Play Dead ac-6

by David Rosenfelt

  She smiles. “Just walk in the direction you were going, and after the second building make a right.”

  “Thanks,” I say, and then decide to try another question. “Do you happen to know where I can find Roy Chaney?”

  She smiles again, ever helpful, and calls out, “Roy! Somebody here to see you!”

  All this time I thought I was lost, when in fact I was relentlessly zeroing in on Chaney’s office. Within a few moments a man I assume to be Chaney comes out of a rear office and walks toward the doorway, where I am standing. He looks as though he’s pushing 40, pushing 5'10", and has already pushed past 240 pounds. I wouldn’t want to try to sneak any contraband chocolate cupcakes or potato chips into the country with this guy around.

  “What can I do for you?” he asks.

  “You’re Roy Chaney?”

  He nods. “Yup. Who are you?”

  “My name is Andy Carpenter. I’m an attorney representing Richard Evans.”

  “Is that right?” he says as he walks past me and out the door, leading me to step out as well. It was a clumsy attempt to conceal that he does not want the woman at the desk to hear the conversation.

  “Yes. I understand you replaced him when he went on trial.”

  “That’s right. I didn’t know him, though. I mean, we never met. When I got here he was already gone.”

  I’m not that great a judge of human behavior, but Chaney seems nervous. “But you took over his responsibilities?”

  “Right.”

  “Was there anything unusual about any of the things he was working on? Or any of the people he was working with?”

  “Unusual like what?”

  “Unusual like something which would have made someone want to get him off the job and out of the way. Do you remember anything like that?”

  “No.” It’s far too quick an answer; this was five years ago, and he would have had no reason to be thinking about those days until my question. This guy is hiding something and is not at all good at it.

  “You didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary with his work… anything that you might have reported to your superiors?”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong,” he says. “I just show up and do my job.” It’s an answer completely unresponsive to my question, and when I get those kinds of answers, I usually assume they are both unresponsive and untruthful.

  I give him my card and tell him that he should call me if he thinks of anything. As I’m leaving, he says, “You trying to get Evans out of jail?”

  I nod. “I’m doing more than trying.”

  Laurie calls on my cell phone as I’m leaving the port area.

  “Andy? Where are you?” is how she starts the conversation.

  “Newark,” I say.

  “You’re kidding,” she says.

  “I am?”

  “Are you serious?” she asks.

  “Why would I lie about being in Newark? And why are we having this inane conversation?”

  “Because I’m in Newark, also. At the airport.”

  “Are you serious?” I ask.

  “Why would I lie about being in Newark?” she asks, and then laughs. “I got someone to cover for me… We switched vacation times. There was a flight and I rushed to catch it; I tried your cell but it didn’t go through. Can you pick me up?”

  “Gee, I sort of had plans for tonight,” I say as I race at high speed toward the airport.

  “Okay, I’ll hitch a ride with the good-looking guy I sat next to on the plane.”

  “Or I can change my plans.”

  I’m at the terminal within ten minutes, and Laurie is waiting for me outside baggage claim.

  She looks fantastic, which does not come as a major surprise. A long flight is not going to affect that; she could go through three wash cycles at Kevin’s Law-dromat and come out looking one corsage short of ready for the prom.

  As I pull up, I’m faced with a choice. I can get out and help her get the suitcases into the car, or I can let her do it herself. My instinct is to get out, but it means that our hug and kiss hello will take place out in public, surrounded by travelers. If she gets in, we can do it in the car, in relative privacy.

  It’s decision making like this that is the reason they pay me the big bucks.

  I get out, put the suitcases in the trunk, and we do the hug and kiss routine for all Newark Airport to see. It’s not ideal, but it’s not half bad, either. In fact, it’s so not half bad that I briefly consider whether to take a room at the airport hotel.

  Five minutes into our ride, Laurie says, “Is this where you got shot at?”

  I was so focused on getting Laurie home that I hadn’t even noticed that. “Just up ahead.”

  “Is Marcus around?”

  I shrug. “You know Marcus. He’ll show up if I need him.” Then it hits me. “Wait a minute-you switched your vacation and came here early because you were worried about me. You don’t think I can take care of myself.”

  She smiles. “You can’t.”

  I laugh. “Then it’s good you showed up.”

  We get home, and Laurie spends five minutes petting and hugging Tara, then another five meeting and petting Reggie.

  “You want something to eat?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “I want to get these clothes off.”

  “Don’t let me stop you,” I say.

  She smiles. “I was talking about your clothes.”

  “Don’t let me stop you.”

  * * * * *

  GETTING OUT OF bed early has never been my strong point.

