There’s a long dirt road driveway through the trees, and Marcus meets me at the end of it. He’s on foot; I have no idea where his car is. If he were wearing a cape, I would assume he had flown in.
As we are walking toward the house, I tell Marcus what I hope to accomplish in my conversation with Turner. The trees have more of a reaction than Marcus does, but I know he’s heard me.
The house itself is very large and obviously very expensive. I can see partway into the area behind the house; there is a large pool and tennis court. Turner has not been suffering in his time here.
Strangely, there is no doorbell, so I knock loudly on the heavy wooden front door. Within thirty seconds, I see movement at a front window; Turner is peering out to see who his visitor is. He must be okay with the fact that it’s me, because a few seconds later, he opens the door.
He doesn’t seem stressed, and smiles when he asks, “What the hell are you doing here?”
“We were in the neighborhood. Can we come in?”
“Of course.”
I introduce Marcus to Turner, and I’m sure he has no idea what to make of him.
“Thanks for helping me get out of that courtroom,” Turner says. “But how did you find out I was here?”
“I had you followed.”
“Why?”
“So I could bring you back if I had to. The Feds are pressuring me to do that.”
He loses the smile and casual tone. “There is no way I’m going back. Neither you, nor your friend here, can make me do that. I’m much safer here.”
“I figured that would be your reaction,” I say, trying to conceal my nervousness. “So I’ve come up with a handy alternative.”
“Which is?” he asks.
“Ten million dollars in diamonds. Real ones. Not Brantley’s fakes.”
He almost does a double take, but then actually laughs. This is one unworried guy. “You’ve got more chance of taking me back.” Then, “How did you figure it out?”
I shrug. “Actually, I’m embarrassed it took me so long. I should have seen it sooner; you saw an opportunity to push Divac out and set yourself up for one huge, final score.”
“What gave it away?” he asks.
“Well, for one thing, Parelli was killed not long after I told you I had identified him to the customs people. I didn’t mention his name, but that didn’t matter, because you already knew who he was. And in that same conversation, you told me you knew almost nothing about my case.”
“So?”
“So Divac knew all about it when we met, and he as much as said that you had done the research for him. You lied to me, and people always lie for a reason.”
“Not bad,” Turner says. “Go on.”
“When Downey called on Divac’s private line from the bar, it was late. Bosses tend to go home early, but as Divac’s right-hand man, you would have had access to his private line. But most importantly, you never told the Feds or me that Brantley wasn’t bringing in diamonds, he was creating them. There was no way you couldn’t have known that.”
“I’m impressed,” he says. “Divac never even figured that out.”
“He didn’t know Brantley’s diamonds were fake?”
He laughs. “No way. Divac loves diamonds … actually, literally loves those stupid little rocks. He would never go for that.”
“Did Healy kill Gerry Downey?”
“He did, in an effort to find Brantley. Healy lost his ability to bring in diamonds, so he needed Brantley. And Divac was in the dark about all of it.”
“So that’s how you knew you could set him up?”
This time there is no laughing. “I took his shit for years, and never saw any real money. He didn’t think I knew what was going on, so I waited for the right opportunity, and made my move. I’m going to make more money on one deal than you could make in a lifetime chasing ambulances.”
“Where are the arms going?” I ask.
“What the hell is the difference? You won’t be around to read about it.”
“Then humor me.”
Turner thinks about it for a moment before responding. “Let’s just say that the invasion of Ashby, Maine, will be the most famous since Normandy. These lunatics are willing to die for—”
“Shut up.”
Neither Turner, Marcus, nor I said that, so I’ve got a hunch there is someone else in the room. A look to the side confirms that. It’s a very large man, at least six-four, with an intense face and chiseled body. But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is that he’s holding a gun.
“Alek,” I say. “Supplier of arms, and international asshole.”
He doesn’t say anything to me; instead he talks to Turner. “You talk too much.”
If Turner is intimidated by Alek, he hides it well. “There is no harm; they’re not leaving here alive.”
Alek moves to maybe ten or twelve feet in front of us, still pointing the gun. He looks most intently at Marcus, sizing him up. “I think I would like to take you apart with my bare hands.”
“You should try it,” I say, my heart pounding. “I’ll hold your gun.”
Once again I’m ignored, and Alek says to Turner, “Check them for weapons.”
Turner walks over and frisks us. It’s a perfunctory effort, but he does find a small pistol that Marcus carries in his pocket.
“Throw it over there,” Alek says, and Turner does so. Turner then starts walking back toward Alek, but Alek stops him by pointing the gun at him. “You stand with them.”
“What are you doing?” Turner asks, for the first time showing a major crack in his cool façade. My sense is that they have been equals, Turner selling the diamonds and supplying the money, and Alek selling the arms. That equality seems to have ended rather quickly.
“When all those Americans die, they will come after us with all they have. You are just another weak link that I am removing.”
“No,” Turner says, as Alek points the gun again. Turner is standing just a couple feet in front of us, when all of a sudden he isn’t there anymore. I haven’t heard a gunshot, and it takes me an instant to realize what has actually happened, and is happening.
