“Doesn’t seem to have been. I can’t be sure of that, but I haven’t seen any records indicating it.”
“You know why that is? You’re involved with it, right? And he had your job.”
He shrugs. “I really can’t say. But later on, I heard they didn’t trust him.”
“Has there been a lot of turnover since he left?”
“For sure,” he says. “Almost a completely new staff.”
I can’t really think of anything else to ask him; his not having even met Keith cuts down on my options.
I take out the plastic bags and hand them to him. “These are the two samples.”
“What is it you want to learn?” he asks.
“Who his parents are. Since your company does government work, you have access to the national database, right?”
He nods. “Right. But there are a limited number of people in there.”
“I understand. But if they are in the registry, you can get a match based on half the sample?”
“Within a range of probability,” he says. “But it will be in the billions, so you can trust whatever we come up with.”
“How long will it take?”
“If we rush it, a few days, maybe as much as a week, depending how much we can get off of this.”
“Rush it,” I say.
want you to check out a guy named Renny Kaiser,” I say.
“Renny?” Sam repeats. “What’s that short for?”
“Who gives a shit.”
“Who is he?”
“That’s what I want you to tell me, Sam. All I know is he’s really rich, and he’s rumored to have gotten that way by selling drugs to people.”
“What is it you want to know?”
“I won’t know that until you tell me. For now, assume I want to know everything.”
“That’s what you always say,” Sam points out.
“Yet you keep asking.”
I also tell Sam to call Hike and ask him to subpoena everything that Sam has provided to date in the case. We need to get the information through legal means so that we can introduce it in court.
“Hike can be a little difficult to talk to,” Sam says.
“Really? I hadn’t noticed. What do you mean?”
“For example, if I cough, he tells me that I probably have tuberculosis.”
“Maybe you should get it checked out; it might just be cholera. Tell Hike to get the subpoenas out quickly.”
“He won’t listen to me.”
“Sure he will. Just say it this way: ‘Y’all need to get to those dadgum subpoenas in a dadgum hurry, dadgummit.’”
I call Laurie and tell her to ask Jill whether or not she knows Renny Kaiser. Robbie’s information is usually correct, but he admitted he didn’t have firsthand knowledge of Kaiser’s funding the Parsons Group.
Laurie has checked with some people she worked with in the DEA when she was a cop. They’ve confirmed Kaiser’s drug dealing and say they have been unsuccessfully trying to get him for years.
According to them, he does not deal in heroin and cocaine but rather pills and drug cocktails. His clientele are upscale people that can afford to pay his prices and are willing to do so because they know the supply will always be there. And they are based in countries all over the world. It’s an exclusive, highly lucrative business.
I head down to the office to meet Hike, just back from his idyllic adventure in South Carolina. I’m not sure how I will react to a personal, up-close view of an upbeat Hike; we’re charting new ground here.
It starts to snow on my way to the office, and by the time I get there, the roads and sidewalks are becoming slippery. Since I wear sneakers whenever I’m not in court, it takes me a few extra minutes to navigate the walk from the parking lot to the office.
No one is in the office when I finally get there. I’m not surprised; Edna’s work appearances are often weather related. If it’s snowing, or sleeting, or raining, or cloudy, or partly cloudy, she has a tendency not to show up.
Hike arrives ten minutes after I do, and the first thing he says is, “I almost killed myself getting here.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“My car was slipping all over the road. Four-wheel drive my ass.”
“Four-wheel drive your ass?”
“They claim it’s four-wheel drive, but who the hell knows? Can you tell the difference? Nobody can. If it were three-wheel drive or two-wheel drive, would you know? It’s like the undercoating they sell you. Undercoating my ass.”
“Undercoating your ass?”
He must consider that a rhetorical question, because he plows right through it. “The whole industry is a rip-off; those car companies don’t care if we live or die.”
“Yet if we live, we can buy more cars,” I say. “Therein lies the conundrum.”
He ignores me. “I’m going to get sick and die from this weather anyway, so I guess it doesn’t matter. I’ve been coughing up phlegm for the last three hours.”
“Thanks for sharing that. Did you by any chance stop in a phone booth and change back into the real Hike?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind. Anything to report that I don’t already know?”
“I found at least six people that knew Mullins, or Sanford, or whatever her name was. She was a loner, but they saw her in town in places like the grocery store, and a couple of them talked to her regularly.”
“Did they see Cody?”
“Three of them did, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve got the picture.”
He takes it out of an envelope and hands it to me. It certainly looks like Cody, but obviously, it could be any border collie.
“Will the person that took the picture testify?”
“He will if we need him to; I just have to tell him the timing. I’ll be seeing him next weekend.”
“Where?” I ask.
“I’m heading back down there. Billy’s daughter is getting married.”
“Police chief Billy?”
He nods. “Yeah. Carla and Danny … sweet kids—a terrific couple. You’d really like them.”
Watching him go back and forth from miserable New Jersey Hike to upbeat South Carolina Pod Hike is like watching a tennis match.
