Play Dead ac-6

by David Rosenfelt

  Richard continues: “The reason to accept the deal, even though it would include the horror of five more years in this place, is therefore pretty obvious. The reasons to turn it down are a little more complicated.”

  He goes on: “There’s Stacy. Somebody killed her, and if I take the plea bargain, we’ll never find out who, and that person will never be punished.”

  “We might never find out who anyway.”

  He nods. “I know. That’s why it’s complicated. And then there’s the other reason.”

  I can’t help but smile. “Reggie,” I say.

  He nods. “Reggie. He’s not likely to live five more years. Not by a typical golden retriever’s life expectancy.”

  “That’s true,” I say.

  “He’s the one who has given me this chance. I know it sounds stupid…”

  “It’s very stupid,” I say.

  “But you understand it.”

  I smile again. “I do.”

  Richard pauses a moment and then looks at Karen, Kevin, and me in turn before speaking.

  “Let’s kick their ass.”

  Ass-kicking in the justice system is done a little differently from ass-kicking in, say, the National Football League. They use bone-crushing blocks and devastating tackles while we use meticulously prepared briefs and probing questions. They need shoulder pads and helmets to protect themselves from harm; when we see danger coming we just stand up and object.

  Kevin and I head back to the office to discuss exactly how we plan to kick the prosecution’s ass. They are going to come in far more prepared than they were at the hearing. They’ll have better answers for our forensics expert, and probably a bunch of canine lifeguards who’ll swear that Reggie could have made that swim in his sleep.

  We’ve been looking at three main areas: the customs operation in Newark, the Army connection from seven years ago, and the government’s obvious, though surreptitious, interest in what we’re doing. All three are still viable things for us to investigate, but I’ve been making the mistake of thinking they must be interrelated.

  It would all tie together nicely if these Army guys had a scam to smuggle things, maybe arms or drugs, through customs and had to get Richard out of the way to accomplish it. The government could be onto them and be watching me out of worry that I might do something in the course of the trial to imperil their investigation.

  Unfortunately, it falls apart because of the passage of time. If they were smuggling arms all these years, there would by now be a bazooka in every household in America. And if the government has been watching all of it without acting, then they aren’t asleep at the switch-they’re comatose.

  Edna buzzes in to tell me that Sam Willis is waiting to see me and says it’s important. I tell her to send him right in, and he comes through the door about an eighth of a second later.

  “Donna Banks is getting the money from Switzerland,” he says. “The first business day of every month, a wire transfer from the Bank of Switzerland. The account is owned by Carlyle Trading.”

  “How much?” I ask.

  “Twenty-two thousand five, every month.”

  With that kind of income, she can spend a lot of time seeing friends and doing volunteer work. “Can we find out who Carlyle Trading is?”

  “I’m trying, but it’s nobody. It’s a dummy corporation; the bank wouldn’t even know who’s behind it.”

  “How long has she been getting the money?”

  He smiles. “That’s the best part. It started three months after her husband kicked off. If he kicked off.”

  This is exhilarating news, even though we don’t yet know what it means. I believe it somehow ties into our case, but of course, I could be totally wrong. Donna Banks could be getting the money from some Swiss sugar daddy that she started sleeping with right after her husband died.

  But that’s not what my gut is telling me.

  “What about the phone calls?” I ask. “Did she make any after I left her apartment?”

  He nods. “She made four in the forty-five minutes after you left. All to the same number. The first three were only a few seconds long; my guess is, she got a machine and hung up. The fourth one lasted seven minutes.”

  “Who were they made to?”

  Sam takes out a piece of notepaper and looks at it. “It’s a company based in Montclair, New Jersey, Interpublic Trading. The only name I could find associated with it is a guy named Yasir Hamadi. I’ve got the phone number and address.”

  I dial the number that Sam gives me, and after four rings a machine picks up. It’s a woman’s voice, telling me that I’ve reached Interpublic Trading and suggesting that I leave a message. I leave my name and number and ask that Mr. Hamadi call me back on a personal matter.

  Kevin and I spend the rest of the afternoon in pretrial preparation. In one sense it’s easier to prepare for a retrial than a normal trial, since we know what the previous prosecution witnesses will testify to. They’ll come up with a few new witnesses, mainly to counter us, but by and large we know their case. Additionally, everyone who has testified is now on the record, and if we catch them in an inconsistency, they can’t back off it.

  I’m about to leave for home when Karen Evans calls and asks if she can “buy me dinner.” I had already planned a perfect evening; I was going to stop at Taco Bell, buy a couple of Crunchwraps, and eat them at home while watching the Mets game. But she seems to need to talk, so I agree to give it all up and have dinner with her.

  We go to a restaurant in Paterson called the Bonfire, a place I’ve been going to since I was a kid. It’s changed its decor and menu a number of times over the years, but the memories of going there with my parents have remained intact and unchanged.

  Karen doesn’t shake easily, but she’s been rattled by Richard’s revelation that he is contemplating, actually planning, to take his own life should he lose the retrial. “It makes me afraid that I talked him into going ahead with the trial,” she says.

