Dog Tags

by David Rosenfelt

  I tell Pete the price, and he shakes his head. “At that price, if it’s not any good, I’m going to be pissed.”

  “You’re into fine wines, are you?”

  “You better believe it. I pour it into ice trays and freeze it, then suck on the cubes. I call them wine-sicles.”

  “I hope you choke on them.”

  LAURIE, MARCUS, MILO, AND I GET IN MY CAR AND HEAD FOR THE CRIME SCENE. We make quite the little family. We don’t bring Tara on the outing, because Juliet Corsinita says she would be a distraction for Milo, and we don’t bring a picnic lunch, because this is a business trip.

  Juliet meets us in the parking lot of the Skybar, but she instructs us to stay in the car. All she wants to come out is Milo, along with the article of Erskine’s clothing that Pete has provided us. I was relieved to discover it was a shirt rather than underwear.

  I understand she wants to have as few distractions as possible while she works, but her conditions are not acceptable. Marcus has to be nearby, in case another attempt is made to kidnap Milo. And Laurie and I want to be in position to see what is going on.

  We work out an arrangement where Marcus is nearby, but remaining as unobtrusive as Marcus can remain, which is pretty low on the unobtrusive scale. Laurie and I will park down the street in our car, with the motor running. If Milo takes off, we want to be able to follow him.

  Just in case he runs and manages to lose us, Laurie has attached a small GPS device to his collar, which we can follow from a monitor in the car.

  I think we’re set up as well as we can be.

  Unfortunately, our high-tech operation is delayed by the fact that we can’t find an acceptable parking space, and it’s impossible to double-park on this street. James Bond never seemed to have these problems.

  Fortunately a young couple walks up the street and gets in their car, so we wait behind them to pull in when they pull out. Then we experience a phenomenon that is becoming more and more common, and which drives me crazy. It takes them a full five minutes to pull out.

  I have no idea what people do in this situation. Are they running through a checklist, like an airplane pilot? “Seat belts… check. Key in the ignition… check. Radio tuned to FM… check.” They’re probably driving to Teaneck, but they act like they’re flying to Tel Aviv.

  Finally they pull out, and we pull in behind them. Things are really cooking now.

  Juliet had told me to keep Erskine’s shirt in an airtight plastic bag, so that Milo would not smell it in advance. When Laurie and I leave, I give her the bag, but she doesn’t open it.

  Once Laurie, Marcus, and I are in our respective positions, I see Juliet get out of the car with Milo, leading him on a leash. I’ve gone over the mechanics of the night of the murder with her, so she knows the various landmarks.

  Juliet takes Milo to the tree where he sat that night, waiting for Billy to signal him that he should make his move on Erskine. I can’t hear what she is saying to him, but she makes a motion for him to sit, and he does so willingly. He seems to respond to her well, and is allowing her to control him. I would think that’s a good sign.

  With Milo sitting there out in the open, I see Marcus nearby, looking around warily. If there is any suspicious occurrence, be it from a pedestrian or a car coming down the street, I know Marcus will intervene and end the demonstration.

  Juliet walks over to the front of the building, where Erskine stood that night, and Milo watches her. She just stands there for five minutes, and then walks slowly to the spot down the street where the murder took place. Milo does not take his eyes off her as she walks.

  Once she reaches the murder spot, she waits another few minutes, and then takes the shirt out of the bag. She motions to Milo and calls out something I can’t hear. Milo jumps up from his spot and races toward Juliet, and for a moment I’m afraid he’s going to attack her. But she seems unconcerned, holding the shirt in front of her and not backing away at all.

  Milo leaps in the air and grabs the shirt, and Laurie and I get ready, hoping that Milo will now do what we want, which is take the shirt to the same place he took the envelope. With the shirt in his mouth, he comes to a graceful landing and then…

  Nothing.

  Milo just sits where he landed, holding the shirt in his mouth in triumph, offering it to Juliet and not moving a muscle. I see her talking to him, but all he does is look up at her, the shirt in his mouth not concealing the smile on his face.

