Outfoxed: An Andy Carpenter Mystery (3 page)

“How did you find me?” he asks.

“There’s a GPS in Boomer’s collar,” I say.

He smiles and pets Boomer on the head. Boomer in turn smiles and accepts the petting, apparently not understanding the seriousness of the situation. “So Boomer got me out of jail, and he’s getting me back in.”

“We’re not here to arrest you, Brian. We’re just here to take Boomer back.”

He nods. “It’s better for him. Take care of him; he’s a great dog.”

He leans down and pets and hugs Boomer. Then he hands the leash to me, and says, “I didn’t kill them, Andy.”

I don’t answer him right away, which is just as well, because he couldn’t possibly hear me anyway. That is because the area is suddenly filled with the deafening sounds of sirens, as three cars come racing toward us, blinding lights flashing. Two are police cars, and the third might well be also, though it is unmarked.

It is shocking, and while the humans in our group don’t move, Boomer has a different reaction. He pulls away, ripping the leash from my hand and running toward the oncoming cars.

Brian seems to yell something, though that’s just a guess, since I can’t come close to hearing anything. He runs toward Boomer, who now stands frozen in the path of the cars. Brian grabs him just in time and yanks him out of the way, safe from harm. They both fall to the ground as the cars screech to a stop and the cops jump out.

There are six officers in all. Five are in uniform, guns drawn. The one not in uniform, with no gun in sight, is Pete.

They walk over to Brian, still on the ground with Boomer. Boomer, no dummy, senses they are not arriving with good intentions, and he growls at them, causing them to stop. Pete turns to me and says, “Take the dog.”

I walk over and take Boomer’s leash. “Come on, buddy,” I say, and Boomer allows himself to be led away. I hand the leash to Willie, who pets him to calm him down, and then I walk back to Brian.

By this point, the officers are cuffing his hands behind his back, and Pete is reading him his rights. When he’s finished, he turns to me and says, “Didn’t know where he was, huh?”

I ignore that and speak directly to Brian, who has been brought to his feet. “You okay?”

He nods. “Did you lead them here?”

“I’m sorry; I must have, but I didn’t intend to.”

“Okay,” he says.

“Don’t say a word to anyone. Not one word to anyone other than me. You understand?”

He nods again. “Are you my lawyer?”

My turn to nod. “I’m your lawyer.”

I’m really annoyed with myself. This does not exactly qualify as a major news event, as I am frequently annoyed with myself. For example, it happens every time I bet on the Giants and they lose by twenty.

But this time, I really blew it, and I spend the ride back with Willie mentally beating myself up. It never entered my mind that Pete might have me followed, or be following me himself. I didn’t entertain the thought that he might not believe me when I said I didn’t know where Brian was, especially since when I said it I was being truthful.

I’m also annoyed with Pete for assuming I was lying. Of course, had I known where Brian was at the time, I certainly would have lied, but that isn’t the point. Pete is my friend; if you can’t bullshit your friends, who can you bullshit?

Legally, Pete was within his rights. He wasn’t in any way invading attorney-client privilege, because he had not obtained any information that intruded on it. Of course, no such information existed anyway, since Brian hadn’t told me where he was.

What Pete did was smart police work, and what I did was stupid lawyer work.

Hence my annoyance.

Willie is mostly silent on the way back; he’s being respectful and letting me think things through. Boomer, sleeping in the backseat, hasn’t been very talkative either.

We’re about twenty minutes away from home when Willie says, “What happens to Brian now?”

“He’ll be taken back to the prison, and probably put in solitary, at least for the time being. They’ll charge him with the murders, and throw in the escape charge as well.”

“He did escape,” Willie says.

I nod. “Yeah, it’s pretty hard to deny that.”

“You think he did the murders?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s certainly possible.”

“You going to represent him?”

“I don’t know that either. But I’ll definitely take him through the arraignment. And if I don’t continue on, I’ll make sure he gets a good lawyer.”

“As good as you?” he asks.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

He laughs. “You’ll take the case right to the end.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You know why,” he says, with as much smugness as Willie can demonstrate.

