New Tricks

by David Rosenfelt

  All the dogs are very large, and I recognize a Saint Bernard, a bullmastiff, a Great Dane, and a Bernese mountain dog like Waggy. It’s a little disconcerting to see big, powerful dogs like this being fussed over; it would be like watching someone apply eye shadow and lipstick to a middle linebacker.

  “These are called working dogs,” says Barb, but the truth is, I don’t think any of them have worked a day in their collective lives. I’m feeling a little envious.

  Barb brings us to her own cubicle, where her assistant from the doggy day care business is fussing over Barb’s dog, an Australian shepherd. Barb introduces us to her assistant, Carrie, and then says, “This is Crosby. Isn’t he beautiful?”

  “Crosby?”

  She nods. “Yes. My grandfather was a huge Bing Crosby fan. He used to play his records when I came over in the hope that I would stop listening to ‘hippie music.’ I’ve been naming dogs Crosby in his honor for as long as I can remember.”

  “Can we pet him?” Laurie asks.

  “Sure.”

  Laurie and I do that for a few minutes, and then back off so that Carrie and Barb can finish prepping Crosby. Barb says that the dogs really enjoy this, but you’d never know it. They pretty much just sit there impassively. If Waggy ever had to remain this calm, he’d commit doggy suicide.

  When the time comes we go out with Barb into the main ring for the competition. It is as bewildering as anything I’ve ever seen. There is constant motion, owners moving their dogs around the ring when competing and into position when not competing. And all spare time is spent making sure their hair hasn’t gotten mussed in any way.

  Everything is done strictly to time, and people are expected to have their dogs exactly where they should be at exactly the time they should be there. It’s all run by someone called a ring steward, which is dog show language for Kommandant. No one messes with the ring steward.

  It only takes about three or four minutes for me to get bored with this, and I’m about to suggest to Laurie that we take off when I hear a voice. “Andy Carpenter, right? I heard you were here.”

  Standing in front of me holding out his hand is a very, very large man, who must be carrying 320 pounds on a six-foot frame. Everything about him is oversize. His nose is fat; his ears are fat. If he turned around I would expect to see taillights.

  “I’m sorry,” I say as I shake his hand. “Have we met?”

  “We have now. I’m Charles Robinson. Actually, I’m about to fight you in court.” He says this in a matter-of-fact, fairly cheery manner.

  “So you are.”

  “I love showing dogs; it’s almost as much fun as golf. My entry for today is over there.” He points in the general direction of about a thousand dogs. “Name’s Tevye.”

  When I don’t say anything, he says, “You know, from Fiddler on the Roof. I always liked that song, ‘If I Were a Rich Man.’ ” He laughs at his own joke a little too loudly. Robinson seems relentlessly upbeat and garrulous, and sounds a lot like Santa Claus, without the ho, ho, ho. “But between you and me, I don’t think he’s going to win.”

  “Don’t you have to be with him?”

  “Nah, I’ve got people who do that.” He leans in to confide that he wouldn’t know what to do anyway, and then goes on to ask, “What are you doing for lunch tomorrow?”

  “Probably eating Taco Bell at my desk.”

  He fake-laughs. “Well, I’ll do you one better. Meet me at my club. You play golf?”

  “No.”

  “Smart man. If I had all the time I spent on golf back, I could have saved the world. Come on, maybe we can talk this through and avoid going to court.”

  I have no desire to have lunch with this guy, especially with the trial date almost upon us. But I have even less desire to spend my time in court on the custody issue, and I can’t afford to have Waggy unprotected. So I agree to have lunch with Robinson at his club, which is located in Alpine, about twenty minutes from my house, and he goes back to watching Tevye.

  Laurie and I say our good-byes to Barb and wish her luck. On the way home, Laurie says, “So if not for you, Waggy would be doing that?”

  I laugh. “Waggy in that ring. Now, that would be worth the price of admission.”

  I DON’T PLAY GOLF, I don’t watch golf, and I don’t get golf.