  It usually runs counter to my enjoyment drive; the bed is comfortable, right near my television, and an easy stroll to the kitchen refrigerator. All in all, not a good place to leave.

  Leaving it when Laurie is lying next to me is positively goofy, and I am simply not going to do it. Unfortunately, Tara and Reggie have a different point of view, and at six thirty their scratching on the door tells me in no uncertain terms that they are anxious to take their morning walk.

  I get up and grab the leashes, resisting the impulse to leave an “I’ll be right back” sign on my side of the mattress. We walk for about twenty minutes, which is about nineteen minutes longer than I had planned. They just seem to enjoy it too much to cut it short.

  Reggie has developed an interesting walking style. He keeps his nose close to the ground at all times, as if it were a metal detector. When he hears a sudden noise, like a car horn, his ears lift up but his nose stays down.

  When we get back, my own ears alert me to an impending crushing disappointment. The shower is running, which means Laurie is out of bed, which in turn takes away my reason for getting back in. My day is officially starting, far too soon.

  I grab a cup of coffee and head for the bedroom to get dressed. Laurie is already on the way out, in sweatshirt, sweatpants, and running shoes. It is one of her idiosyncrasies that she showers before and after exercising. “You want to go running?” she asks.

  “I’d sooner go root canaling,” I say, and she leaves.

  She comes back maybe ten seconds later. “Miss me?” I ask.

  “Let me have your cell phone,” she says, her voice serious.

  I get it off the table and hand it to her. “What is it?”

  “There was a phone guy working on the line by the house. He was just leaving when I got outside, and when I called to him he drove off.”

  “So?”

  “So it’s seven o’clock in the morning. Has the phone company changed that much since I lived here?”

  She calls a former colleague in the Paterson Police Department and asks him to send someone out to check the house for bugs. Then she says she’ll wait for him to arrive, so I have to assume he’s sending someone right away.

  I think she’s overreacting to this and is being overly cautious. When she hangs up, I ask, “Do you want me to hang around? We could get back in bed.”

  “Have a nice day, Andy.”

  “I take it that’s a no?”r />
  “That’s a no.”

  I head for the office and an early meeting that Kevin has arranged with Dr. Gerald King, a prominent criminologist. We had sent Dr. King the photographs, toxicology, and other reports on the physical evidence that we received from Lawrence Koppell. Koppell had admitted that he didn’t have the resources to hire the top available experts to aid in the defense, so we decided to pay to get the best.

  Dr. King is at least sixty years old, with degrees in everything from criminology to toxicology, to chemistry, and just about every other “y” I can think of. When I arrive he is drinking a cup of Edna’s coffee-or, more accurately, looking at it. My guess is, he’s anxious to take it back to the lab to find out what bizarre ingredients she puts into it to give it that lumpy texture and uniquely horrible taste.

  I’m expecting a dry, tedious recitation of Dr. King’s findings, but that expectation lasts for about three seconds. “Events on that boat were not as the prosecution described them,” is how he begins.

  Suffice it to say that he’s gotten my attention. “How were they different?”

  Dr. King takes out the pictures of the inside of the boat, and those of Richard. He points to a substantial bruise on the left side of Richard’s head, which the prosecution claimed happened when Richard fell out of bed after being knocked out by the sleeping pills.

  “This is not a bruise that could have been received from falling out of this bed.” He proceeds to talk about the pattern of the bruise and how it could only have been caused by a blunt, rounded instrument. Then he goes over to the couch and demonstrates that the fall from that height, and at that angle, would have had Richard land on the right side of his head, not the left.

  It’s compelling but not overwhelming, and I’m hoping there’s more. There is.

  He takes out the toxicology reports, which show an overdose of Amenipam, the sleeping pills that almost killed Richard. His estimate is that Richard would have been dead if the Coast Guard medics had gotten to him fifteen minutes later. “But he did not take those pills; the drug was either ingested in liquid form or, more likely, administered by injection after he was unconscious.”

  This, if true and if it can be proven, is a blockbuster. “How do you know that?”

  He points to a line on the toxicology report that shows Richard had traces of campene, a preservative used in test tubes. His theory is that liquid Amenipam was administered, that it was preserved in a test tube before that, and that that is why the trace was found in Richard’s blood.

  “Could it have gotten there any other way?”

  He nods. “Yes, which is why it didn’t attract much attention. It is found in shellfish.”

  Kevin speaks for the first time. “So where does that leave us?”

  “In great shape,” I say. “Richard is allergic to shellfish. I read it in the medical records.”

  Dr. King smiles as if his student had just made him proud. “Exactly. And it is a severe allergy. If he wanted to commit suicide, all he would have had to do was have a shrimp cocktail.”

