Hounded

by David Rosenfelt

  “Not for years.”

  “That don’t change nothing. Like Willie here, he was one of my guys.”

  “So he was here for help?”

  He nods. “Like you.”

  “So help me find his killer,” I say.

  “If I knew where he was, he’d be dead already.”

  I know that Russo means that sincerely; he’s a scary guy that radiates danger. As someone who was scared of the cookie monster until I was seventeen, it’s intimidating to me.

  What is really scary is knowing that at some point, I might wind up implying to the jury that Russo and his people might be guilty of the Diaz murder. The fact that Diaz worked for and hung around with such dangerous people can be seen as creating other suspects besides Pete.

  But that is for another time, and hopefully in another galaxy, far, far away. “What did Danny want you to do?” I ask.

  “To find a guy.”

  “What was the guy’s name?” Russo is not exactly the talkative type, and only answers the exact question he is asked, as briefly as possible. It’ll serve him well if he’s ever called before a Senate Committee, like Michael Corleone.

  “Diaz didn’t know the name, or much about the guy. Which makes him harder to find, you know?”

  “Why did Diaz want to find him?”

  Russo laughs a short laugh. “You don’t know nothing, do you?”

  “Not so far, so tell me, please. Why did Danny Diaz want to find him?”

  “Because the guy had Diaz’s wife.”

  “What does that mean? He kidnapped her? Or she went with him willingly?”

  Russo can’t stifle a frown at what he sees as my latest stupid question. In fact, I doubt he is even trying to stifle it. “If she wanted to be with the guy, Diaz wouldn’t have come to me.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That I didn’t know the guy, but that if Diaz found him, I should be the first call he should make.”

  “Did he say why this guy had his wife?”

  “No, just that he was leaning on Diaz. I didn’t care why; I don’t like my people getting leaned on.”

  “If you find him, will you call me?” I ask.

  He nods. “Right after I kill him.”

  Edward Rozelle was worried by the lawyer coming to see him.

  He didn’t know what happened to that woman, the one Carpenter referred to as Juanita Diaz, and he didn’t want to know. But the guy who brought her to the apartment, the one who used the name Wally Reese, was a scary guy. And Alex Parker was even scarier. And so were the cops.

  Rozelle didn’t want to get involved; he was well paid for providing the apartment, and he hoped that would be the end of it. But his desire to remain out of it suddenly conflicted with his desire to make more money. He now had information that he knew Parker would pay for.

  So he called him on the number that Parker had given him, and the man answered on the first ring. “This is Edward Rozelle,” he said. “From the apartment.”

  “I know who you are.”

  “A lawyer named Carpenter came to see me. He was asking about the two people who stayed here. Said the woman’s name was Juanita Diaz.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing. I said I didn’t know what they were talking about.”

  “What else?”

  “Nothing. He tried to threaten me, but I didn’t say anything. I just thought you’d like to know that he was here; you said you were interested in more information.”

  “Do you know how they came to find you?”

  “Yeah. They said a phone call was made from room 221.”

  “Did they ask the man’s name, or who he was?”

  “Yessir. Told them I had no idea.”

  “How about the car?”

  Rozelle jumped at the chance to answer this question. “I told them it was a silver Toyota.” Since the car was actually a black Honda, Rozelle saw this deception as a way to further please Parker.

  Parker saw it a bit differently. Rozelle had said he told Carpenter nothing; claimed to the attorney that he didn’t even know who he was talking about. Then describing the car, even if inaccurately, proved that his previous statements were a lie.

  Rozelle would die for the error.

  “You did well,” Parker lied. He then said truthfully, “You will get what you deserve.”

  Once off the call, Parker didn’t bother to reflect on what he had always known to be an essential truth: it was never a good idea to count on other people. But sometimes there just was no choice; one person could not be in two places at once.

  It wasn’t Rozelle who was the problem; he knew nothing and would eventually be easily disposed of. The issue that Parker needed to address was Wally Reese, the man he had hired to deal with Juanita Diaz. He did not know if Reese had used his real name with Rozelle, but he was stupid enough to have done so. And if that were the case, Rozelle would probably have been cowardly enough to share it with Carpenter.

  Just about the only good news in all this was that he was supposed to meet with Reese that very night. They were meeting in a strip mall parking lot in Mt. Ivy, about ten minutes from Spring Valley. The place would be deserted at that hour; the stores would have long since closed.

  Reese was there first; he was anxious to report in and get his money. When Parker arrived, he wasted no time with pleasantries. “Where is the woman?” he asked.

  “Where nobody will ever find her.”

  “So you did exactly what I asked?”

  “Yup. Everything right to the letter.”

  “All phone calls to her husband were made from her cell phone?”

  Reese hesitated. There had been one time when cell service at the apartment was weak, and he had let her use the apartment phone. He regretted doing so, but assumed Parker would never find out. How could Parker have known that?

  “Yeah,” he said, with an obvious hesitation. “All calls were from the cell phone.”

  “You’re sure?” Parker asked.

  “I’m sure.”

  “You’d bet your life on it?”