Of course, he’s right, and we both know what we’re talking about. “Those cars were bearing down on us, sirens blasting,” I say. “He was about to be captured and taken back to prison, and what does he do?”

Willie smiles. “He saves Boomer, even though he could have been run down himself. So you figure a guy who would do that can’t be all bad.”

“He can’t,” I say.

“Which is why you’ll stay in it to the end.”

What Willie doesn’t understand is that as a trained attorney and an officer of the court, I will examine all the relevant legal issues and make a thoughtful and reasoned analysis of my potential role in this case.

What Willie does understand is that I’ll disregard that analysis and wind up taking the case because Brian risked his life to save Boomer.

The beneficiary of Brian’s heroism, Boomer, is still sound asleep in the backseat. “Are you going to take him back to the foundation?” I ask.

“Nah, I think I’ll take him home. He’s had a rough couple of days, and Cash can use the company.”

Cash is the dog Willie and I found the day we won a ten-million-dollar wrongful arrest judgment for Willie after he was released from prison. Somehow the name seemed appropriate, and Cash went from a stray street dog to a life as a pampered mutt sucking down designer biscuits.

There’s no sense in me going to the prison now. It will take time for them to reprocess Brian, and I think he’s smart enough to follow my instructions not to say anything.

I usually like to see an arrested client at the earliest possible moment. They are scared and bewildered by what is happening, and have to adjust to new and intimidating surroundings. I try to calm and reassure them that I am there to help.

But in this case, Brian is not facing anything new; the prison has been his home for quite a while. He’ll be fine, and I can see him in the morning. It will give me time to think things through. Tomorrow I can find out his side of it.

All he had a chance to say to me today was, “I didn’t kill them.”

That’s a start.

I’m generally okay with most holidays. My favorite is Thanksgiving, a special combination of excellent food and televised football, which kicks off a weekend of excellent leftover food and more televised football. As far as most of the other holidays, my view of them has always been mostly positive, probably because their arrival usually means a day in which courthouses are closed.

I’ve never liked New Year’s Eve; there’s always too much pressure to have fun. Trying to have fun in those kinds of situations just isn’t fun. At New Year’s Eve parties, you hang out with the same people you’re with all year, but suddenly you’re supposed to wear paper hats and blow on ridiculous plastic noisemakers. The only factor on the plus side is the knowledge that once you get past the Eve part, New Year’s Day is wall-to-wall college football.

But the one holiday I absolutely hate is Halloween. I don’t mind the kids part; I’m fine with them getting dressed up and getting candy and stuff. I did that myself, in what seems like another lifetime. If the holiday ended there, I’d be good with it.

It’s the adult portion of it that I can’t stand, and it never lets up. The morning news shows set the table, since all the announcers are costumed as they sit behind their desks. You’ve got people wearing mouse ears and a bushy tail reporting on a plane crash.

I just don’t get it. I assume they have research that says that viewers like it, but I would sure hate to get trapped in an elevator with those viewers.

Everywhere you look, adults are in ridiculous costumes. Tollbooth operators, tellers in the bank, cashiers in the supermarket … they all spend the day looking ridiculous in some misguided attempt to be funny.

When I, Andy Carpenter, ascend to my rightful position as undisputed ruler of the world, I will decree that no adult can ever wear a mask, unless that adult is robbing a liquor store.

While I’m at it, pumpkins are hereby banned from the kingdom. I don’t like the way they look. I don’t like their pies. I don’t like their lattes at Starbucks. I don’t like the faces people carve into them. I don’t like their soup. I don’t like their seeds. So they’re out of here; no exceptions.

As long as I’m issuing holiday edicts, I think I’ll throw in a couple of December ones. Christmas music is to be allowed for one week only, starting on December eighteenth and ending at midnight on the twenty-fifth.

Also, and this is an ironclad rule, newscasters are prohibited from pretending to be tracking Santa Claus’s flight from the North Pole. I have no idea why they do it; one certainly doesn’t have to check the comScore numbers to know that news show demographics do not include people of Santa-believing age. And who in their right mind would think it’s funny, year after year after year?

I know some people are going to disagree with some of my decisions, but if they don’t like them, they shouldn’t have elected me ruler.