  She pets him, complimenting him on a job well done, which I assume is a simultaneous admission of defeat. His tail is wagging a mile a minute at the praise.

  Laurie, Marcus, and I walk over to them, and Juliet says, “It’s not happening. He doesn’t completely trust me.”

  I nod. “Billy said it would be a trust issue.”

  “You’d have a better chance than me,” she says. “Because he’s living with you. I could teach you the technique, but it will take a while.”

  “Might as well try it,” I say, and then turn to Milo. “You trust me, right, big guy?”

  Milo just sits there, not committing one way or the other.

  “Talk to Tara; she’ll vouch for me. But if she tells you about the time I ran out of biscuits, it wasn’t my fault.”

  CHAPLIN AND FREEMAN, INC., OBVIOUSLY NEVER GOT THE MEMO ABOUT THE FINANCIAL CRISIS. While most of Wall Street has made something of a show of cutting back on extravagant spending, C&F Investments, as the medium-size hedge fund is known on the street, has opted not to be a part of that particular show.

  Admittedly, so far my only frame of reference is the lobby, which is modern and very expensively furnished. There is a large painting on the wall signed by Picasso, and unless it’s Freddie Picasso from Parsippany, New Jersey, it has to be worth a fortune.

  If there is blame to be assigned for this ostentatiousness, it will have to be laid at the feet of Jonathan Chaplin, the man I am here to see. Stanley Freeman, the other founding partner, is off the hook, since he was killed in the blast that took Billy Zimmerman’s leg in Iraq.

  The receptionist is a woman, probably in her early twenties, who is absolutely beautiful. Maybe it’s just based on my limited experience, but I find that upscale firms, be they legal or financial, always have great-looking young receptionists. Downscale firms like mine have Edna.

  Whenever I approach receptionists like this I reflect on the fact that I spent my early twenties in bars, trying to meet women, when I should have been hanging out in lobbies. Who knew?

  Before I say a word, she says, “Mr. Carpenter?” Either they don’t have many visitors, or her efficiency matches her looks.

  “Yes.”

  “Welcome to Chaplin and Freeman. Mr. Chaplin is available to see you now. May I offer you something to drink?”

  I decline the offer, and another young woman instantly appears to escort me back to Chaplin’s office. It is a study in chrome and black leather, with what I’m sure is even more expensive art on the wall than was in the lobby. I don’t look too hard to check out the signatures, because they’re probably paintings somebody sophisticated should recognize instantly, and I don’t want to look like an uneducated peasant.

  The place is so clean that it looks like it’s been detailed. This includes Chaplin’s glass desk, which has only a computer and a phone on it. There isn’t a piece of paper to be seen anywhere. Nor is there any in drawers, since there are no drawers.

  Chaplin is around fifty, and probably twenty pounds heavier than he was when he was forty. His hair is jet black, a likely giveaway that it’s really gray. “Mr. Carpenter, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says. “I’m a fan of yours.”

  “Really? I haven’t seen you at club meetings.”

  He smiles tolerantly. “I’m sort of a courtroom junkie. Not that I attend, but I like to follow legal cases… read about the trials. I think if I had to do it over again I would become a defense attorney.”

  “That makes one of us.”

  He smiles, a little more condescendingly
than before. “What would your choice be?”

  “Super Bowl–winning quarterback for the New York Giants, after which I would become a network analyst.”

  “Sounds like Phil Simms.”

  I nod. “Bastard beat me to it.”

  Another smile, moving even farther up the condescending scale, and then, “So how can I help you? Looking to invest your millions?”

  I must look surprised, because he says, “I believe in being prepared. I like to check out people I’m going to meet with, and in this case I learned of your inheritance.”

  “Thanks, but I’m pleased with the way my money is being handled,” I say.

  “May I ask who helps you with your estate?”

  “Edna’s nephew Freddie.”

  “I don’t believe I’m familiar with him.” He says it in an annoying, pompous way, probably because he is an annoying, pompous guy.

