Play Dead

by David Rosenfelt

  One question that will ultimately have to be answered is the one Richard raised. Why, if the bad guys wanted to get him out of the way, did they go to the trouble of killing Stacy and faking his suicide? Why not just kill him?

  The only answer I can come up with is that by making the murder-suicide look to be about a personal, domestic problem, it would take the focus off Richard’s work. If he were simply murdered, the police would start searching for motive, and they might look toward his job. That would likely have been dangerous for the real killers. If it’s a suicide, there are no killers to look for, no further reasons to investigate.

  When I get back to my office, I am treated, if that’s the right word, to an amazing sight. A three-way conversation is taking place between Karen Evans, Edna, and Marcus Clark. Kevin is sitting off to the side, openmouthed at what he is seeing and hearing.

  Karen’s genuine enthusiasm for anything and everything has actually bridged the gap between Edna and Marcus. These are two people with absolutely nothing in common and nothing to say to each other, yet Karen has gotten them connected.

  As Edna has her pencil at the ready, Karen asks Marcus, “What’s a three-letter word for ‘foreign machine gun’?”

  Edna says, “Second letter is a ‘Z.’”

  Marcus thinks for a moment. “Uzi.” For Marcus this is the equivalent of a Shakespearean soliloquy.

  Karen practically leaps out of her chair in delight. “That’s right! That’s right!” Then she turns to Edna. “It fits, right?”

  Edna smiles and writes it down. “Perfect.”

  Karen turns to slap Marcus five, but he clearly isn’t familiar with the concept, and she hits him in the shoulder. He doesn’t seem to mind at all.

  I can’t overstate what an immense diplomatic and personal accomplishment this is for Karen. Were I president, I would immediately appoint her secretary of state. It makes Jimmy Carter’s achievement at Camp David seem insignificant. Compared to Edna and Marcus, Arafat and Begin were blood brothers.

  It’s a mesmerizing sight, and it’s with the greatest reluctance that I pull Kevin away. I’ve arranged for another interview with Richard to discuss his former job in more detail, to try to learn what it might have to do with the murder.

  The unfortunate result of my departure will be that Marcus will follow close behind in his bodyguard role, thus breaking up this threesome. I’m not sure that even Karen’s wizardry can ever re-create it.

  The drive out to the prison is becoming an all too familiar one, and it’s not something I enjoy. The place always looks the same, the guards always act the same, and the depressing nature of the surroundings always makes me feel the same.

  But Richard looks more upbeat each time I see him. It’s understandable; he has spent five years being ignored, a ward of the system, whom nobody cared about, other than his sister. Now there is activity, his lawyers are frequently coming to talk about his case, and just that alone brightens his day.

  I tell him my feeling that Roy Chaney was hiding something, but he cannot be helpful in that regard, because he never even met Chaney. He certainly hasn’t kept up with developments at the Customs Service; there would have been no reason to. Moreover, 9/11-inspired protective measures have had an evolving impact on how the customs people do their jobs, and Richard would have no way to be familiar with many of these new procedures.

  Kevin asks, “Do you know anyone who still works there that we could talk to?”

  Richard thinks for a moment and then nods. “You could try Keith Franklin.”

  “Who is he?” I ask.

  “He works down at the pier, same level as I was. I’m pretty sure he’s still there.”

  “You haven’t kept in contact with him?”

  Richard shakes his head. “Not for a few years. We were good friends; he and his girlfriend went out with Stacy and me a lot. But…”

  “He dropped you when this all went down?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “He was supportive during the trial, and then visited me on and off for a short time after that, but then he stopped coming. I can’t say as I blame him.”

  “Do you have his home address or phone number?” I ask. “I’d rather not talk to him at his office.”

  “Not anymore, but you could ask Karen. She knew him pretty well; she was friendly with his sister.” He smiles. “Karen, in case you haven’t guessed, is friendly with everybody.”

  “I’ve picked up on that.”

