Dog Tags

by David Rosenfelt

M WATCHED AS WILLIE MILLER AND MILO LEFT THE SHELTER THROUGH THE BACK DOOR. He saw Willie put Milo in the back of his car, and then look around to make sure he wasn’t being watched. M was at a well-concealed vantage point, so he wasn’t worried that Willie would see him.

  M had been smart enough to realize that the lawyer might try to come up with a diversion. That was why he stationed himself in the back. Not taking any chances, he had some people covering the front and following the lawyer as he left, but M was right that the whole thing was a fake.

  The fact that Landon had told him not to take any action other than following the dog seemed to M a mistake. It would be the easiest thing in the world to kill the dog right now, or to kill Willie Miller and grab the dog.

  M wasn’t pleased that Landon seemed to have taken over day-to-day control of the matter. Such operational issues were often military in nature, and this was not Landon’s area of expertise. Yet for the moment, it was not M’s job to question it.

  M followed Willie’s car at a distance. As always, he had done his homework, and he knew about Willie’s partnership with Carpenter in the animal shelter that they ran. So he knew where Willie lived, and he knew where the shelter was. There was little doubt that the dog would wind up in one of those places.

  Once Willie got on Route 46, M knew that he was taking Milo to his home in Montclair. It didn’t surprise him; M knew that the property was secluded and fenced in, an ideal place to keep Milo hidden from public view.

  M also knew that he would have no trouble getting to Milo whenever he wanted. As soon as Landon gave him the word—and M hoped that would be soon—M would do what had to be done.

  M picked up his cell phone and called Landon at the number he always answered.

  “Speak,” Landon said.

  “The dog has been taken out of the shelter, and I’m following him.”

  “Does the lawyer have him?”

  “No.”

  “Are there any reasons for me to be concerned?” asked Landon.

  “None.”

  “Good.”

  Click. Landon hung up without saying good-bye. M didn’t take offense. Not with the money he was making.

  “THERE’S NO DEAL TO BE MADE.” I have a tendency to be direct with my clients, which they sometimes find jarring. But it’s the only way I know how to do it, and as bad as it might feel for them in the moment, in the long run they’re better off. In my view there is nothing, absolutely nothing, worse for someone in prison than false hope.

  If Billy finds my announcement upsetting, he hides it well. “This is coming from the prosecutor?” he asks. His tone is mild curiosity, as if I just told him the Mets split a doubleheader.

  I nod. “It is, but he says he has spoken to everyone involved, including the feds. Nobody has put the slightest bit of pressure on him to make a deal.”

  “So where does that leave us?” he asks. Still no panic, no arguments, just a desire to focus on what needs to be done. You can’t ask for much more from a client in this situation.

  “We go to trial and get a jury to take our side. That’s as soon as we get a side.”

  “You mean other than I didn’t do it?”

  “That goes without saying,” I say. “But I like to tell the jury who else at least might have done it. If A is their only choice, they have a tendency to pick A. We need to give them a B and maybe a C.”

  “I saw the guy who did it,” he says. “It was dark, but I might be able to ID him. And he was at least six foot five. When I kneed him in the balls, I almost went too low and missed.”

  “That might come in handy, but we have to find him first.”

  “There was a lot of commotion after it happened, and there were a couple of guys, maybe three, who got to the scene really quickly. I don’t think they were cops, because I never saw them again.”

  “Can you ID them?” I ask.

  “No chance. But I got a license plate number off the shooter’s car.”

  This revelation, while certainly a positive, annoys me in that it wasn’t made before. “When were you going to let me know that?” I ask.

  “Now,” he says, and then softens it with, “No more holding back, I promise.”

  “So is there anything else?” I ask.

  “Maybe. I’ve been thinking about that night. When Erskine took out the envelope, the killer reached into his own inside jacket pocket for the gun. Like this.” He demonstrates how it was done.

  “So?”

