Rescued

by David Rosenfelt

  “So according to the newspaper, you have the dogs now?” he asks.

  “I do.”

  “Technically, they’re my dogs.”

  “Yet I have them,” I say. “Technically and literally.”

  “You going to pay me for them?”

  “Did you pay for them?”

  He shrugs. “No.”

  “Then, to use your phrase, you’re already ‘whole.’”

  “I could sue you,” he says.

  “Clearly you are unaware of my legal prowess.”

  “This doesn’t seem right.”

  “I hear you, but it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there,” I say.

  Rodgers saw himself as chairman of a very unique board. There were two other working members besides himself, each one with an operating name of an NFL quarterback. Besides himself, there was Manning and Elway. Rodgers didn’t think it was necessary to distinguish between Peyton and Eli, so Manning was just Manning. There were other people that Rodgers called on to perform individual tasks, but they were dispensable.

  In fact, Rodgers considered everyone but himself to be dispensable.

  The members of the board each had their own unique skills, and if they weren’t the best at what they did, they were damn close. Rodgers had already called on each one a number of times to perform very specific functions, and neither had failed him yet.

  Which was good for them, because failure was unacceptable.

  The board and its members operated without oversight, either by the government or anyone else. They functioned in a shadow world, with only Rodgers fully aware of the various projects and functions they were undertaking.

  Financing was important but was absolutely not an issue. Rodgers had more than enough money to do what had to be done, and that included paying the board members extraordinarily well. There was no other board in the world that paid anywhere close to what these people made, but then again, no other board in the world took these kinds of risks.

  Dave Kramer represented a collateral issue to Rodgers. He was not even someone that had to be handled; the fact that Manning had acted independently to do so annoyed him and was a break of established procedure.

  Rodgers would keep an eye on the Kramer situation and the machinations of his lawyer, Carpenter. But neither of them represented a significant problem.

  And if that changed, the board would handle it. If necessary, the chairman himself would do the job.

  “It’s a mixed bag,” Sam says.

  I’m generally not a fan of mixed bags; I like my verbal bags pure and positive, especially when Sam is doing the talking. He usually takes the optimistic side of things, so “mixed” coming from him sounds worse than, say, coming from Hike. In Hike’s eyes, winning the lottery would be a mixed bag.

  “Okay, let’s hear it.”

  “You want the good stuff or the not-so-good stuff first?”

  “I’m in your hands, Sam. But can we move it along? It’s a bit warm in here.” We’re in my office, which is down the hall from Sam’s, and Sofia Hernandez still hasn’t managed to get the air-conditioning fixed. She told me the technical issue involved, but I wouldn’t have understood what she was saying even if she were saying it in English, which she was not.

  “Okay. I checked into phone contacts between Zimmer and Kramer. Which wasn’t so easy, because Zimmer didn’t have a phone.”

  “He didn’t have a phone?” I ask. “Who doesn’t have a phone?”

  “This guy was living in the eighteenth century. No phone, no email address, no computer trail, nothing. But in this case, I should probably just say he didn’t have a phone in his name.”

  “Did he have one in somebody else’s name?”

  Sam shrugs. “Who knows? I’d have to have the possible name first.”

  “So we can’t show that Zimmer called our client?”

  “Not yet. But we can make some assumptions.”

  I don’t like the sound of that, since I’ve never actually met a judge who was inclined to admit assumptions as evidence. “Make some,” I say.

  “Well, Kramer got a call a week ago from a burner phone. It was purchased without a contract in a convenience store in Little Rock, Arkansas. The call lasted four minutes. Then he got another call the day before the murder from the same phone. GPS records show the call came from a small town in northern Virginia. That call also lasted four minutes.”

  Since we know that Zimmer was making dog pickups down South and then working his way north, the geography seems to fit. Zimmer was on the move, and so was the burner phone. It’s an assumption, but it sounds like a solid one.

  “Hold on a second,” I say.

  I take out the inventory listed in the discovery documents and see that there is no mention of a cell phone. It would be there if Zimmer was carrying one or if there was one on the truck.

  “Can we find out who purchased the phone?” I ask.

  “I can’t answer that. Somebody would have to check with the store owner personally; it’s not on a computer where I can access it. Besides, generally those kinds of purchases are made in cash.”

  I make a note to ask Kramer to try to figure out exactly when he received the phone calls. I don’t want to tell him when they were made; I want him to come up with matching times independently. It’s probably another sign of distrust on my part.

  “What else have you got?” I ask.

  “Well, I did a preliminary rundown on Zimmer. I checked a lot of databases, but I didn’t have to check Boy Scout records, because he wasn’t one.”

  That’s what passes for a Sam Willis joke, so I fake smile my appreciation, and he moves on.

  “I can’t find where he ever worked at a job longer than three months. Moved around a lot, mostly on the East Coast, but went as far west as Ohio. He probably didn’t like it there, because he was arrested twice.”

  “What for?”

  “Shoplifting once and assault. He was in a bar fight. Charges were dropped in both cases, though I don’t see why. I’m sure I can find out.”

  “Any other arrests?”