  “Hey man, I told you she used the cell phone, okay? How about giving me my money, and letting me get out of here?”

  “You already bet your life on it,” Parker said, the gun by then in his hand. “And you already lost.”

  A state of bewilderment has become my home state.

  Of course, I would prefer it if I knew exactly what I was doing, and how to do it. But I’m able to find the positive in a situation like this, one in which I have no idea what is going on.

  It instills a sense of discipline in me. I don’t know enough to know what is important and what isn’t, so I treat everything as if it is crucial. Not to do so would mean that I might gloss over something that is vital to our case.

  I think we’re on to something with the Juanita Diaz angle. Based on his meeting with Joseph Russo, Danny Diaz seemed to think his wife was being held against her will. That may or may not have been true; he could have been led to believe that, and she could have played a role in the deception.

  But one thing seems very likely: whatever situation she was in, it was being used to apply pressure to Danny. And there seems to be a strong probability that it had something to do with his murder, and likely his false identification of Pete as a drug dealer.

  Of course, none of this is admissible or even relevant in court, not at this stage. Not only couldn’t we get any of it in, but Richard and the jury would laugh us out of the courtroom if we did.

  What the hell is the difference whether Diaz informed on Pete because he was under pressure? It doesn’t mean what he said isn’t true. And the prosecution would claim that whether it was true or not, it wouldn’t lessen Pete’s anger, or desire for revenge.

  But not knowing what really happened with Juanita Diaz is motivation for me to keep looking at everything else, including Pete’s suspicions about the apparent heart attack death of William Hambler. Pete believed that there were ot
her, similar deaths, and I plan to look into them as well. But first I’m going to follow up on Hambler.

  It’s an excuse to see Janet Carlson, the coroner in Passaic County. Janet looks very much like Laurie, which is to say she is the best-looking coroner in the history of coroners. I know lawyers who try to depose her on their cases even when nobody involved died.

  I had called and told her I wanted to discuss the Hambler case with her, and she said, “I didn’t know that Hambler would be considered a case.”

  But she agreed to meet with me, and when I show up she has the file open and is rereading her notes to remind her of the facts. When she finishes, she looks up and says, “Okay, I give up. Why are you interested in this?”

  “I think he might have been murdered.”

  “Think again.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Andy, the guy had a heart attack.”

  “But what caused the heart attack?”

  “You want my professional opinion?”

  “Yes.”

  “A bad heart.”

  This is getting frustrating. “Work with me here, Janet. Is there any way a heart attack can appear to be a natural event, but actually be induced? This guy was apparently in excellent physical condition.”

  She looks like she is going to answer quickly, but then pauses and opens the file again. She reads for a minute or so, and then says, “Mmmm.”

  “Now you’re talking,” I say.

  “There are a couple ways that heart attacks can be induced, though I am certainly not saying that it happened here. One might be an electric shock to the system, but it would have to be a severe event, and the result could not be guaranteed. Plus there might be other, noticeable effects, possibly burn marks.”

  “What else?”

  “Well, there are certain compounds that occur naturally in the body, but when ingested in combination can cause a sudden cardiac arrest.”

  “What kind of compounds?”

  “There’s a bunch of them—potassium, chlorine, calcium … it depends on the combination and the concentration.”

  “Would you be able to detect them in an autopsy?”

  “In those kinds of levels? Unlikely, unless the autopsy were done very quickly.”

  “How fast was this one done?”

  “Twenty hours. It was a busy time, and this did not appear to be a suspicious death.”

  “So that’s enough time for those kinds of compounds to break down?”

  “Way more than enough. In certain cases an hour is more than enough.”

  “And it wouldn’t leave a trace?”

  She looks at the file again. “Certain compounds are elevated in the test results, but they could be elevated naturally. It would take a suspicious mind to read anything into it.”

  “Then we caught a break, because I happen to have a suspicious mind,” I say.

  She laughs. “I’ve become aware of that over the years. You want to fill me in on what is going on?”

  “I’m trying to figure out who set Pete Stanton up. I have reason to believe that if Hambler was murdered, then the killer is the man I’m looking for.”

  She turns completely serious. “If I can help Pete in any way, don’t hesitate. I know you won’t, but I want to reemphasize it. Do. Not. Hesitate.”

  “Thanks, Janet. I appreciate that, and so will Pete. But I … actually, there might be something you could do.”

  “Name it.”

  “There’s at least two other cases, like Hambler’s, that I need to look into. If I give you the details, could you call your counterparts in those jurisdictions and get copies of the autopsy results? Maybe compare them to Hambler’s?

  “No problem at all. Just get me the names and locations.”

  “Will do.”

  “Can I watch with you?”

  I look up from the couch and see that Ricky has entered the den. Actually, it would more accurately be described as Ricky and his entourage, since Tara and Sebastian follow him around pretty much twenty-four/seven.

  I’ve got the Mets game on, but in truth I’m not really watching it. I’m reading through case notes and discovery documents, and the game is on mostly as background noise.

  “Sure,” I say. “You like baseball?”

  He shrugs. “It’s okay.”

