Hounded

by David Rosenfelt

  Sam is performing two simultaneous functions for us. Through his computer, he is tied into the phone company GPS system, so he will know if the cell phone leaves the building, and he could follow it. We’d be less concerned about where it goes; what we want to know is who is carrying it.

  Sam is also tracing the places where the phone has been, and trying to match those places in some manner to Diaz or Reynolds. It’s not easy: first he has to get the address, then learn exactly what the place is, and then try to make a connection. It is tedious, difficult, and very frustrating work.

  As for myself, I’ve been reduced to going over every detail of the case as preparation for trial. Pretty much the only breaks I take are to hang out with Ricky, Tara, and Sebastian. Ricky’s presence doesn’t even seem so unusual anymore, and he may even be starting to like me. Having said that, it seems like I’m just about the only male he’s ever met he doesn’t call “uncle.”

  Pete has been growing increasingly anxious, and with good reason. I’ve been updating him regularly as I do with all my clients, but I get into more detail with him than the others. That’s because he understands the process, and can place the things he hears into the proper perspective.

  I think that as much as he hates being a prisoner in his own house, he might be regretting having insisted on a trial as soon as possible. But that boat has sailed; there is no longer any chance for delay.

  Laurie, Ricky, and I are having dinner, which represents another positive that Ricky has brought to the house. Because of his presence, Laurie has relaxed her nutritional standards somewhat. Tonight we’re having hot dogs, something she would ordinarily not give me if I were starving on a deserted island. Although, in fairness, I’m not even sure that deserted islands have hot dogs.

  I’ve been slipping Ricky food ideas for him to suggest to Laurie, and tonight we’re literally enjoying the fruits of that approach. We’re having apple pie topped with vanilla ice cream, one of my all-time favorites.

  Ricky actually winked and smiled proudly at me when Laurie brought the pie out. The kid is so conniving and manipulative; it’s hard to believe he’s not actually my son.

  I’m just polishing off my second piece when Sam calls. None of his calls since he started watching the apartment house have brought any good news, but I live in hope.

  “I’ve got something for you,” he says.

  “The phone is moving?”

  “Nope. Stuck in place. This is something else.”

  “What is it?”

  “One of the places the phone has been was a company called Blaine Pharmaceuticals; their headquarters are in Paramus.”

  “I think I’ve heard of it,” I say.

  “I thought so, too, so I Googled it and found out why. One of their research scientists, a guy named Daniel Mathis, was reported missing about three weeks ago. Vanished without a trace.”

  “Right,” I say, because I vaguely remember it. I think I passed by the story on the way to the sports page. “What does that do for us?”

  “The phone was there.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” he says. “And once again, that’s not the best part.”

  I’m starting to enjoy my conversations with Sam a lot. “I am looking forward to hearing the best part.”

  “The day it was there is the day Mathis disappeared.”

  I read everything I can find about Daniel Mathis and his disappearance.

  It was front-page news a few weeks ago, but the media seemed to get bored of it quickly. If Mathis were a young, good-looking woman, or an adorable toddler, the media would have been falling all over themselves to prolong the story. But instead he is an ordinary-looking guy who did research in veterinary medicine, so he was not invited into the ranks of hot media tickets.

  Even from the sparse reports, there is one thing in particular that interests me a great deal. First of all, the FBI was immediately identified as the lead agency in the investigation. That would not happen in the normal course of events. They would only come in if invited by local authorities, or it they had reason to believe the missing person was kidnapped across state lines, or if he was of particular import to public safety.

  There is no obvious reason why any of this should have been the case, at least not as quickly as it seems to have happened. The earliest reports mentioned the FBI, and Special Agent Spencer Akers in particular. They were clearly involved from day one, and I’d like to know why.

  He apparently was reported missing by one Sharon Dalton, a former colleague at Blaine who was identified as Mathis’s girlfriend. She was interviewed by a couple of media outlets, but basically had nothing to say, other than she was worried about Daniel, and asked anyone with information to please contact the FBI.

  Based on my persuasive powers with women, I decided it was best to have Laurie call Ms. Dalton and get her to talk to me. My failure with women over the phone dates back to high school, and has pretty much continued unabated ever since.

  Laurie works her magic, and together we drive to Sharon Dalton’s Ridgewood home, since she has agreed to see us right away. “I was surprised how easy it was,” Laurie says. “There’s something going on there … some undercurrent.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m not sure, but I expect we’ll find out soon enough.”

  We are only in her house for thirty seconds before I, and I’m sure Laurie, pick up on what Laurie was talking about. The undercurrent is anger: Sharon Dalton is angry at something, or someone, and it’s not us.

  We start to ask her questions about Mathis’s disappearance, and she answers them, albeit not providing much significant information. I’m surprised that she is not asking us why we are there or want to know these things, but I’m fine with her not doing so.

  “He just went missing. He did not tell anyone where he was going, or why. One day he was here, the next day he wasn’t,” she says.

  “And you have no idea where he could be?”

  She shakes her head. “But he didn’t leave voluntarily. No way Daniel would do something like this.”