  “So that’s not where someone would ordinarily carry a gun, which I imagine was designed to fool Erskine.”

  “Sounds like it did,” I say.

  Billy shakes his head. “I think there was more to it. Erskine was tough and smart; he would have reacted if he thought there was any danger at all. And that guy reaching into his pocket should have meant danger, unless Erskine thought he was reaching for something else.”

  “Like an envelope of his own?”

  Billy nods. “Right. I think Erskine believed they were going to trade.”

  “Blackmail,” I say. We’re far from knowing that for sure, but it’s certainly a possibility. It’s also quite possible that Erskine just expected to be paid for whatever was in the envelope.

  “You have investigators?” Billy asks.

  I nod. “I do, but I need to figure out what direction to send them in. What are the chances Milo can lead me to that envelope?”

  “No way; he was pretty freaked out from the gunshot. I could probably get him to lead me to it, but I doubt he’d do it for you. You’d have to build up a lot of trust first, which takes time.”

  “Could he have been so scared he just dropped it somewhere?”

  He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t think so. Milo knew that the things I had him take were important; he wouldn’t be careless with them.”

  I hadn’t had much confidence that I could get Milo to retrieve the envelope for me, so I’m not surprised by what Billy is saying. “We can get by without the envelope, as long as we can learn what was in it.”

  “Why?” he asks.

  “Because there’s a good chance Erskine was killed for it. If we know why it was so important to someone, we’re a hell of a lot closer to figuring out who that someone is.”

  We kick this around a little longer, and I tell Billy to write down everything he knows about Erskine. “Even if it’s a rumor and you have no idea if it’s true, write it down and tell me that.”

  He nods. “Okay, I’ll get right on it. How’s Milo doing?”

  “He’s fine and somewhere safe.”

  “Thanks for doing that,” he says. “I was feeling awful that I put him in that situation.”

  Every time Billy says something like that, I like him a little more, and regret my taking on a new client a little less. “Starting right now you have to worry about yourself.”

  “So you’re going to do this?” he asks.

  I nod. “Yeah. I am, if you still want me.”

  “I absolutely do. But we need to talk about your fee,” he says. “The problem is, no matter how much it is, I can’t pay it.”

  I shrug. “Then we need to get you and Milo back out there stealing again.”

  He laughs. “Sounds good to me.”

  I leave and reflect on what has been a long day at work. I take less satisfaction in that than other people might, because I hate long days at work. I hate short days at work also, just not as much.

  The truth is, today wasn’t so bad, especially getting Milo sprung. It pains me to admit it, even to myself, but Laurie was probably right that I ought to be back in the action occasionally; that I need to intellectually engage in that fashion to stay sharp.

  Now that I think of it, I hope she was right. Because a murder trial requires a lot of very long, very stressful workdays, and there will be little time to think of anything else if we hope to win.

  And there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, worse than losing.

  TRIALS, LIKE FOOTBALL GAMES, ARE WON OR LOST BY TEA
MS, NOT INDIVIDUALS. The lawyers, the investigators, the expert witnesses, and the client are all integral to the process, and must function smoothly together. It is much more difficult than it sounds.

  Teamwork is, in fact, one of the many built-in advantages that the prosecution side generally has in its favor. The same people, all employed by the government, work together on many cases throughout the year. There is usually a substantial familiarity among the lawyers, police, forensics people, and expert witnesses on the prosecution side, and they don’t have to waste time trying to develop a cohesive unit.

  This morning I am convening a meeting of the team that will attempt to earn an acquittal and release for Billy Zimmerman. The only newcomer to the team, meaning someone who hasn’t worked with this group previously, is Hike Lynch. He’ll share the lawyering duties with me, though I’ll be in first position.

  Laurie will run the investigative unit, with Marcus Clark supporting her. Sam Willis, my accountant and an absolute computer genius, will provide all of us any information we need that can be found online. Which is a valuable resource, since everything that has ever taken place in recorded human history can be found online, especially if the person sitting at the computer is a brilliant hacker with no concern for legalities.

