Who Let the Dog Out?

by David Rosenfelt

  “What did you do?”

  “Well, Pete was there, and—”

  “You mean Captain Stanton of the Paterson Police?”

  He nods. “Yeah. Pete. So the three of us went in, and you found Cheyenne, next to Downey’s body.”

  “Had you ever seen Mr. Downey before that?”

  “Yeah, he had come in looking to adopt a dog.”

  “Did he adopt one?” I ask.

  “No, I threw him out.”

  “Why?”

  “He said the dog would sleep in a doghouse. That ain’t happening,” he says, as most of the jury smile their approval.

  I lead him through the remaining events of the day of the murder, and he is an excellent witness. He only answers the questions that I ask, and does so concisely, sometimes colorfully. I can only hope he’ll get through cross-examination the same way.

  It turns out that I don’t seem to have anything to worry about. Dylan starts with, “Mr. Miller, did you see the murderer when you were at Mr. Downey’s house?”

  “No. If I did, he’d be sitting over there instead of Tommy Infante.” Willie points to the defense table in case Dylan was unsure what “over there” meant.

  Dylan objects to Willie’s answer, and seems irritated by the laughter of pretty much everyone in the courtroom. Judge Klingman sustains the objection, and tells the jury to disregard the answer. Good luck with that.

  “It’s a yes-or-no question, Mr. Miller. Did you see the murderer, or had he left already?”

  “I didn’t see him,” says Willie.

  “Thank you. No further questions.”

  Dylan has actually played it smart. Willie didn’t say anything that the jury didn’t know already, so Dylan had no reason to have to challenge him. He knows that Willie can be a loose cannon, so there was no upside to giving that cannon a chance to go off.

  Willie looks disappointed when Judge Klingman tells him that he can leave the witness stand. He’s having fun.

  That makes one of us.

  Stuart Fowler said a silent thank-you when he saw the rest area. The thank-you was because he couldn’t remember the last time he had to go to the bathroom quite that badly. He should have gone at the restaurant, especially after he had two beers, two diet sodas, some water, and a cup of coffee. But he didn’t, and he’d been regretting it ever since he got in the car.

  The reason the thank-you was silent was that the woman he’d had dinner with, Marti Laird, was sitting in the passenger seat. It was only their third date and he liked her a lot, but their relationship didn’t seem quite advanced enough for him to verbally agonize over having to go to the bathroom.

  So when they saw the sign for the rest area on the Palisades Parkway, Stuart casually said, “I’m going to stop here, if you don’t mind.” He said that even though he would have stopped anyway, even if she did mind. Better he should overrule her on that, than piss in the car.

  But Marti said, “Sure. No problem,” as he knew she would. So he pulled in and parked in the lot. It was fairly dark, so he said, “I’m going to lock the door,” and she didn’t try to dissuade him from doing so.

  Once that was accomplished, Stuart walked toward the building that he knew would contain the restroom. When he got there, he was stunned to see a sign on the door that apologized for the fact that the restroom was closed. Disbelieving, he tried the door, but it was locked.

  There was no way Stuart was getting back in that car without relieving himself, so he casually walked along the building, in the direction heading away from Marti and the car. He acted as if he were looking for another entrance, which is what he wanted her to think, if she could see him in the dim light.

  But there was no other entrance, and Stuart did not expect there to be one. He was heading for the back of the building, to do his business in the brush and then continue the ride home. There was nothing wrong with what he was doing; he just felt uncomfortable with Marti knowing it.

  When he was finished and feeling much, much better, he continued along the back of the building, so as to come out the other side, where the car was.

  He was five feet from the end of the building and still zipping up when, in the near darkness, he tripped over the body of Professor Charles Horowitz.

  “You still want the report on Horowitz, right?” Sam asks.

  It seems a strange question, or maybe I just think it’s strange because he’s woken me at seven a.m. to ask it. “Of course,” I say. “Why?”

  “You didn’t hear? He’s dead. They found his body in a rest area on the Palisades.”

  Court is not starting until after lunch today because one of the jurors has a doctor’s appointment, so I ask Sam to come right over. In the meantime, I turn on the news to see what details of Horowitz’s death they might be reporting, but there isn’t much.

  “Horowitz was a pretty boring guy,” Sam says to Laurie and me. “Didn’t go out much, and was actually in a bowling league on Tuesday nights. No unusual financial dealings that I can see.”

  “Tell me something I can use,” I say.

  “I was getting to that. Three days before he disappeared, he made a phone call to Alan Divac.”

  “Where? At his home? Cell phone?”

  Sam shakes his head. “No. At his company. But on Divac’s private line. I have no way of knowing if he actually talked to Divac.”

  “Would anyone else have access to that line?”

  Sam shrugs. “Can’t tell you that either.”

  “Turner would know,” Laurie says to me. “You could ask him.”

  “I will when I see him.”

  “When will that be?” she asks.

  “Day after tomorrow. I had Hike serve him with a subpoena to testify.”

  Sam leaves and I place a call to the coroner’s office. I’m put right through to Janet Carlson. “Andy, hope I didn’t hurt your case with my testimony.”

