The vet comes out to talk with us. He can’t be more than thirty years old and identifies himself as Dr. Castle. “There was a golden retriever brought in here last night. I assume that’s the dog you’re talking about?”
“A golden retriever?” I ask, feeling like I just got kicked in the stomach. I love all dogs, but the idea of a golden lying by the side of a road in pain is absolutely horrifying.
Sam shrugs and says he has no idea what kind of dog it was; it was dark. “But I’ll know if I see his eyes; they looked right through me.”
The vet lets us go into the back and leads us to a dog lying peacefully on a blanket in a run, which is essentially a large cage. There is another blanket lying over him, concealing his back end. There’s no doubt; it’s a golden.
The dog is alert and staring at us, and I immediately know what Sam meant about his eyes. He doesn’t move any part of his body; I don’t know if he’s unable to or not.
“That’s him,” Sam says. “No doubt about it.”
“What’s wrong with him?” I ask.
“I’m pretty confident he has a broken rear left leg,” Dr. Castle says. “Other than that he seems to be in surprisingly good shape.”
“So you’re going to do surgery?” I ask.
Dr. Castle hesitates for a moment and then says, “I wouldn’t think so.”
“Why not?” asks Sam.
“He’s not a young dog. Based on the condition of his teeth I would estimate he’s six or seven years old. There were no tags on him and no identifying chip. In this condition, at this age, he’s not likely to be adopted, so … if no one claims him I would think we would be instructed to euthanize him.”
Sam had been leaning over and petting the dog, but when he hears this he jumps as if someone shoved a hot poker up his ass. “Are you out of your mind?” he yells.
“It’s not my decision,” Dr. Castle says, backing up a little.
“You’re damn right it’s not!”
It’s a rare situation involving a dog’s welfare that I’m the calm, rational one, but that’s the role I assume here. I’m able to do that because there is no doubt that the end to this play has already been written. We are not leaving this place without this dog.
“We’ll take the dog and pay for any charges you’ve incurred,” I say.
Dr. Charles shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but the procedure is that we first have to wait five days for an owner to possibly claim him.”
“So you’d let him lie there with a broken leg for five days?” Sam asks. “How would you like it if I tried that on you?”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Sam this upset.
“We’re going to amend the procedure in this case,” I say. “Here’s what’s going to happen. We’ll take him, and if the owners show up, you can refer them to me. I’m an attorney; I’ll leave my card with your receptionist.”
“But—”
I cut him off. “If that doesn’t work for you, you can report to the police that we stole him, and I’ll tie you up with so many lawsuits and depositions, you’ll want to self-euthanize. Are we clear?”
He doesn’t respond “Crystal,” but it turns out that we’re so clear that he lends us a stretcher to take the poor dog out to my car. Goldens are remarkably stoic, If I was in the pain that he is probably in, I’d be calling for my mommy.
We take him to my vet in Paterson, who is also board-certified in surgery. He X-rays him and tells us that it is a significant break but one that can be repaired, and he will do so this afternoon.
On the way out we stop at the reception desk, and I tell Julie to put the charges on my account. Since this vet treats all of our foundation dogs, my account is roughly equivalent to the GDP of Bulgaria.
“No way, Andy,” Sam says. “He’s my dog; I’m paying.”
“Does he have a name?” Julie asks.
Sam nods. “Crash.”
Barry Price’s death is a big media story. Certainly not Michael Jackson big or Princess Diana big or even Steve Jobs big, but it makes the evening newscasts. He was an important businessman, the principal owner of a hedge fund with many billions in assets. That, plus the fascination that the public always seems to have with plane crashes, has deemed it worthy by the media.
The circumstances are somewhat unusual. Price was a very experienced pilot, and his plane was modern and fully equipped. It had been serviced just that morning, with no problems found, though of course that doesn’t preclude the possibility of mechanical failure.
There were no radio signals from Price indicating trouble, which led to some speculation that he might have had a heart attack or for some reason suddenly lost consciousness. The plane came down in some trees, actually bounced off them, and Price’s body was thrown clear before the subsequent crash and explosion. That was fortunate for the investigation, if not for the pilot.
I haven’t said anything to Sam, but I find it at least somewhat curious that a man died a violent death the day after he asked Sam if he could make a connection on his behalf to a criminal attorney. At the very least it’s a coincidence, a phenomenon that I do not believe in.
Whatever the circumstances, Barry Price is forever on the list of people who will never be my clients.
Crash has come through the surgery well and is recuperating comfortably at the vet’s office. I know this because Sam calls me pretty much every twenty minutes with updates. He must be driving the entire vet staff insane. Though Crash is immobile and hasn’t left his dog run, he has already conclusively demonstrated to Sam that he is the smartest dog in America.
Today I’m working at the Tara Foundation building in Haledon, something I’ve been doing more frequently lately. Willie Miller and his wife Sondra have traditionally done 95 percent of the work here, and I’m trying to cut into that percentage at least a little bit.
We rescue dogs from local shelters and keep them in our facility until we can place them in good homes. We provide whatever vet care they need, and both Willie and Sondra make them feel loved. They are able to do that because they actually do love them. I am totally crazy about dogs, but compared to Willie and Sondra, I can take them or leave them.
