New Tricks

by David Rosenfelt

  “You got his notes?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “What do you have?”

  “Pretty much nothing.”

  “Nothing?” he asks.

  “Basically. At least no real facts.”

  McCarty looks at Sam, as if I’m the lunatic in the room. He may be right. Then he turns back to me. “You see the problem here, right?”

  I nod as I hand him a copy of the e-mail that Robert Jacoby sent to Timmerman, expressing surprise that he had sent him his own DNA to test. “Take a look at this.”

  McCarty takes the e-mail and reads it. He’s either the slowest reader in America, or he’s reading it a number of times. Finally, he nods. “Okay. What else?”

  “The FBI had an entire task force assigned to Timmerman, all because of what he was working on. They said it was important to national security.”

  McCarty just nods, silently, so I go on. “And I believe that Timmerman was murdered because of that same work.”

  “Keep talking,” he says.

  “The same people that killed Timmerman are trying to kill his dog; somehow the dog represents a danger to them.”

  “What kind of dog?”

  “Bernese mountain dog.”

  He nods. “I love those dogs; the markings are amazing. Can I see him?”

  “He’s not here,” I lie. “At this point he’s missing.”

  “That’s the dog I saw on television this morning? The one who was kidnapped?”

  “Yes. Is any of this making any sense? Maybe ringing a bell?”

  He’s still quiet for a few moments, hopefully thinking. “You know anything about DNA?”

  “No.”

  “You got a pen and a piece of paper?”

  “In my desk.”

  “I’ll get it,” says Sam, and he goes off to do that. He’s back quickly and hands the pen and paper to McCarty, who sits down and starts writing on it. When he’s finished, he shows me a drawing of what I take to be a strand of DNA.

  “This is nature,” he says. “Everything comes from this. You control this, you control the world.”

  “How can you control DNA?” I ask, not understanding this at all.

  “By creating it. Timmerman was creating synthetic DNA. There were rumors that he was, and now I’d bet anything on it.”

  “Is that known to be possible?”

  He nods. “Sure, everybody’s trying it, and some think they’re making good progress. But right now it’s just a theory. A damn good one, but just a theory.”

  “What could you do with it?”

  “Anything you want. See, if you can create DNA, then you program it however you want. Then you inject it into a cell, and once it gets inside, it’s like it boots itself up. Like a computer program, you know? Then it gets the cell to do whatever it wants it to do. Whatever you want it to do.”

  “Give me an example,” I say.

  “You’re not getting it,” he says, and truer words were never spoken. “Everything is an example. You can duplicate life-forms, or you can create completely new ones.”

  “So it’s cloning?”

  He smiles. “Cloning is yesterday’s news. If Timmerman pulled this off, it’s no wonder somebody killed him for it. Shit, I’d kill him for it.”

  It’s starting to dawn on me. “So Waggy… the Bernese…”

  “Came from the lab” is how he finishes my sentence. “Did Timmerman own the dog’s father or mother?”

  I nod. “Father. He was a champion.”

  “So he took the father’s DNA…”

  I interrupt. “Isn’t that cloning?”

  He shakes his head. “No, because I’ll bet Timmerman didn’t use the father’s DNA. He copied it; he created new, synthetic DNA just like it.”

  “Why?”

  “Just to prove to himself that he could. Like a test.”

  “So why would someone then want to kill Waggy?”

  “Maybe to keep anyone from knowing what Timmerman was doing,” he says. “There must be something about the DNA that identifies it as synthetic.”

  I nod. “Which is why Timmerman sent his own DNA in to be tested. It must have been a copy as well, and he wanted to see if the lab would pick up on it.”

  “Now you’re getting it,” he says, as I feel myself beaming at the approval. “But the lab missed it, because they didn’t know what they were looking for. It’s completely understandable.”

  “But if he proved he could synthetically produce his own DNA, why did he have to use the process to create the dog?”

  “Because copying DNA is one thing, but creating a living thing with it is far more complicated. And to exactly copy a champion show dog, that’s about as good as it gets.”

  “So why would the FBI be watching Timmerman? What would they be afraid of?”

  McCarty shakes his head as if disappointed. “Maybe you’re not getting it after all. This is the ticket to creating anything… a new life-form, fuel, anything. For instance, you could create bacteria and viruses that we don’t know how to deal with; you think the government might be interested in that?”

  “Holy shit,” Sam says, an appropriate comment considering the circumstances.

  “Did you say fuel?” I ask. “This stuff can create fuel?”

  He nods. “Sure, that’s probably the main reason companies are pursuing it. You can tell cells to make biofuels. If Timmerman could figure out a way to do it cost-effectively, you know what that would be worth?”

  “I can imagine,” I say, though I’m not sure I can. “One thing I didn’t mention. I think that there might have been a secondary explosion that took place in Timmerman’s laboratory.”

  McCarty smiles and says, “Fuels have a tendency to do that.”