  I just can’t get interested in anything that requires a “tee time.” Even if I wanted to play, if I went for a four-hour walk on the grass without taking Tara, she would turn me into a giant steak bone.

  Everything about golf is grossly oversize. First of all, it takes forever. People drive to a club, get dressed, play eighteen holes, and then spend more time talking about it than it took to play. It’s a full day’s operation; I can watch six college basketball games in that time, and drink beer while I’m doing it.

  And the space these golf courses occupy is unbelievable. The one I am driving along now, the one at Charles Robinson’s club, is endless. If this amount of land were in a normal city, it would have four congressmen.

  The idea of taking turns swinging a stick every ten minutes has no appeal for me. One of the reasons, I think, is that I prefer games where defense can be played. Football, basketball, baseball, even pool, all include attempts to prevent the opposition from scoring. Golf doesn’t, and that for me is crucial. It’s probably why I became a defense attorney. I don’t like golf, or swimming, or figure skating, or anything else in which defense isn’t a major factor.

  As I’m handing my car off to the valet guy, I see Robert Jacoby standing in front of the club, waiting for his car. I’m not surprised he’s here; Walter Timmerman was also a member, and Jacoby’s e-mail had mentioned that they golfed together.

  He waves to me and I just wave back. If I go over to him I’ll start talking about the DNA e-mail again, and neither of us would be in the mood for that. When the valet guy gives him his keys he calls him Mr. Jacoby, and he responds, “Thanks, Tim,” so I assume he’s a member here.

  If Charles Robinson has been playing a lot of golf, he’s been using a cart. When I enter the dining room he is sitting at a corner table, and he certainly looks to be in his natural habitat.

  He sees me from across the room and waves me to the table. He doesn’t get up to greet me, understandable since to do so a crane would have to be brought over.

  He tells me how delighted he is that I could join him, in the same garrulous way he talked at the dog show. He does this with his mouth full and chewing, and I notice that there are already enough bread crumbs on his plate for Tara to bury a bone in.

  A waiter instantly appears and takes our orders. I get a chicken Caesar salad, while Robinson orders veal parmigiana with a side of pasta. The food comes quickly, and we mostly make small talk while we eat. I’ve got a feeling that in Robinson’s case, everything takes a backseat to eating.

  Once the plates have been cleared, he gets down to the reason he summoned me. “So you’ve got your hands full, huh?” he asks.

  “You mean with the dog?”

  “Hell, no, I mean with the case. The way I hear it your client is in deep trouble.”

  “Then I hope you haven’t gotten any jury duty notices lately.”

  He laughs far too loudly. Nobody at nearby tables looks over, so I suspect this is not an unusual event.

  “Truth is, I know Steven. He used to call me Uncle Charlie. Back in the day. Tough situation, especially if he did it.”

  There doesn’t seem to be a question in there, so I don’t bother answering.

  “You think you’re going to get him off?” he asks.

  “I think justice will prevail.”

  Robinson laughs again. “Uh-oh. Sounds like you really got a problem. So let’s talk about the dog, what’s his name again?”

  “Waggy?”

  “Where is he now?”

  “On a farm in western Pennsylvania.”

  “What the hell is he doing there?”

  “Mostly plowing, some hoeing, a little weeding. He just loves to
work the land.”

  “Everybody says you’re a wiseass,” he says.

  “Really? Nobody’s ever mentioned anything like that to me.”

  Robinson laughs again; I’m thrilled to pieces that he finds me so amusing. “So how do I get my hands on this dog without us fighting it out in court? He’s a champion, and if Walter had lived he’d be competing already.”

  “But Walter didn’t live. And another thing he didn’t do was mention you in his will.”

  “Hell, I know that. But the two people he did mention are dead and in jail. Walter and I were best friends; we played golf here every day. And we were partners on some dogs. He’d want me to have the Bernese.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Nah, if he had lived he wouldn’t let me near that dog. He’d want to use it to kick my ass.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That dog could be a champion, and winning was all that mattered to Walter.” He laughs again. “Like me.”

