Unleashed

by David Rosenfelt

  “I want to know everything I can about Barry Price, especially in the time just before his death. It’s necessary for me to defend my client.”

  “Look, Mr. Carpenter, Barry Price … well, I wouldn’t say he was like a son to me, he was more like a close nephew. And I very much like Denise as well.”

  Cathy is nodding vigorously along with all of this.

  He continues, “So I do not want to contribute to destroying his memory. He was an extraordinary individual. And brilliant.”

  “But you want to bring his killer to justice?”

  He thinks for a moment and says, “That I do. Barry suggested that I close out my account and withdraw my investment.”

  “Why?”

  “He didn’t say, and I didn’t press it, in case there were insider issues or the like. But my sense was that he was leaving the business. I could have been wrong about that.”

  “Did you do what he suggested?”

  “Of course. I withdrew twenty-five percent of it, as he instructed. He wanted me to do it in four installments, spread out over three months.”

  “Do you think Denise Price murdered her husband?”

  Cathy is shaking her head no as Kenneth says, “I do not. But then again, I don’t see how anyone could have done something like this.”

  Cathy says, “There is no way on earth that Denise did this.”

  “Why do you say that?” I ask, hoping she has some concrete reason I can use.

  “No woman could,” Cathy says.

  “You’d be surprised, Cathy,” is what I don’t say.

  “Have a nice evening,” is what I do say.

  Morristown Municipal Airport is a designated relief airport for the New York area. That means it was built to serve as a place for planes to go when JFK, LaGuardia, or Newark becomes overcrowded. Since I have never been at those airports when they’re not overcrowded, I’m surprised that Morristown Airport is so empty.

  I’m here to see John Mulligan, whom Barry Price employed to mechanically maintain his plane. Since Barry’s plane is currently in about four million pieces, I expect Mulligan to have some time on his hands, but that turns out not to be the case.

  Mulligan is working on a plane when I walk into the hangar, and he comes down wearing work overalls. He greets me with a smile and a handshake. His hands aren’t greasy; I don’t think private planes have any grease. Grease is for peasants.

  “Sorry, but I need to work while we talk. Hope you don’t mind, but it’s a busy week.”

  “So you didn’t work exclusively for Barry Price?”

  He smiles so broadly that it almost qualifies as a laugh, and he says no. He clearly thinks it’s the dumbest question ever asked. If he hung around with me more he’d know it’s not even in the top fifty for this week.

  There are probably twenty planes in and around the hangar, each one way too small for me to consider getting on. It’s counterintuitive; small planes scare me, even though it’s harder to understand how the large ones stay in the air.

  Before I can ask him questions, he has one for me. “Do you know what brought the plane down?”

  “Pilot error,” I say.

  “Really? Barry was about as good a pilot as I work with.”

  “His error was that he didn’t stay conscious.” I don’t want to mention the poison, though that will come out in the press soon enough.

  “So Denise gave him something that knocked him out?”

  “You know Denise?” I ask.

  “Sure. She flew with Barry all the time. I’m not sure why he brought her; all they did was argue. But the plane was in perfect shape; I serviced it that day.”

  “Was that a regular service?”

  “Every time he was taking it up. He was very careful about that.”

  “So he would call and say when he was flying?”

  He nods. “Every time. The only thing different about this time was that he said he would be going the next day, not that night. I was surprised by that.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “Sure did. He always had me lay out a flight plan and confirm with the receiving airport that he was coming. You don’t have to do all that, but like I said, he was careful.”

  “Where was he going that night?” I ask.

  “Augusta, Maine.”

  “Had he ever been there before?”

  Mulligan shakes his head. “He’d never flown there, at least not since I’d been working with him.”

  “And you had no idea why he was going?”

  “Nah, he didn’t tell me stuff like that. I figure it was business. I mean Maine, this time of year, it wasn’t like spring break, you know?”

  “How long was he going for?”

  “That’s the weird thing. Mr. Price, I mean he did everything on a schedule, everything was planned out. He would always tell me when he’d be back, and I could set my watch by it. But this time he didn’t tell me; I remember thinking that was strange.”

  I’m out of questions, except for one more. I point toward one of the private jets. “How much do these things cost?”

  “That one is three million five.”

  “Does it come with peanuts and those little pillows?”

  He laughs. “All included.”

  “And those bags to throw up in?”

  “Now you’re pushing it.”

  What he doesn’t know, and what I’ve just realized myself, is that I could afford one of those planes if I wanted it.

  What a country.

  “This is New Hampshire, for Christ’s sake. Stuff like that doesn’t happen here.”

  The reaction by Governor Neil Romano was pretty much what FBI Agent Muñoz expected. But he had an obligation to report what he knew and to strongly make security suggestions.

  “What about four murders in a gas station, Governor? What about the cold-blooded killing of an undercover police officer? Does that happen in New Hampshire?’

  The murder of Drew Keller and three other men was as sensational a crime as New Hampshire had seen in years, so Governor Romano knew exactly what Muñoz was talking about.