  “Really? He’s five ten, maybe a hundred sixty pounds, a small mole on the side of his neck… his mother is Edna’s sister Doris.”

  “So why are you here, Mr. Carpenter?”

  I have no doubt that he knows why I’m here, since I believe him when he says he checked me out thoroughly before my arrival. However, I play along and tell him that I’m representing Billy. “Two of your colleagues were killed in the same explosion that cost my client his leg.”

  He nods solemnly. “We are still grieving that loss.”

  “Stanley Freeman was the co-founder with you of this company?” Freeman and Chaplin are considered pioneers in the hedge fund industry.

  “Yes,” he says. “And my best friend in the world.”

  “What about the other man killed? Alex Bryant.”

  “Alex was twenty-nine years old. Much too young… much too young. I’m still dealing with the guilt.”

  “Guilt?”

  “Yes. I was supposed to go on the trip with Stanley, but I was taken ill. Alex went in my stead.” He shakes his head sadly. “I wound up going to his funeral.”

  “What was his position here?” I ask.

  “He was an investment analyst. One of our brightest stars. Definitely could have been sitting in this chair one day. What does this have to do with your client?”

  I shrug. “Probably nothing; I’m just checking boxes. After they died, did you follow the investigation that the army conducted?”

  “As best I could,” he says. “They weren’t very forthcoming with information, especially since I wasn’t family.”

  “Anything strike you as unusual, maybe cause you concern?”

  “I don’t think so, other than my annoyance that they could let something like that happen.”

  “Did you feel security measures were lax?” It’s a stupid question, since eighteen people getting killed by a sixteen-year-old girl is by definition less-than-impressive security.

  “I did, and I do. But they simply said that sometimes these things are impossible to prevent.”

  “Were Mr. Freeman and Mr. Bryant married?”

  He hesitates a moment before answering. “No. Stanley had been recently divorced. I don’t believe Alex was married. Is there anything else, Mr. Carpenter? I’m quite busy.”

  I stand. “I know how it is; Freddie is the same way. Sometimes Edna can’t even get him on the phone.”

  He doesn’t seem to find this particularly amusing, and we just say good-bye.

  I hadn’t expected much from this meeting, and I got what I expected.

  KEVIN BACON IS AT LEAST FOUR DEGREES BEHIND VINCE SANDERS. There simply isn’t anyone that Vince either doesn’t know or can’t instantly get to. Sometime I would like to test him, just for the fun of it. The problem is that Vince isn’t familiar with the concept of fun.

  But I do know that if I asked him whether he could get me in to see the Dalai Lama, he would say, “Now you ask me? I just got off the phone with him.” Or maybe, “I don’t know him, but I can set it up through his sister-in-law, Shirley Lama.”

  Of course, in real life it’s not that easy. First Vince has to show his obnoxious side, which is not a problem for him, since that is the only side he has.

  I call Vince at home, and he answers with “What do you want now?”

  “Did you ever consider the possibility that I might be just calling my good friend to say, Hope you had a good day?”

  “That is not something I considered, no,” he says. “I feel so ashamed.”

  “I forgive you, old friend. In fact, there may be a way you can make it up to me.”

  “I’m all tingly at the prospect.”

  “I need to talk to someone who understands the world oil market.”

  “Why?” he asks.

  “It’s in connection with a case,” I say, knowing what is coming next.

  “A case that might prove to be newsworthy?”

  “Yes, and if there’s a story that comes out of it, you will get the exclusive.”

  “You got a pen?” he asks.

  “Sure.”

  “Call the Institute for Energy…”

  “Hold on, I need to get the pen,” I say.

  “You thought when I asked if you had a pen, I meant did you own one? I was asking if you had it ready.”

  “Vince… Okay, I’m ready.”

  “Call the Institute for Energy Independence, it’s in Manhattan on West Forty-eighth Street, and ask for Eliot Conyers. He’s the director.”

  “And he’s knowledgeable about the oil market?” I ask, instantly regretting it.

