Who Let the Dog Out? (13 page)

“I was white-water rafting. You ever try it? It’s quite an adventure.”

This time it’s Gardiner. “I would suggest you start answering our questions.”

“Okay. Hey, wait … I’ve got an even better idea. Let’s answer each other’s questions; I’ll start. Why does ICE care why I was in Maine? And who was the other dead guy in that house besides Eric Brantley? And what was in the storage barn that was broken into? You can answer them in any order you like.”

“Carpenter, you are making a mistake.”

“No, I am defending my client. If this conversation is not going to benefit Tommy Infante, then there isn’t going to be a conversation. So if those terms don’t work for you, then get the hell out of here. In which case the only thing you will hear from me is a statement to the media saying that was no murder-suicide in that house.”

The two agents look at each other, practicing silent agent-speak, and then they stand up. “We’ll be back real soon,” Hernandez says.

“Great. It will give me something to look forward to.”

They leave, and I’m pleased with how it went. In a perfect world, they would have filled in many of the blanks that I have about Eric Brantley and the murders yesterday, but I had no expectations of that.

The reason I’m pleased is that I accomplished one thing and learned another. I let them know that I am not going to be a pushover; that if they need something from me they are going to have to pay for it in terms of information. They may decide that they can do without me, but at least the ground rules have been set.

I’ve learned something simply based on the agency for whom they work. It’s an Immigration and Customs case, and while I don’t know any of the details, just knowing that is a plus. I doubt that Brantley was smuggling immigrants in across the border; a much better guess would be that he was somehow involved in illegal goods.

Diamonds come to mind.

I call Sam, and he answers on the first ring. I don’t know how he does it, but he has answered on the first ring every single time I have ever called him. He must have his cell phone taped to his ear.

He answers with “Talk to me.” That’s how he talks when he’s working on a case for me, in crisp clean phrases. I half expect him to say “roger” and “wilco.” When we’re not on a case, he’ll just answer with, “Hey, Andy, what’s going on?”

“Hello, Sam.”

“Did you really discover those bodies up in Maine?”

“I was one of the people who did, yes.”

“How cool is that?” he asks, clearly jealous at my proximity to the action.

“Supercool, Sam. Supercool. I’ve got a job for you.”

“Great. I’m ready.”

“I want to know everywhere Eric Brantley traveled in the last two years. I’m most interested in travel abroad, and travel for business conferences, but I want everything.”

“Piece of cake.”

“Ten-four,” I say, before hanging up.

I head down to the jail to see Tommy Infante. I haven’t been there in a few days, which I’m feeling guilty about. I like my clients to see my adorable face on a daily basis, so they won’t feel so alone.

I’m not sure how much I should tell him about what’s been going on, but my decision is made for me by his first question. “What the hell were you doing in Maine?”

Prisoners in the jail have access to some media, and he’s obviously seen reports about the Brantley murder and my being on the scene. I’m certainly not going to lie to him about it, so I lay it all out. There doesn’t seem to be any potential harm in doing so, since I’m not revealing any inside information or insight. I wish I had some to reveal.

Tommy’s stress has seemed to increase of late, which is no surprise. The trial date is approaching, and there is no greater pressure in the world than waiting for a jury to decide your future.

When I’m finished describing the situation in Maine, Tommy asks, “What does Brantley have to do with me? Just the dog?”

“The dog and probably the diamonds.”

“And who was the other dead guy?”

“I don’t know; they’re not releasing his name.”

“I’m in pretty deep shit here, aren’t I?”

I sometimes don’t tell my clients everything, but I never lie to them. “I would say the shit is pretty deep, yes. It’s approaching eye level. But we’re digging away.”

The burden of preparing for the Infante trial has fallen on Hike. That has freed me up for wasting my time and learning nothing whatsoever about unrelated murders that have nothing to do with the case I’m defending.

On the positive side, I have my closing summation already prepared and ready to go. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Tommy Infante is innocent, because the victim stole someone else’s dog, and he had some diamonds.”

Hike and I are meeting in the office to go over where we stand in trial preparation. It’s a big day; even Edna has made an appearance. She explained that she doesn’t want to overprepare for the upcoming crossword puzzle tournament, so doing some work might take her mind off it. Gee, I hope it does.