“We got people coming in to look at Ripley. You want to sit in?” Willie asks.
He’s referring to potential adopters coming to see an adorable two-year-old golden retriever mix named Ripley. The routine is that they spend time with the dog, make sure it’s a good match, then answer some questions and fill out an application. Willie makes the final decision about adoptions, though he can be a little demanding at times.
Sondra brings in the Happels, Ryan and Tracy. Ryan is at least six six, which means he probably has fourteen inches on his wife. But the vibe that they give off says that Tracy is in charge, and she can barely conceal her excitement at the prospect of meeting Ripley.
“She looks so cute in the picture,” Tracy gushes.
We put photos of all our available dogs on our Web site, so she must have seen it there. Sondra says that she’ll be right back with Ripley, and Tracy says, “Oh, I can’t wait.”
“Tracy’s wanted a dog for a while,” Ryan Happel confides. “I’ve been resisting.”
Willie hasn’t said a word, which is not a good sign. When Willie likes you, you can’t shut him up, so I suspect he’s not yet a fan of the Happels.
Sondra brings Ripley out, wagging her tail and looking happy at the chance to socialize. Willie goes over to her and scratches her around the ears. “How’s my little girl?” he says.
Tracy’s enthusiasm level has obviously and immediately gone down. “This is Ripley?”
“In all her glory,” I say.
“She’s prettier in her picture,” Tracy says, effectively ending any chance they have of getting Ripley or any other dog from us. “What do you think, honey?”
“Is she a purebred?” asks Ryan. Neither of them have petted Ripley or gone over to her, another adoption-killing move.
“She’s a mix,” I say as I turn my f
ocus toward preventing Willie from slaughtering the unsuspecting Ryan. Willie loves these dogs and has no use for anyone who doesn’t share those feelings.
“What’s with her teeth?” Ryan asks. Ripley has a small space between two of her front teeth, which in my view increases her adorableness. Obviously Ryan doesn’t see it that way.
“You want to find out what it’s like to have spaces where you’re supposed to have teeth?” Willie asks. Willie is a black belt in karate and in seconds could arrange for Ryan to be sucking all his meals through a straw for months.
“Willie…” Sondra says, knowing where this could be headed.
While Ryan may not be a good judge of dogs, he is a good judge of Willie, and he backs down quickly.
“I don’t think Ripley is right for us,” Ryan says.
“You got that right,” Willie says.
I intervene and usher the Happels out. I don’t make any apologies for Willie. On some level I’d like to be Willie, to feel no hesitation to say whatever I’m thinking.
When I leave the foundation, I stop at home to feed and walk Tara, and then I head for Charlie’s, the world’s greatest sports bar. Laurie’s teaching her criminology class at William Paterson College tonight, so she won’t be home until almost nine o’clock. Vince Sanders, the world’s most disagreeable sports bar patron, is already at our regular table. In fact, based on the frequency that he’s here, it’s possible he’s nailed to the chair.
The third member of our regular trio, Pete Stanton, is not here. This is not that unusual. Pete’s a Paterson police lieutenant, and his job sometimes has erratic hours. Criminals don’t punch a clock, so they can’t be counted on to work nine to five.
“Hey, Vince. Pete’s not here?”
“What tipped you off, bozo?”
“Happy again, are we? I ask.
“Nets are down ten,” he says. Vince bets the Nets, every game, no exceptions. It has not, over the years, been a profitable hobby.
“Who are they playing?” I ask.
“What’s the difference? They couldn’t beat the Campfire Girls JV team.”
“Where’s Pete?” I’m already a little depressed that Laurie is leaving tomorrow for Wisconsin. If I have to be alone with Vince for any length of time I might jump off a building.
“He’s questioning your friend … the accountant guy.”
“Sam?”
“Yeah.”
“Why’s he questioning him?”
“How the hell should I know?”
Going by my no-coincidences theory, if Sam is being questioned by the police after having talked to a friend who needed a criminal attorney, and after that friend died a violent death, the various elements have to be related.
I’m not sure what they would want to know from Sam, unless it’s to discover what Barry Price told him. I’m also not sure why Pete, a Paterson cop, would be doing the questioning, though perhaps the cops assigned to the case wanted him along because he has jurisdiction.
I’m a little worried about Sam. I know he hasn’t done anything wrong, but I don’t want him to get caught up in something that could become a major hassle.
I’ll call him and offer to help.
Just not tonight.
The border between the United States and Canada is more than five thousand miles long. It is the longest border in the world between two countries. It is also essentially undefended, except by civilian police forces. Customs and immigration offices are set up, and passports are required for entry into each country, but there is comparatively little security. While there is enormous focus on the border with Mexico, the one with Canada receives relatively scant attention.
Three hundred and ten miles of that border run along the state of North Dakota. It is a sparsely inhabited area, yet the terrain is not unfriendly. It is said that the entire Russian army could sneak into North Dakota, so long as they moved quickly and didn’t play loud music.