  I shake my head. “You didn’t talk him into anything. He knows exactly what he wants and what he’s willing to tolerate.”

  “You know, these past five years, I’ve had hope, and now more than ever. But if we lose and he does what he says, then I won’t have that anymore. He won’t have it anymore.”

  “I don’t think either of us can understand what it’s like to be locked in a cage,” I say. “And to be innocent at the same time… It must be beyond horrifying. To this day, Willie Miller won’t talk about it.”

  She nods. “I know, but that same innocence is like a lifeline for Richard; it’s all he has. And if he pleads guilty and takes the five years, he gives that up.”

  Karen’s bubbly, irrepressible way has a tendency to make people like me underestimate her intelligence and maturity. She’s tough and smart-easily smart enough to be scared of what could happen to her brother.

  I manage to turn the conversation to less stressful matters, and she reveals in answer to my question that she has a boyfriend, a third-year law student at Columbia Law. He thinks that their relationship is more serious than she does.

  “He’s a nice guy,” she says. “But there are a lot of nice guys in the world. I want what you and Laurie have.”

  “Then you should date guys who live thousands of miles away.”

  She shakes her head. “You know what I mean. You guys are connected; I can see that. Hey, anybody can see that. You could live on different planets, and you’d still be connected. That’s what I’m looking for.”

  I know what she means, though I sure as hell didn’t know it at her age.

  We’ve just gotten the check when my cell phone rings. It’s Keith Franklin, his voice barely above a whisper. “Mr. Carpenter, I found something.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Down at the port.”

  “What did you find?”

  He doesn’t want to talk on the phone, and I tell him I’ll be right down there. I hang up and describe the call to Karen. “I want to go with you
,” she says.

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Come on, I’ll be like your sidekick.”

  “Karen…,” I say in a tone not nearly stern enough to carry the day.

  “Here’s the deal: If you don’t let me go with you, I’ll grab on to your ankle and won’t let go, and I’ll start screaming as loud as I can.” She says all this with a smile on her face, but she’s probably serious.

  I have never been particularly successful at dealing with strong-willed people, or even moderately willed people, but I have reason to be hesitant to let her go. Last time I met with Franklin at night, Petrone had Windshield Man following me, and something similar or worse could happen this time.

  I finally agree to let her come, but I take pains to look behind us as we drive, in case there’s somebody following us. I even make a few quick, unnecessary turns as a way to detect unusual activity by any cars behind us. The problem is that my level of competence at tail detection is such that the entire Rose Bowl Parade could be lined up behind me and I wouldn’t know it. I just have to trust that Marcus is the grand marshal.

  Franklin is waiting for us in the parking lot in front of the main building. He gets right to the point. “I think I figured it out,” he says, and leads us through a side entrance, down a darkened corridor and into a warehouse. There is a security guard at the entrance, but he just waves us in once Franklin identifies himself.

  “There was a slowdown at the pier today, almost a work stoppage. So that’s why some of these things are still here.” He points to some huge crates and boxes. “Otherwise they would have been shipped out already.”

  I’m confused, which doesn’t exactly qualify as a news event. “Shipped out? These things are leaving the country?”

  He nods. “Right. Everything passes through here, but there is obviously less attention paid to what goes out.”

  He stands up on one of the crates and then climbs up toward another, which is farther back. He uses a small flashlight to help him on the trek. “Come on up here,” he says. He’s already pretty far off the ground, and what he is standing on seems rather precarious.

  I turn to Karen. “You wait down here so that when I fall, you can call an ambulance.”

  I climb up after Franklin, though it takes me twice as long as it took him. He uses the flashlight to light my way, and when I get up there, he points it at a crate that has been partially opened.

  “I opened a few of these. They went through Chaney’s department, and they were stacked so as to be hard to get to, so I figured I’d take a shot.”

  “What’s in there?” I ask.

  “Take a look,” he says, and points the flashlight so I can see inside.

  The crate is filled with maybe the last thing I’d expect.

  Money.

  I can see twenties, tens and fives, but I have absolutely no idea how much might be in there, other than the fact that it’s a hell of a lot of money. “Damn…,” I say, never at a loss for a clever quip.

  “What’s going on up there?” Karen calls out, but neither of us is inclined to answer her just yet.

  “The two crates back there are the same,” he says. “We’re talking serious money.”

  I climb back down while Franklin closes the crate so that it will not look as though it had been opened. Soon he joins me on solid ground, and the three of us head outside. On the way I tell Karen what was in the boxes.

  “Somebody was sneaking money out of the country?” she asks. “Why?”

  I’ve already figured out the answer to that, but I wait until the three of us are seated in my car before I voice it.

  “It has to be organized crime; it’s Petrone’s money.”

  “Dominic Petrone?” Franklin asks, and if it weren’t so dark in the car, I would see him turning pale.

  “Yes, it all fits. Don’t forget, people don’t pay prostitutes or street drug dealers or bookies by check or credit card. They pay in cash, and often small bills. Not only does it add up, but it weighs a lot.”

  “But why ship it out of the country?” Karen asks.

  “Because our banking system is tightly controlled. Getting that amount of cash into it would draw big-time attention. Other countries are not as strict, and once the cash enters any country’s banking system, it’s easier to send it back here. Probably by wire.”