  Dr. King leaves, and I have to restrain myself from giving Kevin a high five. This is a very substantial development and, if accurate, puts a major dent in the prosecution case. Coupled with Reggie’s existence, it could well be enough to get us a hearing. Kevin agrees and sets out to write a brief to file with the court.

  My euphoria is short-lived, as Laurie shows up with Sergeant Allen Paulsen, one of the technology experts in the Paterson Police Department.

  She comes right to the point. “Allen found a tap on your phone.”

  He holds up a small, clear plastic bag with a device in it. “It looks new-no weather marks or anything. It could be a couple of weeks old, but based on what Laurie witnessed, my best guess is, it was installed this morning.”

  “Are you here to check the office phones?”

  He nods. “Right.”

  “That’s not all, Andy,” she says.

  I don’t like the way she said that. “It’s not?”

  She turns to Paulsen, inviting him to explain.

  He does, again holding up the device. “This device is state-of-the-art; I’ve never seen one like it. I would bet a month’s pay it’s government issue.”

  Oh, shit. “Local, state, or federal?” I ask, in descending order of preference.

  “Federal,” he says. “Definitely federal. Which agency, that I can’t tell you.”

  Paulsen goes off to check the office and, after about fifteen minutes, tells me that the place is clean. He gives me the name of a guy and tells me that I should hire him to sweep my home and office for taps and bugs at least twice a week.

  “They may not do it again,” he says. “Because now that we’ve removed the first tap, they’ll know you’re on to them.”

  Paulsen leaves Laurie, Kevin, and me to ponder what all this means. In the brief time that I’ve been Richard’s lawyer, I’ve been shot at by two hoods, one of whom was supposed to be dead, and had my phone tapped by a government agency.

  “And I don’t have a clue what the hell it’s all about.”

  “It’s all about somebody wanting Richard Evans to stay in jail,” Laurie says.

  I nod. “Or not wanting the case opened up. Kevin, as part of the brief you should include the attempt on my life, and the phone tap. Request that Richard be moved to a secure area of the prison, in solitary if necessary.”

  “You think he’s in danger?” Kevin asks.

  “If he’s dead there’s no case to open up,” Laurie points out.

  “On the other hand, then there would be no reason to kill his lawyers,” I say.

  I’m a glass-half-full kind of guy.

  * * * * *

  THERE IS NOT a very high standard for getting a hearing.

  That’s the good news. The bad news is, the standard for prevailing in the hearing, for being granted a new trial, is quite high. The defense needs to show that the new evidence would do more than just create reasonable doubt; it must show that an injustice is likely being committed by keeping the accused incarcerated.

  Kevin’s brief is terrific, which is no surprise, since he is probably the best I have ever seen at preparing them. The question we face is whether we should submit it now, since a hearing is likely to be held quickly if granted. By submitting the brief we are saying that we are ready to proceed, when in reality we are not.

  Arguing for haste are the ominous things that have been happening to me, and the very real chance that Richard could be in jeopardy in prison. Without submitting the briefs, we have no chance to get him isolated, and therefore no way to get him out of grave danger.

  After weighing all the factors, we send Kevin down to submit it while I meet with Sam Willis in his office, which is just down the hall from mine, to get a report on his computer investigation of the victim, Stacy Harriman.

  I’m pleasantly surprised that he comes in all business, with no song or movie talking. He has her credit history, educational background, employment history, former addresses, birth certificate-the entire picture.

  “Nothing unusual, Andy. Never in a lot of debt, never a late payment, straight B average in school, paid her taxes. If she lived, she would have had a house on Normal Lane and 2.2 children.”

  “Ever do any government work?” I ask.

  “Not unless you consider teaching third grade to be government work.”

  He takes me through some more of her history, which further confirms my feeling that this is about Richard. Stacy was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “Thanks, Sam, you did a great job.”

  “It’s nothing, Andy.”

  “No, really. You’re terrific at it, you’re fast, and you do it right the first time. And I just want you to know how much I appreciate it. You’re a valuable member of the team.”

  “Andy… you had me at ‘Hello.’”

  Sam leaves, and I use this alone time to figure out what it is I know, or at least what I believe. It promises to be a s
hort session.

  I would bet that Roy Chaney was worried when I showed up. Couple that with the fact that some branch of the government was eavesdropping on me, probably operating without court authority, and it’s a decent bet that whatever it is has to do with Richard’s job with U.S. Customs.

  Complicating matters is the incident on the highway. It’s clearly not the government’s style to send shooters after me like that. It’s certainly not a random shooting or a coincidence, but it’s just as certainly beyond my capacity to figure it out at this moment.

  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.”