Who Let the Dog Out?

by David Rosenfelt

  “I don’t have too much to say” is how I begin. “It’s been a long couple of days, and there’s a lot I can’t say about it. But I do want everyone to understand that what happened in Maine yesterday was a terrible tragedy. My condolences and thoughts go to the victims and their families.

  “There is obviously a lot of confusion surrounding these events, but one thing is absolutely clear. Tommy Infante sits in jail, wrongfully accused of murder. My hope is that the prosecutor, Mr. Campbell, will not be the last one to realize this. Thank you.”

  As I finish, there is a moment of strange silence. I can see in their faces that they want to throw out questions, but they are trying to process what Tommy Infante possibly could have to do with the murders in Maine.

  It’s all I can do not to laugh as I turn and go into the house. I’m no sooner in the door than Ricky comes running up to me, with Laurie behind him.

  “Dad! I just saw you on television! You were in front of our house!”

  “I know, Rick.”

  “Why were you on?”

  “It was for my job,” I say.

  “Cool! I want to do that job when I get big. Can I?”

  “Sure. You can go to law school in the offseason. Spring training doesn’t start until February.”

  Satisfied with the outcome of the conversation, Ricky turns to Laurie. “Hey, Mom! Dad says I can go to law school before spring something!”

  “That’s wonderful, Rick.”

  “I’m going to be on television!”

  Ricky runs out of the room, probably to start filling out his law school applications. That leaves Laurie and I alone, so we can talk about shootings and murders and robberies, the things that she and I can romantically share.

  “You doing okay?” she asks. “You’ve been having a rough time lately.”

  I nod. “It’s pretty hard to get used to. It was an ugly scene, and for Stephanie to walk in on it…”

  “You said they were executed? Shot in the back of the head?”

  “That’s what it looked like to me. I didn’t hang around in there much.”

  She looks puzzled. “They just ran a report on CNN … you might want to turn it on.”

  I walk over and turn the television on to CNN, and it has a huge BREAKING NEWS banner plastered across the bottom of the screen. It’s part of the trend in television news, everything is treated as a monumental revelation worthy of being declared BREAKING NEWS. I’m waiting for the time when they announce the BREAKING NEWS that there is no BREAKING NEWS.

  It’s what’s under the banner that gets my attention. It says, “FBI: Brantley Death is Murder-Suicide.” There is no way that can be the case, unless one of the victims shot the other, then lay facedown, reached around, and shot himself in the head. Then, remarkably, his dead body would have had to discard the gun, since I didn’t see any weapon near the bodies.

  “This is crap,” I say, since I am nothing if not eloquent.

  Laurie nods. “That’s what I thought you’d say. You were under a lot of stress; is it possible you saw it wrong?”

  “It is not possible. But you should check with Marcus. He got in the room even before I did, and he is not familiar with the concept of stress.”

  “So let’s assume you remember it correctly. Why would they be giving out false information?”

  “The easy answer is there is something they want to conceal, and it must be something significant, because in this day and age it’s hard to sell bullshit stories like this. The local cops on the scene know the truth. Marcus, Stephanie, and I know the truth. But the FBI seems to have created their own truth.”

  As I am saying that, another significant question comes to mind. “And why the hell was the FBI there in the first place? Two guys got murdered in a city in Maine; what about that brings the Bureau in?”

  “It’s interstate,” Laurie says. “Brantley’s case goes from New Jersey to Maine.”

  “Maybe, but the FBI was in on it immediately. They swooped in like they were ready for it; there wasn’t time for the locals to have invited them in.”

  I’m thinking about this like a lawyer, which I guess is sort of appropriate, since that’s what I am. But I don’t care that much about what it is they’re hiding about Eric Brantley; my focus is how I can use my knowledge of the truth as a bargaining chip for Tommy Infante.

  “Have they said anything about the other victim?” I ask.