Marcus has moved forward and clamped his hands onto Turner’s sides, lifting him about six inches off the ground. He rushes toward Alek, holding Turner in front of him as if he were a child’s toy, but actually using him as a shield.
Alek fires the gun, I think twice, and I see Turner shake from the impact, as blood flies. Marcus and his shield have by now reached Alek, and he heaves Turner’s body at him, sending them both to the floor, with Turner on top.
From a prone position, Alek tries to raise his gun, but Marcus is too fast: he kicks it out of his hand. Alek starts to get to his feet, but Marcus clubs him on the left side of his head with his right hand, elbow, and forearm, hitting Alek with a sickeningly beautiful thud.
Alek’s head and body are knocked to the side, but the momentum is stopped by a similar blow from Marcus’s left arm, coming up and crushing the left side of Alek’s face. It actually lifts him off the ground in the opposite direction. It’s as if Marcus has used Alek’s head as a pinball.
I look down at Alek’s now lifeless body. “How’d that ‘bare hands’ thing work out for you?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer.
Suddenly the room looks like an FBI convention, as agents flood into the house, guns drawn, with Brooks in the lead.
“What the hell took you so long?” I ask.
Brooks shrugs. “We needed to make sure we got the information we needed. Worked out pretty well.” Then he looks down at Alek’s smashed head. “Holy shit,” he says.
Brooks looks over at Marcus, logically assuming that I wasn’t the one who smashed Alek’s head. “You okay?” Brooks asks, and then I see that Marcus has a bullet wound in his shoulder. It must have passed through Turner’s body.
“Yuh,” Marcus says. Apparently when he gets shot he gets talkative.
“Get him looked at,” Brooks says.
One of the agents leads Marcus out, and I say to Brooks, “I upheld my end of the bargain.”
He nods. “Yes you did.”
The United States has 12,383 miles of coastline. It is clearly too long to be patrolled on an ongoing basis, but that has not been a particular problem, since no foreign entity has ever tried to invade. And there are very few military planners who would expect the first attack to be in the area of Ashby, Maine.
When Agent Brooks put in the call, he had no way of knowing that five minutes earlier, the transfer was made at sea, and the invaders had taken over the boat loaded with the deadly armaments. They were about to head for Ashby, a trip that would take ninety minutes.
The military response was threefold. Two Coast Guard Cutters, on patrol from Sector Northern New England headquarters, were immediately dispatched to the area. Two hundred and fifty army reservists were ordered flown in from Fort Drum in upstate New York, and the Maine State Police deployed in full force as well. Local police units were put on alert, but not given an immediate assignment.
Most importantly, because speed was of the essence, air assets were brought in from Otis Air National Guard Base on Cape Cod and Langley Air Force Base in Virginia. A-10 attack airplanes were assigned the task.
The planes were the first to arrive, buzzing low over the ship and attempting, without success, to establish radio contact. Fortunately, in this situation, nonverbal communication was all that was necessary to convey to the invaders the very clear message: turn around or be destroyed.
It was immediately apparent to the men on the ship that they had no decent options. They could stop, and wait for American vessels to arrive, board, and take them into custody. Or they could continue on to Ashby, almost guaranteeing that either the airplanes or those ships would blow them out of the water.
Death did not scare them; they had been prepared for that. But failure was simply unacceptable.
So they continued on, and the planes did not attack. Two Coast Guard vessels arrived, and through loudspeakers ordered the ship to stop and be boarded. They disregarded the instructions and continued on.
The ship was about forty minutes from the coast of Maine when the order came, and the A-10’s fired three missiles. One would have been more than sufficient, and what had been a ship was instantly transformed into human and metal debris.
It was left to the soldiers, and state police, to find and arrest the invaders who had already entered Ashby, or were preparing to do so. This was done quickly; the only two people who resisted were killed.
Everything was done with such efficiency that many of the residents of Ashby only learned of their close call through the media.
It is pretty close to a perfect moment. At my insistence, the announcement that the charges against Tommy Infante have been dismissed is being done at a press conference. I know it will get more attention than a simple press release, and Tommy deserves that.
I also had insisted that Dylan make the announcement. I did this for no reason other than I knew it would be something that he would despise doing, which would in turn make it more enjoyable for me. And I have to admit I am relishing his obvious discomfort.
Dylan says that he can’t give out too much information, for security reasons, but that the dismissal does not simply mean that the charges could not be proven. It means that Thomas Infante is innocent, that he had been wrongly accused.
Agent Hernandez has been good enough to show up for this press conference, and he had some interesting things to tell me before it started. Now that Turner has been exposed, Divac has been talking, as part of a plea bargain. Healy was working for him, but he apparently panicked when he lost his contacts to bring in diamonds. He knew Divac wouldn’t go for Brantley’s fakes, so he set out to get them on his own. Divac claims to have been in the dark about all of this, and Hernandez believes him.
Divac didn’t realize that Turner knew about his illegal smuggling activities, but Turner saw everything, and moved in when he saw the opportunity.
Turner set Divac up, and then he and Alek combined forces to take over the operation. The ironic thing was that neither cared at all about the events that were to take place in Ashby; they were just in it for the money.
