First Degree

by David Rosenfelt

  For instance Garcia was set up to be the police’s first suspect. I agree with Kevin that Garcia was chosen to make Laurie look even guiltier, and Stynes was sent to draw myself and Laurie into his defense, and for this to work, Garcia had to seem guilty. If, say, he had been at a party or restaurant with a bunch of friends when Dorsey was thought to have been killed, he could not have been charged, and I would not have rushed to his defense. Dorsey had to have known with certainty where Garcia would be; it couldn’t have been left to chance.

  Since at the time of the murder Garcia was paying off Petrone’s men, I have to make the assumption that Petrone or his underlings were part of this conspiracy. Garcia had said that they usually came to him to collect, but that night he had been summoned to them. I believe that if the tape from the supermarket had not surfaced, some other fact would have come up, clearing Garcia and opening the way for Laurie to be charged.

  Following this to its logical conclusion, Dorsey and Petrone, or people working for Petrone, were in this together. But why? Dorsey benefits in obvious ways. He gets to safely disappear, while at the same time getting revenge against Laurie. But what does Petrone get out of this? Does he have any reason to hate Laurie? How does he benefit from Dorsey’s successful escape?

  All cases are a series of questions and answers. Early on there are far more questions, and the answers are few and far between. Eventually, the answers start to come, and the questions get fewer. If I can tip that scale far enough, I solve the puzzle and win the game. First prize is Laurie not having to spend the rest of her life in prison.

  As I reach the house, it seems as if the press contingent stationed outside has gotten substantially larger. There are at least two additional camera trucks, which make it difficult for me to enter the driveway. I persist trying until they move, since I know if I relent and park on the street, I’ll have given up the driveway for the duration.

  As I get out of the car, I am swarmed by the reporters, all asking me if it’s true that Laurie claims Dorsey is still alive and has phoned her. I decline to comment and with some difficulty make it through the horde and into the house.

  Laurie, Kevin, and Edna are in the den watching television. The few afternoon news programs are having a field day with Laurie’s claim of having spoken to Dorsey. Despite the seriousness of the situation, the ridicule has already begun. After pointing out that DNA results have confirmed the charred, headless body to be Dorsey’s, one amused newscaster takes mock offense and says, “I thought we were the only talking heads around here.”

  Laurie is furious at the treatment she is getting, and I can’t say I blame her. I have little doubt that Dylan leaked the story, and it’s a public relations triumph for him. I should have been the one to take this public. Allowing Dylan to frame the issue has the effect of making Laurie look (a) desperate, (b) crazy, (c) guilty, (d) ridiculous, and (e) all of the above. Since the public is by definition the jury pool, it’s not a good position for us to be in.

  I can go to Hatchet and complain, and since he’s not the most media-friendly judge around, he might sympathize with my position. However, it’s beyond his power to erase what the public already knows, so all he could do is issue a gag order on the case from this point on. I’m not ready to advocate that; I still think there’s more to be gained than lost in the public relations battle. I’m just not doing a very good job of it.

  To that end, I conduct a press conference on the steps of the house. My intent is to openly acknowledge Laurie’s claim that Dorsey is alive; at this point there is nothing to be gained by denying it. I point out that we did not try to take advantage of it in any way. We simply went to the police to ask for the investigation it deserved. Instead of focusing on that, they’ve seen fit to release it to the press.

  “The district attorney’s office is conducting a search for advantage, not for truth” is how I sum it up.

  After my impromptu statement has concluded, I invite questions. The first one is from a woman representing the Newark Star-Ledger. It begins with, “Assuming your client got this phone call—”

  I interrupt her. “She got the phone call. She is a truthful person, as you will come to know. What you should already know is that nothing would be gained by our making this up. There was absolutely no possibility the police or prosecution would believe it without adequate and independent proof. We had hoped and expected they would look for such proof, rather than create a media circus designed to make my client look foolish.”

  I take about five questions, making sure that every one of my answers includes an attack on the prosecution. I’m hoping to defuse the impact of today’s revelation on the evening news, and once I’ve done the best I can in that regard, I go back into the house.

  A couple of hours later we sit around the television and find out that my front porch salvo was too little too late. Laurie continues to take hits and ridicule, and while my protestations are included, they are given short shrift.

  Laurie and I have been going to bed fairly early each night. For her it seems as if being asleep is considerably less painful than being awake. When we are awake, we don’t want to talk only about the case, but there’s absolutely nothing else that we can focus on. So we’ve been in bed by ten, and then, unable to sleep, I’ve been getting up at midnight or later to strategize and figure out my next steps.

  Tonight is slightly different. Tonight we make love for the first time since this nightmare began. Laurie instigates it, and it is one of the most intensely passionate encounters I have ever experienced. There is a “deck of the Titanic” urgency that is at the same time frightening and wonderful. And afterward I do something I didn’t think possible.

  I sleep through the night.

  The most important thing I do when working on a case is ask questions. I ask them of anybody and everybody. Some of the questions are informed or even perceptive, but many are fishing expeditions. I get as many answers as I can and sift through them in my mind. Sometimes this helps me figure out the truth, but at the very least it helps me think of more questions to ask, which is fine.