Today is unfortunately October thirty-first, so I’m bombarded with Halloween stuff from the moment I wake up. The difference is that with Ricky in the house, I can’t walk around complaining about it. He’s excited by the holiday, and pumped by the Ironman costume that he and Laurie have come up with for his trick-or-treating tonight.

Since it’s Saturday, Ricky will be home all day and he and Laurie are going to carve a pumpkin. She knows my feelings about the fruit, or vegetable, or whatever the hell it is, so she isn’t going to ask me to participate. I couldn’t do so anyway, because I have my own fun day planned.

I’m going to the prison.

When I arrive, I go to the reception area to arrange to see Brian. The woman behind the desk, Carole, is someone I know very well, the result of unfortunately having a number of clients behind bars.

“He’s in solitary, Andy.”

I’m not surprised to hear that; wardens take a dim view of prisoners who leave their facilities without permission. But I am surprised at what she says next.

“And the dog program has been suspended.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I say.

She nods. “Tell me about it. I always looked forward to it. Everybody did.”

She arranges for me to see Brian, but it takes about forty-five minutes. There’s nothing longer than a waiting-time minute at the prison; it’s the equivalent of ten at a doctor’s office or the DMV. Prisoners, guards, visitors, lawyers … there is not a single person happy to be there, and the depression wears on you.

When I finally get to see Brian, it’s in an anteroom that only has a metal table and two chairs. He is handcuffed to the table … this is a far cry from our previous meetings. His attitude is also completely different; he barely looks up as I come in.

“You doing okay?” I ask, immediately securing the “stupid question of the year” trophy. He’s in jail, facing additional murder charges, in solitary confinement, and handcuffed to a table. And his wife is one of the murder victims. I’m sure he’s doing fine.

He doesn’t answer me, which is probably the appropriate answer in this situation.

“We need to talk, Brian. It’s the only way I can defend you.”

It takes a few seconds, but he finally looks up at me. “Don’t defend me.”

“I know you’re upset, but that’s not the best approach in a situation like this. You have rights, and it’s in your best interests to exercise them.”

He doesn’t answer.

“To start, there’s an arraignment coming up. You’ll be asked to plead.”

“Guilty,” he says.

“I thought you said you didn’t kill them.”

“I didn’t pull the trigger. But I might as well have killed Denise.”

“How is that?”

“I encouraged her,” he says. “It’s my fault that she’s dead.”

“Can you be a little less cryptic?”

“Okay, how’s this? I did it; just say I killed them both.”

“You said before that you didn’t.”

“Andy, do me a favor? Just plead me guilty and get the hell out of here.”

Since I’d rather be carving pumpkins than spend another second in this room, getting out of here is exactly what I do.

I don’t get to go trick-or-treating with Ricky. Either Laurie or I had to stay home, so we could give out stuff to the kids that come to our house. Our Paterson neighborhood is a particular favorite of the costumed set, and the doorbell doesn’t stop ringing.

Our golden retriever, Tara, who happens to be the greatest living creature in the history of the world, and our basset hound, Sebastian, also quite great, absolutely love this night. Every time the doorbell rings, which is about every twenty seconds, they run to the door to accept petting from the new visitors.

I’m giving out bags of M&M’S, and I’m eating about one bag for every fifteen I give out. It’s getting late, and the number of visitors is slowing down, so I should be able to up that percentage. But I do want to save room to eat some of Ricky’s candy when he brings it home.

When Ricky and Laurie finally return, they’re laughing and still enjoying what apparently was a very fun time. They tell me all about it in great detail, and then set about going through Ricky’s bag to see what he’s gotten.

It’s a time-consuming process, as Laurie scrupulously checks every piece to make sure it isn’t somehow dangerous. Any question and the item is jettisoned, and Laurie is the unquestioned decision maker. It’s a far different situation from when I was a kid, when all my parents told me was to make sure to spit out rather than swallow any razor blades.

When we’re finished sorting and checking and eating, Ricky goes to bed and I take Tara and Sebastian for our nightly walk. It’s something that I really look forward to; it clears my mind, and I love watching the dogs enjoy it so much.