Who Let the Dog Out?

by David Rosenfelt

  For Pete nothing ranks above sports, and he has his eyes glued to one of the TVs showing the Mets game. He ignores my arrival, and I have to say I prefer that approach to Vince’s.

  “What a treat to see you guys,” I say, while signaling to our waitress. I don’t have to tell her what I want; she knows the drill. Light beer, hamburger, and French fries so burnt that it would take a forensics team from CSI: Paris to identify them.

  “Mets stink,” Pete says, ever the conversationalist.

  “So Vince, I want to talk business with you.” Vince is the managing editor of the Record, a local newspaper.

  “Then make an appointment with my secretary. I think I have an opening a month from Wednesday.”

  “Good, that’ll give you almost five weeks to read the story on the front page of the Star Ledger.”

  Vince stares a dagger at me. “You threatening me?”

  I nod. “Yup, and I’ll go a step further. You listen to what I have to say, or I won’t pick up the check.”

  He thinks for a moment, then looks at his watch and says, “I think a spot just opened up on my calendar … in four seconds. Talk to me.”

  “Gerry Downey stole one of our dogs an hour and a half before he died. The dog was sitting next to his body when we found him.”

  Pete frowns, and without taking his eyes off the television, says, “The dog thing again?”

  I don’t bother answering him, and Vince doesn’t either. I’ve got his attention.

  “Details,” he says. “Give me details.”

  So I give him the details, at least as many as I have. I end my recounting of the events with, “And showing no concern for my own well-being, I rushed in to save the poor, innocent dog, even though I had every reason to believe I would have to deal with a vicious murderer.”

  Pete grunts his disgust, but my eyes are on Vince. As a good newspaperman, I know this will be irresistible to him. Downey’s murder is a big local story, but it will lose steam, like all stories. This will present a fresh aspect of the case, and something that Vince’s competitors won’t have. It will give him a day or two advantage.

  “And your interest in this is what exactly?” he asks.

  “I want to find the dog’s real owner.”

  Pete moves smoothly from a grunt to a moan, but he’s having no impact on our conversation.

  “Why?” Vince asks.

  “Because I want to know if the theft of the dog is related to the murder.”

  “You representing the killer?” Vince asks.

  “I’m representing the accused, at least through the arraignment.”

  Pete does a double take at this, and for the first time takes his eyes off the ball game. “You run out of ambulances to chase?”

  “Actually, what I am doing is pursuing a line of inquiry that you seem to have missed. It’s not the first time.”

  He shakes his head. “This isn’t about dogs, it’s about precious stones.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Downey had a pair of large uncut diamonds hidden in a drawer. Unless he was planning to get engaged to two women really soon, that’s an unusual piece of information, don’t you think?”

  It’s a very unusual piece of information, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of my saying so, so instead I ignore him and turn to Vince. “What do you say, Vince?”

  “You got pictures?”

  “I’ve got a picture of the dog, Cheyenne. You printing it is how we’re going to find the owner.”

  “And you’ll give us an exclusive interview?”

  “Of course I will. You’re my favorite journalist.”

  He points to the food and drink on the table. “And you’re picking up the check? Because I’m looking to have at least three more beers.”

  I nod. “Nothing would make me happier.”

  Vince smiles, something he only does when he knows he will not have to reach for his wallet. “I like your style.”

  What Eric Brantley felt was a combination of panic and despair. He was a smart guy, always had been. And not just smart as a chemist and scientist; that was something he was born with. He also considered himself smart when it came to common sense and living life. Yet it was that intelligence that had failed him.

  And, he knew, one way or another, it would prove his undoing.

  The murder of Gerry Downey had shaken him to his core, even more than the murder of Michael Caruso. Eric had known he was entering a world that could be dangerous, but the chance for astonishing wealth made it a risk that seemed worth taking. Because he was smart, and because he had the goods that he knew were so valuable, he thought he could handle it.

  Caruso’s murder, while horrifying, had somehow seemed within the realm of possibility. Of course it had stunned Eric, but not like the Downey killing. That had told him that his pursuers were relentless, and absolutely brutal. They would do anything to find him, and when they did, his life would be over.

  Going to Downey in the first place was a major risk, and ultimately a major mistake. Nobody else could possibly understand, but with the loneliness and desolation he felt, he just wanted his dog with him. But he had misjudged the risk and that mistake had almost gotten him caught, and it had probably cost Downey his life.

  But Eric believed that there was simply nothing he could now do. To go to the authorities would end his life in another way. He would go to prison on a number of charges, possibly including terrorism and murder. He might be killed in prison, but at the very least it was not a life that would be worth living.

  So he had moved to this small town, to the state he had visited with his parents every summer. He had grown a beard, and was living a quiet, anonymous life, with no attachments. He knew that he was not far from where the incident was to take place; he had overheard them talking about it.

  Logically, there was no way his pursuers could know where he was; this might have been the last place they’d look. Yet Eric knew in his gut that eventually they would find out. And then they would come for him.

  They knew his secret, and worse yet, he knew theirs.

  And he would take them both to his grave.