  Our situation in this case is so bad that I can’t even come up with people to question. I can’t get near Petrone, I can’t find Stynes, and on behalf of the FBI, Special Agent Hobbs smiles and gives me nothing.

  My plan for today reflects that lack of options. I’m going to go to Oscar Garcia’s neighborhood and question some of the people that identified Laurie as having been in the area. I’m certainly not going to shake their stories; Laurie has admitted that she was there, keeping an eye on Garcia. I’m just going to see if they know or saw anything else, something, I hope, that can help my case.

  An early phone call changes my plans for the day. It’s from a woman who says, “Mr. Carpenter, I know you’re very busy, but I saw you on television last night, and I’d like to talk to you about my husband.”

  “Who is your husband?” I ask.

  “Alex Dorsey.”

  She gives me directions to her apartment, coupled with the disclaimer that she’s only lived there for about a month and isn’t really sure if the directions are correct. They turn out to be exactly correct, and it takes me about fifteen minutes to get there. It would have been less, but I had Kevin park around the block, and then I sneaked out the back way and took his car. I don’t know what Dorsey’s wife wants, but I certainly don’t want the press or Dylan to know she wants it from me.

  Celia Dorsey lives in a small complex of garden apartments. She watches me from the window as I get out of the car, and opens the door before I can ring the bell.

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Carpenter. Please come in.”

  I enter a one-bedroom apartment a little bigger than your average phone booth. Every square inch of the place is filled with furniture, photographs, and trinkets. She has said she’s only lived here for a short time, yet this place already has the meticulously cared-for look of a longtime residence.

  She is a petite woman, reserved and quiet. I didn’t k
now Alex Dorsey that well, but I would never have placed them together. He was high-energy, gruff, and dominant in any room he occupied. If you added them up and divided by two, you’d be left with one normal personality. So, on second thought, they’d be perfect together.

  She offers me coffee and I accept, mainly because it seems she couldn’t handle the disappointment if I said no. Once we’re set, coffee cups on coasters and sitting on her couch, she says, “I’m sure you’re wondering why I asked you here.”

  “You said it was about your husband.”

  She laughs a sad laugh. “I’m not even sure he’s still my husband.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I filed for divorce three months ago. The final papers just came through yesterday, but I don’t know if one can divorce a deceased spouse. Of course, now there is very considerable doubt that my spouse is deceased, which seems to complicate things even more.”

  She starts to cry, softly, as if she’s afraid if she lets it out full blast, it would disturb me. Of course, it probably would, so I just wait until she’s finished. It only takes a few seconds, and she continues.

  “I know the police don’t believe your client, but I do. My husband is alive.”

  “Why do you say that?” I ask.

  “Well, for one thing, I simply cannot picture him dead.” She smiles. “But you probably are hoping for something more concrete.”

  “Yes.”

  “I heard him talking about faking his own death.”

  Yesss! Finally, a positive development. “When?”

  “Two years ago, when he was being investigated by the department.”

  “Who was he talking to?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure. You have to understand, in the last five or so years of our marriage, and perhaps long before that, my husband kept a great many things from me. On some level I was glad he did; I sensed that there were things I wouldn’t want to know. But there was one man he spoke to very often, and he got secretive whenever he did. But I overheard things, and one was this conversation with this man.”

  “How do you know it was a man?”

  “Now that you mention it, I can’t be sure. But he always called the person ‘Lieutenant,’ and even though women can certainly rise to that level and higher within the department, I’ve always assumed it to be a man.”

  Based on what I know about Dorsey, and the department, the odds are she is correct.

  “What exactly did he say?”

  “I can’t remember exactly, but it was something like ‘If they don’t back off, they’ll never see me again.’ And then he laughed and said, ‘They’ll bury my box, but I won’t be in it.’”

  “And you never asked him about it?”

  She shakes her head. “No, but it was one of the things that changed my perspective on my marriage. It finally helped drive into my thick head what should have been obvious all along: that I had not been an important part of his life for a very long time. I should have left then.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “No, and by the time I did he had taken all our money.”

  “What did he do with it?”

  A smile, even sadder this time. “I wish I knew. But if you follow the money, you will find Alex. It’s part of what drives him.”

  “What else drives him?” I ask.

  “Power and hatred. And when he can exercise power to get back at those he hates, he is in his glory. I suspect that’s what your client is finding out right now.”

  “Can I ask what drives you?”

  “What do you mean?” she asks.

  “Why did you call me?”

  She pauses a moment to think about this. “Alex took the years of love and loyalty I gave to him and treated them like they meant absolutely nothing at all. He hurt people and I stood by and watched, and then I became one of those people. I’m ashamed of how I’ve acted, and I can’t act that way anymore. If there is any way I can help you, I will.”

  There is a toughness and resolve in her voice that is impressive. This is a delicate, vulnerable woman that I want to have in the foxhole with me when the war starts.

  Before I leave, Celia provides me with whatever financial records she has, so that I can try to follow Dorsey’s money trail. To that end, I decide to stop off at my office and visit with the best money follower I know, Sam Willis.

