As Dog Is My Witness (33 page)

He frowned and drank more water. “Of course I know
who it is,” he said. “I’ve known from nearly the beginning, though
if I’d known
before
the beginning, it wouldn’t have
happened. You know, I was asked first to take care of Huston, and I
refused.”

“I didn’t know that, but I’m not surprised you
refused. There was no upside in it for you.” The smell of frying
potatoes and onions from the kitchen, which must not have been far
from here, momentarily broke my concentration. It seemed
incongruous, but I was getting hungry.

“That’s absolutely right. No upside. You’re smarter
than half the idiots who work for me. You know that?” I wasn’t sure
how to take the compliment, so I let it go. “But someone who worked
for me wasn’t as smart as you, and he took the job behind my
back.”

“Kevin Fowler.”

“No names,” he said testily. “I never discuss names
in this room.”

“Why, you got it wired, like Nixon?”

Shapiro didn’t answer, so I assumed he was no longer
as enamored of my wit. Just as well.

“So this person went out and took the money that was
offered, and then did the thing. I didn’t know about it. I didn’t
want it to happen.” Shapiro might have been performing for the tape
machine, but I believed what he was saying.

“I understand that. I’m just asking that you grant me
immunity after I finish what I’ve started. The right people have to
be in jail, and the wrong one has to stay out.” After a while, you
get the hang of this not-mentioning-names thing.

Shapiro shook his head. “I don’t know that I can do
that,” he said.

“You’re a nice man, Mr. Tucker, but this is
different. This is family. You’re not family.”

I held my trump card for the moment, and pressed on.
“It’s not blood,” I told him.

He raised his eyebrows and, closing his eyes, sniffed
a little. “Family’s family,” he said. “You ever have a
brother-in-law, Aaron?”

I rolled my eyes a bit and nodded.

“Then you know. My wife has been gone for seven
years. And she was always close to her brother. How can I betray
her trust like this? No, I’m sorry, Aaron. I like you, but I can’t
promise you anything if you turn everybody in. I can’t offer you
immunity
or
protection.”

This was the answer I’d feared. “How about
my
family?” I said.

“That’s something
you
have to consider. It’s
your choice, not mine. You do what you think is right, but you or
those you love might suffer.” That wasn’t cute or cuddly at all.
This man may have resembled my grandfather, but he wasn’t my
grandfather.

It was time to bring in the big guns. “I’m afraid
that if anything happens to me, or someone I love, Isobel Ramirez
is going to be very unhappy.”

His eyes widened and stared at me. Luckily, I’d known
Mrs. Mahoney’s maiden name, so I didn’t have to check with her son
before bandying it about with a reputed multiple felon.

“Isobel Ramirez!” The special smile that an old man
can conjure only for his first love found its way onto Shapiro’s
lips. “How do you know Isobel Ramirez?”

“Let’s just say she insists I call her ‘Mom.’”

He looked surprised, and assessed my face for traces
of a resemblance. Naturally, he didn’t find any. “You’re her
son?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Shapiro sat back in his chair, looking at me but not
seeing me. “Isobel Ramirez,” he said more softly. “That’s a name I
haven’t heard in a long, long time.”

“Actually, you heard it about a week ago when she
called you for, let’s say, human resources advice, but we’ll put
that aside because it’s not relevant, although I have to say, for a
guy who’s a myth, you seem to know
everybody.
But more to
the point, Isobel has a vested interest in me. She’d be very upset
if something unpleasant were to befall me or my family.” It was the
first time in my life I’d used the word “befall,” but I felt I’d
saved it for the right moment.

“How is she?” The words practically escaped from his
mouth, as if he’d been afraid to hear them aloud himself.

“Married,” I said. “To a very nice man, for
forty-seven years.”

“You’re not going to tell me her married name, are
you?” Shapiro said, coming back to earth.

