Play Dead (7 page)

W
E GET AS
close as we can to the crash scene, which isn’t very close at all. The police have set up a perimeter at least a hundred yards away and are in the process of closing all but the left lane of the highway to traffic. This is going to be a long night for drivers heading north to the city.

Sam and I approach one of the officers in charge of keeping people away. “That’s as far as you can go,” he says. “Nothing to see here.”

“We’re the ones who made the call to 911,” I say. “They shot out a window in our car.”

“Who did?” the officer asks. He probably is not even aware that there was a prior incident on the road; to him this must just be a crash scene.

“The two guys in that car,” I say. “They shot at us, we called it in, and they must have crashed in the pursuit.”

The officer considers this a moment. “Stay right here,” he says, and then goes toward the crash scene to check with his superiors. A few moments later he comes back and says, “Follow me.”

We do so, and as we get close to the crash, it looks as if the car containing the shooters smashed into a car parked along the side of the highway. It then flipped over, perhaps more than once, and came to rest as a complete wreck.

There is no doubt in my mind that no one in that car could have survived. The police have already set up a trailer, where they will spend the night as they investigate what they will consider a crime scene.

The officer takes us toward the trailer, and just before we get there, I whisper to Sam, “Do not say anything about the Evans case.”

He nods. “Gotcha.” Then, “This is so cool.”

“Sam, you might want to get some professional mental help. On an urgent basis.”

“You mean see a shrink?”

“No, I mean as an inpatient. A locked-in patient.”

We are led inside the trailer, and I can’t stifle a groan when I see that the officer in charge is Captain Dessens of the New Jersey State Police. I have had a couple of run-ins with Dessens on previous cases, and it would be accurate to say that we can’t stand each other.

Dessens looks up, sees me, and returns the groan. “What the hell are you doing here?” He looks around. “Who let this clown in?”

The officer who brought us in says, “These guys are the ones I told you about.”

Dessens shakes his head. “Well, so much for motive.”

The officer standing next to him says, “What do you mean?”

“That’s Andy Carpenter, the lawyer. I don’t know anybody who wouldn’t want to take a shot at him.”

“Is the shooter dead?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“You’ll still find a way to screw up the arrest.”

Dessens starts an angry response and then seems to think better of it. He motions for us to sit down, then questions us on the details of what happened. Sam lets me do most of the talking; he just seems happy and content to be a part of it.

After we’ve given our statements, Dessens asks if I think the shooting was random or if I might have an idea who could be after me.

“Everybody loves me,” I say.

Sam nods. “Me, too.”

Dessens asks a few more questions and then tells us that they will want to check out my car and that an officer will drive us home.

“Did you ID the dead guys?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer and instead calls out to one of the other officers, asking him to take us outside. He’s apparently not into sharing.

It’s not until I get home and have a glass of wine that I really think about what just happened. Word got out today that I was taking Richard Evans’s case, and somebody tried to kill me tonight.

I don’t believe in coincidences, and it wouldn’t be productive to start now. I have to believe that the shooting is connected to Evans, even though I would much rather not. If somebody could react this quickly and this violently to my simply taking on Evans as a client, then he’s got some very determined and deadly enemies.

Which means I now have them as well.

Laurie calls just as I’m about to get into bed, and I tell her the entire story. She believes in coincidences even less than I do, and I can hear the worry in her voice. Laurie is one of the toughest people I know, but she’s well aware that toughness is a trait she and I don’t share.

She’s frustrated that she can’t get away from her job to come back east until the end of the month, and cautions me to be extra careful. She also has one other piece of advice, the one I expected.

“Get Marcus.”

M
ARCUS
C
LARK IS
a terrific investigator, but that is not what initially comes to mind when one thinks of him. Focusing on his investigating talents first would be like somebody asking for your view of Pamela Anderson, only to have you respond that you hear she’s a pretty good bowler. It may or may not be true, but it’s not “top of mind.”

Marcus is the scariest person I have ever seen, and there is no one in second place. He is cast in bronze iron, impervious to fear or pain, and possesses a stare that makes me want to carry around a piece of kryptonite, just in case.

He has been one of my key investigators since even before Laurie went to Wisconsin, and has displayed an uncanny knack for getting people to reveal information. They confide in him, operating under the assumption that they can talk or die. I, for example, would tell Marcus whatever he wanted to know, whenever he wanted to know it. And I would thank him for the opportunity.