  “Have you picked up anything else about her?”

  The question surprises me. “Just that she designs dresses and would rather talk about you than herself.”

  He nods with some sadness. “She designs dresses so well that she has a standing offer to do a show in Rome. But she won’t go, because she doesn’t want to leave me. It’s the same reason she left school.”

  “Where did she go to school?”

  “Yale, majoring in English literature with a 3.8 average.” He notices my surprise and then continues. “Then this happened. She’s decided that if my life is going to be wasted, she’ll join the party. She thinks she’s helping me, but it makes it worse.”

  These are things about Karen that I never would have guessed. “You want me to try and talk to her?”

  He shakes his head. “That won’t help.”

  “What will?” I ask.

  “Getting me out of here.”

  I nod and tell him that we have applied for a hearing and that it could take place within a couple of weeks. He is excited by the prospect, but it is tempered by concern. “What if we don’t get the hearing?”

  “Then we keep digging until we turn over more evidence, and then reapply,” I say. “Nobody’s abandoning you, Richard.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But it may feel like that for a while. I’m concerned for your safety, so we’re requesting that they put you into a more secure area.”

  “Solitary?”

  I nod. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t be asking for it if I wasn’t worried.”

  “Why would anybody want to go after me? I’ve been in here five years; who could I be a threat to?”

  “Richard, when we answer that question, we’ll know everything.”

  HAVING LAURIE WAITING for me at home is as good as it gets.

  Her pasta sauce is simmering on the stove while she’s in the backyard playing with Tara and Reggie. I see them before they see me, and it’s such a perfect sight that I almost want to hide and watch.

  I try to be as positive a person as I can, but my logical mind always forces me to see the imperfections in any situation. In this case, the fact that Laurie and I are together maybe six or eight weeks out of the year is not exactly a subtle imperfection, and it sure as hell doesn’t fully satisfy my enjoyment drive.

  Laurie sees me and yells, “Daddy’s home!” and the two dogs run over to me, tails wagging, to receive the petting that is their due. We grab a couple of leashes and go for a walk in the park, and midway through, a thunderstorm hits. It’s one of those warm rains that feel great, and none of us is of a mind to let it curtail our walk. By the time we get home we’re all drenched and happy.

  After dinner we sit down to watch a DVD of The Graduate. For some reason, Laurie feels about movies the way most people feel about wines, that they get better with age. The Graduate is barely forty years old and is a little current for Laurie’s taste, but she relaxes her standards because it’s so good.

  We sit on the couch and drink chardonnay as we watch, and Tara and Reggie are up there with us. It’s such a wonderful moment that it’s hard for me to concentrate on the film, but I try to focus mainly because I need dialogue lines to compete with Sam Willis. Unfortunately, it’s going to be tough to get “Mrs. Robinson, are you trying to seduce me?” into a conversation with Sam. Maybe I’ll just scream “Elaine! Elaine!” at him the next time I see him. That should throw him off.

  When the movie is over, I realize I haven’t called Karen to ask if she can put me in touch with Keit
h Franklin. When I do, she says that she hasn’t seen him in a while, but still knows his sister and will do whatever is necessary to make this happen.

  “I’ll get right on it,” she says. “I’m on the case.”

  Laurie’s already in the bedroom, which is sufficient incentive for me to sprint there. She’s lying on the bed, writing in a journal that she keeps, recording the day’s events and her thoughts about them. Laurie has told me that she has kept a journal since she was nine years old.

  If you supplied me with all the paper and time in the world and paid me in solid gold coins, I would still not keep a journal. I’m going to go back and read about my own life? To learn my own point of view? Why would I want to know what I think after the fact? I already know what I think during the fact. I’ve always felt that the purpose of reading is to find out what other people think.

  Would I want to be able to refresh my memory of how miserable I was at being rejected by Linda Paige in high school? I don’t think so. Or reconnect with my feelings about giving up a game-winning home run in the Lyndhurst game? Not in a million years. Journals make retroactive denial impossible, and that happens to be one of my specialties.