  Providing further support will be Willie Miller, who brings no particular talent to the operation other than a desire to help out and the toughness and fearlessness to tackle any task I give him. Then there is Edna, reluctantly prepared to do whatever it is that Edna does.

  The meeting is scheduled to start at ten o’clock, and at the appointed time everybody is here except for Marcus and Edna. Willie and Laurie already met Hike at the wedding, so I introduce him to Sam.

  Sam and Hike inhabit opposite ends of the emotional spectrum. It’s not that Sam is an out-and-out optimist. It’s more that he’s enthusiastic about tackling new projects, especially those that involve investigative work on my criminal cases. Hike approaches each task as if it’s a root canal, and one that ultimately will fail to avert the extraction of the offending tooth.

  “Let’s get started,” I say. “Laurie, you can fill Marcus in on whatever he misses.” This is already a plus of allowing Laurie to participate in the case. She is pretty much the only person I know who has always demonstrated an ability to effectively communicate with Marcus, and who isn’t petrified to do so.

  I go over the parameters of the case as I know them, which doesn’t take very long, since there’s not a hell of a lot that I know. “The discovery material should be here this afternoon,” I say. “Hike and I will go over it, and then we’ll be able to plan our initial strategy.”

  “Have you traced the license plate yet?” Laurie asks. She’s talking about the plate Billy saw on the murderer’s car.

  “Not yet. But I’ll take care of it.”

  “Where does the dog fit in?” she asks.

  “At this point he doesn’t. I just want to keep him hidden and protected.”

  There isn’t that much for me to say, at least not until we’ve gone through the discovery. All I want is for everybody to be on the same page as we get started. I’m about to end the meeting when the door opens and Marcus comes in.

  He doesn’t say a word, which for Marcus is business as usual. The only sounds in the room are his footsteps as he moves toward a chair, and the involuntary gasp from Hike at seeing him.

  I can’t remember the first time I met Marcus, I’m sure my subconscious has blocked it rather than allow me to relive it in my mind. I would guess there is about a 70 percent chance I pissed in my pants; either that or I ran away.

  Marcus is the most powerful, most menacing-looking human being I have ever seen. His entire manner is uncompromising; to look at him is not only to know that he could kill you, but also to know that it wouldn’t faze him.

  “Hike, this is Marcus,” I say.

  “Unh,” says Marcus.

  At first Hike doesn’t say a word; he just stares at Marcus, openmouthed for at least twenty seconds. Then he manages a feeble, “Hey.”

  “Marcus, Laurie will bring you up to date on where we stand, and you’ll get your assignments from her as well.”

  He nods at Laurie, the hint of a smile on his face. She is the only person I have ever seen him show any warmth toward.

  “Great. We’re done here,” I say.

  I ask Hike to stay as the others leave, because I want him to go over the discovery material with me when it arrives. I need to know how far his abilities extend, and whether I can expect him to help in strategy or just be a legal mechanic. I can deal with it either way; I just have to know.

  “Kevin told me about him,” Hike says.

  “Marcus?”

  He nods. “Kevin says he got used to him. That after a while he wasn’t so scared to be in the same room with him.”

  “I agree,” I say. “I’m not nearly as afraid as I used to be. My teeth don’t even chatter anymore. You just have to remember that he’s on our side.”

  Hike nods. “That’s a good thing.”

  “And the other thing is, if he bothers you, just smack him around a little, and he backs off.”

  Hike doesn’t say anything, possibly pondering this concept.

  “That’s a joke,” I say, just in case.

  He nods. “I picked up on that.”

  While we’re waiting, I call Pete Stanton. “I’m taking your friend’s case,” I say.

  “More than just the dog?”

  “More than just the dog. I’m defending Billy on the murder charge.”

