Dog Tags

by David Rosenfelt

  “You got it. There’s only twenty-five tons of it produced each year. The mine that was blown up was responsible for almost thirty percent of that.”

  “How much is it worth?” I ask, since I know Sam would have researched this fully before calling.

  “The price generally fluctuates between one and four thousand dollars an ounce.”

  Now comes the key question: “What was it worth in the week after the explosion?”

  “Over ten grand.”

  Kaboom.

  “THE DEFENSE CALLS CAPTAIN ROGER DESSENS.”

  Dessens stands and heads for the witness stand, staring at me as he walks. He’s expecting me to attack him and make him look incompetent, and the truth is it would give me great pleasure to do just that.

  But I won’t, damnit.

  Frustrating as it is, Dessens is my witness, and he has things to say that will benefit my client. I don’t want him reluctant to say them because he’s pissed off at me. So I have to treat him with kid gloves, even though I’ve never really found a pair that fit.

  I ask him to describe the circumstances by which he came to be responsible for the protection of Raymond Santiago the other night.

  “Judge Catchings issued an order for the state police to take him into protective custody, at your request.”

  “Were you given background information on Sergeant Santiago?”

  He nods. “We were.” Dessens keeps using “we” rather than “I”; he doesn’t want to take the fall for this on his own. He then goes on, at my prodding, to reveal that Santiago was one of the soldiers who was discharged from the army as a result of negligence that fateful day in Iraq.

  After he describes getting the phone call from me and sending two officers to my house to pick up Santiago, I ask, “Were you waiting for him at the hotel?”

  “Yes.”

  “With more of your officers?”

  “Yes. We had six more officers assigned to the hotel detail.”

  “Was anyone else with you?”

  He nods. “Yes. FBI Special Agent Wilbur Briggs and US Army Captain Derek Meade. They were planning to question Santiago when he arrived.”

  This is an important fact for the jury to hear. I want them to know that Santiago was not just some defense concoction; serious branches of the US government were anxious to hear what he had to say.

  At the same time, the inconsistency of it puzzles me. First the feds were interested enough to have Milo guarded, then they backed off entirely, and then they were anxious to question Santiago. I’m not sure what Santiago could have told them that they’d be interested in, especially since they had obviously been content to conduct a whitewash investigation of the Iraq explosion.

  “Had you notified them about Santiago being taken into custody?” I ask.

  “No. I have no idea how they became aware of the situation.”

  I have no idea, either, and it’s bugged me since that night. But I move on and get Dessens to explain that the shot came from a window in a building a good distance away. He describes the weapon as an advanced, high-powered rifle, and the shooter as an outstanding marksman.

  “Is it your assessment that he was already in position when your men arrived with Santiago?”

  “Definitely,” he says.

  “Do you have any idea how he knew where Santiago was being taken?”

  “I do not,” he says, firmly.

  “Had you revealed the location to myself, any member of the defense team, or the court?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  Dessens almost does a double take when I dismiss him; he still can’t believe I didn’t try to embarrass him. I’m having trouble believing it myself.

  Eli starts his cross by asking if Dessens knew where Santiago lived.

  “No.”

  “Do you know his occupation before he went in the army?”

  Dessens shakes his head. “No.”

  “Was he married?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So you know very little about him? Is that fair?” Eli asks.

  “That is fair.”

  “Do you know if he had any enemies?”

  “He had at least one.” The gallery and some of the jury laugh at the answer, which is certainly not the reaction Eli wanted.

  “But you have no personal knowledge of why that one enemy shot and killed him?”

  “No.”

  “For all you know it could have nothing to do with the explosion in Iraq?”

  “Correct.”

  “For all you know it could have nothing to do with this case?”

  “Correct.”

  “Thank you. No further questions.”

  AS SOON AS COURT ENDS, I CALL JONATHAN CHAPLIN. I have to hold for almost five minutes, but he finally gets on the line. I tell him I need to see him, and ask him if I can come right over.

  “What is this about?” he asks.

  “Something has come up about the case I’m working on, but I also need some investment advice, on an urgent basis.”

  “Nephew Philip isn’t providing satisfactory service?” he asks.

  “It’s Edna’s nephew Freddie. Let’s just say he has his limitations.”

  He tries to arrange a meeting for next week, but I press him, telling him that the court schedule is such that I really have no time. Finally, he agrees to see me at six o’clock this evening, but warns that he will only have forty-five minutes before leaving for a dinner engagement.

  “Perfect,” I say.

  Sam Willis is working on trying to find out if Chaplin’s hedge fund, C&F Investments, was particularly active in the oil market at the time of the Iraq explosion, and the rhodium market when the mine blew up. I want to know if they made unusually large profits as a result of those events. But even Sam admits that it will be difficult. He must first penetrate the company’s cyber security and then—if he’s successful at that—read and understand the enormous number of transactions a company that size will conduct.

  We could also try to subpoena the information, but we would need to offer the court proof that it is relevant to the case, and at this point we don’t have enough to do that. Hunches are not usually a key component of offers of proof, and a wife’s relating that she thinks her husband was upset by a news story won’t carry much weight, either.