  “Who do you root for?”

  “Who do you root for?” is his response.

  “I like the Mets,” I say.

  He nods. “Me too.” Then he sits down and asks, “What’s the score?”

  “Mets are ahead of the Cubs two to one.”

  “Chicago Cubs?”

  “Very good,” I say, and he brightens at the compliment.

  I put the file down, and we watch the game together. He doesn’t know many of the rules, but he’s aware of the basic concepts. He’s got a lot of questions and seems sincerely interested in learning. If given enough time, I could mold him into a sports degenerate in my own image.

  The Cubs tie the game and it goes into extra innings. In the bottom of the tenth, the Cubs have the bases loaded and two out. The next batter hits one toward the gap in left center, and it seems certain to end the game. But miracle of miracles, the Mets center fielder makes a diving catch to end the inning.

  Ricky and I jump up, screaming, and we slap each other a high five. I’m not a big fan of high fives, but I like this one, even though his height causes the high five to be relatively low.

  Laurie hears the noise and comes down the stairs quickly and enters the den. She sees what is going on, and her face does something between smiling and crying. I’m not sure what the expression means exactly, but I know I’ve never done it.

  “Careful what you say, Ricky. There are women folk in the room.”

  She smiles. “Is this club for men only?”

  “No, you can stay,” Ricky says, then turns to me. “Can Laurie stay?”

  “Okay,” I say. “She can stay, if she watches the game.”

  “Will you watch the game?” Ricky asks.

  “I’ll do better than that. I’ll go make some popcorn.”

  “All right!” Ricky yells. I think if given a choice between popcorn and watching the eleventh inning, he’d opt for the popcorn.

  The game goes fourteen innings, but I’m the only one who has to watch the Cubs score the game winner on an error by the Mets’s second baseman. By then Laurie is sound asleep on the couch next to me, and Ricky is out cold as well, sleeping across the two of us, his head resting in Laurie’s lap. Tara and Sebastian lie at our feet, also gone to the world. When I turn the television off, the only sound that can be heard is Sebastian’s snoring.

  The last thing I want to do is disturb the tranquility of this setting, so I reach over and start reading the case documents again. I’m doing this for about twenty minutes when the phone rings. The noise is jarring in the silence, but neither Laurie, Ricky, nor the two dogs so much as stir, even when I jostle them to get up to get the phone.

  “Mr. Carpenter? My name is Jonathon Castro. I represent Carson Reynolds.”

  It takes a moment for me to make the connection, even though it was just this morning that I called Carson Reynolds’s office and said that I wanted to meet with him. Reynolds’s wife Katherine was the death that Pete said had most interested him, and that the state cop had called him about.

  I had to leave a message when I called, and was deliberately vague, simply saying that I was an attorney and my business with him was very important and very personal.

  I have had some very high profile cases recently, and certainly would have been surprised if Reynolds had not heard of me. Apparently he had, which is why he took the message seriously enough to have his lawyer call me back.

  “Yes, Mr. Castro, thanks for calling. I would like to meet with your client.”

  “In reference to what?”

  “It’s a personal matter.”

  “So I understand,” he says. “Fortunately, I am empowered to discuss Mr. Reynolds’
s personal matters.”

  “Then consider yourself invited to the meeting,” I say.

  “Mr. Reynolds is in mourning; he has lost his wife.”

  “I am aware of that. Our meeting will be brief and hopefully painless, and should not interfere with the mourning process.” I find I often dislike people the moment I meet them, but in Castro’s case, he’s on my nerves and we haven’t even met yet.

  “I’m afraid I—”

  Based on the way that sentence started, it seems like a good time to interrupt. “Look, Mr. Castro, I’m a serious guy, and I’m not interested in bothering Mr. Reynolds. But I need to speak with him about a matter currently before the court. I can ask the judge to intervene, but that will make the process far more intrusive and time consuming for Mr. Reynolds.”

  I’m bluffing; I wouldn’t have a prayer of getting a judge to intervene. It’s the kind of bluff that almost always works, even with a lawyer like Castro. He’s probably a corporate attorney, and therefore relatively unfamiliar with the comparatively slimy world that he believes we criminal attorneys inhabit.

  Besides, Castro could not possibly know why I need to speak to Reynolds. He probably did the research and learned that my only current client is Pete Stanton, but the connection between Reynolds and Pete’s case is so thin as to be invisible.

  “Very well, I am relying on your professionalism,” Castro says, which in and of itself proves he doesn’t have a clue. “Mr. Reynolds will see you tomorrow morning at ten a.m. at his home in Alpine. You will have fifteen minutes to state your business.”

  “Super; I’m a really fast business-stater,” I say, and I write down the address he gives me. “See you tomorrow.”

  I hang up and take Tara and Sebastian for their nightly walk. When we get back, Laurie and Ricky are no longer in the den. I go upstairs, look into Ricky’s room, and see Laurie tucking him into bed.

  She kisses him lightly on the head, then tiptoes out of the room toward me, still standing in the doorway. I get a kiss on the lips, and a very big hug. The full body kind, which is a personal favorite of mine.