  Muñoz had brought State Police Chief Gerald Krespi to drive home the point, and Krespi had predicted that the message would not be well received. But since Krespi was entrusted with the governor’s protection, he was prepared to be very persuasive.

  Romano, in office for fewer than four months, was a gruff seat-of-the-pants executive who had quickly developed a reputation for speaking well in advance of thinking. That style had already earned him a number of enemies, both in and out of the legislature. He presented himself as a man of the people, often literally walking around town, hanging out in restaurants, and talking to citizens.

  “Governor, these people spoke about an assassination. They were themselves murdered, which adds some credibility to their statements, don’t you think?”

  “There is no evidence that they are after me,” Romano said.

  “Maybe not,” Muñoz said. “But we just had a presidential campaign, so candidates won’t be here for three years. This is New Hampshire, Governor. It’s not exactly a target-rich environment for political big shots. Right now you’re as big as it gets.”

  Romano turned to Krespi. “So protect me.”

  “We’ll do that. But you will need to take extra precautions.”

  “I’m going to live a normal life.”

  Muñoz was losing patience. “You’re not normal. You’re the governor. By definition there is only one of you in the entire state. So you are not normal, and you are definitely not bulletproof.”

  “So what do you propose?”

  “I propose that until we get a resolution on this, you listen to him,” Muñoz said, pointing to Krespi. “If he doesn’t think something you’re planning is safe, you don’t do it. Stay in the bubble.”

  “I don’t like this,” Romano said, but it was clear that he was weakening.

  “It will be for only as long as the threat exists,” Kresp
i said.

  They discussed Romano’s upcoming travel plans, viewing the most dangerous times as when he was on the road, out of the executive mansion. There was to be a governors’ conference in Iowa, and then a northeastern version in Augusta, Maine.

  “We’ll augment the normal security when you’re traveling, Governor. That’s standard procedure.”

  The meeting ended with general agreement on how to proceed, though neither Krespi nor Muñoz had full confidence that Romano was on board. They would have to monitor his movements very carefully, at least until they removed the danger.

  What they did not realize was that there was no danger at all.

  Tara likes Crash, and the feeling seems to be mutual. That’s a good thing, if Sam is ever going to come to my house again. Because he goes absolutely nowhere without his lucky lifesaving, heaven-sent, superterrific dog.

  He’s come over this evening to go over the work he’s done, and after some obligatory sniffing of private parts, Crash and Tara settle down on dog beds for naps. Crash is really big on naps; it’s staying awake that he doesn’t seem particularly fond of.

  Based on the bedraggled condition he was in when Sam hit him, and the calluses on his elbows, Crash has not had an easy life. But he’s retired now and seems determined to enjoy it. Good for him; he deserves it.

  In any event, both he and Tara are too mature, and have been around the block too many times, to start running around or wrestling.

  Before we get into what Sam has found out with his computer work, the doorbell rings. Laurie yells out that she’ll get it. I can’t see who is there when she opens the door, but I can hear the raised voices. Not raised angry, but raised excited and pleased.

  “Look who’s here, Andy,” Laurie says as she walks toward us, so I do. And what I see are none other than Morris Fishman, Leon Goldberg, and the Mandlebaums, Hilda and Eli.

  They are Sam’s prize pupils at a computer class he teaches at the Wayne YMHA. The youngest among them is probably eighty, the tallest among them, Morris, is maybe five five, and the least energetic among them, Eli, makes me look comatose.

  Hilda hugs me hello, but the three men just slap me on the arm. They don’t hold back with Laurie, however; she gets hugged like crazy. All of them then shower affection on Tara and Crash.

  Sam walks over and talks softly to me without them hearing. “You don’t mind that I have the whole team on this, do you?”

  Sam swears that they are dynamite on the computer, and the truth is they were a big help on a recent case. “The more the merrier,” I say.

  “Good. We’ve got two adjoining rooms at the Holiday Inn on Route 4, where we’re set up. Hilda calls it ‘the bunker.’”

  The last time I saw them, there were five of them, but Stanley Rubinstein is not here. “Where’s Stanley?” I ask, regretting the question as soon as it leaves my mouth.

  “He’s not with us anymore,” says Morris.

  “Oh. I’m sorry,” I say, but Hilda chimes in with “Dummy went to Florida. He calls every week. You should hear him go on about the clubhouse and the shows…”

  “You would think he invented shuffleboard,” Eli says.

  “Where’s Marcus?” asks Hilda. Marcus had met this group on the last case. “He’s funny.”

  “Yeah, he’s a riot. I think he’s performing at the Improv tonight.”

  I finally get everybody focused on the matter at hand. Sam and his team have gotten a list of clients for the Price Group, and it roughly matches the one that Mark Clemens provided. About forty percent of the clients are private individuals, and the rest are companies.

  “You want us to do background work on the investors?” Sam asks.

  I nod. “Please. I want to know who they are, how long they’ve had their money with the company, how they’ve done on their investments, and anything else that stands out. Is that possible?”

  “Sure. In the meantime, you want to go over the phone list?”

  Sam has gotten Barry’s home and cell phone records for the last two weeks of his life, and I very much want to go over them.