“I never mention names in this room,” I told him.
“Besides, if she didn’t tell you her name, I don’t see a reason I
should. But I can tell you that a piece of correspondence is
addressed to her, and if something were to happen to me, it would
be delivered, and she would know exactly who to blame.” Once again,
it should have been “whom,” but that just doesn’t sound natural in
conversation if your first name isn’t “Sir.”

“That’s not playing fair, Aaron,” Shapiro chided me.
“Bringing up the past like that.”

“You’re a businessman, Mr. Shapiro. As you know, when
the stakes are high, you use whatever you have.”

He exhaled loudly and seemed to wilt in his chair.
Finally, he looked like an old, old man.

“Okay, Aaron. You have my word. I won’t lift a finger
against you. But you know I’m not happy about it.”

“I can live with that,” I said. “Literally.”

He nodded, then seemed to gather up his Jolly Jewish
Imp persona and put it back on. Shapiro stood and motioned to me. I
walked to him, carefully, and he put an arm around my shoulder. He
started leading me to the door.

“It’s almost Chanukah,” he said, “but I can’t wait.
We’re making
latkes.
Can I get you some to take home?”

I shook my head. “My wife makes the best there ever
were,” I told him. “She is to potato pancakes what Sonny Amster is
to bagels.”

He looked impressed. “Wow,” Shapiro said. “I might
have to come by and try some.”

“Anytime,” I said, “but don’t bring your
friends.”

He chuckled. “Aaron, my word is my bond. You don’t
have to worry about me or my employees anymore.” We were reaching
the office door.

“There’s just one thing . . . 

I stopped and braced myself. Shapiro’s eyes betrayed
just a little hope.

“Does Isobel ever . . .  talk about
me?”

“How else would I know to mention her name?” I
asked.

Hyman Shapiro’s face took on a glow. “Ah, Isobel
Ramirez,” he said. “What a dish. If only she’d been Jewish
. . . 

S
everal cell phone calls
and one time-consuming drive later, I was back at the North
Brunswick home of Karen and, until recently, Michael Huston. In
late December, the New Jersey sun doesn’t stay out very late, and
by the time I arrived, it was almost dark out. I sat in the minivan
for a few minutes, then got out and looked up and down the street,
checking to see which cars were parked in the driveway and nearby,
and walked to the door to ring the bell.

The house bore no holiday decorations, as it hadn’t
earlier in the day, but with night falling, it was especially
obvious on this street. All the other homes were so tastefully
decorated, you wanted to throw tomatoes just to sully the
perfection a little bit. I resisted the temptation. For one thing,
I didn’t have any tomatoes.

Karen, in a blue suit, looked surprised when she
peered through the curtains to see who was on her porch. She came
to the door and led me in to the warm room.

“Aaron!” she said. “I wasn’t expecting you back
today.”

“I wasn’t expecting it, either, Karen, but a lot has
happened since I saw you this afternoon.” I walked into the room,
and was not the least bit surprised to see Rezenbach in the living
room, holding a glass in his hand.

“Mr. Tucker,” he said, “I was just stopping by to
check in on . . . 

“It’s okay, Mr. Rezenbach,” I said. “I’d expect you
to be with your daughter on Christmas Eve.”

Their reactions were a study in contrast. Rezenbach
was stunned. His mouth opened just a bit, he stopped playing with
the ice in his glass, and the wheels in his head were clearly
trying to process the sentence he’d just heard. Karen, on the other
hand, smiled a tiny smile and looked directly into my eyes without
so much as losing a step on her way into the living room.

“Would you like a drink, Aaron?” she asked. “We have
whatever you’d like.”

“No, thanks, Karen. But I am wondering why you didn’t
mention before that your lawyer is also your father.”

She motioned to a chair, for me to sit, and I did.
Dalma walked over from her bed, wagging her tail and opening her
mouth to let out her long, long tongue. Dalma loved me.

“I could say it never came up, but I suppose there
was more to it than that,” Karen said, sitting, with a glass of
eggnog or something in her hand. I stroked Dalma’s head, and she
stayed with me.