  “Why don’t one of you guys get the paper?” I’m still in bed, speaking to Tara and Sebastian, who are lying on their dog beds across the room. Laurie is up already, probably hanging out with Ricky. The dogs and I are sleeping in, if that’s how you can describe getting up at seven a.m.

  Unfortunately, they are not finished with the sleeping part of their day. Sebastian ignores me entirely, while Tara briefly raises her eyes in a gesture of disdain. They would have no interest in trudging outside to get the paper under any circumstances, but at this hour of the morning they do not deem it worthy of serious consideration.

  And then, as proof that dreams can come true, Laurie comes into the bedroom bearing a cup of coffee and the newspaper, both of which she hands to me. I accept both, and then say to Tara and Sebastian, “That is how I am supposed to be treated. You have much to learn from your human mother.”

  “I just thought you’d never get your ass out of bed,” Laurie says. “Vince really came through.”

  I’m glad to hear that, and it is the reason I wanted to get the paper in the first place. “Great,” I say, and I don’t have to look hard to find out what she means. There, on page one, is the picture of Cheyenne that Willie had taken for the occasion.

  The matching story has the headline, “Do you know this dog?” It then goes on to explain Cheyenne’s connection to the Downey murder, and implies that the dog’s identity might well be a key to solving the murder. The police, of course, consider the murder already solved, but Vince’s reporter subtly implies that this new lead has the potential to prove them wrong.

  “We hear from Sam yet?” I ask, and then realize that we couldn’t have, because the phone would have woken me.

  Before Laurie can respond, as if on cue, the phone starts ringing. She picks it up, looks at the caller ID, and hands it to me. “Speak of
the computer devil,” she says.

  “What’s up?” I ask when I answer it.

  “Calls have started already,” he says.

  I had asked Vince to publish a phone number for people with information about Cheyenne to call, and he had done so. It’s a number we got just for this purpose, and had installed in Sam’s office. “The team in place?” I ask.

  “All except for Morris. His great-grandkids are visiting; they go back to Pennsylvania tomorrow morning.”

  Sam teaches a computer class at the Wayne WMHA, and he has some prize students that he calls on occasionally to do some outside work. They include Hilda and Eli Mandlebaum, Leon Goldberg, and Morris Fishman. Hilda is the baby of the group, and Sam told me she’s eighty-five. But they are smart, available, and they can outwork anyone. Plus, they get up at four-thirty in the morning, so by seven-thirty they are into the meat of the day.

  “Anything promising so far?” I ask.

  “I don’t think so, but there have only been two calls. We’re just taking down the information, and we’ll analyze what we’ve got later. I’ll be able to go over it with you tonight.”

  “Can we do that here? Laurie is teaching a class tonight, so I need to be here for Ricky.”

  “You angling for Father of the Year?” Sam asks.

  “You think it’s unusual that I would not want to leave an eight-year-old boy alone?”

  “My parents left me alone all the time.”

  “Ahhh,” I say. “Another piece of the puzzle slips neatly into place.”

  I reluctantly get out of bed, and take Tara and Sebastian on their morning walk, kissing Ricky and Laurie on the way out. My morning kissing output has doubled since Ricky entered our lives, but I’m okay with it.

  We take a long walk through Eastside Park. Tara is very familiar with the route, and Sebastian is getting used to it, but both of them seem really into it. Tara sniffs something, and then Sebastian follows her lead, as if relying on Tara to point out the best stuff.

  When we get home I call Billy “Bulldog” Cameron, the attorney who runs the public defender’s office in Passaic County. He’s not called Bulldog because he’s a relentless defender of his clients, although he certainly is that. The nickname comes from the fact that he played football for Georgia, and famously caught a last-second pass to beat Auburn.

  The other thing Billy is famous for is always complaining about how overworked and underpaid his meager office staff is. I let him do so for the first three minutes of the conversation, partially because his complaints are justified, and partially because I couldn’t stop him if I tried.

  He finally gets around to asking why I’m calling.

  “I’ve got a client for you,” I say. “A murder case.”

  “Just what I need. Why can’t you represent him?”

  “I am, but only through the arraignment, which is today. I’m doing it sort of as a favor.”

  “Well, how about doing me a favor?” he asks. “Extend your representation through the trial, conviction, sentencing, and execution.”

  “Sorry, I’m retiring. I’ll invite you to the party; you can bring a gift. I’m registered at Tiffany’s and Giants Stadium.”

  Billy agrees to have one of his attorneys, Deb Kohl, meet me at the arraignment, so I can introduce her to Tommy, and make the changeover.

  I’m not even feeling guilty about it; I know Deb and she’s talented and aggressive. She’s in the public defender’s office to help the most vulnerable in our society, which means she must have forgotten to take the Glory of Compensation in law school.

  I’ve got a few hours before the arraignment, so I decide to browse through some of the discovery documents that the prosecutor’s office on the Infante case has sent me. They are not aware that I am giving up the case after the arraignment, which means they clearly have me confused with someone with a work ethic.

  It’s only the very beginning of the case, but the prosecution already has some pretty strong evidence. They’re aware of Tommy’s admission that he helped Downey on the liquor store robbery, and also know of his threat to slit Downey’s throat.