  Laurie walks into the room and asks everybody if they want some coffee. Eli, Hilda, and Sam all think that sounds great. “And maybe a biscuit for Crash?” Laurie asks.

  “What kind of biscuits do you have?” Sam asks.

  “Milk-Bone,” Laurie says.

  “Store-bought?”

  “No, we opened a biscuit plant in our basement,” I say.

  Sam informs us that he has found some recipes online and bakes his own dog biscuits. He takes a couple out of his briefcase, and they look so good I wouldn’t mind trying one myself. He gives one to Crash and one to Tara. It turns out that Crash is so smart he’s able to eat a biscuit with his eyes closed.

  We go over the phone lists. Sam has put down names and addresses for each of the numbers. Most of them are New York listings or ones near the Price home in Jersey. I’ll ask Laurie to track them all down, but I’m not overly hopeful.

  One number that does attract my interest is that of Donald Susser. It includes the area code 207, and the address Sam has is in Waldoboro, Maine.

  “Do you know if that’s near Augusta?”

  Sam shrugs and says, “Let me check.” He goes to his computer, types something, and maybe thirty seconds later says, “It’s about twenty-five miles away.”

  I look at the list and see that Barry had called the number three times, all during the week before he died. The last call had been made the morning of the crash.

  “Barry was flying to Augusta that night,” I say.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’m a trained investigator. Can you find out anything about Susser?”

  Sam goes online and within minutes is able to tell me how old he is, that he was married for two years but is now divorced, is ex-army, has a DUI on his record, and until six weeks ago was collecting unemployment insurance. There’s a bunch more detail as well; it’s a remarkable performance.

  I call the number and a young woman answers on the first ring with a “Hello?” that sounds sort of hopeful, as if she were waiting for a call. She’ll no doubt be disappointed that it’s me, keeping alive a streak of female reactions that I’ve had happen to me since high school.

  “I’d like to speak to Donald Susser.”

  “Who is this?” I’m surprised that her tone sounds more wary than disappointed.

  “My name is Andy Carpenter; I’m an attorney in New Jersey. I need to talk to him about a case I have.”

  “What kind of case?”

  “Is Mr. Susser there? I really must speak to him directly.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “What time do you expect him back?”

  “He’s not coming back.”

  The Andy Carpenter Female Mood Detector tells me that this woman is nervous, scared, and sad. Usually I’m right one out of three times, which in this case would still be significant. “Can you give him a message?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “I’d really appreciate it if you could. Tell him that an attorney named Andy Carpenter called, and please ask him to call me back on an important matter about Barry Price.” Then I give her my phone number, and by instinct, I throw in, “I think I can provide him the help he needs.”

  “I won’t be talking to him.”

  “If you give him the message, you’ll be doing something very good for him.”

  I get off the phone and describe the conversation to Laurie and Sam, and we discuss all the ways the woman’s tone and Susser’s being unavailable likely have nothing whatsoever to do with Barry Price.

  “I’d still like to talk to him,” I say.

  Sam walks over to Crash and pets him on the head. “Andy needs some help, old buddy,” he says. “He wants to talk to this guy Susser.”

  None of the group wants to stay for dinner. Sam plans to take Crash through the drive-thru at McDonald’s, and it’s getting close to bedtime for his geriatric assistants. Th
ey all leave, and I order in a pizza, half extra cheese for me, and half with all kinds of disgustingly healthy vegetables on it for Laurie. The crust is Tara’s domain.

  Laurie wants to have a glass of wine, always a good sign as bedtime nears but not really conclusive. When we’re finished, we head up to the bedroom.

  “Sam is crazy about that dog,” she says.

  “‘Crazy’ is definitely the operative word,” I say. “Although the Knicks did beat the Lakers last night.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Sam told me that if I petted Crash, I’d win my bet on the Knicks. It worked out.”

  “You don’t believe in that kind of superstition.”

  I am the furthest thing from a superstitious person. “Of course not. Do you?”

  “I say go with what works. And Crash seems to be working quite well.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he saved Sam’s life, the Knicks won, and you petted him when he came in tonight.”

  “So?”

  She smiles. “So you’re about to get lucky.”

  Spreading out across the country was the time when the risk was greatest. That was Carter’s view, and it is what he conveyed to his superior. It had been necessary to bring them all to the upstate New York base of operations, but then getting them to their individual assignments was a complicated, and relatively dangerous, process.

  Each man traveled with professionally prepared fake documentation that should have no trouble standing up to local law enforcement scrutiny. They drove cars registered to their assumed names, with up-to-date insurance and inspection stickers.

  The men traveled in pairs; that was essential to their work. And they were well trained. There was no chance that they might do something foolish to attract attention.

  But the dangers remained, and they were impossible to predict. There could be a traffic accident, perhaps the fault of another driver. Or maybe they would be stopped by the police for another reason altogether, perhaps even a mistaken identity. But the worst thing that could happen, though Carter could not imagine a credible scenario in which it would occur, would be a cop getting a look at what was in the trunk of each car.