  “I don’t think so, unless it’s been in the last few minutes. I think one of the commentators referred to him as an associate of Brantley’s.”

  I nod. “Getting killed with someone definitely makes him worthy of the associate label.”

  “So where are you going to take this?” she asks.

  “Nowhere. They’re going to come to us.”

  Alan Divac was experiencing a particular feeling for the first time. It was the sense that things were moving out of his control, something that simply did not happen to him. Divac was used to calling the shots, and never, ever being surprised.

  The visit from the lawyer, Carpenter, was a little disconcerting, but no big deal. Carpenter was flailing around in the dark, with no real knowledge about what was happening. The fact that he wanted Divac to provide him with a road map to the illegal diamond business was unintentionally comical, but it was not a joke that Divac could share with him.

  Divac had believed that Downey’s death was unrelated to his own business, and that Carpenter was defending a guilty man. Now he was not so sure. Because now Brantley was dead, and Divac’s sources told him that Healy was as well. Divac hadn’t ordered the killings, although he certainly was not going to mourn for Brantley. Brantley was a competitor, and though that didn’t warrant a death sentence, it wasn’t going to keep Divac up nights.

  But the fact that it had happened without his knowledge, and more importantly the fact that Healy was another victim, added a new and ominous aspect to the situation. Divac was feeling isolated, and unsure of his next move. He had taken to relying on Healy to help deal with these kinds of situations, but now Healy was gone.

  All of this meant that a new player had entered the game, and if that player was able to handle Healy, he was going to be hard to deal with.

  As I predicted, it doesn’t take long for the FBI to show up. I came down to the office, since that’s the most likely place they’d be looking for me. And sure enough, thirty minutes after I get here, two FBI agents come walking through the door.

  So my prediction has come to pass, except for the fact that while they look and sound exactly like FBI agents, that’s not what they are. They are with Immigration and Customs Enforcement, better known as ICE.

  One of them is at least six-three, and the other no more than five-eleven. They are wearing the exact same navy suit, different only in that one of them must have four inches less material. Usually I find that it’s the shorter agent who speaks first, though I have no idea why.

  Once again my short/tall theory holds, and the shorter one speaks. “I’m Agent Hernandez, and this is Agent Gardiner.”

  I find it important to demonstrate early on in these conversations that I am not intimidated. “Both of your first names are Agent? Wow, what are the odds against that?”

  “I heard you were a pain in the ass,” he says.

  “How? I’ve never dealt with ICE before. Are you guys finally communicating between agencies? That’s comforting.”

  They are obviously quick learners, because we are only a few seconds into a conversation, and they’ve already learned to ignore my bullshit. “What were you doing in Maine yesterday?” Hernandez asks.

  “I was white-water rafting. You ever try it? It’s quite an adventure.”

  This time it’s Gardiner. “I would suggest you start answering our questions.”

  “Okay. Hey, wait … I’ve got an even better idea. Let’s answer each other’s questions; I’ll start. Why does ICE care why I was in Maine? And who was the other dead guy in that house besides Eric Brantley?
And what was in the storage barn that was broken into? You can answer them in any order you like.”

  “Carpenter, you are making a mistake.”

  “No, I am defending my client. If this conversation is not going to benefit Tommy Infante, then there isn’t going to be a conversation. So if those terms don’t work for you, then get the hell out of here. In which case the only thing you will hear from me is a statement to the media saying that was no murder-suicide in that house.”

  The two agents look at each other, practicing silent agent-speak, and then they stand up. “We’ll be back real soon,” Hernandez says.

  “Great. It will give me something to look forward to.”

  They leave, and I’m pleased with how it went. In a perfect world, they would have filled in many of the blanks that I have about Eric Brantley and the murders yesterday, but I had no expectations of that.

  The reason I’m pleased is that I accomplished one thing and learned another. I let them know that I am not going to be a pushover; that if they need something from me they are going to have to pay for it in terms of information. They may decide that they can do without me, but at least the ground rules have been set.