  One of the problems is that C&F is a private company, and therefore has considerably fewer reporting requirements. The trades it makes on behalf of its clients are proprietary information, and correctly should not be allowed to be viewed by those that could be competitors.

  One way or another we’ll get the information, but if Sam can’t do it, and the company contests it, we might not have it before Billy is up for parole. It’s definitely a time to be aggressive.

  Chaplin is actually wearing a tuxedo when I arrive, no doubt for the dinner engagement he spoke about. The only way I’d be wearing a tuxedo to dinner is if I were having it at Buckingham Palace, and I were going to be knighted as Sir Andy of Paterson.

  “I feel underdressed,” I say.

  He smiles. “I envy you. These charity dinners… sometimes I wish I could just stay home and write a check. So what can I do for you?”

  “Well, if you don’t mind, can I just borrow your phone for a minute? I left my cell in the car, and I just have to tell my co-counsel something.”

  He nods and points to the phone on his desk. “Use my private line.”

  “Thanks.” I pick up the phone and dial Sam Willis’s number, and he of course answers on the first ring. “Got the number,” he says.

  “Hike, it’s Andy. I need the forensics documents for tonight, but I left them in the office. Can you get me copies?”

  Sam laughs. “Sure. No problem.”

  I hang up and turn to Chaplin. “Thanks. So I have money to invest, and I’m thinking of putting it into rhodium.”

  He actually flinches at the word, though he regains his composure quickly. “Rhodium,
” he repeats.

  “Rhodium,” I say, probably breaking the record for the most times “rhodium” has been said consecutively.

  “I don’t really know much about it,” he says.

  “Really? My information is that your company was heavily invested in it when that mine blew up in South Africa. Congratulations on that, by the way. I hear you cleaned up. That’s exactly the kind of thing Freddie misses out on.”

  “Can’t help you,” Chaplin says. “So if you’ll excuse me…”

  “Between that and the money you made on oil when your partner and Alex Bryant got killed, you’ve had quite a year.”

  “What are you trying to say, Carpenter?” His voice is cold, and his whole attitude has convinced me that I am right in my suspicions. There’s plenty I don’t know yet, but what I believe is that this guy is dirty. And that he was involved in the deaths of a lot of people, including his partner and Alex Bryant. He’s a piece of garbage, dressed in a tuxedo.

  “I’m trying to say that pretty soon you won’t have to go to any more charity dinners looking like an asshole.”

  As exit lines go, I’ve had worse, and I turn and walk out the door.

  I get in my car and drive around the block. I park in a spot from which I can see the parking lot of Chaplin’s building. I don’t know what kind of car he drives, and over the next twenty minutes three cars exit the lot. It’s too dark to see if he’s driving, but I don’t follow them because they’re relatively inexpensive, domestic cars.

  Not Chaplin’s type.

  Finally a Jaguar comes out of the lot, and I follow it at a distance. This is not my strong point, and a couple of times I almost lose him. But I manage to stay with him, and he leads me to the Woodcliff Hilton Hotel.

  I follow him into the parking lot, and watch as he leaves the car with the valet. The valet is busy, and almost all his other customers are dressed in formal attire as well, so my assumption is that Chaplin was not so distressed by my visit that it caused him to miss the charity dinner.

  I head home, calling Sam on the way. “He didn’t make a call,” Sam says. “At least not from that phone.”

  My hope had been that Chaplin would have called a co-conspirator from the phone I had used, which Sam could then have traced. That has worked for us before, but Chaplin was either too smart or too lucky.

  “Okay… it was worth a try.”

  “I tried to get his cell phone number,” he says. “But there’s none in his name; they’re all registered to the company. More than eighty of them.”

  My next call is to Willie. “You ready to play private eye?”

  “You’d better believe it,” he says. “What have you got?”

  I ask him if he can come right over, and he’s eager to do so. Rather than talk to him on the phone, I’d like Laurie to be around, so I can update her on my meeting with Chaplin and in the process get her input.

  Willie is at the house before I am; he and Laurie are in the kitchen with the dogs, and he is eating what I am sure was meant to be my dinner. Between him and Marcus, if this case doesn’t end soon, I’m going to starve to death.

  I bring them up to date on everything that has transpired, right through Sam’s lack of success in getting Chaplin’s cell phone number. When I’m finished, Laurie asks, “Who were you hoping he would call?”

  “Somebody else involved in the operation. A co-conspirator.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t have one; maybe Erskine was the only guy. With M doing the dirty work.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so. This feels bigger than that. If I had to guess, I think Chaplin’s company was used as the conduit for investments in oil and rhodium. Maybe Freeman and Bryant were complicit in it, but I don’t think so.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Kathy Bryant said that Alex was upset when he saw the report about the rhodium blast.”

  “So maybe he and Freeman were considered a risk to blow the whistle, and that’s why they were killed in the explosion.”

  I nod. “Which would have made it three for the price of one. The blast sent the price of oil way up, and killed the two guys who were a danger to the scheme.”

  Willie has been sitting patiently through this, and when there is a lull he asks, “So what do you want me to do?”