Hike has done his usual professional job of interviewing prospective witnesses and preparing strategies for each of them on the witness stand. “I’ve got a couple more witnesses to question, but I need some help on it,” he says.

“Who are they?”

“Well, in the discovery it mentions that Tommy and the victim knocked over a jewelry store, and part of their motive is that Downey didn’t share the take with Tommy. That’s what Tommy apparently said when he threatened Downey in the bar. But there’s no indication as to which store it was, and no interview with the store owner.”

“Okay, I’ll find out from Tommy.”

“Good,” he says. “Last thing: somebody needs to talk to the bartender, a guy named Dan Hendricks, and it ain’t going to be me,” he says.

He’s referring to the bartender on duty at the Market Street bar the night that Tommy threatened to slit Downey’s throat, a promise that somebody made good on. “What’s the problem?” I ask.

“The people in that particular establishment didn’t appreciate what they considered an intrusion. They seemed inclined to physically harm the intruder, who in this case was me.”

“They scared you off?” I ask. “Couldn’t you go at a time when it was fairly empty?”

He nods. “They did, and I couldn’t. This particular bartender only works nights, when it’s crowded. Effective immediately, I only work days.”

This presents me with a dilemma. Hike is not exactly a Navy SEAL, and he and I occupy a similar ranking on the courage scale. I call Laurie, who hears the situation and says, “I’ll get a sitter and go with you tonight.”

I have an attitude that I’m afraid it’s fair to describe as sexist. If I am going to pathetically cower behind someone for protection, I prefer it to be a man. And if it has to be a woman, I’d like it to be someone other than the mother of my child.

“I was thinking Marcus,” I say.

“You don’t think I can handle it?” She and I both know that as a former police officer she can handle it quite well.

“I see you more as a delicate flower.”

“Okay, I’ll call Marcus. It would be tough to get a sitter for tonight anyway.”

I tell Laurie to arrange for Marcus to pick me up at home at eight o’clock, which will give me time to join her and Ricky for dinner, and then have a drink to fortify myself. I suspect Hike has been overstating the hostile atmosphere in the bar, but I still could use a little alcoholic reinforcement, in addition to Marcus.

I wind up deciding not to have the drink, since my tolerance for it seems to decrease every year. It must be a thing about getting older or maybe falling out of practice; I used to be able to handle my liquor quite well, but now if I see a beer commercial I get woozy.

Marcus is never late, and he’s never early, so I walk outside at 7:59, and as I’m reaching the curb, he pulls up. I get in and say, “How are you, Marcus?” and I think he grunts a greeting, but I can’t be sure because the classical music is turned up high.

I gently reach over and turn it down a little, so that he can hear me explain where we’re going and why, although I think Laurie has already done so. He doesn’t kill me, so I take that as a sign that I can start my explanation.

The bar is called the Study Hall, as incongruous a name as any I have ever heard. It’s a few blocks from Eastside High School, which is where I went. In those days it was a luncheonette called the Cozy. We went there every day so that I could have lunch and be rejected by girls.

Then the powers that be decided that students should have to eat lunch at school, which ensured the Cozy’s sudden demise. We couldn’t go there anymore, which meant I had to bring my own lunch and be rejected by girls on school grounds. The Cozy has reopened as a seedy bar, and the “Study Hall” name must be some backhanded reference to the fact that it is near the school.

My plan is to leave Marcus outside, and only have him come in if I need him. The reason for that is that Marcus can make people a tad uncomfortable, and if the conversation with the bartender can take place with him feeling free and unintimidated, I’m likely to get more out of him.

As they say, war plans change as soon as the enemy is encountered, and my plan changes when we pull up to the bar. The Study Hall is a tough place in a very tough neighborhood, and it’s fair to say that very little “studying” takes place here.

I don’t even have to tell Marcus about the change in strategy; he simply opens his door and gets out. He has a rather good understanding of my capabilities.

We enter the bar, which is actually not crowded at all. There are maybe a dozen patrons, including two very large men in T-shirts three sizes too small who are playing pool at a table near the bar. Every single person in this bar could kick my ass, including the two women seated at a table next to the jukebox.