  Sam is surprised to see me and expresses his concern about Laurie. He assumes I’m there to see how he’s doing with cousin Fred, and he tells me that they’ve hit it off really well and that I’m soon going to be even richer than I am now. Goody, goody.

  “I need you to help me find someone,” I say. “Or at least his money.”

  Sam brightens up immediately. This is his kind of assignment. “Who?”

  “Alex Dorsey,” I say.

  “The dead cop? Or, I mean, the not-dead cop?”

  “The very one.” I give him the financial records that Celia gave me, and he spends a few minutes looking at them. His expression is that of an orthopedic surgeon looking at a CAT scan, calling on his years of experience to make perfect sense out of what to me is bewildering.

  “This guy was a cop?” he asks.

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “This is pretty sophisticated stuff.”

  He calls Barry Leiter in from the other office, and the two of them eagerly devour the records. Every twenty seconds or so, Barry says, “Wow!”

  I’m glad to be able to bring such pleasure into their lives, but I’m getting a little impatient “If he moved his money, can you find out where it went?” I ask.

  “To a degree,” Sam says. “We can tell you a lot about it, but we won’t be able to identify the city.”

  “Why not?”

  He shrugs. “Because each town looks the same to me, the movies and the factory. And every stranger’s face I see reminds me that I long to be homeward bound.”

  It’s a sign of my desperation that I’m sitting here relying on a compulsive song-talker. Well, I’m simply not going to be drawn into it. “How long is this going to take you?” I ask.

  “I won’t be doing it at all. I’m going on vacation tomorrow. Barry will take care of it.”

  I turn to Barry. “You can do this?”

  He smiles. “Sure, Mr. Carpenter. No problem. I’ll start tonight on my computer at home. Whole thing should be wrapped up by tomorrow.”

  Sam notices my slightly worried expression and reassures me that this is definitely within Barry’s expertise. Additionally, Sam will call in from his trip to make sure everything is going smoothly.

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “Puerto Rico. Do a little gambling … get some sun …”

  I can’t help myself. “So you’re leaving on a jet plane? You don’t know when you’ll be back again?”

  He smiles. “Oh, babe, I hate to go.”

  I’M SICK OF STUFFING PETE STANTON’S MOUTH with expensive food, but I do need to talk to him, so I suggest we meet at a Taco Bell. He calls me a “cheap son of a bitch,” but since he has a genetic weakness for grilled stuffed burritos, and since I promise him an extra-large Pepsi, he ultimately agrees.

  We meet at six o’clock, and I’m finished bringing him up to date on my progress by six-oh-two. He tells me that Sabonis is taking Laurie’s report of the phone call seriously and that the investigation into Dorsey’s possible whereabouts, as well as the possible misidentification of the body, is proceeding.

  “How many lieutenants are there in the department?” I ask.

  “Why? You thinking of signing up? You’ll have to start a little lower.”

  “Come on … how many?”

  He thinks for a few moments. “Including me … six.”

  “Are they the same as two years ago, when Dorsey was being investigated?”

  He thinks a little longer. “Well, Dorsey was part of the group then. As far as the rest? Almost the same … I think we had five then. I’m pretty sure McReynolds got promoted a while after that.
Now you gonna tell me why you want to know?”

  I nod. “I have information that Dorsey was working with another lieutenant. They weren’t defending the cause of truth and justice. Any idea who it could be?”

  “No.” His answer is a little too quick, a little defensive. “I don’t buy it. Not that group.”

  “What about Sabonis?” I ask.

  He shakes his head firmly. “Nick? Absolutely not possible; Nick’s as straight as they come. There’s more chance it was me.”

  Having taken that as far as it can go, I move on. “They identified the body against Dorsey’s DNA. Where would they have gotten it from?”

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “Well, I don’t keep a bottle of DNA in my medicine cabinet. How would they have Dorsey’s?”

  “Every cop has to give blood for typing when we join the force,” he says. “I assume they used that.”

  “Where is it kept?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe the precinct first-aid room, maybe the lab.”

  “Could somebody, could a cop, have gotten in there?”

  “You mean could Dorsey have gotten in there before he disappeared, and replaced his blood with somebody else’s? I don’t see why not. Especially if it’s in the first-aid room. It’s not high-security.”

  “You think you could find out where the blood is kept?”

  “I believe that everybody is put on this good earth for a purpose,” he says. “Mine is to carry out whatever assignments you have for me.”

  “And you’re doing a hell of a job.”

  I get home about eight o’clock, a half hour later than I told Laurie I would. She had dinner prepared, and my being late probably made that difficult, but that isn’t the kind of thing that upsets her. She is, however, growing increasingly frustrated that she can’t help defend herself, and that frustration translates to isolation. I understand it, but I can’t fix it.

  Actually, we’re living a kind of weird sit-com. Maybe I’ll head out to Hollywood and pitch it to some TV executive. “It’s about two people who decide to move in together, and they start to get on each other’s nerves. But she can’t move out, you see, because—get this … she’s wearing this ankle bracelet …”