  “Follow Chaplin wherever he goes. Take pictures of anybody you see him meeting with. But don’t let him see you.”

  Willie nods. “Cool.”

  Laurie seems a little worried about this, as I knew she would be. “You comfortable with this, Willie?”

  “Sure. No sweat.”

  I give him the address of Chaplin’s home and office, which Sam had gotten for me. We go online and find a bunch of pictures of Chaplin, so Willie will recognize him. Finally, I give him my digital camera; it’s not CIA-issue, but it should work. He promises to get started first thing in the morning, and then leaves.

  “This may not be the best use of Willie’s talents,” Laurie says, probably understating how she really feels.

  “I know,” I say, “but I think he can handle it. And there’s not much downside if he can’t.”

  “How is that?”

  “Well, I don’t see Chaplin as savvy in these matters, so he probably isn’t good at spotting a tail. But if he does, then he’ll feel pressured and worried, and that’s a good thing. Maybe it will force him into a mistake.”

  She seems unconvinced. “You may be right, but I’m worried about Willie.”

  “He can handle himself even better than I can,” I say.

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  I guess not.

  ALAN LANDON COULD HAVE REACTED TO THE CALL FROM CHAPLIN WITH ANGER, BUT THAT WASN’T HIS STYLE. He certainly would have been justified in being furious. He had covered every base, thought of almost every eventuality, but was in this difficult position because of the incompetence of others.

  Landon knew Carpenter was a danger from day one. He was smart, and he had resources, and once he took on a client he did whatever was necessary to defend him. That was why Landon had ordered Zimmerman murdered in the prison; if Carpenter’s client had been killed, he would have had no reason to keep going. But that attack had failed, and this was the result.

  Landon knew this was coming eventually; there was too much money at stake, too many people involved, too many moving parts, for it to have remained under the radar forever. He had planned for this moment, and he would be fine. He just wished it had waited another seventy-two hours to happen.

  “Carpenter knows about the rhodium,” Chaplin had said, a trace of panic in his voice. “He’s putting the whole thing together with Iraq.”

  “Does he know the details?”

  “No,” Chaplin said. “I don’t think so. If he did, he wouldn’t have been trying to pressure me. He’d be talking to the feds instead.”

  “Good,” said Landon. He agreed with Chaplin’s assessment. “Then it’s important you not give in to that pressure. This will all be over very soon.”

  “For you, maybe. But I’ve got to go on with my life. I can’t disappear.”

  “You won’t have to,” Landon said, even though his plan all along was for Chaplin to involuntarily disappear when the time came. “Everything is under control.”

  “That’s not how it looks from here.”

  “You need to continue to trust me. By next week, this will be behind you.”

  “Right. Okay,” Chaplin said, not very convincingly.

  “You have done nothing wrong. You made investments on behalf of your clients, investments you were directed to make.”

  “People died,” Chaplin said. “Stanley died, for Christ’s sake.”

  “That was an unfortunate accident—”

  Chaplin interrupted. “Was it?”

  “—that you had nothing whatsoever to do with.”

  “I don’t want to go to jail, Alan.”

  “That won’t happen.” What Landon didn’t add was the rest of his thou
ght. Because you will be dead.

  Once they were off the phone, Landon called M. “Carpenter is making Chaplin nervous.”

  The news came as no surprise to M. “I told you Chaplin couldn’t be counted on.”

  “He’ll make it for the next week,” Landon said. “And then it won’t matter.”

  “I hope you’re right,” M said. He was noticing less confidence in Landon’s voice, a sure sign that he was more worried about Chaplin than he was letting on.

  “Are things under control on your end?”

  “Totally. We’re just waiting until the target is in place.”

  “Good. When you’re finished, we start cleaning up. Chaplin, Carpenter… everyone.”

  M couldn’t help but smile. Landon had no doubt that he was in charge, that M would do whatever he asked.

  Wrong on both counts.

  WILLIE MILLER WAS SURPRISED AT HOW EASY IT WAS TO FOLLOW SOMEBODY; he just wished it wasn’t so boring. He was down the street from Chaplin’s Short Hills house when he left in the morning, and followed him all the way to his office.

  He waited outside the entire day, but Chaplin never left, not even for lunch. Willie figured they must have one of those executive chefs he’d read about; maybe he should hire one of them for the Tara Foundation. That person could cook for him and Sondra, and maybe make homemade dog biscuits the rest of the day.

  At least it was something to think about during the endless hours he spent waiting for Chaplin to leave. Finally at six thirty his car pulled out, and Willie followed him. He went straight home, and when the lights went off on the house’s lower level at ten fifteen, Willie left.

  Willie was not particularly introspective, but he knew enough about himself to realize that more days like this would drive him crazy.

  If tomorrow repeated this pattern, Willie would just have to make something happen.

  WE ARE IN DEEP TROUBLE. I probably shouldn’t say “we,” since it is my client, Billy Zimmerman, who is really the one in trouble. If we lose this case, and that’s the direction we’re heading, he is the one who will have to spend the rest of his life in prison. I will still get to go home, and sleep with Laurie, and play with Tara, and watch Giants games in the fall.