To make today’s event that much sweeter, it turns out that the jury’s initial vote was nine-three to convict. Dylan could have won.
Heh, heh.
Tommy and I happily watch Dylan’s discomfort from behind the podium, on the stage. As he finishes and exits, we are asked to take questions, but we decline to do so. Tommy simply walks to the microphone and says, “It’s a huge relief to me that justice and Andy Carpenter prevailed.”
What a nice speech.
We have our traditional victory party at Charlie’s, even though it wasn’t a traditional victory. Tommy is of course here, as is Stephanie Manning. Our whole team is present: Willie and Sondra, Laurie, Hike, Edna, Sam, Hilda and Eli Mandlebaum, Morris Fishman, and Leon Goldberg. Marcus is here also, bearing no apparent ill effects of a gunshot wound. Marcus is a tad unusual.
Sam said that Hilda, Eli, Morris, and Leon are usually in bed by eight, so in deference to them we start the party at six o’clock. Vince and Pete are here as well, and Vince complains about the early start. “What the hell is this, the breakfast club?”
“The beer and food are on me, Vince.”
“On the other hand, time is not important. In China it’s tomorrow already, right? Or yesterday?” Vince says. “Anyway, I’m a morning person.”
Tommy spends most of the night thanking everyone, and near the end of the night, meaning almost eight o’clock, he corners me. “How did you get them to clear me?”
“The Feds knew much more than they let on,” I say. “Hernandez lied to me when he said Turner was clean; they knew he was dirty and they were hoping he’d run. They just screwed up; they wanted to be the ones to follow him. They knew something big was going to happen on American soil, but they didn’t know it was going to be Ashby. They needed to know where the arms were going, so I struck a deal with them.”
“Did they know I didn’t kill Downey?”
“I believe they did, but I’m not positive. But they were certainly fine with pressuring the DA to dismiss the charges. I think the order came down from the office of the goddamn attorney general.”
“If they didn’t make the deal, would you have given them Turner?”
I think about it for a few moments; it hadn’t been a decision that I had made. “I would have, yes. People were going to die. But I would have gone public with everything and made them look stupid.”
“Man, I lucked out when you showed up,” he says. “And all because of that dog.”
“How’s your daughter?” I ask.
“I talked to Jenny and her mother a few minutes ago. I think she’s going to be okay, but it’s day to day.”
Stephanie comes over with a cell phone full of pictures of Zoe. “Zoe’s doing great,” she says.
“What about you?” I ask.
“Getting there, Andy. I’m getting there.”
“I’m glad to hear that, and I’m here if you need me.”
“Eric wasn’t a bad person, Andy. He just made a mistake.”
“I’m sorry it ended that way,” I say.
Hilda has made some of her rugelach for the party, and I think Vince would eat four hundred of them if he could. He keeps coming over and saying, “Have you tasted these? Have you tasted these?”
Hilda and Eli are having a great time; they are obviously party animals. I think they’d stay and close the place, as long as the place closed at eight-thirty.
Laurie and I have to get home; our sitter can only stay until eight o’clock.
And tomorrow is a big day.
Opening day is always special. I remember going to opening day at Yankee Stadium with my father when I was no more than eight years old. The green grass was stunning in its beauty, and even though we were sitting fairly far down the left field foul line, I felt li
ke I was on the field with the players. I brought my scorebook, and dutifully recorded every play.
Today’s experience is somewhat different. We’re on the Little League field at Eastside Park, for an arranged game between Ricky’s School Number 20 team, and the hated rivals from School Number 26. It’s Ricky’s first semi-official game, and he’s all excited, as are Laurie and I.
We sit in the stands with about forty other parents, and the first thing I notice is that there is no scoreboard. I point this out to Laurie, and she says, “Didn’t I mention that? They’re not going to keep score. They want to emphasize the fun aspect, not the competition.”
“Not going to keep score? How do you know who wins?”
“Nobody wins,” she says. “And nobody loses. That’s the point.”
This is bizarre. “So who gets mocked afterward?” I ask.
“Andy—”
“I’ll keep the score myself.”
“You do that,” she says.
A few minutes before the game starts, Ricky comes over to us, all excited. “I’m playing shortstop! That’s good, right?”
Finally, talent has been recognized. “That’s great, Rick!” both Laurie and I say, simultaneously.
The game begins, and the first batter for the other team hits a dribbler to third, and winds up on second base. The next batter hits a slow ground ball to Ricky’s right. He smoothly ambles over, looking like Derek Jeter on his best day. But instead of fielding the ball with his glove, he accidentally kicks it with his right foot.
The ball heads straight for the third base bag, and the third baseman grabs it and tags out the runner trying to advance from second.
It was a perfect kick by Ricky.
Maybe soccer is his thing.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
David Rosenfelt is the Edgar Award– and Shamus Award–nominated author of stand-alones and twelve previous Andy Carpenter novels, most recently Hounded. After years living in California, he and his wife moved to Maine with twenty-five golden retrievers that they rescued. Rosenfelt’s hilarious account of this cross-country move, Dogtripping, is available from St. Martin’s Press. You can sign up for email updates here.
Who Let the Dog Out? Page 21