  “Three. But only one stuck; the last one.”

  “Tell me about that,” I say.

  “Three months ago, he was arrested for assault again, but this time the victim wound up in the hospital, and charges weren’t dropped. Zimmer was still awaiting trial when he was killed.”

  “Where was this?” I ask.

  “Ocean City, New Jersey.”

  “So he was out on bail?”

  He smiles. “Here comes the good part of the mixed bag. He put up fifty thousand in cash and hired a lawyer who does not come cheap. He gave him a $25,000 retainer.”

  “You broke into Zimmer’s bank account?” It’s the only way Sam could know the lawyer retainer figure; those records are confidential and privileged.

  He shrugs. “I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Good figuring. Where did he get that kind of money? From working odd jobs?”

  “Not unless he got a job as a wire transfer receiver. Right before he made bail, he got seventy-five grand wired into his account from an offshore account in the Caymans that can’t be traced.”

  Sam gives me copies of whatever information he has on Zimmer, including his most recent address. I thank him and head home to discuss all of this with Laurie. I’ll also be able to think more clearly when I’m out of this office; it is sauna hot in here.

  I relate the information to Laurie in the same order that Sam gave it to me. She stops me when I get to the convenience store purchase of the burner phone. “Do you have the name of the store?”

  “No, but Sam probably does.”

  “I’ll check it out. Maybe the storekeeper will remember something about the purchaser; he might even be able to ID Zimmer.”

  “Good,” I say. “Because it will be hard to prove that it was Zimmer’s phone, since it wasn’t on the truck with him. Why buy it and then throw it away?”

  She shakes her head. “Whoever removed the
knife removed the phone as well.”

  I decide not to mention that we haven’t demonstrated with any certainty that the knife ever existed. I don’t want to start any kind of discord, not with bedtime looming. In the marital sex game, timing is everything.

  The wired money, of course, is the most interesting bit of news to Laurie, as it was to me. “Somebody wanted him out of jail and available, and it wasn’t to transport dogs,” she says.

  “You are obviously assuming it was so he would be available to kill Kramer.”

  “Right, but the significant part is that it was Zimmer. They could have found other people willing to commit a murder for that kind of money, but they wanted Zimmer, even though he was in jail.”

  I nod. “Because of his history with Kramer.”

  “Exactly. This is great; we’re getting somewhere. I’m happy about this.”

  “Don’t lose that happy mood,” I say. “I’ll be back soon and will attempt to provide you with even more happiness.”

  “I’ll be in bed reading,” she says.

  This, in keeping with the theme of the evening, is a mixed bag. The idea that Laurie will be in bed can only be seen as a positive. Her presence is absolutely essential.

  But the “reading” part is problematic; sometimes reading makes her fall asleep. I would have preferred she’d said she’d be in bed “waiting,” or even better, “yearning.”

  I take Tara and Sebastian on what I will attempt to make an abbreviated walk. Tara is very cooperative, doing her business within the first five minutes. I think she must be feeling guilty about her traitorous actions with Kramer.

  Sebastian is a somewhat different story. He sniffs around endlessly, trying to find the absolute perfect spot. “Sebastian, we have passed at least fifty acceptable trees, signposts, and fire hydrants. Stop sniffing and start pissing, or you have chowed down your last biscuit.”

  That seems to work; let no man separate Sebastian from his biscuits. We’re back in the house about a half hour after we left. I check in on Ricky and kiss his sleeping head. It’s a ritual I have started to do every night. One time he even woke up, smiled, and said, “Hi, Dad. I love you.”

  I don’t want to overstate this, but it’s a moment I will remember for the rest of my life.

  I head for the bedroom, cringing, but Laurie is in fact awake and reading. “You’re awake,” I say.

  “You’re very observant. I was waiting for you.”

  “Were you also yearning?”

  “Don’t push it,” she says.

  “What about craving? Lusting? Longing?”

  “Andy…”

  “Okay. But do any of these fit? Hungering? Aching? Wanting?”

  She thinks for a moment. “Let’s go with wanting.”

  I can’t help but grin my stupid grin. “Yes, let’s.”

  Zimmer lived in a small garden apartment in Lyndhurst.

  The sign in front advertises them as long- or short-term rentals and promises that there will not be any credit check conducted. The manager is Oscar Cabrera, and he just shrugs when Laurie and I inform him we are seeking information about Zimmer.

  We’re sitting in his office, which is just as dumpy as mine but at least has a window air conditioner. It’s a bit loud, but effective in this small space. “You related to any of the baseball Cabreras?” I ask.

  He frowns. “You think I’d be here if I was?”

  “Who are the baseball Cabreras?” Laurie asks.

  “At the risk of stating the obvious, they’re baseball players named Cabrera. There’s a million of them; Cabrera is like Smith in baseball land. There’s Miguel, and Melky, and Ramón, and Asdrúbel, and…”

  She interrupts. “Okay … that’s plenty. It’s possible we might be starting out a bit off the point,” she says.

  I nod. “Possible.” Then, to Cabrera, “How long did Zimmer live here?”

  “About four months.”

  “Did he get many visitors?”