  I’ve learned something simply based on the agency for whom they work. It’s an Immigration and Customs case, and while I don’t know any of the details, just knowing that is a plus. I doubt that Brantley was smuggling immigrants in across the border; a much better guess would be that he was somehow involved in illegal goods.

  Diamonds come to mind.

  I call Sam, and he answers on the first ring. I don’t know how he does it, but he has answered on the first ring every single time I have ever called him. He must have his cell phone taped to his ear.

  He answers with “Talk to me.” That’s how he talks when he’s working on a case for me, in crisp clean phrases. I half expect him to say “roger” and “wilco.” When we’re not on a case, he’ll just answer with, “Hey, Andy, what’s going on?”

  “Hello, Sam.”

  “Did you really discover those bodies up in Maine?”

  “I was one of the people who did, yes.”

  “How cool is that?” he asks, clearly jealous at my proximity to the action.

  “Supercool, Sam. Supercool. I’ve got a job for you.”

  “Great. I’m ready.”

  “I want to know everywhere Eric Brantley traveled in the last two years. I’m most interested in travel abroad, and travel for business conferences, but I want everything.”

  “Piece of cake.”

  “Ten-four,” I say, before hanging up.

  I head down to the jail to see Tommy Infante. I haven’t been there in a few days, which I’m feeling guilty about. I like my clients to see my adorable face on a daily basis, so they won’t feel so alone.

  I’m not sure how much I should tell him about what’s been going on, but my decision is made for me by his first question. “What the hell were you doing in Maine?”

  Prisoners in the jail have access to some media, and he’s obviously seen reports about the Brantley murder and my being on the scene. I’m certainly not going to lie to him about it, so I lay it all out. There doesn’t seem to be any potential harm in doing so, since I’m not revealing any inside information or insight. I wish I had some to reveal.

  Tommy’s stress has seemed to increase of late, which is no surprise. The trial date is approaching, and there is no greater pressure in the world than waiting for a jury to decide your future.

  When I’m finished describing the situation in Maine, Tommy asks, “What does Brantley have to do with me? Just the dog?”

  “The dog and probably the diamonds.”

  “And who was the other dead guy?”

  “I don’t know; they’re not releasing his name.”

  “I’m in pretty deep shit here, aren’t I?”

  I sometimes don’t tell my clients everything, but I never lie to them. “I would say the shit is pretty deep, yes. It’s approaching eye level. But we’re digging away.”

  The burden of preparing for the Infante trial has fallen on Hike. That has freed me up for wasting my time and learning nothing whatsoever about unrelated murders that have nothing to do with the case I’m defending.

  On the positive side, I have my closing summation already prepared and ready to go. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Tommy Infante is innocent, because the victim stole someone else’s dog, and he had some diamonds.”

  Hike and I are meeting in the office to go over where we stand in trial preparation. It’s a big day; even Edna has made an appearance. She explained that she doesn’t want to overprepare for the upcoming crossword puzzle tournament, so doing some work might take her mind off it. Gee, I hope it does.

  Hike has done his usual professional job of interviewing prospective witnesses and preparing strategies for each of them on the witness stand. “I’ve got a couple more witnesses to question, but I need some help on it,” he says.

  “Who are they?”

  “Well, in the discovery it mentions that Tommy and the victim knocked over a jewelry store, and part of their motive is that Downey didn’t share the take with Tommy. That’s what Tommy apparently said when he threatened Downey in the bar. But there’s no indication as to which store it was, and no interview with the store owner.”

  “Okay, I’ll find out from Tommy.”

  “Good,” he says. “Last thing: somebody needs to talk to the bartender, a guy named Dan Hendricks, and it ain’t going to be me,” he says.

  He’s referring to the bartender on duty at the Market Street bar the night that Tommy threatened to slit Downey’s throat, a promise that somebody made good on. “What’s the problem?” I ask.

