The Twelve Dogs of Christmas

by David Rosenfelt

  I shake my head. “Boy, this is off to a bad start. Let’s try it again. I know you know him. I know you’ve talked to him a bunch of times on the phone, so why were you talking to him?”

  “I’m telling you, I don’t know him.”

  “OK,” I say, standing up. I turn to Big Tiny. “He’s no help to me; do whatever you want with him.”

  He smiles. “Outstanding. You want any souvenirs? Maybe a finger or an arm?”

  This seems to motivate Calderone, who says, “I talked to him.”

  “I told you, I already know that. What did you talk about?”

  Calderone hesitates, then looks around at his captors and seems to decide that this is what it is, and he’s not going to be able to fool anyone. “I told him to complain about that woman’s dogs and that he’d get paid a lot of money for doing it. Then I talked to him a couple of more times about the money.”

  “Why did you do that? Was it your money?”

  “No, man, I don’t have that kind of money. He got twenty-five grand.”

  “So who told you to do it? Who put up the money?”

  “Come on, you saw what happened to Hennessey. I’ve been hiding out, and—”

  I interrupt. “Who was it?”

  Another hesitation. “His name is Barnett. He’s a real estate guy or something.”

  I don’t need Calderone’s explanation of who Barnett is; I’ve already talked to him. He was with Jake Boyer in front of the restaurant when he and Little Tiny were killed.

  “What else do you know about Barnett?”

  “Not much, I swear. I did some carpentry work at his house a couple of times. But he paid me ten grand to talk to the guy. What was I going to say, no?”

  I throw some more questions at Calderone until I’m finally convinced that he’s said all that he knows. I finally say, “OK, get up. You can come with us.” I’ve got a feeling that Calderone didn’t drive here in his own car; more likely, he was on the floor of Tiny’s.

  “He ain’t goin’ nowhere,” Big Tiny says, and I can see Calderone react in fear. He’s afraid of Big Tiny, which makes perfect sense.

  “Actually, Marcus and I think that he is,” I say. But even with Marcus here, I don’t want to start trouble, so I add, “You want to find your brother’s killer, right? So do I; let me do it my way. This guy had nothing to do with it, but he might be valuable later on. Trust me on this.”

  I don’t know if it’s my persuasiveness or Marcus standing there looking like Marcus, but Big Tiny says, “OK, you can get out of here.”

  We start to walk away, and Calderone says to me, “Thanks, man.”

  “You’ll get a chance to pay me back, if I call on you to testify.”

  “I don’t want to do that,” he says.

  I shrug. “It’s me or Big Tiny … your choice.”

  He looks back at Big Tiny and his crew and says, “OK, I’m with you.”

  I turn back to Big Tiny, talking softly so that Calderone can’t hear me. Big Tiny has to lean down to hear me; otherwise, I’d be whispering into his navel. “I may need him again. Will you be able to find him?”

  “That ain’t no problem.”

  Caffey caught a break.

  There was no way he could follow Carpenter into Totowa Oval without being spotted. So, instead, he waited outside and picked up the trail again when Carpenter came out.

  The break came when there was a third passenger in the car who wasn’t with Carpenter and the guy Caffey assumed was his bodyguard when they went in.

  Carpenter dropped the guy off at his car, parked on a side street in downtown Paterson. Caffey decided that it made more sense to follow him than Carpenter, who was probably just headed home. So he did, following him to a dive motel in Englewood.

  Fifty bucks to the jerk kid at the front desk got him the man’s name, Frank Calderone. The name meant nothing to Caffey, since he was not involved in the recruitment of Randy Hennessey.

  But it was certainly something that needed to be reported in, so Caffey called one of his employers and described the events of the evening. He could not relate any conversations that took place inside the park, of course, but he didn’t have to.

  The employer, David Barnett, knew that if Calderone had been under any stress, and he almost certainly had, then he would give up Barnett’s name.

