New Tricks (13 page)

There is no evidence, not a shred, that the DNA dustup between Walter Timmerman and Robert Jacoby had anything to do with
his murder, or that of his wife. All it provides me with is a hunch, and a road to go down.

Which is better than nothing, but not by much.

L
AURIE IS COMING HOME
.

With special equipment, and her team of therapists, and me, and two squad cars that Pete Stanton is sending along for protection.
It will be a glorious procession down Park Avenue in Paterson.

Laurie said that Dr. Norville is delighted with her progress, though it is hard for me to picture him delighted. She swears
that he even smiled once. A little.

He told her that she has at least two months of therapy ahead of her, but that over time she should regain full movement and
normal speech. She starts to cry as she tells me this; it has obviously been an incredibly emotional and trying experience
for her.

I turn away and pretend to help her pack so she won’t see me tearing up as well. Crying is for girls; besides, I’ve been there,
done that while Laurie was in a coma.

Laurie understands that she will not be able to work for at least the two months, and she has so notified the city manager
in Findlay. Her second in command will fill in, no doubt adequately, since Findlay is not exactly Dodge City. Except for the
aberrational murders that I went up there to investigate a couple of years ago, the closest Findlay has come to violence in
the streets was when word got out that Brett Favre was going to the Jets.

“Andy, are you okay with my staying at your house through all this?” she asks.

I think for a moment, trying to search my memory to see if I’ve ever heard a stupider question. None comes to mind.

“Let’s try it for an hour or two and see if it works out,” I say.

“I’m serious,” she says. “It will cause some turmoil.” There are some sounds that she is still having trouble saying, and
the
oy
sound is one of them. It sounds like
turmill
. I can see the frustration in her face as she hears herself.

“There is nothing that would give me more pleasure than you spending two months at our house.”

I’m sure she noticed that I said “our house,” but she doesn’t correct me. In my pathetic little world, that qualifies as a
damn good sign.

Laurie is very shaky on her feet, so she doesn’t resist the hospital’s policy that patients must use a wheelchair on departure.
They will let me do the pushing, and once we make final arrangements for the therapist’s equipment to arrive, we’re off.

I feel a hell of a lot better leaving than I did the night I arrived.

When we get home, Laurie wants to walk into the house under her own power, though she holds on to my arm as she does. I help
her up the steps and into bed, and I can see that the effort has exhausted her.

“Andy, it’s so good to be here. I feel better already.”

“That’s good, because you’re going to have to pull your own weight. Light housework, cooking, some gardening, sexual favors,
that kind of thing.”

Laurie doesn’t answer, mainly because she is already sound asleep. I’ll have to write that line down to use it later.

I call Willie and ask him to bring Tara and Waggy over. He’s busy at the foundation, and promises to do so when they close
for the evening. I’m slightly nervous about this, since we have determined that possession of Waggy has proven somewhat unhealthy
in the past. But for the time being I won’t take the dogs for public walks; I’ll just play with them in the backyard, which
is surrounded by a fence and can’t be seen from off the property.

Laurie wakes up ravenously hungry and anxious to eat the farthest thing possible from hospital food. Since my understanding
of cooking ranks with my understanding of DNA, I offer her a bunch of take-out options. She chooses Taco Bell, and I can’t
say I’m disappointed with the choice.

I go to the Taco Bell on Route 4 in nearby Elmwood Park and pretty much order everything on the menu. When I get back, Tara
and the maniacal Waggy greet me at the door. Willie is sitting on the edge of Laurie’s bed, and they are laughing and enjoying
each other’s company.

Things are getting back to normal, and normal is damn good.

Willie takes one look at the bags of food, smacks his hands together, and announces that he is starved. That, coupled with
Laurie’s previously announced hunger, is going to leave me sucking on the sauce packets for nourishment.

I bring out a large tray and some plates, and we eat right there in the bedroom. I wind up with a steak quesadilla and half
of a chalupa, and consider myself lucky. Laurie and Willie eat enough for twelve normal people.

As I’m cleaning up, the phone rings, and Laurie answers it. Her “hello” is soon followed with, “Great! I’m doing great! It’s
so nice to hear from you.”

What follows is a three- or four-minute conversation, mostly about Laurie’s condition, job status, and immediate plans. There
are long pauses in which she listens to apparently lengthy replies. It all ultimately ends with, “He’s right here, Marcus.
I’ll put him on.”

As she hands me the phone, I say, “You’ve been having that conversation with Marcus? My Marcus?” The longest conversation
he and I have ever had consisted of six grunts and a nod. The way this one sounded, Laurie could have been talking to Henry
Kissinger.

I take the phone and Marcus says, “Got him.”

“Who? Childs?”

“Yuh. Bergen Street.”

“Where on Bergen Street?”

“Elevator.”

I was once present when Marcus questioned someone in a dilapidated old warehouse at the end of Bergen Street near the Passaic
River, hanging him out over a sixth-floor elevator shaft to encourage his truthful responses. It was vintage Marcus, and I
think that he’s now telling me he has Childs at the same place.

“You got questions?” he asks.

“For him? Absolutely. Should I come down there?”

“Now,” he says, and hangs up.

I get up and tell Laurie and Willie about the conversation. Willie insists on going with me, an idea that Laurie encourages.
That area can be dangerous at night, and in Childs we are talking about a hired killer, albeit one whom Marcus apparently
has under control.