  “The people in that particular establishment didn’t appreciate what they considered an intrusion. They seemed inclined to physically harm the intruder, who in this case was me.”

  “They scared you off?” I ask. “Couldn’t you go at a time when it was fairly empty?”

  He nods. “They did, and I couldn’t. This particular bartender only works nights, when it’s crowded. Effective immediately, I only work days.”

  This presents me with a dilemma. Hike is not exactly a Navy SEAL, and he and I occupy a similar ranking on the courage scale. I call Laurie, who hears the situation and says, “I’ll get a sitter and go with you tonight.”

  I have an attitude that I’m afraid it’s fair to describe as sexist. If I am going to pathetically cower behind someone for protection, I prefer it to be a man. And if it has to be a woman, I’d like it to be someone other than the mother of my child.

  “I was thinking Marcus,” I say.

  “You don’t think I can handle it?” She and I both know that as a former police officer she can handle it quite well.

  “I see you more as a delicate flower.”

  “Okay, I’ll call Marcus. It would be tough to get a sitter for tonight anyway.”

  I tell Laurie to arrange for Marcus to pick me up at home at eight o’clock, which will give me time to join her and Ricky for dinner, and then have a drink to fortify myself. I suspect Hike has been overstating the hostile atmosphere in the bar, but I still could use a little alcoholic reinforcement, in addition to Marcus.

  I wind up deciding not to have the drink, since my tolerance for it seems to decrease every year. It must be a thing about getting older or maybe falling out of practice; I used to be able to handle my liquor quite well, but now if I see a beer commercial I get woozy.

  Marcus is never late, and he’s never early, so I walk outside at 7:59, and as I’m reaching the curb, he pulls up. I get in and say, “How are you, Marcus?” and I think he grunts a greeting, but I can’t be sure because the classical music is turned up high.

  I gently reach over and turn it down a little, so that he can hear me explain where we’re going and why, although I think Laurie has already done so. He doesn’t kill me, so I take that as a sign that I can start my explanation.

  The bar is called t
he Study Hall, as incongruous a name as any I have ever heard. It’s a few blocks from Eastside High School, which is where I went. In those days it was a luncheonette called the Cozy. We went there every day so that I could have lunch and be rejected by girls.

  Then the powers that be decided that students should have to eat lunch at school, which ensured the Cozy’s sudden demise. We couldn’t go there anymore, which meant I had to bring my own lunch and be rejected by girls on school grounds. The Cozy has reopened as a seedy bar, and the “Study Hall” name must be some backhanded reference to the fact that it is near the school.

  My plan is to leave Marcus outside, and only have him come in if I need him. The reason for that is that Marcus can make people a tad uncomfortable, and if the conversation with the bartender can take place with him feeling free and unintimidated, I’m likely to get more out of him.

  As they say, war plans change as soon as the enemy is encountered, and my plan changes when we pull up to the bar. The Study Hall is a tough place in a very tough neighborhood, and it’s fair to say that very little “studying” takes place here.

  I don’t even have to tell Marcus about the change in strategy; he simply opens his door and gets out. He has a rather good understanding of my capabilities.

  We enter the bar, which is actually not crowded at all. There are maybe a dozen patrons, including two very large men in T-shirts three sizes too small who are playing pool at a table near the bar. Every single person in this bar could kick my ass, including the two women seated at a table next to the jukebox.

  I can sense that just about everyone is watching us, though I don’t know if it’s Marcus or me that is drawing the most attention. As out of place as I look in here, my guess would be Marcus.

  I steal a look at my cell phone, to see if there is cell service here in case I have to call 911. I doubt I will, since Marcus is rather reliable, but it can’t hurt to be sure. My phone has no bars, so Marcus is on his own.

  We go to the bar, which only has two people sitting at it. They’re watching the Yankees game on television, as is the bartender. He’s leaning on the bar, hand supporting his chin, as he watches.