  “So you were rivals? I thought you were friends?”

  He nods. “We were both. All of my friends are rivals.”

  “But you were in the dog show business together?” I ask.

  “That ain’t business; that’s fun. It’s like owning racehorses, except they eat less and shit less.”

  If Robinson had any chance to get me to give him Waggy, which he didn’t, he just blew it. I move my napkin from my lap to the table. It’s my way of telling him I’m about to get up and leave. “If your intention in inviting me here was to give you custody of Waggy, it’s not going to work. I’ve been asked by the judge to decide where he should go, and it won’t be with you.”

  For the first time the smile leaves his face, and it is replaced by a cold anger. “You have a problem with me?”

  “No, not at all,” I say. “But I’ve got a hunch Waggy would.”

  The smile comes back to his face, albeit a little forced. “So what do they say? See you in court, counselor?”

  I shrug. “It’s my home away from home.”

  FBI SPECIAL AGENT DAMIEN CORVALLIS doesn’t look the part.

  He’s maybe five eight, 160 pounds if you tied weights to his feet. Of course, I have no idea why anyone would tie weights to an FBI agent’s feet; I know I wouldn’t. But if someone were to tell you that Corvallis was in law enforcement, you would guess library cop.

  On the other hand, he has mastered the disdainful stare that all agents must be taught their first day in FBI school. It tells the person at whom the agent is staring that he is inferior and not worth the agent’s time.

  We are at the FBI offices in Newark, and I’m surprised that the only other person in the room is Cindy Spodek, who flew down from Boston this morning. Usually someone in Corvallis’s position would want a bunch of his minions in attendance, so as to intimidate me. That he’s kept the meeting so small could be a sign that he wants to talk frankly. At least I hope so.

  Cindy is no doubt here because she knows me, and might be of value in getting me to cooperate. She and I know better, that I am chronically uncooperative, but Corvallis has yet to be enlightened as to that fact.

  “So, Agent Spodek informs me that you may have some insights as to who may have killed Walter Timmerman.”

  “In addition to the possibility of having some insights, I also know who did it. And the same person killed his wife,” I say. Again, I feel comfortable that if Childs killed Diana, he killed Walter as well. The alternative would be too great a coincidence to believe.

  “She also informs me that you can be an irritating pain in the ass.”

  I turn to Cindy in mock exasperation. “You’ve betrayed me.”

  “Let’s get this over with as soon as possible,” Corvallis says. “What is it you know?”

  This guy is annoying me. “Well, for one thing, I know the ground rules for this meeting,” I say. “We will exchange information. You’ll answer my questions, and then I’ll tell you who put a bullet in Timmerman’s head.”

  He stares at me for a few moments, looks at Cindy, and then back at me. “Get the hell out of my office,” he says.

  I nod and get up. “Have a wonderful day.”

  I leave the office and go out into the hall. As I knew she would, Cindy follows me out a few seconds later.

  “Let me guess,” I say. “That bozo sent you out here to tell me that you talked him into giving me one more chance, but that if I don’t drop my attitude, I’m not going to find out anything at all, and I will be in deep shit with the bureau.”

  She smiles. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”

  I return the smile. “You’re incredibly persuasive, Agent Spodek. Now, shall we get this over with?”

  We go back in and immediately get down to more serious negotiating. I repeat that I know with certainty who killed Timmerman, but that I can’t reveal how I know. I also tell him that I’ll need him to answer certain questions, and that I will not reveal where I got any information he provides. But I will, of course, use that information in the defense of my client.

  “Agreed,” he says. “With the caveat that there will be certain questions I cannot answer.”

  I insist on asking the questions first, because I’m not about to tell him what I know and then have him clam up. He goes along with that, which I take as a good sign. Cindy obviously told him I can be counted on to live up to my terms of the deal.

  “Why are you conducting an investigation into Walter Timmerman’s death?” I ask.

  “We’re not. Our interest in him started well before he died.”

