Her responding to the name Aggie is not significant to me. It all depends on the way the name is said. Our basset hound is named Sebastian, but I could call him Shirley, or Margaret Thatcher, and if I said it with a high-enough pitch in my voice, he’d react.
Also, as Laurie pointed out, it’s possible, even likely, that Lucy was Vogel’s dog, but that he had given it away. The guy calling could really be named Simmons, and he could be the person that Vogel gave the dog to. Maybe he also has a slight Boston accent.
A third possibility is that Beth’s network let her down and that she has misidentified the dog. Maybe she was never owned by Vogel at all; maybe she was owned by someone else, probably Simmons, and went stray.
The fourth and least likely scenario is the one that Beth is worried about; she fears that this really is Vogel, back from the supposed dead to claim his dog.
At first, second, and third glances this doesn’t stand up to scrutiny. I suppose it’s possible that the witnesses were wrong and that Vogel wasn’t on the boat when it exploded. But there was plenty of publicity about it; it’s inconceivable that he didn’t know he was thought to have been killed.
Yet he said nothing about it, which means he either murdered the other two men or faked his own death, or both. So then after going to all that trouble, he’d come out of hiding for his dog? Okay, I would do it for Tara, but the chance that Vogel is as crazy as me is quite slim.
I tell all this to Beth, and Laurie chimes in with a similar point of view. Beth does not seem relieved; I’m sure that intellectually she understands our position, but she is not used to dealing with this kind of stuff.
“So what should I do?” she asks.
“We should assume the worst,” Laurie says.
I’m not sure that I agree with her choice of words, since it causes Beth to literally flinch. But I’m on board with the approach. “If we’re right, and the explanation is benign, then everything is fine no matter what,” I say, trying to soften things a bit. “But since there is always a chance that this is really Vogel, we should prepare for that eventuality.”
“How?”
“By talking to the authorities.”
Beth nods nervously. “Will you do that for me?”
“I’ll do it with you.”
Pete Stanton and I are good friends.
That’s if you go by my definition of “good friend.” Most people would disagree with it, but I’m sure Pete aligns himself with my point of view.
Simply put, a good friend is someone you can comfortably hang out with, who shares at least some of your interests, who you can insult with impunity, and who, at the end of the day, is always there for you if you need him or her.
Of course, friendship can also be defined by the absence of things. A friend doesn’t pry for personal information, he doesn’t care what you wear, it doesn’t bother him if you don’t include him in everything you do, and he never, ever, ever, calls you on the phone just to chat.
Every phone call, and there are very few of them, must have a purpose, and it must be revealed right at the top. The only word allowed to precede the reason for calling is hello.
Pete checks all the friendship boxes, but I am not here at his office to make a social call. Pete is also captain in charge of the Homicide Division of the Paterson Police Department, and I have brought Beth with me so that she can tell him her story.
I didn’t tell Pete the full purpose of the meeting when I set it up; I just said that it involved the boat explosion. That was good enough for him to agree to see us; for some reason homicide captains seem to be interested in homicides.
Pete doesn’t know Beth, so I introduce them and explain to Pete how she and I know each other.
He rolls his eyes when I mention the dog connection. “What is it with you and dogs?”
“Dogs are like humans, only better in every respect,” I say.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. What does this have to do with the boat?”
I turn the floor over to Beth, and she tells Pete exactly what she told Laurie and me. He lets her go through the entire thing without interrupting or asking questions.
When she’s finished, he asks, “Where did you leave it with him?”
“He’s supposed to pick up Lucy, or Aggie, tomorrow. He said he will bring photographs and medical records that confirm it’s her.”
“Where is he picking her up?”
“At Andy’s rescue, the Tara Foundation. That’s where she is.”
Pete nods. “Good. Is Willie going to be there?”
“Not to worry,” I say. “I’ll be there.” Pete believes that Willie, being extraordinarily tough and a karate expert, would be of more use than I would if something should go wrong. Pete’s right, but it gets on my nerves.
“That’s nice to hear; if the going gets rough, you can use sarcasm on him,” Pete says. “What about Willie?”
“I expect he will be there as well.”
“Good. So will we.” Pete turns to Beth. “We’ll be outside, and if you still believe it is Vogel after meeting with him, we’ll come in for a chat. Maybe we’ll come in anyway.”
“Thank you,” Beth says, clearly relieved but still nervous.
Pete smiles. “Then we’re done here. Andy, can you stay behind? I want to talk to you about another matter.”
Beth leaves and Pete says, “When you told me you were coming to talk about the boat explosion, I called a buddy at State Police Homicide, just to get updated.”
“And?”
“And we danced around each other. He wanted to know why I was asking, and I wanted to know why he wanted to know why I was asking.”
“You coming to a point anytime soon?”
“I think they are interested in Vogel.”
“Interested how?”
“It’s possible they wouldn’t be surprised if they hear that he’s alive.”
“Did you tell them that we think he may be?”
He frowns. “Come on, Andy; I didn’t even know that before you got here, remember?”