“The ‘more’ being that you didn’t want me to look too
far into what had happened with Michael, but you didn’t want Justin
Fowler to go to jail, either. You were torn.” I watched for more
reaction, and got one. Karen looked at her father, and seemed
worried—about him.

“Dad, would you mind? Aaron and I need to discuss
this privately, if that’s all right.” Rezenbach stared at her, and
his expression was exactly the same as Mary Fowler’s had been
earlier.

He was shocked.

“Karen, what does this mean? Did you have something
to do with . . .  He couldn’t finish the sentence,
the thought being too awful even to consider.

“It’ll just take a minute, Dad. Please.” Karen stood
and took his hand. “I promise, I’ll explain it all when you come
back. Okay?”

Rezenbach wouldn’t have done it for anyone else, but
for Karen, he nodded his head almost imperceptibly. “All right,” he
rasped, and took a moment to pour more scotch into his glass before
he left the room. I couldn’t imagine where he’d go or what he’d do.
I was feeling uncomfortable, and I was here with his daughter, not
asked to sit this one out while the murder of his son-in-law was
discussed openly.

“All right, Aaron,” Karen said with a tone that
seemed more suited to two close friends discussing a pie recipe.
“What do you know?”

“Not as much as I thought,” I told her honestly. “I
thought your father was involved in Michael’s murder, but clearly,
he didn’t know what was going on.”

“My father!” she said. “I can’t imagine! Aaron, what
were you thinking?”

“Don’t try it, Karen,” I told her. “I can make a very
good case for the idea that you hired Kevin Fowler to kill your
husband. What I can’t figure out is why.”

“Me?”

Fine—she wanted the dog and pony show. I stood up.
Dalma stood up. I patted her on the head.

“See that? That was what finally put it over the top.
Dalma didn’t growl when we were here this afternoon.”

Karen tried to sell it as the wholesome girl
explaining everything to the less-than-bright man in her midst. She
rolled her eyes. “Aaron,” she said. “I
told
you about that.
She doesn’t growl after she gets to know you a little, and she’d
never
growl at your adorable son.”

“That’s right,” I agreed. “But she didn’t growl at
Kevin Fowler, either, and the only way that makes sense is if Dalma
had met Kevin before, at least a few times. Like when you were
hiring him to kill your husband.”

I thought Karen would continue her good-girl act, but
she actually seemed to be fighting her emotions. She bit her lower
lip and her head seemed to tremble a bit as she spoke.

“You think the fact that my dog didn’t growl at Mr.
Fowler is enough to prove I asked him to murder
. . .  She sobbed unexpectedly, unable to say her
husband’s name aloud.

“It ties together,” I said, unwilling to let the
tears influence my attitude. “The dog knew Kevin. You probably made
sure he’d drop by a number of times before the murder. So she
wouldn’t attack him when she saw him that night. You got in touch
with Kevin through his employer, your uncle, Hyman Shapiro.”

She looked up, and her eyes were truly tearing. She
wasn’t trying to cry. “How did you know about my uncle?” she
asked.

“A little Internet research.” No sense telling her it
was Abby who discovered the link. “Your wedding announcement in the
Star-Ledger’s
files mentioned your mother’s maiden name. It
didn’t take long after that to find articles alluding to a
connection between her and Mr. Shapiro. He’s a famous man, for
someone nobody ever sees. In fact, he seems to know more people in
New Jersey than Bruce Springsteen.”

Karen nodded, acknowledging the point. “You’re a good
reporter, Aaron. You should be working for the
New York
Times.
”

“I’m not that good,” I said. “Some of this just fell
into my lap. And the one thing I can’t begin to understand is
why.
Why kill Michael? By all accounts, he was a candidate
for the Husbands Hall of Fame. He really loved you.”

“Yes, he did,” she managed to get out. “Yes. He
did.”