  I DON’T HAVE TIME TO CONSIDER the staggering implication of what McCarty had to say. I’m in danger of being late for court, and I’m aware that Hatchet would strangle me, DNA strand by DNA strand, for that offense. On the way in, I get a call from a local TV reporter asking me if I’ve heard that Waggy was stolen last night, and that Charles Robinson is out making statements accusing me of being behind the theft. He is threatening to go to the police and file charges, an empty threat since he has no evidence. At least I hope he has no evidence.

  Since it’s been all over the news this morning, I acknowledge that I’ve heard about it, and am outraged by Robinson’s accusations. I deny any involvement; once I’ve committed a serious felony, lying to a reporter seems easy by comparison.

  I tell the reporter that I will have more of a comment later, after court, but I manage to find the time to accuse Robinson of not adequately providing for Waggy’s security, and I further threaten a lawsuit against Robinson on Steven’s behalf if Waggy is not quickly found, safe and sound.

  I make it to court with only ten minutes to spare, and I can see that Kevin was getting nervous that he might have to take over. We don’t talk about the events of last night, but he obviously knows what happened.

  I wish I didn’t have to be here; it requires my total concentration, and I’d much rather be thinking about what I learned this morning. McCarty was credible. It may turn out to be a lunatic theory, but it had the ring of truth to it, and his confidence in what he was saying was contagious.

  Hatchet makes no mention of the Waggy kidnapping; he probably doesn’t care much either way, as long as it doesn’t involve him.

  Richard calls Philip Sandler, Walter Timmerman’s attorney. He is there to testify about his preparation of Walter’s will, and Steven’s connection to that.

  Sandler says that Timmerman called him three weeks before his death and mentioned that he was considering disinheriting Steven.

  “Did he say why?” Richard asks.

  “He had a contentious relationship with Steven, and he was particularly upset with him at that point.”

  “Did he share with you what he was upset about?”

  “He felt that Steven was mistreating his stepmother, Diana. His view was
that Steven never accepted her into the family.”

  “What happened after that phone call?” Richard asks.

  “About a week later, he called and said that he and Steven had argued about it, and he definitely wanted to disinherit Steven.”

  “So he was taken out of the will entirely?” Richard asks.

  “No, but he would only receive money if Diana were also not alive when the will was settled.”

  When Richard turns the witness over to me, my first question is, “Mr. Sandler, you said that Walter and Steven Timmerman had a contentious relationship. Would you say they never got along?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say that. It was up and down. Sometimes things were good, sometimes they weren’t.”

  “And sometimes Steven was in the will, and sometimes he wasn’t?”

  He nods. “Yes.”

  “How many times did Walter Timmerman instruct you to take Steven out of the will?”

  “Probably twenty times.”

  “And did you do so each time?” I ask.

  “No, on a number of those occasions he called and told me he had changed his mind before I had a chance to do it.”

  “How many times did you actually do it?”

  “Nine.”

  “And the first eight of those times, he subsequently instructed you to put his son back into the will?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he ever say that Steven had threatened him, or that he was afraid for his life if he kept Steven disinherited?”

  “No.”

  “And as far as you know, Steven never physically assaulted his father?”

  “I am not aware of any such thing.”

  I excuse the witness, and then catch a break when Hatchet announces that he has received a note that one of the jurors is feeling ill. That will give us some time without having to listen to, and try to deflect, the mounting evidence against Steven.

  I go home and decide to take Tara for a long walk. I haven’t done it for a while, because I didn’t have the heart to leave Waggy at home alone. But now that Waggy is in the basement with Marcus, Tara and I are free to be on our way. Walking Tara is the thing I do that for some reason most allows me to think clearly, and clear thinking is what is need right now.

  Before I leave I go down to the basement to check on the unlikely duo. Marcus is throwing a tennis ball, and having Waggy chase it. What he does is run after the ball, often skidding to a hilarious stop on the slippery floor. Then he mouths it for a while, but neglects to bring it back to the person who threw it in the first place. Instead he looks up hopefully, as if wanting the person, in this case Marcus, to once again throw the ball that he does not have. It is up to Marcus to walk over and retrieve the ball before tossing it again.

  Marcus is laughing at Waggy’s antics, which brings to a total of one the number of times I’ve seen Marcus laugh. I ask him if everything is okay, and he nods and throws the ball again. This is working out better than I thought.

  I realize that I haven’t even mentioned to Waggy yet that he may be a creation of science rather than sex, but I think I should. I don’t want him learning it from some stranger later in life.

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen a happier dog than Tara as we set out. I’m not sure if it’s that we’re going on the walk, or if it’s that she finally will get some time away from her lunatic companion. But away we go, Tara’s tail wagging and her nose sniffing, and me thinking.

  There are two parallel tracks to this case. One is the trial itself, and the other is our investigation into whatever it was that Walter Timmerman was doing before he died. I am willing to believe that his work in some fashion caused the death of himself and his wife, mainly because it makes sense and it doesn’t help me to believe otherwise.

  If this becomes purely a matter of defending Steven, we are in deep trouble. Richard is presenting the jury with some very compelling evidence. Though I am poking some holes in that evidence and questioning its authenticity, it is basically me asking the jury whether they want to believe me or “their own lying eyes.”