  “And you have no idea what circumstances could have led him to leave … involuntarily?” Laurie asks.

  Dalton hesitates a moment before answering. My sense is that she wants to tell us something, is close to doing so, but can’t quite get there. “No,” she says.

  “So you reported it to the FBI?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why not the local police?”

  Another hesitation; there is definitely something there. “I don’t know; I just thought of them first.”

  “What agent did you speak with? Was it the Spencer Akers that was mentioned in the media reports?” I’ve had some involvement with the bureau over the years, at least enough for them to hate me. In the process I’ve gotten to know a few of the agents, but Akers is not one of them.

  “Right … Spencer Akers,” she says. “He called himself a ‘Special Agent.’”

  “They all think they’re special. What did he say?”

  She frowns. “He just took the information; asked me questions. That’s all. Then he told me I might be hearing from them.”

  “And have you?”

  “Not a word,” she says, and Laurie and I exchange brief looks. Sharon Dalton’s anger is with the FBI for not keeping her in the loop about her boyfriend’s disappearance. “I feel like nothing is happening; I’m totally in the dark.”

  There is much more to this story, and Sharon Dalton knows it. I believe she wants to say it, if I can just find a way to draw it out of her. I feel like Tom Cruise trying to get Jack Nicholson to admit he ordered the Code Red. She wants me on that wall … she needs me on that wall.

  “That’s been my experience with them,” I say, shamelessly goading her. “The fact that you might be worried about your friend, that doesn’t really enter into their thinking.”

  She nods. “They tell me not to say anything, and then they say nothing at all.” Then, sudde
nly, she switches gears and asks, “Why are you interested in this?”

  I could lie, but I decide to take a shot; in the moment the potential reward seems greater than the risk. “I believe that Daniel’s disappearance may relate in some way to a case I am investigating, involving some mysterious deaths,” I say. “I have no reason to believe he is himself a victim, nor do I think he’s done anything wrong.”

  A light seems to go on, and she says, “You’re a lawyer.”

  “Right,” I say. Laurie had told her that when she called her, but I guess it hadn’t registered.

  “Then let me ask you something. If the FBI tells me not to say something, but I’m the one who told them, do I have to do as they say?”

  “It would be a very rare case that they can prohibit you from talking about something that you did not receive as classified information.”

  “So I can talk about it?” she asks.

  “I can’t answer that with certainty unless I know what it is, but it is very likely that you can say it. This is information you came upon yourself?”

  “Yes. Daniel told me.”

  “All I can do is promise you that if you tell us, and I feel that it places you in any legal jeopardy, then I will tell you so, and we will treat what you said in total confidence.”

  She thinks for a few moments, weighing her options. I want to shake her by the shoulders and scream at her to just tell us the damn thing already, but I have a hunch that might not be the best approach.

  Finally, she nods. “Okay, here goes. Daniel was working on a new drug for animals, but not a drug to make them better. It was a carefully controlled study; he worked directly with his boss, Mitchell Blackman, on it.”

  I instantly know where she is going, but I want her to say it. I can tell that Laurie wants her to say it.

  But she has more to say first. “After the study was over, the remaining pills were stolen from Daniel’s office. He wanted to go to the police, but Mr. Blackman told him not to, that it would be bad for the company.

  “Finally, Daniel couldn’t take it anymore, and he decided to report it. Before he could do so, he disappeared.”

  “What kind of a drug was it?” Laurie asks. We both know the answer that is coming, but we just wait for Sharon to drop the bomb.

  “He was working on a drug to stop the animal’s suffering. A euthanasia drug.”

  Kaboom.

  “You did nothing wrong by telling this to us. You don’t have to fear the FBI.”

  I’m telling her the truth, but my goal is not just to ease her mind, though that is part of it. She may someday be in a position to tell it from the witness stand, so I want her to fully understand she is not doing anything illegal.

  I believe that she has told us everything she knows, and it fits like a glove with our case. She talked about the stolen pills, the fact that Daniel described them as a natural compound, and that he believed they could induce instantly fatal heart attacks in humans, as they do in animals. It is rare that pieces of a puzzle fit so perfectly together, but that is what has happened here.

  As Laurie and I are heading home, my legal mind is speaking to me, and my investigative mind tries to get it to shut up. This is all fascinating and compelling stuff that we’ve uncovered, but there is no way we are close to getting the judge to admit it at trial. We have to show relevance to the murder of Danny Diaz, and we’re just not there.

  But I can’t listen to my legal mind yet; I need to follow this wherever it goes, and worry about the legal implications later. It’s the only way I can function.

  But I come to the conclusion that my next step should satisfy both of my competing minds. I need to get actual law enforcement involved, or at least more involved than they are already. For one thing, they have resources that, if properly applied, can get a lot further, a lot faster, than I can.

  Just as important is the credibility they can bring to the matter in the eyes of the judge. My talking about these things can sound like wildly speculative defense attorney ramblings. If I can get a cop to say the same things, it carries far more weight.