  Yet there Laurie is, busily chronicling whatever the hell she is chronicling. After about fifteen minutes, during which I have looked at my watch maybe two hundred times, I ask, “Must have been a busy day today, huh?”

  “Mmmm,” she mumbles, not willing to be distracted from her literary efforts.

  “Are you up to the late afternoon yet?”

  “Mmmm,” she says.

  “You want me to write some of it? To save time? For instance, I know what you had for dinner, and what movie we saw. I can jot down stuff like that.”

  She puts down her pen and stares at me, an ominous sign. “Let me guess,” she says. “You think we’re going to make love tonight, and you’re impatient to get started.”

  I put on a look of feigned horror. “You read my journal!”

  She smiles, puts her journal on the night table, and holds out her arms to me. “Come here; I’ll give you something good to write about.”

  And she proceeds to do just that, though it leaves me too tired to pick up a pen.

  It also leaves me too tired to talk, and far too tired to stay awake. Regrettably, it doesn’t seem to have had that effect on Laurie.

  “Andy, when I’m here with you it feels like I never left. It feels like home.”

  I feel a twinge of hope through the fatigue; the possibility that Laurie will return here permanently is with me at all times. But I have recently become smart enough not to try to advance the idea myself. If she’s going to decide to come back, she’s going to reach the decision on her own.

  “My home is your home,” I say with mock gallantry.

  “But when I go back to Findlay, that feels like home as well. I’m totally connected there.”

  So much for a seismic shift. “Why don’t we see how you feel in the morning?”

  “Andy, is this working for you? I mean, how we are together… when we see each other. Are you happy with how we’re handling this?”

  “It’s not my first choice, but it’s a solid second.”

  She thinks about this for a few moments, then seems to nod and says, “Good night, Andy.”

  Good night, Andy? Is that where we’re going to leave this? I need to have a little more insight into her thinking. “Is there something else you wanted to say, Laurie?”

  “I don’t think so… maybe tomorrow. Good night, Andy.”

  I could pursue this further now, or I can wait until “maybe tomorrow.” I think I’ll wait.

  Tomorrow actually starts earlier than I would like, as Karen Evans calls me at six o’clock in the morning. She apologizes for calling so early, but she wanted to get me before I went to work. She must think I’m a dairy farmer.

  If there’s any sleepiness in her voice, I can’t detect it; my guess is, she’s been up since four staring at the clock and resisting the urge to call. I wish she had resisted a little longer. But Karen is, in a very real way, fighting for her own life as well as her brother’s, so I understand her impatience.

  “I talked to Keith Franklin,” she says. “He said he’d contact you.”

  “Good. When?”

  “He’ll call you at your office. He said he has to figure out the best time and place. He seemed a little nervous about it.”

  I have no idea what the hell I’m doing, yet everybody is nervous about talking to me. I guess ignorance can be intimidating.

  I head for the office to wait for Franklin’s call and do whatever other work I can think of doing. Hanging over our heads is the knowledge that the decision on whether to grant us a hearing can come down at any moment. If we don’t get that, we’re obviously dead in the water, and I’ll start kicking myself for having pressed for the hearing so soon. It makes me nervous every time the phone rings, which isn’t quite as bad as it sounds, because the phone hardly ever rings.

  I place a call to Cindy Spodek, an FBI agent currently assigned to the Bureau’s Boston office. Cindy and I were on the same side of a crucial case a while back, and she showed immense courage by testifying against her boss. Since he was a crook and murderer, it was the right thing to do, but it caused her considerable pain.

  I consider Cindy a friend, and Laurie and I have been out with her and her husband a few times. As a friend she has the honor of my repeatedly asking her for favors, which is why I’m calling her today.

