Dog Tags
Authors: David Rosenfelt
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General, #FIC022000
Open and Shut
First Degree
Bury the Lead
Sudden Death
Dead Center
Play Dead
New Tricks
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by David Rosenfelt
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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First eBook Edition: August 2010
ISBN: 978-0-446-56901-9
To Lillian Churilla, wonderful friend to Debbie, mother to Tina, grandmother to Madeline, lover of books, and all-around great
lady
I
T FELT SO MUCH LIKE BEING A COP.
The fact that the two occupations were so similar was an irony that was never lost on Billy Zimmerman, who was certainly
in a unique position to know. Until three years ago, he was a cop. Now he was a thief.
And at times like this, he was damned if he could tell the difference.
Much of the similarity was in the waiting. Back then he might be assigned to follow someone, to simply watch and see where
they were going, and to move in if they did something illegal. If things got hairy, there was an unlimited supply of backup
to call upon.
In his new occupation, there was just as much downtime, but now it was spent waiting for a potential victim to make a mistake,
to reveal a vulnerability. Of course, being a thief came with more built-in pressure. If you failed a mission as a cop, the
captain got pissed off. Fail as a thief, and it’s a warden you’re dealing with.
And calling in backup was not a viable option.
Standing outside Skybar on River Road in Edgewater, New Jersey, Billy was hopeful that something good was about to happen.
It was Friday evening, and his target had been standing outside the
building for twenty minutes, frequently checking his watch, and obviously waiting for someone.
Billy noticed the man held his right arm tight in against his ribs, as if pressing something against himself. He seemed to
exert a constant pressure, which could be extremely tiring. This was no anonymous target; Billy knew him very well, and he
had no doubt that there was something valuable inside his jacket, something he wanted to completely control.
Which made it something that Billy wanted.
Billy looked toward his partner, Milo, a classic, powerful German shepherd. Milo stood to the left of the club, near the curb,
thirty feet away. A casual observer might have observed that Milo was wearing a leash around his neck, with the other end
tied to a signpost. A more keen observer might have noticed that there was no knot on the leash; it was simply wound loosely
around the post.
Milo could free himself whenever he so chose, and he was planning to do so as soon as Billy gave him the sign.
Milo, more than anything else, made Billy feel like he was back on the force. They were partners then, before Iraq, before
the sixteen-year-old girl who calmly blew herself up and took Billy’s left leg with her.
Getting Milo back was the best thing that had happened since, and not just because of his particular, immense talent. Billy
loved Milo, and Milo loved him right back. They were a team, and they were friends.
And for now they both waited for the moment they knew was coming.
“Y
OU’RE
A
NDY
C
ARPENTER
,
RIGHT
?” The man speaking is four inches shorter than me and at least forty pounds heavier. That makes him short and fat. He is standing
in front of large platters of shrimp and crab. I’ve been eyeing them for a while, until he came and blocked my view.
I nod confirmation. “That’s me.”
I reach out my left hand to shake his, which is the only hand I have available. My right hand is securely in my right pocket,
which is where it has been for three hours, ever since I got dressed.
That hand isn’t just hanging out in that pocket. It is holding on to the ring that Kevin Randall, the junior partner in our
two-lawyer firm, will be slipping onto Kelly Topfer’s finger in about twenty minutes. I’m a little paranoid about stuff like
this, and as the best man I want to make sure that when the minister says Kevin’s ready for me to provide the ring, I don’t
come up with air or pocket lint.
Kelly and Kevin met only five months ago, and for Kevin it’s a match made in heaven. He is the world’s biggest hypochondriac,
and Kelly is an internist. If it were left to Kevin, the couple would have registered for gifts at an online medical supply
store.
The wedding is being held at the Claremont Hotel in Closter, New Jersey, thirty-five minutes from my house in Paterson. The
pre-ceremony cocktail party has been an hors-d’oeuvrian challenge for me. If you don’t believe me, try to take the tail shell
off a shrimp with one hand while standing. And even if it were possible, how do you dip it in cocktail sauce? And what do
you do with your drink?
“Eddie Lynch. People call me Hike” is how he introduces himself.
The name
Eddie Lynch
rings a bell somewhere in the recesses of my mind, but since there are already two bloody Marys sloshing around in there,
I’m not thinking too clearly.
“You a friend of Kevin’s?”
He shrugs. “We were roommates in law school.”
The name clicks into place. Kevin has told me about him a few times, describing him as the smartest lawyer he knows. Since
I’m also a lawyer whom Kevin knows, I half pretended to take offense, but Kevin wouldn’t back off his assessment.
“You’re the best man, right?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say in a solemn voice. “I am. By far.”
He shakes his head. “I’m glad he didn’t pick me. I’d probably lose the damn ring.”
The conversation, not exactly scintillating up to this point, takes a turn for the worse, as we both just stand there with
nothing to say. It’s getting uncomfortable, so I pipe up with, “They make a great couple, don’t they?”
He shrugs again. Shrugging seems to be his movement of choice. “If it works out. But when was the last time one of these worked
out?”
I’m a life-half-empty kind of guy, but “Hike” is making me look like Mr. Sunshine.
“Let me guess,” I say. “You’re not married.”
“No way,” he says. “Not me. I’d beat them off with a stick if I had to.”
“Have you had to?”
He takes a step back and holds out his hands, palms up, as if inviting me to look at him. “Not in this lifetime,” he says,
then laughs a surprisingly pleasant laugh and walks away.
A few moments later Laurie Collins, better known as the love of my life, walks over. She has a small plate of food in her
hand, and watches Hike as he walks away.
“Who was that?” she asks.
“The Prince of Darkness.”
She decides that isn’t worth a follow-up, so she asks, “Have you eaten anything? The shrimp are wonderful.”
“I haven’t been able to figure out how to get the tails off with one hand. And then there’s the dipping-them-in-cocktail-sauce
problem.”
“Why can’t you use two hands?” she asks.
“Because I’m holding on to the ring in my pocket.”
“Isn’t the pocket supposed to hold it? Isn’t that why pockets exist?”
“You’re talking philosophy and I’m talking reality,” I say. “I’m afraid if I take my hand out I’ll drop the ring.”
“Why would you do that?” she asks.
“It wouldn’t be on purpose. It might slip out and fall on the floor, and then what the hell would I do?”
“You could pick it up.”
“It might fall down a drain.”
“A drain in the carpet? You’ve got serious mental problems, you know?”
Just then the lights flash on and off, signaling that it’s time to head into the other room for the ceremony. “It’s showtime,
Mr. Best Man. Get the ring ready.”
I squeeze it a little tighter in my pocket. “It’s under control,” I say.
We start to leave the room, and I cast a glance back at the shrimp. “You think they’ll still be here later?” I ask, but Laurie
just frowns a look of disgust.
I take that as a no.