  For the moment at least, I’m not going to the FBI. They are already allegedly investigating, though they may have dropped it a while ago. In any event, they seem to be getting nowhere, and wouldn’t tell me about it even if they were making progress. It feels like going to them in this case would be like descending into a black hole.

  The logical choice would seem to be Lieutenant Simon Coble. As a state police officer, he has jurisdiction in all areas of New Jersey. He also is already familiar with the case. A niece of Katherine Reynolds had come to him with a fear that her aunt had been murdered. He said that he investigated and found that her fears were unfounded, and later talked to Pete when he learned that Pete was investigating as well.

  “You again?” Coble asks when he hears my voice and name on the phone.

  Such disdain might hurt a lesser man, but I am undeterred. “You remembered,” I say. “I’m deeply touched.”

  “What do you want now?”

  “I have some information that might cause you to reopen your investigation, as rigorous as it was.” He had said that he called the coroner, got the report, and then dropped the case.

  “Let me guess. You want to meet again.”

  “You got it.”

  He sighs. “All right. You’ve got fifteen more minutes.”

  I head to Englewood to see Coble, and am brought right in to his office. I get right to the point. “Katherine Reynolds’s niece was right when she said that her aunt was murdered.”

  “I believe that was your point last time,” he says. “And I believe I mentioned the need for evidence.”

  I nod. “And since I hang on your every word, I took that to heart. So I brought some evidence with me.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a name. Daniel Mathis. He is a researcher and chemist in veterinary medicine at Blaine Pharmaceuticals. And he is what we in the legal world call a missing person.”

  I think I see a reaction from Coble, but I’m not sure. “What does this Mathis have to do with Katherine Reynolds?”

  I proceed to tell him about the drug Mathis was developing, the theft, and his disappearance just before going to the FBI. Then I mention the FBI investigation, without using Sharon Dalton’s name.

  “You’re sure the bureau is on this?” he asks. The competitive feeling that local and state cops have toward the FBI is pretty universal.

  “Positive, although I don’t know what kind of progress they might be making. I thought maybe you’d want to jump in and beat them to it, since it was your case to start.”

  I’ve definitely got his interest. “Assuming everything you’ve said is true, and I’m far from convinced it is, how does this tie in to Reynolds?”

  “Carson Reynolds has had phone contact with a man who I am certain is responsible for Daniel Mathis’s disappearance.”

  “Does this man have a name?” he asks.

  “I’m sure he does; I just don’t know it. Yet. Perhaps you can help in that regard. I think I know where he lives—it’s in Hackensack—and when I’m sure I’ll share it with you.”

  “How do you know Reynolds was in contact with this unknown man?”

  “That you’ll have to take on faith, but it’s ironclad.” I’m not about to tell him about Sam’s phone and GPS work.

  “And what makes you certain that this unknown man caused Mathis to disappear?”

  “We’re into another faith, but ironclad, situation here.”

  “So I should trust you? Because of our long, close, personal relationship?”

  He’s making sense, but getting on my nerves in the process. “That’s the point, Lieutenant. You shouldn’t trust me. You should hear what I’m saying and set out to prove me right or wrong. If I’m right, you can be a hero. If I’m wrong, no harm, no foul.”

  “Fair enough,” he says. “I’ll look into it.”

  “Good. Look into it really fast.”
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br />   “Why?”

  “Pete Stanton’s trial starts tomorrow.”

  “So?”

  “So you’re my star witness.”

  I leave Coble’s office and am on the way home when I get the call I have been waiting for. It’s from Sam, and he says, “I got him, Andy. The phone is on the move, and I’m following the guy now.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the Coach House Diner on Route 4.”

  “You’re in the parking lot?”

  “No, I’m in the diner; I’m at a table. The guy is maybe twenty feet from me as I’m talking to you.”

  “Do not approach him,” I say.

  “I don’t need to. I got his license plate, and his picture. He doesn’t suspect a thing; we got him whenever we want him.”

  I spend a moment trying to decide what to do. We get nothing by confronting him; first we need to check him out and learn all that we can about him. Sam is right that we can get him any time we want to, now that we know what he looks like and where he lives, and soon we’ll have his name.

  I instruct Sam to leave the diner and head home. He seems disappointed, but he agrees.

  Things are looking up.

  Jury selection is always a crapshoot. This time it’s worse.

  Jury consultants have created an entire industry; they give statistics and use psychographics and all kinds of data to tell the lawyer who is the perfect juror to pick. And sometimes they’re right, and sometimes they’re wrong.

  Just like me.

  So I don’t use them; I go by logic and gut instinct. But in this case logic is not very logical, because I am representing a very unique defendant.

  Usually the defense looks for people who might mistrust the government and police, who don’t accept at face value that the defendant is guilty merely because the system says so. We want free thinkers, who are willing to look at both sides of an issue, and not worry about power or pressure.

  The prosecution wants jurors who show great respect and deference to law enforcement. Such people, though aware of the “innocent until proven guilty” ground rules, consciously or unconsciously adopt the reverse rule, and challenge the defense to prove innocence, rather than put the burden on the prosecution to prove guilt.