  Maybe worse, the bloody knife that they believe killed Downey was found buried in Tommy’s backyard. The tests have not come back yet to identify it as Downey’s blood, but at this point it seems like a safe bet. There’s also a whole bunch of fingerprint evidence.

  All in all, it seems very much like a case I have no desire to try in front of a judge. Or a jury. Or a mirror.

  I get to the courthouse a half hour early so I can meet with my soon-to-be ex-client. He’s waiting for me in the anteroom when I get there, and the look on his face is familiar, one that I see in many clients when they make this first appearance in court. It’s a combination of hope and fear.

  He’s been waiting for something, anything, to happen, and he’s trying to believe that whatever is going to happen will be good. Someone is paying attention to him, and maybe that attention will somehow result in his going free.

  Of course, the fear is very present as well. He’s feeling intimidated by the process, and it is quite possible, even likely, that the full force of the government is about to commence squashing him.

  What will soon become readily apparent to him is that arraignments are almost never of consequence. It’s a way for the system to get its house in order as it relates to this particular case, just a setting of the judicial table.

  I tell all this to Tommy, but I don’t think it fully registers with him. He has no criminal record, which surprised me when I found out about it, but that means this is his first time going through this. Once the judge gets into the courtroom and starts droning on, he’ll get the drift, but he’s not ready for it yet.

  “How do you want to plead?” I ask, and then explain the various options. The explanation doesn’t take too long, since he’s familiar with the concepts of “guilty” and “not guilty.” I don’t get into the plea bargaining possibilities, since I haven’t discussed them with the prosecution. That will be for his next lawyer.

  “Not guilty,” he says.

  “They found the probable murder weapon buried in the yard behind your house.” I’m not saying this to get him to change his plea; even if he is ultimately going to bargain, this is not the time to do anything but register a “not guilty” plea.

  He does a double take in obvious surprise, or it could be a fake double take in fake surprise. “That can’t be,” he says. “They must have planted it. Damn … what can we do about it?”

  “That will be for you to take up with your next lawyer. She’ll be here and you’ll meet her after the arraignment. Her name is Deb Kohl; I know her and she’s good.”

  “I want you,” he says, then more softly. “Please.”

  I start to answer, when the guard knocks on the door, and enters. “They’re ready for you,” he says.

  We get up to head into the courtroom, and the guard walks ahead. “Do you have any idea why Downey would have two valuable diamonds in his apartment?” I ask.

  Tommy looks puzzled. “Are you kidding? The son of a bitch told me he was broke.”

  Flying from the Republic of Georgia to New York is not an easy trip. The quickest way to do it is to fly out of Tbilisi Airport in Georgia, change planes in Moscow, and fly direct to JFK, but even that takes seventeen hours.

  Alek didn’t take the easiest way. One reason was that every member of the Russian military, as well as every law enforcement officer, would make their career by putting a bullet in his head. So Moscow was out.

  But the other reason was that Alek needed deception and anonymity when he traveled; it was the only way he could get in and out of countries, especially the United States. Part of that process called for his flight into the United States to be from a friendly country, so in this case Alek’s itinerary took him from Tbilisi, to Istanbul, to Frankfurt, to Madrid, and then to JFK.

  For each leg of the trip, Alek traveled under a different name and nationality; his various identification d
ocuments had been expensive but perfectly prepared. At no time did he use his real name, although by this point in his thirty-four-year-old life he barely remembered what that real name was. His full first name was Aleksandre, but he was known by everyone simply as Alek.

  No one had ever questioned him as to what his real full name was; Alek was not a person people questioned. He was a person people feared.

  This particular trip to New York took forty-one hours, including a night in a hotel in Madrid. The final leg to New York was delayed two hours, so Alek arrived at three o’clock in the afternoon. He was not tired; being tired was not a luxury that he ever allowed himself.

  The only way to describe his demeanor, the only way to ever describe it, was to say that he was alert. And very dangerous.

  Alek took a cab into Manhattan, directing the driver to the Michelangelo Hotel, on Fifty-first Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues. He had reserved a large suite; at this stage of his life, comfort was incongruously important to him. And compared to what he would earn for this operation, fourteen hundred dollars a night for the suite was a rounding error.

  It was Alek’s third time in New York, and if he had never come back, that would have been fine with him. He liked the energy, but not the people. He mocked the fact that New Yorkers considered themselves tough. Let them grow up where Alek grew up, and then they could talk about tough.

  Once he checked into the hotel, Alek went outside to walk around, and to find some food to bring back to his room. He searched the faces of the people he saw, because that was what he was trained to do. But he saw no one that he recognized; nor did he expect to.

  Alek would meet with his associate the next day, and it was then that he would fully assess the situation, and decide who he would have to kill. It would likely be a person who was himself dangerous; he would not die easily, but he would die. Perhaps he was going to have more than one target; that would be no problem either way.

  He would have much preferred not to have to intervene like this, but time was of the essence, and the operation was far too unique and important to be compromised. Alek would see to it that it wasn’t.