  “So Petrone owns Roy Chaney?” Franklin asks.

  “I would assume so,” I say.

  “And he was getting rid of Richard so that he could run this operation?”

  “That remains to be seen,” I say, although I don’t think it does. I don’t believe this has anything to do with Stacy Harriman’s murder and the setup of Richard, but I don’t want to share this with Franklin. He doesn’t need to know our case strategy.

  One thing this does explain is why Petrone had been monitoring my movements. He was afraid that I would uncover his operation while investigating the case, and he was right about that. The question now is what to do about it.

  Franklin has no great desire to intervene in a situation that gets him on Dominic Petrone’s enemies list. He is therefore receptive to my suggestion that we just sit on this for a while. The country is not going to be irreparably harmed by this shipment going out; similar shipments have probably been making the same trip for years. I want to see if I can somehow use this information to our advantage rather than have it lead to our deaths. Franklin is fine with that.

  As Franklin is about to get out of the car, I ask, “Have you ever heard of a man named Yasir Hamadi?”

  He thinks for a moment. “I don’t think so. Who is he?”

  “Just a name that came up in connection with the case. I’ve been trying to get in touch with him, but I think I’m going to have to pay him a visit.”

  “Can I go with you?” Karen asks. “Haven’t I been a great sidekick?”

  I smile. “You’ve been extraordinary.”

  * * * * *

  THERE IS NO message from Yasir Hamadi waiting for me at the office this morning. I can’t say I’m surprised, nor is it a sign that he is any kind of bad guy. People don’t return phone calls from strangers all the time. He could think I’m a bill collector or, even worse, a lawyer.

  Sam has used his computer magic to get the guy’s home address, and I’m going to take a ride out there tomorrow. I generally like to interview people face-to-face when I’m working on a case, and I’m partial to surprising them by showing up unannounced. There’s always the possibility that he won’t be home or won’t talk to me, but since I’ll be going on a Saturday, it’ll be a nice drive with little traffic.

  Kevin and I spend the day going through the nuts and bolts of preparing for the trial. We discuss whether to ask for a change of venue but decide against it. It’s not as if the murder victim were a local person or even that the case drew great attention. There’s no reason for us to think we can’t get a fair trial down there, and for that reason our request likely wouldn’t be granted if we made it.

  It’s midafternoon when we start talking about the Petrone situation in detail. I do not think that the revelation of Petrone’s sneaking money out of the country means that he’s involved in the Evans case.

  Kevin disagrees. “I don’t understand,” he says. “We’ve suspected all along that there might be something going on at customs that would have caused Richard to be set up. Now we find out that Petrone, the head of organized crime in New Jersey, is involved in an illegal customs operation with Richard’s replacement. And because of this, we think Petrone is not involved?”

  I understand his point; it makes perfect sense. I’m just not buying it. “It just doesn’t feel important enough for Petrone to have gone to all this trouble. He’d be able to get the money out in other ways.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Kevin says.

  “And Petrone didn’t hire Chaney. How did he know he’d be able to control Richard’s replacement?”

  “Maybe he owns Chaney’s boss.”


  I shake my head. “Then he certainly wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of setting up this elaborate operation. And you think Petrone’s people rescued Reggie from the boat that night?”

  Kevin grins. “It always comes back to Reggie.”

  Before I head home for the evening of Taco Bell and baseball that I didn’t get to enjoy last night, I call Karen and deliver on my promise to let her drive with me tomorrow, to try to talk to Hamadi. I won’t let her sit in on the interview if there is one, but she can keep me company.

  She’s quite pleased to join me, and we agree that I’ll pick her up at ten a.m.

  I take Tara and Reggie on a very long walk, and pick up the Crunchwraps on the way back. It’s quite late when we get home, and I’ve probably already missed three innings of the Mets game.

  I hadn’t left any lights on, so when I open the door it’s very dark inside. The first thing I see is the little, flashing red light on my answering machine, and I go over to press the button and listen to the message.

  The voice is Karen’s. “Andy, it’s Karen. I just got a strange call from Keith Franklin. He said that he needs to talk to me and wants me to meet him behind school number twenty. He told me not to tell you, that what he had to say you shouldn’t hear. I said okay, but you said we shouldn’t keep secrets from each other, so I’m letting you know. Tomorrow I’ll tell you what he said. If I’m doing anything wrong with this, I’m sorry.”

  I’m in the den, and as I listen to the message, it feels as if the walls of the room are closing in and crushing me. I am simultaneously hit by a feeling of panic and dread so powerful that I have to make a conscious effort not to fall to my knees.

  My certainty of the horrible danger to Karen doesn’t make complete sense; Franklin could really have something to tell her that he doesn’t want me to know. But every instinct in my body doesn’t believe it, and if my instincts are right, then the truth is too horrible to contemplate.

  I grab my cell phone and run out of the house. I don’t know Karen’s cell phone number or even that she has one, so calling her isn’t an option. Instead, I call Pete Stanton as I drive, and tell him what’s going on. He promises to get himself and some officers there as soon as possible.