  It was information that Barnett would keep to himself, especially since the situation could be managed. The negative was that Carpenter now knew for certain that Barnett was involved, and it would guide him in his investigation.

  But this development in and of itself did not involve legal jeopardy for Barnett; it was more in the area of an annoyance. And if the situation deteriorated, then Calderone or Carpenter could be eliminated.

  Or both.

  All doubt has been removed.

  If there was any question that Pups is innocent or that the Hennessey killing is part of a larger conspiracy, it no longer exists. I now know that eighteen months ago David Barnett took Jake Boyer to dinner and to his execution.

  Of course, even though I am totally convinced, I am very unlikely to be chosen as a member of the jury. And there is very little here, even if it were admissible, that would convince the twelve people we will impanel.

  Legally, what I have is of very little value. There’s no evidence tying Barnett to Jake’s murder, and the only thing connecting him to Hennessey is Calderone’s word.

  Tressel would salivate at the opportunity to cross-examine Calderone. He’s a convicted felon who cannot even explain why Barnett chose him to deal with Hennessey. They come from different worlds, and the connection would be hard to believe. Add to that the fact that Calderone has the personal charm and credibility of a delinquent weasel, and he’d get me nowhere if I put him on the stand.

  For the moment, I can take comfort in the fact that Barnett does not know that I’m on to him. If Calderone was telling the truth about having only necessary, isolated contact with Barnett, then their direct relationship ended a while ago.

  Calderone is scared; by his own admission, he’s been hiding out. The idea that he would volunteer to Barnett, a man he believes engineered Hennessey’s murder, the fact that he gave me Barnett’s name, defies common sense. Barnett may eventually find out that I know of his role in this, but it seems highly doubtful that he knows it yet.

  So for the moment it is information that I have in my pocket, and the major positive is that it helps provide a road map for my investigation.

  Barnett is something of a wheeler-dealer in real estate, that much I know to be true. He told me that on the night of the murder, he had been at the restaurant conveying an offer to purchase land to Jake Boyer. There is a chance that is true as well. In fact, maybe Barnett gave some kind of sign after dinner to signal whether the shooting was on or off, depending on Jake’s response to the offer. Accepting the offer might well have saved his life.

  Walter Tillman calls to ask me if I located Jake Boyer’s son.

  “I did. He’s married and dealing blackjack at Cadillac Jack’s Gaming Resort in Deadwood, South Dakota.”

  “Sounds like a classy establishment,” he says.

  “They do make a good steak.”

  “You actually went out there?” he says, the amusement and surprise evident in his voice.

  “I did. I had a nice talk with Hank. He is not mourning his father’s death.”

  “I’m not surprised. Did you happen to tell him about his possible claim to the will, in the unlikely event that Pups is convicted?”

  “I did. He was unimpressed and uninterested, but his wife may convince him otherwise.”

  “Well, I’m glad you did. I haven’t nailed this down, but I think informing him is an ethical obligation of mine, which you have just fulfilled. Will you sign a document saying that you informed him?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Andy, you do nice work; I may make you my permanent emissary to obscure Western places. Meanwhile, I’ll prepare the document and
e-mail it over. Did you get the check for your fee?”

  “I did, thanks.” It had come while I was in South Dakota. Pups is paid in full.

  I head down to the jail to speak to Pups. I do this despite knowing that she will yell at me for not having dog photos to bring with me. I am a walking profile in courage.

  Pups is coughing a little more each time I see her, but she tells me that they’re experimenting with medications to help that symptom.

  The main difference between visiting her and visiting other clients in similar situations is that she never asks me about developments in her case. I’m not sure what that’s about, though of course I’d like to think she trusts me. But usually clients bombard me with questions. Not Pups.

  “Merry Christmas,” I say, when she’s brought in.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “’Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was—”

  “Can it,” she says, so I do. “You got pictures?”

  “No, but Willie has some that I’ll bring next time. All the puppies were adopted, and the mother is going to a home tomorrow.”

  “And Puddles?”