  “No, I just thought you two would make a nice couple. In case Laurie wises up and goes back to Wisconsin.”

  Vince gives me the phone number of the institute, so after we hang up I wait ten minutes, and then call it. Three minutes after that I have an appointment for tomorrow morning with Eliot Conyers.

  Vince is amazing.

  I’ve been focusing my energies on the explosion in Iraq for a couple of reasons. For one thing, the prosecution is going to use it as evidence of Billy’s motive, claiming that he was getting revenge for what he thought was Erskine’s culpability that day in Iraq.

  In addition, there is always the chance that what happened that day ultimately led to Erskine’s murder. According to Billy, the death of the newly appointed Iraqi oil minister enabled corruption to go on unchecked, with billions of dollars the prize. If Erskine was truly involved in that world, certainly subsequent violence could be expected for a variety of reasons.

  But there is of course another possibility: that I am spinning my wheels, that the explosion in Iraq has nothing whatsoever to do with Erskine’s death. I won’t know that until it’s over, and maybe not even then, but it’s something I have to pursue.

  Besides, it gives me something to do.

  IT PAINS ME TO DO IT, BUT I TURN OFF THE METS GAME. It’s in the fourth inning of a scoreless game, but it’s time for one of the “trust sessions” that I’ve been doing with Milo every night. Juliet Corsinita told me I should try to hold them as close to the same time as possible, and even though I don’t have a clue why that would be important, I’m following her advice.

  She also told me not to have a television on, and to limit the distractions. The only thing I wouldn’t go along with is her suggestion to keep Tara out of the room. As the song sort of goes, “If being with Tara is wrong, I don’t want to be right.”

  Trust sessions with dogs are different than I imagine they would be with people. There is no endless and cloying talk about “feelings,” and nobody is falling backward, counting on the other party to catch them before they hit the ground. Instead it’s all about basic commands and consistency.

  I have never been a practitioner of commands with dogs. In my mind it seems demeaning to the dog to force him to obey commands or do tricks. Even the “sit” and “come” orders irritate me; if somebody tried to get me to do that stuff I’d be pissed and would refuse.

  Unless, of course, it was Laurie doing the commanding, or Marcus.

  But with Milo I have to make an excep
tion, since Juliet and Billy agree that trust will be the key if we’re to have a chance of getting Milo to lead us to the envelope.

  So Milo takes his position on the floor, me standing beside him. Tara reclines on the couch, watching the action. Occasionally she looks around, maybe for a biscuit vendor, but mostly she just enjoys the show.

  “Sit, Milo, sit!” I say, followed by “Good boy!” when he performs the task. Unfortunately, I’m forced to say this and all other praising comments in a ridiculous, high-pitched voice that Juliet says will somehow remind him of his time in the womb.

  I am supposed to ask minor, easy things of him, like sitting, coming to me, and walking obediently on a leash.

  Once he does these things, which he’s smart enough to do in his sleep, I’ve been told to reward him with these special treats, which Billy said he loves. I’ve been stuffing him with so many treats that he’s going to be too fat to lead us anywhere.

  The one who’s enjoying this process the most is Tara on the couch. Since I can’t give treats to Milo without giving them to her, she’s got it made. She’s sucking down the treats without having to do anything to earn them. If I know Tara, when I’m not around she’s counseling Milo against finding the envelope, since that would effectively shut off the treat faucet.

  I occasionally interrupt the sessions to go over and pet Tara. I’m concerned that she might be jealous of the personal attention I’m giving Milo. Tara and I have never had similar sessions, and I don’t want her to think I prefer him.

  She doesn’t let on whether or not she’s feeling any resentment, probably because she fears that if I realize she isn’t jealous, I might cancel the biscuit parade.

  As we’re nearing the end, Laurie comes in and watches with a bemused expression. “You know. I don’t completely trust you, either.”

  “Is that right?” I ask. “Anything I can do to change that?”

  She nods. “I’m thinking chocolate-covered strawberries.”