“Are you going to tell them now?”
“I think I’ll hold off on that for now, until we see if this is meaningful.”
There has long been a healthy rivalry between the local and state cops, and Pete is demonstrating that now. I’m sure he would like nothing better than to be responsible for a dramatic breakthrough in this case, without letting the state guys in on the process.
“Why are you telling me this?” On the list of people that Pete is disinclined to share information with, defense attorneys are at the very top, well above state or federal cops.
“I want you to be careful. If that is Vogel that she has been talking to, then he is either a murderer or a person that faked his own death after two of his pals were murdered. Neither of those things makes for a good character reference. And you are less equipped to handle bad guys than anyone I know.”
“I’m touched by your concern.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to protect you and your client.”
“She’s not my client; she’s my friend. Retired lawyers don’t have clients; otherwise they’d be called nonretired lawyers.”
“I think I should be there,” Laurie says. “Just in case.”
“Just in case what? That the guy who wants his dog comes in shooting? I’ll be there, Willie will be there, and Pete and some officers will be outside. We’ve got more people attending than the average Jets game.”
We already discussed this last night, but Laurie is taking another shot at it this morning. “How about if I pretend to be someone looking to adopt a dog?”
“Laurie…”
“Okay. But Willie and Pete will definitely be there?”
“Yes, and I’ve already explained to them what’s going on. You know, it’s almost as if you think I can’t handle myself if this turns physical.”
She nods. “Almost.”
I head down to the Foundation, and Beth is already there waiting for me. She’s talking to Willie a
nd Sondra, who I assume are assuring her that things will be fine. Vogel or Simmons is due in a half hour; there’s no sign of Pete and his team, but I’m certain they are lying back so as to avoid scaring off Mr. Vogel.
We’ve looked at all available pictures of Vogel; the internet is full of them from his work as a pharmaceutical executive. Unless he is in a serious disguise, if it’s him, we’ll know it.
We hear a car pull up outside but don’t look out the window, not wanting to appear too anxious. Willie is out in the reception area, and Beth and I are in the office. We can hear talking between the visitor and Willie; I assume he’s telling Willie why he’s here and asking where Beth is.
Seconds later the door opens and the two men come in. I can see and hear Beth take a deep breath, almost a gasp, and there’s no doubt why. If this man is not Vogel, he is his twin.
Willie does the introductions. When Vogel hears my name and shakes my hand, he says, “I know you from somewhere.”
“Eastside High School? Were you at the senior prom?”
He ignores that. “You’re the lawyer. I’ve seen you on TV.”
I’ve been interviewed on television quite a few times on legal matters, including my own cases. That’s obviously where he’s remembering me from.
He continues, his guard up. “What are you doing here?”
“Lawyering was just a hobby. Willie and I run this place.”
He nods, probably not fully convinced. “Where’s Aggie?”
“You mean Lucy?” Willie asks. “I’ll get her.”
While we’re waiting, Vogel says, “I never thought I’d see her again.”
Willie comes in with Lucy, who takes one look at Vogel and goes nuts. Absolutely nuts. She runs and jumps on him and they roll on the floor. He’s petting and laughing, and she’s barking and trying so hard to get close to him that there’s a danger she will go through him.
If he wasn’t a murder victim, this would be a poignant reunion. In fact, it sort of is anyway.
Finally, when he gets to his feet, he says, with a big smile on his face, “This is Aggie.”
Beth nods. “So I see. No photographs or paperwork will be necessary, will they, Andy?”
“No, they won’t. Beth, you should send the text.”
Vogel is immediately on alert. “What kind of text?”
I can see Willie go on alert in case he’s needed to intervene.
“We know your name is not Simmons,” I say. “You’re Alex Vogel, and you were believed to have died in an explosion at sea. The police are on the way in here.”
“No, you don’t understand. You—”
I interrupt, “Which part don’t we understand?”
He starts to answer, then sort of sags at the realization that there is no immediate way out of this. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Then you’re fine.”
“What about Aggie?”
“What about her?”
“If they take me in, what will happen to her?”
Before I can answer, Pete and two other officers come in. “Mr. Vogel, my name is Captain Pete Stanton, Homicide Division. You need to come down to the station with us and answer some questions.”
Vogel hesitates, unsure what to do. “I don’t want to. I want to take my dog and leave.” He looks at Aggie, who doesn’t argue the point.
“Your dog will be fine. Come with us.”
Vogel turns to me. “Do I have to go with them?”
I ask Pete, “Is he under arrest?”
Pete’s eyes widen at the question; I think there is a chance that he is going to shoot me. “He is coming in for questioning,” he says, evading the question a bit.
“You do not have to go,” I say to Vogel. “It’s up to you.”
I think Pete’s head is going to explode. “Are you his lawyer?”
“I’m his adviser.”
Pete turns back to Vogel. “If you take his advice, you’re only digging the hole deeper.”
“I’m taking his advice,” Vogel says.