  “Doing great. I told the little girl about the reverse pet; she already knew all about it and has been executing it flawlessly.”

  “Good.”

  “Let me ask you a question. Walter Tillman told me that you have turned down a number of offers to sell some of your land.”

  “Jake’s land,” is how she corrects me. “What’s your question?”

  I nod. “Jake’s land. Did you actually get and turn down offers?”

  “Yeah. Jake never wanted to sell, so I didn’t either. Why?”

  “When you got the offers, were they submitted in writing?” I ask.

  “I think so.”

  “Did you keep those documents?”

  She thinks for a moment. “I’m sure I would have. Everything related to the land I put in Jake’s file.”

  “Would Jake have kept copies of the offers that came to him?”

  “Definitely. He was a stickler for having things in writing, and he never threw anything away. If he got offers, they’re in that file.”

  “I need to see that file,” I say. “Where is it?”

  “In my basement. But if you go down there, bring a flashlight. It’s dark and very dusty.”

  Hmmm. Searching through the old files of a deceased man in a dingy, dark basement … if ever there was a job that fit Hike’s personality, this was it.

  So I call Hike and give him the assignment, and he asks, “Are there rats down there?”

  “I don’t think so, Hike, but I will admit that I’ve never been in that particular basement. Pups didn’t mention anything about rats.”

  “You ever see a man die from rat bites?” he asks.

  “I don’t believe I have.”

  “I can send you a link to a video of it. It’s not pretty.”

  “That’s OK, I’d rather not see it,” I say. “This being Christmas and all.”

  “OK, but one rat and I’m out of there.”

  “Fair enough.”

  The job takes Hike the better part of three days.

  As he describes it, the basement is a jungle of paper and all kinds of other stuff; apparently, Jake and Pups had never thrown anything away. Jake’s papers were in various places in the basement, and, even once Hike found them, deciphering his filing system was a task comparable to breaking the Nazi codes in World War II.

  Hike sometimes has a tendency to negatively embellish.

  He’s put together all the relevant documents, and we’re meeting in my office with Sam Willis. I’m going to give them a job to do together, a fact that will please neither. They get along OK, except for the fact that Sam considers Hike a downbeat creep, and Hike considers Sam a psycho pain in the ass.

  Hike brings four thick folders full of papers to our meeting. “It’s every scrap having to do with the land that he bought over the years,” Hike says. “Tax documents, local easements, everything. As far as I can tell, it’s all still part of the estate, although they’ve had many offers to buy pieces of it.”

  “Are there written offer sheets?”

  He nods. “Definitely. Of course, there could be some missing; I’d have no way of knowing that. But there are a lot of them, some to him and some to our client after he died. None were accepted.”

  “OK, here’s what I need you to do,” I say. “You’ll be working together.” I don’t hear any moans, so I continue. “I want these holdings dissected to find out if any of these pieces have hidden value. Has gold been discovered all around it? Does somebody want to build a casino on it? I can’t tell you exactly what you’re looking for, but you’ll know it if you find it.”

  Sam nods. “Got it.”

  “Good, because most of the burden will fall on you. You guys can’t travel to all these places, so the great majority of the work, if not all, will have to be done online. If there are any legal filings or issues involved, Hike can analyze it for meaning. But Hike will be with me in court, so his time will be limited.”

  I continue. “Look at all of it, but pay special attention to any pieces of land on which Jake or Pups got multiple offers, and very special attention to any offers that came through David Barnett. Hike, you can separate it all out, to make Sam’s job easier. I also want to get as much information as I can about each of the parties making these offers.”

  “This is a big job,” Sam says.

  “I know. Is your team available?”

  “I don’t see why not. Hanukah’s over.” Sam taught a computer class for seniors at the YMHA, and four of his top students were Hilda and Eli Mandlebaum, Morris Fishman, and Leon Goldberg. Each of them has been on social security almost since FDR invented it, but they are tireless workers on the computer. They’ve helped out on a few cases in the past and have been invaluable. Plus, Hilda makes chicken soup to die for.