The town of Bottineau has a little over two thousand people and is ten miles from the border. It has a small college and a winter park, and is best known for “Tommy,” the world’s largest turtle. Tommy is made from fiberglass, so feeding him is not a hardship for the citizens of Bottineau.
There is an airfield near the town, and that’s where Carter arrived on a Dornier 328 jet. The superintendent in charge of the airfield took little notice of the plane, even though it was considerably larger and more expensive than most that landed there. It was capable of carrying thirty-four passengers, yet the only people on it were Carter and the pilot.
Carter rented a car and checked into a local hotel, in both cases using fake identification. When asked by the friendly hotel desk clerk why he was in town, he said it was to attend a meeting at Dakota College. That was of course false, but Carter wasn’t particularly worried that the lie would in any way come back to haunt him. He wouldn’t be there long enough.
Twelve hours before Carter’s arrival, a contingent of thirty-two men had crossed the border, twelve miles north and three miles east of Bottineau. They were on foot but with ample supplies to sustain them on the trek that was ahead of them. These were men who had trained on a lot tougher terrain than this.
So Carter stayed out of sight, in the hotel, waiting for the call, which came thirty-six hours later, at shortly after 8:00 P.M. The men were just outside the airfield and were confident their presence had not been detected.
Carter drove out to the airfield at one o’clock in the morning. He wiped the car clean of fingerprints, an unnecessary precaution since he had worn gloves the entire time. Then he met the pilot and the thirty-two new arrivals out on the tarmac. The airport had long since closed; they were alone.
The plane took off in darkness, just before one thirty. The airport superintendent would report the strange circumstances to the FAA the next day, but little attention would be paid to it. No flight plan had been filed, so there was really nothing to follow up on anyway.
The residents of Bottineau, North Dakota, would never have any way of knowing that their town was the entry point for an invasion of the United States.
Sam figured he was the poorest person in the room. And it was a big room.
He had read in the newspaper that a memorial service was being held for Barry Price at a church in Kinnelon. It was by invitation only, but he thought he’d go anyway and maybe get a chance to pay his respects to Denise. He had felt guilty about leaving the other night, but he had considered himself an intruder.
He arrived early and was in fact not allowed admittance. However, he was in the parking lot when the limousine carrying Denise and some family members arrived. When she got out she saw him, thanked him for coming, and invited him inside.
It was an impressive turnout of at least three hundred people. Based on the cars in the parking lot, Sam estimated that two hundred ninety-nine of them were wealthy, with him being the only peasant in the group.
He had no idea if they were business associates of Barry, though he suspected that many were. They all sat solemnly as seven speakers extolled Barry’s virtues, his philanthropy, and his tireless giving of money, time, and energy to friends, family, and community.
The only thing missing from the memorial service, Sam figured, was the deceased. Barry’s body had still not been released by the coroner, so Sam assumed there would be a funeral ceremony at a future date. He had no idea why Denise wanted to go ahead with this now; maybe it was to achieve some kind of closure.
He also wondered if the police were bothering her. They had questioned him, Pete Stanton and the cop in the suit who had told Denise that Barry was dead. He identified himself this time as Lieutenant Jennings and did most of the talking, just wanting to know why Sam had been at the Price house that night and how he knew Denise and Barry. The whole thing seemed a little strange, and Sam hoped they’d at least wait awhile before intruding on Denise’s grief.
Near the end of the ceremony, a woman walked from the front of the room to the back, where Sam was sitting. S
he leaned over and said, “Some people are coming back to the house afterward. Mrs. Price would very much appreciate if you would do so as well.”
“Of course.”
George Costanza, eat your heart out. The Seinfeld character would often relish the prospect of such things as “make-up sex” after a fight with his girlfriend, or “conjugal-visit sex” when he was dating a lovely convicted embezzler.
Laurie and I pretty much never fight, and she won’t be going to prison any time soon, so those two specialty sex options are not available to me. But that’s okay, because tonight I’m going to have “going-away sex.”
We’re going to dinner first, which is fine, because I’m hoping that I’m going to need my strength. We are eating at the Bonfire, which has been my favorite Paterson restaurant for as long as I can remember.
It’s a really nice dinner, except for the parts where Laurie keeps reminding me about her trip tomorrow. She doesn’t do it to annoy me, but mentioning things like what she needs to pack or what time she wants to get to the airport are unwelcome reminders that she’s leaving.
I tell her about Pete’s questioning of Sam, and she agrees with me that it’s likely that the out-of-town cops needed Pete because of his local jurisdiction. She also does not see it as ominous, but rather just a case of the police covering all bases. It’s a high-profile death in a plane crash, the kind of case where the authorities would want to make sure they are invulnerable to future second-guessing or criticism.
We’re home by nine o’clock, which means I’d like to be in bed by about nine oh three. Laurie has a different idea; she wants us to have a glass of wine and listen to music. Unfortunately, in situations like this it’s usually Laurie’s ideas that carry the day.
She leaves it to me to pick the music. This is not as easy as it sounds. I want it to be something that she likes and that will put her in the mood for sex. But I don’t want her to like it too much, because then she might want to listen longer.
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