Pete gives me one final death stare before he and the other officers leave.
Once they do, Vogel says, “Thank you.” Then, “I’m innocent. There’s an explanation for everything.”
I nod. “There’d better be, because this isn’t ending here.”
“I hear you. Thanks for the advice; got any more?”
“Stay nearby. They’ll be coming to talk to you again, and there’s no sense pissing them off; they’ll find you anyway. And if you have a compelling story to tell, you might as well tell it. But with a lawyer present; only with a lawyer present.”
“Like you.”
“Like me, only someone else. I’m not taking on clients.”
“I’ve got money.”
“Join the club.”
Dexter Wheeler badly needed a friend.
It had been three years since the auto accident that fractured, actually smashed, his hip and took him out of the workforce. Dexter had worked in a carton factory in Omaha; it was physical work and had become difficult for Dexter simply because he was aging. Once the accident happened, age was the least of his troubles.
Then came an even more troubling development: the slow erosion of his eyesight. He could still manage around his house because everything was so familiar. But tasks like shopping for food became a major challenge and were bound to get worse.
So Dexter stayed at home, venturing out only occasionally. He had no family and lived in a rural area with few neighbors. The world had forgotten Dexter, and he could do nothing about it.
Then one day a man named Allen Leary showed up at his door. He said he was from Friend in Need, an Omaha charity that helped people in situations exactly like Dexter’s. They were branching out into more rural areas, had heard about Dexter’s troubles, and were there to help.
Leary showed up every day; he brought food and prepared Dexter’s meals for him. They watched some television together, and Leary even helped clean up the house. They swapped some stories of their time in the service; Dexter had seen some action late in the Vietnam War, while Leary talked of his time in Desert Storm.
About a week after Leary had started coming around, Dexter became ill. At first it seemed like the flu—chills and fever and chest congestion. But then it became progressively worse, and Dexter would occasionally become delirious.
Leary took him to a hospital when Dexter began slipping in and out of consciousness. He had little idea what was happening to him, though he was aware of a doctor drawing what seemed like an unusually large amount of blood.
The doctor said that they were having difficulty culturing the bacteria, which made it harder to decide which drugs were best to target it. To be safe, the doctor was wearing what looked like a futuristic suit designed to protect him from whatever type of infection Dexter had contracted.
Leary never entered Dexter’s room; the doctor told Dexter that it was prohibited because of the strong possibility of contagion. The doctor said that Leary was being updated frequently on Dexter’s progress.
In Dexter’s more lucid moments, he questioned the doctor why no nurses were around; the only person that ever came into the room was the doctor. The doctor explained that was also due to the danger of the infection spreading to other people; until they knew what it was, they were going to be ultra-cautious.
Dexter asked the doctor what the prognosis was, and the doctor assured him that he was going to be all right. The hospital was set up to handle just these kind of cases; they would get to the bottom of the problem and deal with it successfully.
Dexter would never realize a number of things.
This was not a hospital.
His doctor was not a doctor.
Leary was not his friend.
Dexter was very definitely not going to be all right.
Often I am unfairly maligned as lacking in courage.
Nothing could be further from the truth. Courage would be my middle name had my parents named me Andy Courag
e Carpenter. But they didn’t, and I am stuck with the reputation of being a physical coward.
That is all changing tonight. I am heading into the lion’s den without a chair or whip. I am looking danger in the eye and not blinking. I am laughing in the face of imminent doom. Well, maybe not laughing—more like smiling nervously.
I am going to Charlie’s Sports Bar.
Pete Stanton and I share a table with Vince Sanders, the editor of our local newspaper. I used to go there pretty much every night, but then I met Laurie, and we adopted Ricky, and … that ended that.
So these days I show up two or three nights a week to watch sports and eat burgers and drink beer. Charlie’s is my home away from home. My home used to be my home away from Charlie’s, but the balance has shifted.
It hasn’t shifted for Pete and Vince. They are here every night, at our regular table, watching and eating and drinking. They don’t miss me because I am not necessary for their watching and eating and drinking, and because I still pick up the entire tab, whether I am there or not.
They are already there when I arrive. Pete is the first one to see me approach the table. “Well, if it isn’t the counselor for the defense. I can’t believe you showed up.”
“I was hungry and thirsty. Those are primary drives.”
“So is the drive for revenge.”
“Are you guys going to fight?” Vince asks.
“I am going to fight,” Pete says. “Andy is going to die.”
Vince seems concerned and turns to me. “If you’re going to fight, let me hold your wallet.”
I ignore that, keeping my focus on Pete. I doubt he’ll go for his gun; I think he’d prefer to strangle me. “Vogel asked me if he was required to go with you. I just answered honestly.”
“You could have said yes. Or you could have said nothing.”
“Saying yes would have been dishonest. Saying nothing would have made me complicit in your attempt to unfairly coerce him.”
“All of a sudden you’re worried about honesty and fairness? You’re a defense attorney!”
“An almost-retired defense attorney, and proud of it.”
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