  I nod. “Okay. Why were you interested in him?”

  “In the last year of his life he was doing scientific work that was of extraordinary importance.”

  “Was he doing the work for you?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “No, but it was a matter of national security. We were intent on making sure that it did not get into the wrong hands. Let’s just say that Mr. Timmerman was not quite as concerned about national security as we were.”

  “So he was going to sell it to the highest bidder?”

  “That was a distinct possibility.”

  “What kind of work was he doing?”

  “That I cannot tell you. It would cost me my job, as it should.”

  “Was he murdered because of his work?” I ask.

  “I’ll be better able to answer that when I learn who did the murdering.”

  I ask some more questions, trying without success to probe into the kind of work Timmerman was doing. If I can demonstrate to a jury that Timmerman was doing something involving dangerous people, then I have a better chance of demonstrating reasonable doubt.

  I’m reasonably sure that Corvallis is telling the truth, but I decide to play my last card as a test. “Where does Thomas Sykes fit in with all this?”

  Corvallis looks surprised. “Timmerman’s partner? As far as I know, he doesn’t fit in at all.”

  I stand up and start sniffing the air. “Anybody smell any bullshit in here?”

  “What does that mean?” he asks.

  “It means that I know you are working with Sykes, but you just told me you aren’t. And I know that he called you the other day. So why are you telling me otherwise?”

  Corvallis nods. “Sykes has been working with us for months; we’ve been using him to learn as much as we can about Timmerman. He’s still under instructions to call us if he learns anything. He told us about your discovery of his affair with Mrs. Timmerman.”

  I nod; the explanation makes sense.

  “Your turn,” says Corvallis. “Who murdered Timmerman?”

  “Jimmy Childs.”

  Corvallis doesn’t look surprised, nor does he ask who Jimmy Childs is. Obviously, he is familiar with the man. “How unfortunate for your client that he turned up dead.”

  I nod. “You got that right.”

  “Who hired him?” he asks.

  “I have no idea. But he was paid half a million dollars for three hits.�
��

  “Three?”

  “Timmerman, his wife, and their dog.”

  “Their dog?” Corvallis asks, again not showing any surprise.

  “Yes, a Bernese mountain dog puppy, the descendant of a recently deceased champion.”

  “And Childs was definitely targeting the dog?” Corvallis asks.

  “Yes. Any idea why that would be?”

  “I’m afraid that’s something I can’t answer.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “At the end of the day, does that matter?”

  Actually, it does. Especially to me and Waggy. But I’m clearly not going to get any more out of Corvallis, at least not until I have something more to trade, so I look to end the meeting.

  “Well, this has been a true joy,” I say. “Hard to believe it’s ending so soon.”

  I expect a sarcastic retort from Corvallis, but he surprises me. “Why did you have lunch with Charles Robinson?”

  “I have lunch with a lot of people.”

  “I’m only asking you about one of them,” he says.

  “He’s trying to get custody of a dog.”

  “The dog Childs was sent to kill?”

  I nod. “The very one.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “He wants to train him to become a champion show dog.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said no, and he said, ‘See you in court.’ Why are you interested in Robinson?”

  Corvallis looks at Cindy, then back at me, and smiles. “This has been a true joy,” he says. “Hard to believe it’s ending so soon.”

  As soon as I get back to the house, I meet with Sam Willis and Kevin, instructing them to find out as much as they can about Charles Robinson. If the FBI is interested in him for reasons having nothing to do with Waggy, then I am as well.

  Waggy and Tara sit in on the meeting, but they seem preoccupied with gnawing on a pair of rawhide chewies. If Waggy is familiar with Robinson, he doesn’t let on.

  The only time Waggy looks up is when he finishes the chewie. He sees that we’re busy talking and Tara is still chomping away on hers. Since nobody is paying any attention to him, he starts rolling around on his back, playing some kind of weird game that only he understands. Every once in a while he rolls over and jumps to his feet, as if something has interrupted him. Then he flips back on to his back to resume the game.