  “You were fair,” I say, which is true. “But now you have a chance to help my case.”

  “How?”

  “I assume Charles Horowitz was brought to your place last night?”

  “He was,” she confirms.

  “Have you sliced him up yet?” I ask.

  “You mean have I performed a medical autopsy on him?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I have not,” she says. “I’ll be starting in about a half hour.”

  “Any idea at this point as to cause of death?”

  “It’s a puzzler,” she says. “But based on my years of experience, I have a feeling that the bullet hole in the back of his head could be a factor.”

  “You’re a savvy veteran,” I say. “But I have one more question, which I would categorize as the key one. Can you estimate time of death? Within a day or two?”

  “Day or two?” she asks, clearly surprised. “He was only dead a couple of hours at the most when they found him.”

  I thank her and tell Laurie what she said. Then, “They kidnapped him and kept him alive for more than a week.”

  “Were there ransom demands of any kind?” she asks.

  “I don’t know, but I would certainly doubt it. I think they needed him, and now they don’t need him anymore.”

  “Needed him for what?”

  “He was a chemist, and close to Brantley and Caruso. I think he was their partner, and I think they showed him what they knew.”

  “So Horowitz was making them diamonds? Then why kill him? Why not keep him around to make more?”

  “Maybe they have all they need.”

  “For what?”

  “I don’t know the answer to that. But one way or another, I’ve got a feeling we’re going to know soon.”

  Stephanie Manning is clearly nervous, which isn’t really a problem. She’s certainly never testified in a murder trial before, so I think the jury will be understanding of her anxiety, and probably sympathetic to it. She’s also suffered a loss, which will increase that potential sympathy. It will also probably cause Dylan to go easy on her.


  But basically her testimony will be straightforward and pretty hard to screw up, so I think she’ll do fine, regardless of her stress level.

  “Stephanie, you were close friends with Eric Brantley, is that correct?”

  “Yes. He was my boyfriend.” Then she uses the same description she had used when I first met her. “We used to say we were engaged to be engaged.”

  “But Eric is deceased now?”

  Her voice cracks, but she holds it together. “Yes, he was murdered.”

  I let her tell the story of Eric’s partner, Michael Caruso, being murdered, and Eric going on the run as a fugitive. I have no doubt that the jury knows all about it, but I want to get it into the record again.

  She wraps it up with, “I knew he was innocent. Now everyone knows it, but it’s too late.”

  “While he was on the run, did he contact you?” I ask.

  “Yes. He wanted me to bring his dog to him. Zoe.” She goes on to explain that she had seen the picture of him that ran in Vince’s paper, then picked up in papers nationally, which is how she and Eric both knew where Zoe was.

  “Did he explain how Gerald Downey came to have Zoe?”

  She nods. “Yes. He told me that he paid to have her stolen from you, so he could get her back.” Her testimony skirts a fine line here, one we have gone over. Eric never mentioned Downey’s name, so Stephanie does not either. But the strong implication is that Eric hired Downey, which is the actual truth.

  I then take her through the tough part, the trip to Maine, and the discovery of Eric’s and Healy’s bodies. She handles it like a trouper, pausing to gather herself when she thinks she might break down.

  To sum up, I ask her, “And you’re sure the dog is Zoe?”

  “No question about it.”

  “How is she doing?”

  Stephanie breaks into a big smile. “She’s doing wonderfully. We’ve been a big comfort to each other.”

  Dylan gets up to cross-examine. “Ms. Manning, besides what you may have heard from Mr. Carpenter, do you have any independent knowledge as to why Gerald Downey was murdered?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any independent knowledge as to who his killer was?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any independent knowledge as to why Eric Brantley was murdered?”

  She hesitates. “No.”

  “Do you have any independent knowledge as to who his killer was?”

  “No.”

  “But you have his dog.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s nice,” he says, thereby effectively dismissing her testimony as unimportant. “No further questions.”

  My next witness is Dan Hendricks, the bartender working the night Tommy threatened to slit Gerald Downey’s throat. He testified in Dylan’s case, and I had a chance to cross-examine him, but I’ve called him back because I want to get him to talk about Downey’s dubious associates.

  Dylan objects to my questions, claiming they aren’t relevant, but Klingman consistently overrules him. “That issue has been decided,” Klingman finally says, sternly enough that I don’t think Dylan will raise it again.

  Hendricks doesn’t know anything about the diamond smuggling, but he does know quite a few convicted felons who Downey counted as friends.

  “Were any of them in the bar the night in question?”

  “I don’t remember,” he says. “Well, once Downey was threatened, he went into the back and made a phone call. Two of his friends came to throw Mr. Infante out. I do know they have both spent some time in prison.”

  He’s referring to the two guys who were foolish enough to mess with Marcus, but that’s not what has struck me about his testimony. It’s something else, something I hadn’t caught on to before.

  I finish with my questions, and Dylan gives him a brief cross-examination, mainly to drive home the fact that Hendricks really knows nothing of substance when it comes to the case we are trying.