Because I seem to have an involuntary knack for pissing off dangerous people, I sometimes employ Marcus as a protector, a bodyguard, rather than an investigator. That’s why I’ve called him into the office this morning. I’ll probably have a need for him to gather information at some point, but right now that takes a backseat to my need to stay alive.

I stop on the way in to drop my car off so that they can replace the window that’s been shot out. They drive me to my office and promise to bring me the repaired car before the day is out.

I’ve had Kevin come in for this meeting as well. When I meet with Marcus, I like as many other people in the room as possible. It makes me feel safer, although if Marcus wanted to do me harm, the Third Infantry on their best day couldn’t help me.

All I really need to tell Marcus is that some people tried to shoot me and that for whatever reason, it’s very possible that I am a target. His job is to keep me safe and alive, pure and simple. But because I have respect for Marcus’s investigative skills, and because I think he should have as much information as possible about whom he might be dealing with, I tell him all I know about the Richard Evans case.

My recitation of the facts takes about ten minutes, and Marcus is either silently attentive or asleep the entire time. His eyes are open, but that doesn’t really mean anything one way or the other. Kevin sits as far away from Marcus as is possible while remaining in the same room.

When I’m finished, I wait for him to comment, and after twenty long seconds it’s obvious that is not going to happen. I prompt him with “So that’s it. Any questions?”

“Unhh,” says Marcus. Marcus is a man of very few words, most of which are not actually words.

“Will you need anything from me?” I ask.

“Unhh.”

“Can you get started right away?”

“Yunhh.”

I don’t quite know how to end this, so I turn to Kevin. “Kev, you got anything you want to add?”

He shakes his head a little too quickly. “Not me. Not a thing. Nope.”

Marcus gets up to leave, without my asking him how he will perform his protective functions. I’ve learned long ago that he will be there if I need him, and I won’t see him if I don’t. It’s comforting to me, though I’ll certainly miss our little chitchats.

As he reaches the door, it opens from the other side, and Karen Evans is standing there. She is one of the most talkative people I know, but the sight of Marcus stuns her into silence. Her eyes widen, and her mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“Oh, my God…,” she says, once Marcus has left. “Is he on our side?”

I nod. “He is.”

She breaks into a wide smile and smacks her hands together, generating more of her infectious enthusiasm. “This is gonna be great!”

I had not asked Karen to come to the office, and I’m not a big fan of unannounced visits. “What are you doing here, Karen?”

“I don’t know… I’m just real nervous, and excited… and I thought I could hang around and help. You know, run errands, get coffee… I spoke to Edna and she was okay with it.”

“Edna was willing to give up running errands and making coffee? You must be quite the persuader.”

I tell her that she can hang around now but that she should call before coming by in the future. I understand her excitement, and as a person who knows her brother and knew his fiancée, she can be helpful. However, I do not instantly share all information with my clients, and I can’t have her rushing to him with constant updates.

I turn on the television to follow press reports about the shooting on the highway last night, and it’s being treated as a pretty big story. They’re calling it a random shooting, though the fact that I was one of the intended victims is duly noted, as is my recent representation of Richard Evans.

“You got shot at?” Karen asks, but I don’t bother answering, since she’s just learned the answer to her question from the television.

Instead I pick up the phone and call Pete Stanton in his office. Even though the state police are handling the shooting case, I’m hoping that Pete can use his police contacts to find out what he can about the dead shooters.

When Pete hears that it’s me calling, he says, “Let me guess… You need something.”

“That’s amazing… How could you possibly have known that?”

“Well, we’re already meeting at Charlie’s tonight, so you’re not just calling to say hello. And the last one hundred and forty-seven times you’ve called me in my office it’s because you needed something.”

“Do you have any idea how much you’ve just hurt me?” I ask. “I’ve just been through a traumatic experience, actually a near-death experience, and I don’t think I’ve ever been so emotionally vulnerable.”

He’s unmoved. “Can we get to it already?”

“Well, you know I was shot at last night.”

“That’s the good news,” he says. “The bad news is, they missed.” Then, “I’ve already put in a couple of calls.”

“What does that mean?”

“To find out what I can about the shooters,” he says. “That is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“You are a goddamned legend, and just for that, I’m buying at Charlie’s tonight.”

“You got that right.”

I send Karen out to get some doughnuts and Necco wafers, with specific instructions to try to find a package of all chocolate Neccos, which are far superior to the multicolored kinds. It’s about time to put her to the test.