  “Nah. You know, the police already asked me this stuff.”

  “I’m sure they did,” I say. “Bless them for their thoroughness.”

  “No family that he mentioned?” Laurie asks.

  “We didn’t spend much time together, you know? If he had a problem in the apartment, he called me. That was it.”

  “Do you know what he did for a living?”

  “I know he paid his rent.”

  We ask him more questions and get similarly nonresponsive answers. I don’t think the guy is hiding anything; I just have a hunch he doesn’t take much of a personal, caring interest in his tenants.

  Finally, Laurie asks, “Do you have any idea where we might find other people who knew him?”

  “You could try that bar.”

  “Which bar is that?” I ask.

  “It’s called the Cave. I saw him in there once, but I think he went there a lot. He even had a T-shirt from there that he wore all the time.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Downtown. On your right as you drive in.”

  As we’re leaving, I say, “You really should check your family tree. With all those Cabreras, you’ve got to be related to at least one of them. Even if it’s only a third cousin.”

  “Hey, man. I’ve checked it out a hundred times, you know?”

  We get in the car, and I say, “To the Cave?”

  She nods. “To the Cave.”

  The Cave proves to be a normal dive bar in every respect except for fake stones on the walls, designed to give a cave effect. Instead, it gives a fake stone effect.

  There are only four patrons in the bar, although since it’s barely 11:00 A.M., it could certainly be argued that the word only doesn’t apply. Four is a lot for this hour, even though in this case they represent a pretty scraggly group. My guess is that none of them are going to be heading back to their corner offices after a quick lunch.

  We walk over to the bartender, who is not surprisingly behind the bar. He’s about fifty and looks like he has spent most of his fifty years behind bars just like this.

  “Hi, I’m Andy, and this is Laurie.”

  He doesn’t say anything, just eyes us warily.

  I smile and say, “This is the part where you introduce yourself, and we all lie and say how nice it is to meet each other.”

  “What do you want?” is his response.

  “To talk about Kenny Zimmer.”

  “You cops?”

  “No.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “He is?” I ask, feigning shock. “Then I guess he’s not coming to the reunion. We were here to ask if he wanted the chicken or the fish.”

  Laurie rolls her eyes—a sure sign she’s about to take over the questioning. “We want to know if he had any close friends that might give us some insight into the reasons he was killed.”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “We’re friends of the court,” I say.

  “You’re on the side of the killer?”

  “We’re trying to find out who the killer is,” she parries. “Look, there’s no reason to make this difficult. We could ask you these same questions in court in a deposition, but why go to all that trouble?”

  He thinks about this for a few moments. He’s smart enough to know this is a better setting to answer the questions than in court, but not smart enough to know we could never get him into court to answer these questions.

  “He’s got four buddies; they’re here every night.”

  “What time do they get here?”

  “Nine o’clock.”

  “How will I know them?”

  “You don’t want to know them, especially when they find out you’re on the killer’s side. Zimmer was one of them.”

  “Do they have a regular table?” I ask.

  He points. “In the corner.” Then he indicates Laurie. “But definitely don’t bring her. Come to think of it, don’t bring you either. These are not people you want to interrupt.”

  “Is it a book club or some
thing?” I ask. “Because I just finished a terrific Jane Austen novel I think they might like.”

  He just shakes his head. “I’m glad I’m off tonight. There’s gonna be a lot of cleaning up to do. And I’ll tell the night guy to put away the good glasses.”

  My meeting with Carla Westrum is going to be a short one.

  She called and invited me in to discuss the case. She’s going to be asking whether we are interested in pleading it out, which we are not. I would have said we should handle our business in a phone call, but there’s always the possibility that I’ll learn something in the meeting.

  Besides, it’s not like I have any hot leads to track down. At least not until 9:00 tonight.

  In my experience, I have found that prosecutors usually make us defense attorneys wait in the lobby for a while. It’s their way of demonstrating that they have the upper hand in the relationship. The annoying part about that is not the waiting; it’s the knowledge that they do have the upper hand. They have the resources of the state.

  But Carla proves to be the exception to the rule; she’s out in the lobby within a minute of the time I arrive to lead me back to her office. Not only that, but she’s smiling the entire time, which by itself could get her drummed out of the prosecutors’ union.

  Once we’re settled in her office and I’ve declined her offer of something to drink, she says, “So you planning to take this to trial?”

  “Don’t you want to chitchat first?” I ask.

  “Business first. Always.”

  I nod. “Then yes, we’re taking this to trial.”

  “Really? I’m surprised,” she says.

  “I am full of surprises.”

  “I was prepared to make you an attractive offer,” she says. “Thirty to life, with the possibility of parole after twenty-five.”

  I put on my most stunned look. “Wow, that’s fantastic. I wish I were the wrongly accused so I could take advantage of that myself.”

  Her smile becomes a laugh. “Wrongly accused? We’ve got Kramer on video entering the truck, and his gun is the murder weapon. And if we needed motive, which we don’t, we have him threatening the life of the victim.”

  “Sounds airtight to me,” I say. “You can consider the defense totally intimidated.”