Who Let the Dog Out?

by David Rosenfelt

  “You got some customers, Dan.” It’s one of the people at the bar, being helpful as Dan hasn’t seemed to notice our arrival. Hike said his name was Dan Hendricks, so this is the guy we’re looking for.

  “Yeah?” he says. I think he’s asking us what we want, but he could be just acknowledging what the guy at the bar said. I don’t think Hendricks has a future in sales. But he adds, “What are you drinking?”

  “Sarsaparilla,” I say. “And make it a double.” I’m not sure why I say stupid, irritating stuff when people annoy me, or when they don’t annoy me, but I’ve learned to live with it.

  “What?” is his appropriate response.

  “We just want to ask you some questions.”

  That makes him alert to the point that he actually stands up. “About Gerald Downey,” I add.

  “You cops? Because I already spoke to the cops three times.”

  “No. I’m an attorney representing Tommy Infante.”

  He sneers. “Another one?” He calls out to the two very large guys playing pool. “Hey, we got another lawyer for the guy who killed Gerry.”

  “Allegedly killed Gerry,” I say. “You need to have more respect for due process.”

  He doesn’t seem to want to debate that technical legal point. Instead he says, “There was some downer guy in here asking questions last week.”

  “He is my associate.” I point to Marcus. “This is my other associate.”

  “He’s your muscle?” Hendricks asks, meaning Marcus, and apparently disrespecting my own muscles.

  “Hey, I work out a half hour a week on the treadmill, at a one percent incline. You ready for the questions?”

  Before he can answer, I turn and see the two pool players coming toward us. The one in front is still holding his cue stick. I don’t think they’re going to ask us if we want to play winners.

  Cue Stick Man says, “Get the hell out of here.”

  I nod. “We’re actually on the same page on this. This does not seem like an establishment I want to patronize for any length of time. But I do need to get these questions answered.”

  I look over at Marcus to make sure he is ready to rush to my defense, but if he’s tense and ready to pounce, he’s hiding it really well. His eyes are half open, which is the only way I know he isn’t asleep.

  Cue Stick Man and his friend are moving closer, and Cue Stick says, threateningly, “You want some answers, pal?”

  “Marcus, you might want to consider getting involved at some point,” I say. I get no reaction, so I add, “We might even be approaching that point.”

  Cue Stick Man says, “Side ball in the corner pocket, shithead,” and twists his body to swing the cue stick at me, since I am apparently “shithead,” and my head is the ball. I instinctively start to duck, which is a shame, because I don’t get a great look at what happens next.

  One moment Cue Stick Man is swinging the stick at my head, while Marcus sits there watching. The next moment, Marcus is standing and somehow has stopped and confiscated the stick in one almost imperceptible movement.

  Clearly not content to have taken away the stick, Marcus lowers it and then swings it straight up into Cue Stick Man’s groin. Since he came to the bar to play pool rather than football, I doubt that Cue Stick Man thought to wear a protective cup. His scream is not one I’m likely to forget soon.

  Marcus then hits him in the jaw, not with full Marcus force but enough to cause major damage. He slumps forward and goes straight to the floor. Friend of Cue Stick Man, clearly the smarter of the two, does not seem inclined to intervene, and he backs off. If he’s going to shoot any more pool, he’ll need a different stick, since his friend is starting to retch and throw up on this one.

  I turn to the bartender and say, “Much to your surprise, my associate has prevailed over your associate.”

  It wasn’t part of Alek’s makeup to get annoyed. He did what he had to do, professionally and absent emotion. Getting annoyed about it, or stressed about it, or even pleased with it, was a waste of time and energy.

  This assignment in the New York area was a perfect example. It had been planned as a simple mission: he was to deal with Brantley, Healy, and Horowitz. The fact that Brantley and Healy had been together made it quicker and easier, but it didn’t matter much to Alek either way. From the moment he got the assignment, the two men were doomed.

  And that was to be it. Alek even had the complicated documents that he would use on the long trip home, and he was only six hours from his flight time when the new set of instructions came in.

  He was to remain in the United States for possible additional assignments. He was to facilitate the entire operation in Maine; there was no one else to do it.

  There was also a tentative new target, a lawyer who was apparently conducting an investigation that was a potential danger to Alek’s employers. The course of that investigation would determine whether the target would be finalized.

  Alek had no desire to stay in the United States, but like everything else, he took it in stride. Whatever he needed to do, he would do, and then he would move on.

  Whether or not he killed the lawyer was of no particular consequence to him.

  Hendricks seems to have undergone a sudden attitude change. He stares at Marcus, then at the fallen Cue Stick Man, and says to me, “Holy shit, did you see that?”

  “Just another day at the office, my friend. Just another day at the office. Now, if we can get these questions out of the way.…”

  “What? Oh, sure, anything you want to know.”

  “Was Gerry Downey a regular in here?”

  “Gerry? Yeah, sure, five nights a week, maybe six.”

  “What about Tommy Infante?”

  “That the guy that iced him?” he asks.

  I once again feel a lawyer’s obligation to correct him. “That’s the guy who’s accused of icing him.”