I’d certainly like to bring Willie along, since I’m generally afraid of being alone in my bedroom if it gets too dark. He
also shares Laurie’s ability to understand Marcus’s unique way of speaking. I’m reluctant to leave Laurie alone for an extended
time, but she points out that her assailant is obviously not available at the moment to come after her.

Willie and I drive down to the designated meeting place, which if anything is more run-down than it was last time. Marcus
signals to us from a window on the sixth floor, and we start trudging up the steps. When we’re on the third-floor landing,
a rat runs across the floor in front of us, causing me to jump so high I almost fall back down the steps.

“I’ve got to make some changes in my life,” I say, once I’ve recovered.

By the time we get to the sixth floor, I am gasping for air, or dust, or anything else I can take in. Willie, on the other
hand, looks like he could go another fifty or sixty stories.

We enter a large room, lit only by moonlight through the window and a large flashlight that Marcus has rested on a table.
He is sitting calmly in a chair, while a man I have never seen before sits on the floor, tied to a radiator. Even in the sitting
position, it is obvious he is very large, maybe four inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than Marcus. He looks none the
worse for wear; Marcus apparently got him into this position without resorting to violence.

“What you want to know?” he asks.

“Well, to start, whether he shot Laurie.”

Before Marcus answers, an obviously unrepentant Childs laughs. “Of course I shot her, I’m just sorry I didn’t kill the bitch.”

Maybe I’ve felt more anger and disgust in my life, but I can’t remember when. I try to control myself and talk calmly to Marcus.
“I want to know who paid him, and why.”

Marcus looks at me, expressionless. “S’all?”

“Saul?” I ask. “Who is Saul?” As always, talking to Marcus is leaving me frustrated, so I turn to Willie. “Who the hell is
Saul?”

“Marcus is asking if that’s all you want to know,” he says.

“Oh, sorry.” I turn back to Marcus. “Anything you can find out is fine, but that’s basically it.”

Marcus nods. “Take his gun.” He points to a gun on top of the table, which I didn’t see before.

I try to talk softly, so Childs can’t hear me. “Marcus, I’m not going to shoot anyone, not even him.”

“Take the gun,” Marcus repeats, and then takes his own gun out of his pocket. “And this.”

“Marcus, can you tell me what’s going on?”

Willie decides to intervene at this point, and walks over to Marcus. They talk for about a minute or so, with Willie nodding
the whole time.

Willie turns to me and talks loud enough for Childs to hear. “Marcus got the drop on this asshole and brought him here. The
guy thinks he can take Marcus, so Marcus is going to give him a chance. It will also give Marcus a chance to ask some questions.”

Childs laughs when he hears this; his lack of fear of Marcus is giving me the creeps.

I whisper to Willie: “Can’t we stay here, with you holding the guns, just in case?”

“I suggested that, but Marcus said no.”

“What’s he going to do to him?” I whisper.

“The guy shot Laurie,” Willie says. “Laurie is just about Marcus’s favorite person in the world. I don’t think you’d want
to sell him life insurance, you know?”

“Willie, are we talking about murder?”

“No, you’re talking about murder. Me and Marcus… we’re talking about self-defense. You’re a lawyer; you don’t know the difference?”

I’ve got a bit of a dilemma here. If I just leave and don’t try to exercise any influence over the situation, one of these
guys might wind up dead. Also, Childs looks every bit as tough as Pete described him, so I cannot be sure if Marcus’s confidence,
in addition to Willie’s, is misplaced.

Even if Marcus prevails, it represents vigilante justice of a kind that I ordinarily do not condone. There is no question
but that the proper thing is to turn Childs over to the police. Still, if anyone deserves swift and deadly justice it’s Childs,
a piece of garbage who admitted to shooting Laurie and vowed to do it again.

The other factor to consider is that there is a far greater chance that Marcus can get Childs to talk than the police could.

I walk over to Marcus. “Marcus, are you sure about this?” “Yuh.”

“This guy is very dangerous. Will you be really careful?” “Yuh.”

“And you’ll try your best to avoid killing him?”

“Yuh.”

I wish I could let that be the final word.

A
S SOON AS
W
ILLIE AND
I leave the room, I grab his arm.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

“Sshhh,” I say softly, putting my fingers to my mouth to emphasize that I want him to be quiet. I look around, trying to find
a vantage point from which I can watch what happens in the room.

Fortunately, there are literally holes in the wall, and I find one that lets me see Marcus and Childs clearly, yet it is small
enough that they’re unlikely to know I’m there. “I can’t just leave him like this,” I whisper to Willie. “If something went
wrong, I’d never forgive myself.”

“Marcus will be really pissed,” he says.

“Only if you tell him.”

“What are you going to do if Marcus is losing? Shoot Childs?”

I shake my head. “I could never do that. It’s still a human life we’re talking about. You can shoot him.”

Willie just shakes his head in disapproval, but he quickly finds another place from which he can see as well. I also notice
that he has one of the guns out and ready.

We watch as Marcus goes over to Childs and starts to untie him.

As he does so, Childs laughs and says, “You’re a bigger asshole than I thought.”

Marcus doesn’t answer; he just continues freeing Childs from the bonds. At the moment he is free, Childs lashes out and punches
Marcus in the face. The sound of fist hitting face is a sickening thud, and Marcus staggers back a few feet.