  “That doesn’t count as a favor,” he says. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

  “It counts,” I say.

  “It does not.”

  “Do you want to start buying your own beer, effective immediately?”

  “Okay,” he says. “It counts.”

  “Glad we cleared that up. Now here’s a chance for you to return the favor.”

  “I don’t like where this is going.”

  “It’s no big deal,” I say. “I just want you to trace a license plate.”

  “I’m supposed to use city resources, provided by the taxpayers, to do your work?”

  “You want to get your friend out of prison?”

  “Give me the plate number.”

  I do so, and Pete tells me he’ll have the information within twenty-four hours. “Is that it, I hope?” he asks.

  “Almost. Billy says the shooter was six foot five, maybe taller. That ring any bells for you?”

  “Maybe we should arrest the Knicks,” he says.

  “You’re a pain in the ass, you know?”

  “Of course I know. But once I get you the plate number, we’re even,” he says.

  “We are not even. We’re not close to even. I am putting in months of my life on this, and you’re tracing a license plate. That is not in the same ballpark as even.”

  “Okay,” he says. “But you’re still buying the beer.”

  JEREMY IVERSON HAD NO IDEA THAT ONE OF HIS PARTNERS WAS DEAD. He and Donovan Chambers had dropped out of touch and gone their separate ways after returning home from the war. Chambers had never told him he was going to live in the Caribbean, and the truth was that Jeremy wouldn’t have cared anyway. They had done a job together; it wasn’t like they were best friends.

  Jeremy was aware that Erskine was dead; he had seen that on television, when they were talking about that dog. The news didn’t come as a surprise to him. Pretty much everybody he knew hated Erskine, so it made sense that eventually somebody would take a shot at him. Jeremy just hoped it had nothing to do with the Iraq operation. If it did, it could have ominous consequences for himself, although he was well hidden from the world.

  Jeremy basically hadn’t touched the money, other than to provide for some basics like a place to live, some decent civilian clothes, and three hunting rifles. He realized that he was in a state of emotional limbo, unable to decide in which direction he should go. He instinctively knew that whatever
first steps he took, they would influence his life forever.

  The only real decision Jeremy had made since returning was to make a clean break with his past. It wasn’t a great sacrifice; all that was left back home in Missoula was an alcoholic mother and an ex-wife whom he learned had filed for divorce while he was in Iraq. Mail call wasn’t much fun that day.

  Jeremy had rented a cabin about thirty miles from Jackson Hole, Wyoming. He drove through the town on the way out there, and was struck by how the rich people had taken over the place. He found it pretty funny to realize that he could afford to live there if he wanted to.

  He didn’t want to.

  Except for occasional trips into town for food and other supplies, Jeremy pretty much stayed to himself at the cabin. He had some success at the bar with the local women; money even helped at that. But he had no interest in establishing any relationships, at least not until he felt more ready to face the world.

  So like every other day, Jeremy woke up that morning with the choice of going hunting or hanging out in the cabin and watching television. The only sports on were baseball games, and Jeremy wasn’t that big a fan. He was more into football and basketball. So Jeremy made the decision he had been making almost every day, to go hunting.

  He found it strange how much he enjoyed hunting, since he’d never particularly liked it growing up. But now it was something about the solitude; he could get lost in it and love doing so.

  It was around eleven o’clock that Jeremy happened upon another hunter, a large but seemingly agreeable man, alone and dressed in orange hunting garb like Jeremy.

  “Mornin’,” said Jeremy. “Any luck so far?”

  The man grinned and held up a bag that was obviously empty. “Not a bit. But that’s okay; just being out here is enough for me.”

  “I know what you mean.” He reached out his hand to shake. “Name’s Jeremy.”

  “John. John Burney.”

  Jeremy had no way of knowing, and no inclination to suspect, that the man was lying about his name. Even if the man had given his real name, Marvin Emerson, or his nickname, M, it would have meant nothing to Jeremy.