ago when his father was gunned down, and it is certainly not unexpected that he’s had some difficulties recovering from that trauma. Laurie takes him to see a child therapist twice a week, and while he is by all accounts doing very well, he has his ups and downs.

  I don’t really know how to handle these kinds of things, and I’m afraid of screwing up, so I try to defer to Laurie whenever possible. This could be one of those times I’m not going to be able to.

  “You don’t need to ask me that, Rick,” I say. “You can always talk to me about anything, at any time.”

  It turns out that I had completely misjudged the subject matter. “I don’t think I want to play baseball anymore” is what he says, and while I am relieved, I am also totally horrified.

  “ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND? GIVE UP BASEBALL? WHAT ABOUT ME? WHAT ABOUT MY DREAMS? ARE YOU ONLY THINKING ABOUT YOURSELF?” I don’t actually say any of these things; I’m way too mature for that.

  “How come, Rick?” is what I actually say.

  “It’s not so much fun.”

  My heart is heavy. It’s just not fair; Babe Ruth’s father never had to go through anything like this. “You want to try it a while longer? Maybe you’ll change your mind. You’re really good at it.”

  “Nah. I want to play soccer instead.”

  Soccer? That is the unkindest cut of all. Can my only son be a communist? “Et tu, Pelé?” I say, unfortunately out loud.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing. Soccer could be fun, unless you like scoring, or knowing how much time is left in the game, and if you don’t care about having to say words like ‘nil.’ Let’s talk to Mom about it.”

  “So you’re not mad?” he asks.

  “Of course not,” I say, not mentioning that I’m pained, crushed, and horrified.

  When we get home, Laurie is watching the local news, which has been heavily covering the Downey murder. The media apparently considers near beheadings sexy; if Downey had been shot, it would have been a one-day story.

  I don’t talk to Laurie about Ricky’s baseball-soccer decision, because the coverage has given me an idea. And to make it work, I need to go drink some beer.

  Raymond Healy was feeling the pressure from his money people. They were technically his partners, but that’s not how he thought of them. Theirs was a partnership of profit, or at least that was how it had been so far. If that profit ceased to exist, then so would the relationship.

  Healy’s other partner, Hendrik Cronje, had learned that lesson the hard way. The last time they had met, in Johannesburg, had been the last time they would ever meet.

  Cronje had attempted to cheat Healy; in fact, he did more than make the attempt. He had absolutely cheated him, providing less merchandise than he was contracted and paid to provide. He either thought Healy would not notice, or would simply accept the situation as a cost of doing business.

  Healy did neither. He handled Cronje the same way he had handled many enemies in his past, by s
hooting him in the head. And Cronje had reacted in the exact same way the other enemies had reacted, by dying.

  Killing him was impulsive and counterproductive, but Healy had compounded the mistake by making an even bigger one. He had neglected to get rid of the body. It had been a thought-out decision; he reasoned that it would spread the word that Healy was a very dangerous man, so that others would not mess with him in the future.

  He had miscalculated. Those that would have replaced Cronje as a source worried that doing so could eventually mean sharing his fate. Cronje was no more unscrupulous than they were, in fact probably less so, which led them to the inescapable conclusion that doing business with Healy was not in their self-interest. And they were people who were one hundred percent motivated by self-interest.

  They dealt in diamonds, as precious a commodity as existed, and there was no shortage of customers. Why deal with Healy when other, far less menacing people would fit the bill nicely?

  So Healy was left in the very uncomfortable position of having to supply goods that he could not acquire, at a time when they were particularly needed. The people waiting for the goods were very dangerous, but that was not Healy’s major concern. He was dangerous himself, as they would find out if they threatened him.

  But this was a rare opportunity, a chance to make a score so big that it could easily be the final one. So what bothered Healy was that without the goods, without the diamonds, he would be deprived of a fortune.

  Which was why he had to find Eric Brantley.

  “Well, look who’s here.… Welcome to another episode of Father Knows Best.” Vince Sanders, who doubles as my friend and the single most disagreeable person on the planet, is insulting me before I even get to the table. It’s not a news event that he and Pete Stanton are at our regular table at Charlie’s sports bar; it would take an act of Congress to keep them away.

  What Vince is alluding to is the fact that I have not been here as regularly as usual, and that I often cite fatherly responsibilities as the reason. Vince understands the importance of family; he just ranks it somewhat below beer and sports.