“I’m sure they’re lovely,” I say. “Did you finish the motion?”
He nods and hands me an eleven-page document. I read through it and make a couple of notations for changes, although they’re probably not necessary. Hike has done a typically outstanding job on it. Our case sounds a lot better the way he phrases it than it does in real life.
“Good job, Hike. And thanks for having such a great attitude about South Carolina.”
“It was great, Andy, I really enjoyed it. Had a lot of fun.” South Carolina Pod Hike puts on his coat and changes back into New Jersey Hike. “Now if I can only get home without killing myself or getting pneumonia.”
unch at Charlie’s?” Pete asks. “With no game on? What are we going to do, talk?”
“I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen,” I say. “Then you’ll talk, and I’ll listen, and so on. I know you’re not familiar with the process, but it’s how humans interact.”
“Is this about a case?”
“Yes,” I say.
“So why don’t you come to the precinct?”
“A, because I’m hungry and it’s lunchtime. And B, because you have the home-field advantage there. Charlie’s is neutral turf.”
“You buying?” he asks.
“Of course.”
“Meet you in fifteen minutes. I’m starving.”
Pete is already waiting at our table when I arrive. When we finish ordering, he says to the waitress, “And I’m going to need a dozen bacon cheeseburgers to go, with fries.”
“What the hell is that about?” I ask.
“The guys aren’t happy that I’m having lunch with a defense attorney. This is like a peace offering. Best money you ever spent.”
I sh
ake my head to show my disdain, but I don’t think it affects Pete too much. Head shaking is a little subtle for him.
“So talk to me,” he says. “This more bullshit on the Wachtel case?”
“I filed a motion for a new trial.”
He laughs a short laugh. “Good luck with that. That’s what you wanted to tell me?”
“No, this is about the Stanley Butler case.”
He thinks for a minute, searching his memory bank. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Wait a minute, that’s the lawyer who ran his car into a tree? He was Wachtel’s attorney, right?”
“Correct.”
“That’s not a case. The guy was on drugs.”
“He was murdered.”
“What makes you say that?” Joking time is over; Pete is a damn good cop, and he takes comments like this very seriously.
“Teresa Mullins has been living her life under a fake name, with Cody, the border collie. Her testimony was a lie.”
“I thought this was about Butler.”
“I’m getting there. She was murdered a couple of weeks ago in South Carolina.”
He interrupts. “Is this lawyer talk or real?”
“I can prove everything I’ve said, including this: Teresa Mullins called Stanley Butler three times in the weeks before he died. Whatever she told him made him optimistic about reopening the Wachtel case.”
There are two problems with that last sentence. First, while I know that she called Butler, I am making the assumption that those calls resulted in his hopeful outlook. Secondly, I’ve technically broken a confidence in telling Pete about Butler’s optimism, since my client told it to me. But I’m sure Keith wouldn’t mind, and it’s harmless.
“That’s all you got?” Pete asks.
I nod. “That’s all I got.”
“I don’t remember who in the department handled the car crash, but it was investigated and found to be an accident.”
“Maybe someone could look at it again, with a fresh perspective.”
“He was strung out,” Pete says.
“Maybe he was helped along with that. Maybe it was involuntary.”
“You know you didn’t have to buy me lunch to get me to look into this,” he says.
“I didn’t want you to have to do it on an empty stomach.”
don’t want to meet the teacher, and I don’t like “meet the teacher night.” Who came up with this idea anyway? Why do teachers get this honor and get to hold it at the school? I don’t hold a “meet the lawyer” night in the courthouse. Anybody you know attend a “meet the gardener” luncheon out on the lawn? Or a “meet the proctologist” morning at the hospital?
I’m not the most self-aware person in the world, but even I am sensitive to the fact that I’m afraid Mrs. Aimonetti will say something bad about Ricky. But Laurie attended the last one, and since one of us has to stay home with Ricky, she thinks I should be there this time.
Mrs. Aimonetti starts our meeting with a smile and the words, “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that Ricky is a friendly, highly intelligent, and all-around wonderful child.”
As meeting starters go, that’s a beauty.
“You don’t have to tell me,” I say, “but I wish you would.”
The rest of the conversation goes just as well, and by the time I leave, I’m thinking that whoever started the “meet the teacher” tradition really knew what he or she was doing.
I’m about two blocks from the school when the phone rings, and I see by caller ID that it’s Laurie. I pick up the phone and say, “It went great.”
The serious tone in Laurie’s voice tells me that something isn’t so great. “Andy, you’re being followed.”
“What are you talking about?”
“There’s a dark blue car following you. It’s a Toyota, license plate 345MJR.”
I look in the mirror, but while I see a few cars, I have no idea if Laurie’s comment is accurate. “How do you know that? What the hell is going on?”
“I’ve had Marcus following you for a while, ever since we found out that Teresa Mullins was killed. He just called me. He doesn’t have your new cell number.”
“You shouldn’t have done that,” I say.