  Hendricks nods his agreement; after watching Marcus in action, he would agree if I told him the Knicks were going to win the Super Bowl. “Right,” he says. “Absolutely. That guy never came in; that was the first time I had ever seen him.”

  He goes on to describe the argument. They were sitting at the bar, not doing anything unusual, when suddenly they started yelling. According to Hendricks, Tommy was by far the angrier of the two, screaming profanities at Downey.

  “He kept screaming things like, ‘You’ll die for this, you son of a bitch. I’ll slit your goddamn throat!’ He must have threatened to slit Gerry’s throat three or four times, easy.”

  “What did Gerry do?” I ask.

  “Not much; he kept saying he didn’t know what the other guy was talking about. He didn’t understand what was going on, but when the other guy wouldn’t shut up, Gerry went in the back and made a call to some friends, who came and threw the guy out.”

  “Who were the friends?”

  Hendricks points to Cue Stick Man, still out of it, but moaning slightly. “That’s one of them.”

  “So Downey had a lot of friends here?”

  Hendricks nods. “Absolutely. He was one of the guys, one of the regulars.”

  The way Hendricks says that jars me into thinking about an angle I hadn’t thought about before, and one I should have pursued.

  I know that Eric Brantley hired Gerry Downey to steal his dog. What I don’t know is how Eric Brantley knew Gerry Downey in the first place. Brantley was an academic, living and working in a relatively sheltered environment. Downey was a thief, and not a high-class one at that. One hung out on campus, and one hung out in this dive of a bar in downtown Paterson.

  Additionally, Brantley couldn’t have known he would need to have his own dog stolen until he was on the run and hiding in small-town Maine. I imagine that would have made finding a dog thief in Paterson that much tougher. You don’t find dog thieves advertising in phone books.

  So my best guess is that Brantley must have known Gerry Downey before he fled. If I can find out how, it might solve a big part of this puzzle. Or may
be they were second cousins, in which case it will solve nothing.

  “Have you read about Eric Brantley?” I ask.

  “I don’t do much reading,” Hendricks says.

  “He was wanted for murder, and then he was just found murdered himself, in Maine.”

  “Oh yeah, sure. I saw the story on television. What about him?”

  “Did you ever see him in person?” I ask. “Was he ever in here?”

  “They said the guy was like a scientist, or a professor, or something. You think a guy like that would show up in here?”

  He’s right; even though I never met Eric Brantley, I can’t see him hanging out in this dump. But I also can’t see him having a connection to Gerry Downey, yet he obviously did.

  So many things to figure out, and so little time.…

  I’m surprised that the customs agents haven’t come back to me. It’s been four days, and I would have thought by now they would return, either to try and strong-arm me into answering their questions, or to take a more cooperative approach. But neither has happened.

  The media has still not come up with an identification of the other victim in the Brantley shooting. He is just said to be an associate of Brantley’s, with no other description given. They don’t seem to be pressing the matter too hard; the Brantley case has left the front burner.

  I’ve called Pete to see if he can find out anything about him, and he said that he would check with the detectives working on the case.

  This morning I’m headed over to Stephanie’s. I’d like to say that I’m concerned about her and want to see how she’s doing, and while that’s true, it’s not my primary reason for visiting her.

  When I called and asked if I could come over, she sounded down, but said she was back to work. She works out of her house. I like that, because it means Zoe always has companionship.

  When I arrive, Stephanie and Zoe are just entering the house, apparently back from a walk. She waves to me, and waits for me to get out of the car, so we go in the house together.

  I ask how things are going, and she smiles a little sadly and says, “I’m doing okay. Zoe is a big help; I think we’re helping each other.”

  “I’m glad she’s got such a great home,” I say, because I am. “I’d like to ask you a question.”

  She looks wary. “About Eric?”

  I shake my head. “Not this time.”

  I take a photograph out of my pocket, which is of Gerry Downey. “Have you ever seen this person?”

  She looks at it and says, “Isn’t he the guy who was murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  “I saw his picture on television when it happened.”

  “You didn’t see him prior to that?”

  “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “He’s the guy Eric hired to steal Zoe. I’m trying to figure out how they knew each other.”

  “I wish I could help, but I have no idea.”

  Her answer disappoints but doesn’t surprise me. Clearly Eric Brantley was not into sharing everything in his life with Stephanie; she knows almost as little about him as I do.

  I tell Stephanie that I might need her to testify at Tommy’s trial. “Whatever you need,” she says. “I’m very grateful to you.”

  Cindy Spodek is an FBI agent and second in command at the Boston office. Our paths crossed on a couple of cases when she was working in New Jersey, and Laurie and I have become friends with her over time.

  Of course, Laurie and I have different ways of demonstrating our friendships. For Laurie, it’s keeping in touch and seeing Cindy whenever she can, enjoying each other’s company, and being involved in each other’s lives. For me, it’s calling Cindy whenever I can take advantage of her position to give me information or otherwise help me on a case.

  I haven’t talked to her since the last time I needed her, so I’m surprised when she calls me on my cell on the way home.