  It still makes very little sense to me that Steven is in this position at all. If I believe that Walter was working on some powerful force that could have an international impact, and he was killed by some sinister entity intent on possessing or stifling that force, then where does Steven fit in? Why was it necessary to frame him? It was not an easy thing to do, and the process of doing it necessarily included the danger of detection.

  I never thought I would say this after initially meeting Stanley McCarty, but I definitely believe he knew what he was talking about. His words were compelling, and he spoke them with an easy confidence. It also doesn’t help me not to believe him; the area of investigation it opens is also the only one I have worth pursuing.

  My instincts, which place Charles Robinson somewhere near the center of this, might well be confirmed by what McCarty had to say. As a trader of energy with international contacts, he would have been the logical person for his friend Walter Timmerman to turn to with his discovery.

  But once Timmerman approached him, Robinson would have looked at him as a cash cow, the possible key to untold wealth and power. Why then, would he have killed him? Had they had a dispute over the direction they should take? Had Timmerman ultimately betrayed him and gone elsewhere?

  As my father would say, “I’m not going to know until I know. And maybe not even then.”

  But one thing I do know: On the investigative track of this case, the time for playing defense is over. I cannot sit back and watch Steven go down the tube, or wait for someone to successfully kill Waggy. It’s time to go on the offense, which means Charles Robinson’s world is about to be shaken.

  WHEN I GET BACK TO THE HOUSE, Pete Stanton is waiting for me.

  Robinson has demanded an investigation into the Waggy kidnapping, and Pete has internally maneuvered to be the one to conduct an interview with me. Laurie is with us when he questions me.

  “Do you have a search warrant?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “No, not enough probable cause. I am here to interview you, which I know you’ll consent to, because you are a citizen concerned with justice and the American way.”

  “That is beautiful. For the first time I feel understood.”

  “Did you steal the dog?” he asks.

  “Is this off the record?” I ask.

  “Off the record? Who do I look like, Bob Woodward? I’m a cop; nothing is ever off the record.”

  “I did not steal that poor animal, and I only hope you can find him and return him safely to Mr. Robinson. You and he are in my prayers.”

  “Where were you last night at around eleven o’clock?”

  “Home and in bed with the police chief of Findlay, Wisconsin.”

  “We were snuggling,” Laurie adds.

  “Do you have any idea where the dog is?” he asks.

  “No, but I’m considering hiring a team of investigators to help in the hunt. Any information we get will be turned over to you immediately. This heartless criminal must be brought to justice.”

  “You know what I think?” he asks. “I think you kidnapped the dog and he’s down in the basement right now.”

  “But you didn’t bring a search warrant?”

  “No.”

  “And you aren’t going to get one?”

  “No.”

  “You policemen are relentless, you know that?”

  Pete leaves, knowing full well what the truth is, and having no intention of attempting to expose it. I deeply appreciate that, and someday will tell him so.

  Once he’s gone, I call Cindy Spodek. I call her rather than Agent Corvallis mainly because on Friday evening if would be difficult to reach him, and I have Cindy’s cell and home phone numbers. I also think it’s probably best that she approach him on my behalf, because she’ll lie and say that I’m credible and reliable.

  Obviously she has caller ID, because she answers the phone with, “So, did you kidnap the dog?”
<
br />   “That’s how you answer your phone? By accusing your old friend of committing a felony?”

  “Knowing you and what a dog lunatic you are, I would say there’s a ninety-five percent chance you did it.”

  “I just want you to know that I’m deeply hurt, but for the purposes of this conversation, I’m going to move past that.”

  “My cup runneth over,” she says. “What can I do for you, old friend?”

  “I want you to set up a meeting with Corvallis about the Timmerman case.”

  “Aren’t we into a ‘been there, done that’ situation?”

  “I believe we are.”

  “It was a fascinating meeting, Andy, really it was. But I think I’m going to need a little more to get Corvallis in a room with you again.”

  “I’m going to give you Charles Robinson.”

  “The guy you stole the dog from? Why would I want him?” she asks.

  “You wouldn’t, but Corvallis would,” I say, and then it dawns on me that she may not know anything about all this. She is not a member of the task force assigned to Timmerman, and may be on the outside of a need-to-know situation.

  I ask her straight-out if she knows what is going on, and she admits that while she has some suspicions, she is basically in the dark.

  “Would you like to be brought into the light?” I ask.

  “I would.”

  “And can I count on you to keep everything I tell you in confidence, except the parts you don’t have to keep in confidence?”

  “Not knowing what the hell you are talking about, I’ll say yes.”

  I proceed to tell her everything I know, and everything I suspect, about the Timmerman case. I’m glad to do so, because I’m pretty far out on a limb here, and Cindy is really smart. If she thinks I’m way off base, she’ll tell me so and show me how.

  She doesn’t. Instead she just says, “You could be right about this, Andy. I’ll call Corvallis; when do you want to meet?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow is Saturday,” she says.

  “Boy, you FBI people are really sharp. Cindy, I would like to get moving on this before the jury delivers a verdict.”

  “Okay, I’ll call you back.”

  When I get off the phone, I update Laurie on what she said, and my request for a meeting tomorrow.