  Her office tells me that she is currently at a conference in New York, one of the few breaks I’ve had lately. They promise to give her the message that I called, and she thus takes her spot alongside Franklin as a caller I am anxious to hear from.

  Kevin and I spend some time going over our strategy for the hearing, in case it is granted. We’ve asked for a speedy resolution, and the prosecutor has not objected, so if we get the hearing, it will happen quickly. We have to be ready.

  We’re about an hour into it when Cindy Spodek returns my call. “Andy, it’s such a pleasure to hear from you. Other people, when they call once every six months, it means they only want a favor. But in your case, it means you just want to express your friendship.”

  “How true that is,” I say. “And so beautifully put.”

  “So how is everything?” she asks.

  “Everything is fine, just wonderful,” I say. “And that’s all I wanted to say, besides expressing my friendship.”

  “I’ve got to be back in a meeting in ten minutes,” Cindy says. “So this might be an appropriate time to cut the bullshit.”

  “Works for me. I need some information.”

  “What a surprise,” she says.

  “Somebody tried to tap my phone. The government. The government you work for.”

  “Are we getting paranoid, Andy?”

  “It happened soon after somebody else tried to kill me.”

  Her tone immediately changes and reflects both personal concern and businesslike efficiency. “Can you meet me at three o’clock in the coffee shop of the Park Central Hotel, Fifty-sixth and Seventh Avenue? I have an hour between meetings.”

  “Thanks, Cindy.”

  “How’s Laurie?” she asks.

  “She’s great. We still have the long-distance relationship, except right now it’s not such a long distance. She’s in town.”

  “Can you bring her? I’d love to see her.”

  I tell her that I’ll try, and when we hang up I call Laurie. She likes Cindy a great deal and very much wants to come along. I pick her up at the house, and we drive into the city. I take the lower level of the George Washington Bridge, which always reminds me of the scene in The Godfather in which Solozzo’s driver makes a U-turn in the middle of the bridge, so as to remove the chance of being successfully followed. If I ever tried that, I’d wind up in the Hudson River.

  Cindy is waiting for us when we arrive, explaining that her meeting ended a little early. It’s just as well, since the first fift
een minutes are taken up by her and Laurie talking girl talk, relationship talk, job talk, and talk talk. With a significant amount of laughing thrown in, this could go on forever.

  Finally, I can’t take it anymore. “Hello, remember me?”

  They look at me as if trying to place the face. “Oh, right,” Cindy says. “You’re the guy who defends the scum balls.”

  I nod. “That’s me.” I take out the phone tap that was removed by Sergeant Paulsen at my house, and I hand it to her. “Ever see one of these?” I ask.

  Cindy takes it and looks at it from all angles. “This was on your phone?”

  “Yes.”

  Cindy is no longer laughing, nor is she smiling. I’m not sure if the device is a phone tap or a mood changer. “Can I hold on to this?”

  “Yes.”

  She puts it in her pocket. “Maybe you should tell me what’s going on.”

  I lay out the whole story, starting with Reggie, right up to the present moment. She asks some questions, particularly about the shooting on the highway, and writes down the names of the dead shooters.

  Cindy knows nothing about any of this; she had not even previously heard of Richard Evans. But something is clearly bothering her. “I’ll ask around about this and get back to you as soon as I can,” she says. “But in the meantime, be careful.”

  “Marcus is covering him,” Laurie says.

  Cindy nods. “Good.”

  “What is it you’re not telling me?” I ask.

  “I’ll call you,” she says, then says a quick good-bye and heads back to her meeting.

  Laurie and I talk on the way to the car about Cindy’s reaction to what I had to say. She agrees that it was strange and that Cindy seemed worried about something.

  We don’t have too long to ponder it, because my cell phone rings. I can see by the caller ID that it’s my office.

  “Hello?”

  “Andy, its me,” says Kevin. “You want the good news or the bad news?”

  “Let’s start with the good.”

  “We got the hearing.”

  “And the bad?”

  “It’s Monday.”