  As he is leaving the stand, I ask him to wait for me in the gallery. Judge Klingman adjourns court for the day, so I pat Tommy on the shoulder and walk over to where Hendricks is waiting.

  “What do you want?” he asks. “I’ve got things to do”

  “This won’t take long,” I say. “When I was at the bar, I wasn’t getting cell service. Is that unusual?”

  “Nah. Service is terrible there. People complain all the time.”

  “You said that Downey went into the back to call his friends to come throw Tommy out. Does that mean he would have used the landline in the office?”

  “Yeah. My boss doesn’t want it to be a habit, but if it was important, then sure.”

  “When he went into the back to make the call, how long was he gone?”

  “I don’t know; I wasn’t timing him.”

  “Try and remember,” I say.

  He thinks for a while, and then says, “You know, I think it took a while. I remember wondering if he snuck out the back.”

  “What is the landline number at the bar?” I ask, and he tells me.

  “You can go now,” I say.

  “Am I done talking to you?” he asks. “I mean, for good?”

  “Now you’ve gone and hurt my feelings.”

  Before I head home, I call Sam and ask him to check out the bar phone number on the night that Downey called his friends.

  I want to see who else he might have called.

  The two boats had left port in northeastern Canada. The trip to Ashby would take about thirty hours, but there was no desire to get there that fast. Sitting off the coast of Maine could draw unwanted attention from the Coast Guard, and that was something they could not afford.

  The larger of the two boats, almost eighty feet from stem to stern, was the important one. It was filled with weaponry, everything from laser-guided, shoulder-fired missiles, to grenade launchers, to mines, to assault rifles. The value of the cargo was close to 120 million dollars.

  The second ship was much smaller, and carried no cargo at all. Its sole function was to carry off the crew of the first ship, after it had been turned over to the people who had purchased it. That rendezvous was a number of days away, after confirmation of payment received.

  Once that was accomplished, the first ship would set sail and dock in Ashby.

  And nothing after that would ever be the same.

  Sam comes through again. Not only does he have the answer for me before I have to head for court this morning, but he has the answer I was looking for. Downey did in fact call the two goons to throw Tommy out of the bar, but he also called the same number that Professor Charles Horowitz had called.

  Alan Divac’s private line at his company.

  When I arrive at court, I call Laurie, and ask her to get Marcus to come down to the courthouse as soon as possible.

  As I do every morning, I spend a little time with Tommy in the anteroom, so he can ask me what his chances are, and I can evade the question by telling him I have no idea, or that it’s too early to tell. Sometimes I throw in some nonsense about how unpredictable juries can be.

  The net effect is that he understands we’re in trouble, so I probably should just say that in the first place. I need to work on that.

  Marcus appears within ten minutes of my call to Laurie; Marcus is simply always around when I need him. Sometimes I think there is more than one Marcus, though the concept is a frightening one.

  He takes a seat in the still-empty gallery, not saying anything but knowing that I will notice him. Marcus is definitely someone you notice, whether surrounded by empty chairs, or in the middle of sixty thousand screaming fans at Yankee Stadium.

  “Thanks for coming, Marcus,” I say, a brilliant conversational opening gambit that does not draw any response at all. “My first witness today is a guy named Paul Turner. He’s the key witness in a federal smuggling case, so he’s being protected by marshals. They’ve got him holed up in a hotel, but he told me he doesn’t want the protection, and is going to get away from
them.”

  I pause for Marcus to comment, or nod, or blink, or do anything to show me that he’s awake. He doesn’t so I continue.

  “There’s a chance that he might try to get away from them today. If he does so before he testifies, please bring him right back. If it’s after he testifies, which is what I suspect will happen, please follow him.”

  Again I pause, and again there is absolutely no response from Marcus.

  So I go on. “I want to know where he is. It will give me leverage with the customs guys. That’s pretty much it. Any questions?”

  Nothing from Marcus.

  “Great,” I say. “I always enjoy our little chats.”

  The gallery starts to fill up, and of course the seats around Marcus are the last to be taken. A couple of minutes later I look over and Marcus is gone, though I have total confidence he understood what I asked him and will do it flawlessly.

  Paul Turner comes in just before court is ready to begin, accompanied by two agents. He greets me with a handshake and a smile, and doesn’t seem at all put off by being called to testify. It is consistent with Hike having told me that Turner accepted the subpoena in a similar fashion.

  “Are you all set?” I ask.

  “I won’t know that until I hear what you’re going to ask me.”

  His comment fits in with my concern about having been unable to go over his testimony with him. “We’re just having a conversation,” I say. “Telling the truth. At least nobody can say you were coached.”

  He smiles. “My federal friends are worried about this. They’re afraid I’ll screw up their case.”

  “If you do, it means they didn’t have a case in the first place.”

  Some witnesses are more important than others, and some are absolutely crucial. Paul Turner fits into the second category for me. He’s the first and best witness I have to tie Gerald Downey into the diamond smuggling ring. So far I have been able to show that Downey hung around with some unsavory people. This is my chance to show that some of those people were killers.

  “Mr. Turner, where have you been living these last couple of weeks?” I ask.