  “Andy, long time no talk.”

  “Don’t tell me you want something from me again,” I say. “I wish our friendship could be based on something deeper.”

  “Don’t be a wiseass, Andy.”

  “It’s involuntary. How are you, Cindy?”

  “I’m not happy, and you’re the cause of it.”

  “Let me guess,” I say. “You’ve been asked to call me to help resolve a problem that another governmental agency is having.”

  “You got it. For some reason next to my name it says, ‘When Andy Carpenter is being a pain in the ass, this is who you call.’”

  “So knowing me has gotten you a special status?”

  “Yeah,” she says, and I can almost see her snarling through the phone. “Real special. Andy, you need to talk to these people. This is important.”

  “The question of whether my client spends the rest of his life in prison is rather important as well.”

  “What does this have to do with your client?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  She sighs audibly. “Okay, previous rules apply?”

  “Previous rules apply.”

  Over time Cindy and I have had a few negotiations like this, and we’ve always come to the same resolution, so by now we can shorthand it. Each side will tell the other as much as they can without jeopardizing the job they have to do. The government’s job is to protect the public and stop crime; my job is to defend my client.

  “Good,” she says. “Hopefully this will be the last I hear about it.”

  “One more thing,” I say.

  “Uh-oh.”

  “I know you won’t tell me what is going on, because it’s not your case, but tell me this.”

  “Uh-oh,” she repeats.

  “From the government standpoint, are innocent lives at stake?”

  She hesitates for a moment, then, “Yes. Definitely.”

  “Got it. Thanks.”

  “Does that mean you’ll be more cooperative?” she asks.

  “No. It means I have more leverage.”

  I pay another morning visit to Tommy at the jail. Early mornings are the best time for me to do it, since it leaves me the rest of the day to focus on the case. The trial date is barreling down on us, which means that every minute counts.

  I don’t have much to bring him up to date on, and he is of course disappointed to hear that. He is also still growing increasingly anxious and worried, but there is really nothing I can do about it.

  All I can do this visit is ask him a question. “Which jewelry store did you help Downey rob?”

  “Why?”

  “We need to talk to the owner, so we can be prepared when the prosecution calls him as a witness.” The prosecution still hasn’t turned over any discovery documents relating to the robbery, but it will help to be prepared when they inevitably get around to it.

  He nods his understanding. “It’s called Mid-City Jewelers; it’s a combination jewelry store–pawn shop.”

  “I know where it is,” I say. It’s only about six blocks from my office; I’ll be able to stop on the way back. This way the poor owner won’t have to talk to Hike. No sense victimizing him twice.

  Mid-City Jewelers is located on what is not much more than an alleyway off Market Street. As Tommy said, it is a combination jewelry store–pawn shop, but based on the signs in the window, it seems as if the pawn shop aspect is dominant. Tommy said he drove the getaway car, and parked a little farther down the alley when Downey went inside. It’s easy to see how he could have done so unnoticed at the late-night hour the robbery was done.

  The store is empty except for a guy who is apparently the proprietor, since he is sitting behind the counter. He looks up at me and says, “Andy Carpenter, what the hell are you doing here?”

  I have no idea who he is, so I ask him if we know each other.

  “I’m Bill Waldron. I was a witness in a murder trial, the one where that rich guy got shot in the head.”

  I think I know which case he’s talking about, but if I’m right it was probably ten ye
ars ago. If Bill Waldron remembers that so vividly, he likely hasn’t had that many exciting experiences since then.

  “Was I nice to you on the stand?” I ask.

  “You were great; questions were easy. I asked for some water, and you gave me time to drink it. It was pretty cool.”

  I am Andy Carpenter, provider of water to the masses. “Good to hear. I’ve got a few more questions, this time with no jury present.”

  “About the same case?”

  “No, a new one,” I say. “You might be called into court again.”

  “Great, no problem. Fire away.” Then he smiles and says, “If I need water again, I’ll just ask for it.”

  “You had a robbery here a couple of months ago, middle of the night. I want to know—”

  He interrupts me. “We didn’t have any robbery.”

  That was not the answer I was expecting. “Are you the owner?”

  “Yup. I have one other employee, but he works maybe ten hours a week, when I have something else to do.”

  “This robbery happened in the middle of the night.”

  “Well, they didn’t set off the alarm, and they didn’t take anything. Robberies like that I can live with.”

  I have no idea if he’s telling the truth, but I’m not seeing any sign of stress or evasion. So my keen power of intuition tells me that he’s either telling the truth, or lying through his teeth. I press on, “So you never reported a robbery to the police?”

  “Why would I? I’m telling you, there was no robbery. We had one about six years ago, but you don’t mean that, right?”

  “Right. Did you have in your possession two large, uncut diamonds, about three carats each?”

  His response is to laugh out loud. “Come on, look at this place.”

  “Do you check your inventory often?”

  “Of course; there’s not that much to check. I’m telling you, you must be confusing this with a different store. Nobody broke in here.”

  I thank him and leave. All I’ve succeeded in doing is adding to my list of questions.