  “Great. Sam, I also need you to find out everything you can about David Barnett. Business, personal life—everything.”

  “I’m on it. You want me to put a tail on him?”

  “A tail?”

  “You know, a stakeout. I can watch him and work on the computer at the same time. I have wireless in my car.”

  “No stakeout necessary this time, Sam. No shooting either.”

  He nods. “OK, but the option is available if you need it.”

  “Thanks. OK, guys, we need this yesterday.”

  I spend the next few days in intense pretrial preparation. Mercifully, Laurie has the same view of New Year’s Eve parties as I do, so we stay home and watch the ball drop on TV. Ricky wants us to wake him to see it, so we do that.

  We wake him at ten to midnight, and he comes into the den to watch it with us. He’s back asleep at five of, but we wake him again in three minutes. It’s Laurie, Ricky, me, Tara and Sebastian, all on or around the couch, watching a year end and a new one begin.

  There’s a scene in a very underrated eighties comedy called About Last Night. A twentyish Demi Moore has cooked Thanksgiving dinner, and afterward she is scrubbing a pot in the kitchen sink. It’s hard work, and she holds the dirty pot up and says to Elizabeth Perkins, “It’s official. I’ve become my mother.”

  Sitting here on the couch with my entire family, I don’t know when all this happened. Yesterday I was single and on my own, and today I have a wife, child, and two dogs.

  It’s official, I have become my father.

  And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  It was almost the perfect crime,” Tressel says. “In fact, for two years, it was just that.”

  He shakes his head, as if amazed by the brilliance of the plot. “Jake Boyer comes out of a restaurant and gets gunned down. Anybody who’s ever watched Law and Order knows that among the first people that the police look at and try to eliminate as a suspect is the spouse. It’s police work 101.”

  The jurors that we impaneled, five men and seven wo
men, are hanging on every word. Some are even nodding, alerting Tressel to the fact that they have indeed watched Law and Order. Being a juror is a new experience for them, and they’re eager to get into it. Later on, it will be hard to keep them awake.

  “And what was the awful brilliance behind it? It was the addition of a second victim, a known gang member, who himself lived in a world of violence. It had the effect of making the real target seem like an innocent bystander, and the bystander seem like the real target. So the police went in that direction, and who can blame them?

  “But it turns out that the spouse, Martha Boyer,” he says as he points to Pups, “was the killer all along. And how do we know that? Because she killed again. Randall Hennessey annoyed her. He had the temerity to get her angry, so she killed him. With the same gun. Let me repeat that. Three people, a year and a half apart, were killed with the same gun.

  “And where was this triple-murder weapon found? In Martha Boyer’s basement, no more than two hours after Randall Hennessey died.

  “Martha Boyer had killed before, at least twice that we know of. Maybe she liked it; maybe she just thought she could get away with it again. I can’t know for sure what went through her mind, but she obviously believed that it was a viable option again.

  “There are a number of factors that make this case different from most others. It may come up during the course of the trial, or it may not. But a number of you, during jury selection, indicated that you knew about it, so we might as well get it on the table.

  “Doctors have apparently told the defendant, Martha Boyer, that she has a terminal illness. I can’t myself confirm the accuracy of that diagnosis, and I won’t try. But the point, the key point, is that it should have no effect on what you do here.

  “The tendency of good people like yourselves might be to feel sorry for her, and that sympathy might cloud your judgment and affect your decision. Let me state this as clearly as I can: you cannot let that happen.

  “Martha Boyer does not deserve your sympathy or your compassion. She had no compassion for Jake Boyer or Raymond Parker or Randall Hennessey. What she did to them was terminal and brutal and undeserved. And their memories demand justice, the kind of justice that only you can provide. Her health is not your concern; your concern should be to declare, on behalf of the state of New Jersey and Passaic County, that we will not tolerate murder, and we will punish those who commit it.