“We can argue about that later. For now, here’s what you need to do. Drive to the foundation building, but take your time getting there. Don’t make crazy turns to give it away that you know you’re being followed, but take a longer route than usual.”
“What do I do when I get there?” I ask.
“Park in the back. Most of the lights will be off, so it will be dark there. Turn your car off after you park, but do not get out until you see Marcus.”
“Shouldn’t I just drive to the police station?”
“You should not.”
“And are we sure Marcus will be there?” I realize how stupid a question that is as soon as it leaves my mouth.
“Andy, we’re talking about Marcus.”
“Okay. Do we know who is following me?”
“Not yet, but we will.”
I don’t like this at all, even with Marcus calling the shots. Who knows how many people are in that car or what kind of weapons they have? What if they start shooting before Marcus can intervene?
He’s sending me to a dark, uninhabited area. For people who follow other people for the purpose of hurting or killing them, it’s a dream scenario. If they could choose where they’d want me to go, that would be where I’m going.
I take two extra turns and don’t go through a light when it just turns yellow. Hopefully, that will give Marcus enough time to get ahead of me. I still can’t see for sure if anyone is following me, but Marcus has a tendency to get things like this correct.
I’m driving fairly well considering my hands are shaking and squeezing the steering wheel so hard I’m surprised it hasn’t broken. I finally reach the foundation building, and as I do, I think that maybe I should have called Willie to serve as reinforcement. But I probably wouldn’t have even if I had thought of it; the only reason I am still alive today is because I have learned to trust Marcus in these kinds of situations.
So I park in a dark area, not too far from the back door entrance. There’s a small light over the door, so I park far enough away that the light doesn’t reach where I am, but not so far away as to draw suspicion about why I’m not closer.
I can’t see anything, and I can’t hear anything. Since I certainly can’t taste, touch, or smell anything, that sort of leaves me senseless. It is one of the least comfortable, most helpless feelings I can ever remember experiencing.
I open the window halfway. This way I can hear things without increasing the danger to me. It’s not like the windows are bulletproof glass; they are no protection, so lowering one doesn’t exactly change the balance of power.
I have no power; it doesn’t get less balanced than that.
I was hoping to see Marcus’s car already here, but I don’t. Maybe I’m just not seeing it in the dark, but I don’t think that’s it. I don’t want to call Laurie, because the light from the phone could be visible, and they might hear me.
If there was a problem with the plan, I think she would have called me. I make a mental note to give Marcus my cell phone number so if I happen to survive this, the next time my life is in danger, he can call me directly.
I think I hear another car, but it’s hard to tell, because the building is close enough to the street that it might just be normal traffic. I do hear some barking; the dogs inside have really sensitive hearing and must know there’s something going on. I’d much rather be in the building with them.
Five minutes go by, and they seem like a month. I’m not quite sure at what point I should leave, or call Laurie, or start crying. But the pressure is getting to me.
Suddenly, my cell phone rings, and it sounds like a marching band in the silence. The caller ID says it’s Laurie, hopefully about to tell me that the coast is clear and to get my ass out of here.
“You okay?�
� she asks.
“Yeah, what the hell is going on?”
“We’ve got a little problem. The guy who was following you drew a gun on Marcus, so Marcus grabbed it and hit him in the head with an elbow.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Right. He hit him really hard. So you should call Pete right away, and—”
“Should he bring an ambulance?”
“Sounds like the coroner would be the way to go.”
“Where are they?” I ask.
“North side of the building.”
I hang up, start the car, and drive toward the side of the building so I can shine the car’s lights on whatever is there. I see Marcus, standing next to a large, prone body. I hate seeing dead bodies. They’re so … lifeless.
I call Pete on his cell phone, since I know he’ll be at Charlie’s. “Where the hell are you?” is how he answers. “We’re running up a tab here.”
I tell him that someone was following me and Marcus intervened when I got to the foundation. “You need to get over here,” I say.
“Bullshit,” he says. “I’ll get a black and white over there. I’m a hot-shit homicide captain.”
“Well, there is a dead body here, if that motivates you any. The guy drew a gun and was about to shoot me when Marcus got involved.” I’m lying and not remotely ashamed of it; I have no knowledge of the guy pointing his gun at me. But I want to avoid any chance of Marcus getting blamed for this.
“He killed him?”
“Let’s just say he got involved really hard.”
he bad guy’s head is tough to look at. Imagine carving a face in a pumpkin, the eyes, nose, and mouth all perfectly formed, and then dropping it from a fifth-story window. And then running over it with a bus.
“Thanks, Marcus,” I say, but he doesn’t respond. He rarely responds, which is fine, since when he does, I can’t understand what he’s saying anyway.
“Where’s the gun?” I ask, since I don’t see it. If it turns out that the guy didn’t have one, Marcus might have a problem.
He points to the side of the body, and I see the gun, mostly obscured by the dead guy’s shadow. He was a large man; not the type I’d want to run into in a dark alley or in a dark parking lot behind a foundation building.
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