I can sense that just about everyone is watching us, though I don’t know if it’s Marcus or me that is drawing the most attention. As out of place as I look in here, my guess would be Marcus.

I steal a look at my cell phone, to see if there is cell service here in case I have to call 911. I doubt I will, since Marcus is rather reliable, but it can’t hurt to be sure. My phone has no bars, so Marcus is on his own.

We go to the bar, which only has two people sitting at it. They’re watching the Yankees game on television, as is the bartender. He’s leaning on the bar, hand supporting his chin, as he watches.

“You got some customers, Dan.” It’s one of the people at the bar, being helpful as Dan hasn’t seemed to notice our arrival. Hike said his name was Dan Hendricks, so this is the guy we’re looking for.

“Yeah?” he says. I think he’s asking us what we want, but he could be just acknowledging what the guy at the bar said. I don’t think Hendricks has a future in sales. But he adds, “What are you drinking?”

“Sarsaparilla,” I say. “And make it a double.” I’m not sure why I say stupid, irritating stuff when people annoy me, or when they don’t annoy me, but I’ve learned to live with it.

“What?” is his appropriate response.

“We just want to ask you some questions.”

That makes him alert to the point that he actually stands up. “About Gerald Downey,” I add.

“You cops? Because I already spoke to the cops three times.”

“No. I’m an attorney representing Tommy Infante.”

He sneers. “Another one?” He calls out to the two very large guys playing pool. “Hey, we got another lawyer for the guy who killed Gerry.”

“Allegedly killed Gerry,” I say. “You need to have more respect for due process.”

He doesn’t seem to want to debate that technical legal point. Instead he says, “There was some downer guy in here asking questions last week.”

“He is my associate.” I point to Marcus. “This is my other associate.”

“He’s your muscle?” Hendricks asks, meaning Marcus, and apparently disrespecting my own muscles.

“Hey, I work out a half hour a week on the treadmill, at a one percent incline. You ready for the questions?”

Before he can answer, I turn and see the two pool players coming toward us. The one in front is still holding his cue stick. I don’t think they’re going to ask us if we want to play winners.

Cue Stick Man says, “Get the hell out of here.”

I nod. “We’re actually on the same page on this. This does not seem like an establishment I want to patronize for any length of time. But I do need to get these questions answered.”

I look over at Marcus to make sure he is ready to rush to my defense, but if he’s tense and ready to pounce, he’s hiding it really well. His eyes are half open, which is the only way I know he isn’t asleep.

Cue Stick Man and his friend are moving closer, and Cue Stick says, threateningly, “You want some answers, pal?”

“Marcus, you might want to consider getting involved at some point,” I say. I get no reaction, so I add, “We might even be approaching that point.”

Cue Stick Man says, “Side ball in the corner pocket, shithead,” and twists his body to swing the cue stick at me, since I am apparently “shithead,” and my head is the ball. I instinctively start to duck, which is a shame, because I don’t get a great look at what happens next.

One moment Cue Stick Man is swinging the stick at my head, while Marcus sits there watching. The next moment, Marcus is standing and somehow has stopped and confiscated the stick in one almost imperceptible movement.

Clearly not content to have taken away the stick, Marcus lowers it and then swings it straight up into Cue Stick Man’s groin. Since he came to the bar to play pool rather than football, I doubt that Cue Stick Man thought to wear a protective cup. His scream is not one I’m likely to forget soon.

Marcus then hits him in the jaw, not with full Marcus force but enough to cause major damage. He slumps forward and goes straight to the floor. Friend of Cue Stick Man, clearly the smarter of the two, does not seem inclined to intervene, and he backs off. If he’s going to shoot any more pool, he’ll need a different stick, since his friend is starting to retch and throw up on this one.

I turn to the bartender and say, “Much to your surprise, my associate has prevailed over your associate.”

It wasn’t part of Alek’s makeup to get annoyed. He did what he had to do, professionally and absent emotion. Getting annoyed about it, or stressed about it, or even pleased with it, was a waste of time and energy.