I use the time for a quick strategy session with Kevin. As I see it, there are three possibilities behind this case. One is that Richard is guilty and the prosecution’s position was completely correct. While that still may be true, it doesn’t help us to consider it.

The second possibility is that whatever is behind this centers on the murder victim, Stacy Harriman. Among the problems with this is that it doesn’t make much sense that the murderers would kill her and take Reggie off to safety. If their goal was simply to kill Stacy, they would likely have just left Reggie on the boat with Richard. Even if they were somehow dog lovers, to have taken Reggie in the midst of committing the crime seems very difficult to believe.

The third possibility is that Richard was framed solely because of Richard himself. Either he had made an enemy or he knew or had something that could be dangerous to someone else. This seems to be the most fertile ground for us, especially because of his job with the Customs Service, and will first require an in-depth interview with Richard.

Karen comes back with a sack of doughnuts, jelly and cream filled, and three packages of chocolate Neccos, which she holds up triumphantly. I could send Edna out this afternoon, give her until a year from August, and she would not manage such a feat.

“Kid,” I say to Karen, “I think you’ve got a future in this business.”

I
STOP AT
home to feed and walk Tara and Reggie.

Tara really seems to like having him around, and it makes me far less guilty when I have to spend long hours away from the house. This morning I even saw them playfully tugging at opposite ends of a toy. I’m not sure how Tara will react if I get Richard Evans out of jail, so Reggie can go back to him. Of course, right now that is not exactly an imminent danger.

As we leave the house, Willie Miller pulls up in his car. I feel an instant pang of guilt on seeing him; I have recently been of no help whatsoever in our dog rescue operation. Willie and Sondra have been doing all the work.

I apologize for my uselessness, but Willie characteristically will hear none of it. “Forget it, man. You got another job to do; I don’t. And Sondra and I love it. You know that.”

He has come by to update me on the weekly events, and he does so as he walks with us. Our foundation—or, more accurately, Willie and Sondra—has placed twenty-one dogs in homes this week. We average about fifteen, so this has been a very good week.

“You did good saving Reggie,” he says.

“Thanks.”

“I hear you got shot at the other day.”

“Who told you?” I ask.

“Laurie. She’s worried about you. Getting out of the way of bullets wouldn’t be one of your strong points, you know? I told her I’d look out for you.”

“She knows I have Marcus.”

Willie nods. “And you have me if you need me. Just pick up the damn phone, and I’m there.”

“Thanks, Willie. I will.”

Willie goes off to have dinner with Sondra, and I drop off Tara and Reggie at home. I then head down to Charlie’s to meet Pete and Vince Sanders. Charlie’s is a sports bar / restaurant that is truly my home away from home. Everything about it is perfect, from the large-screen TVs to the well-done french fries, to the ice-cold beer.

When people successfully make it through a terribly difficult emotional experience, they will sometimes credit their faith, their work, or their family for getting them through. When Laurie and I split up, Charlie’s was my crutch.

Vince and Pete are at our regular table when I arrive. This particular table was chosen because of its proximity to four different TV screens, and it’s large enough to handle the empty plates and beer bottles that often accumulate faster than the waitress can take them away.

We grunt our hellos, and they bring me up to date on the progress of the basketball games. They’ve placed bets that I’ve previously agreed to share, since I did not have time today to pick my own teams. We’re losing three out of four, but each game is in the first quarter. Since it’s the NBA, there is no way to predict how any of them will end up.

Once I’ve ordered my burger and beer, I turn to Pete. “Did you find out anything?”

He nods. “That I did. And you are not going to believe it.”

He’s piqued my interest; for Pete to say something like that means the information is going to be stunning. “Let’s hear it.”

“After you pay the check,” he says.

“Come on, you know damn well I’m gonna pay. You want to hold my credit card?”

He shakes his head. “I can’t. I’m allergic to platinum.”

Vince says, “I’ll hold it.”

“No, you won’t,” I say.

“You think I’m going to steal your identity?”

“That doesn’t worry me, Vince. What scares the shit out of me is, you’ll try and trade identities. Come on, Pete.”

Pete sighs and takes a couple of sheets of paper out of his pocket. He reads from them. “The driver was Antwan Cooper, a small-time hood from the Bronx. The shooter was Archie Durelle, ex-Army, served in the first Gulf war and Afghanistan. Hometown was Albuquerque.”

I’ve never heard of these guys; their names mean nothing to me. “So what’s the big news?” I ask.

“Well, it turns out that Durelle didn’t just serve in Afghanistan. He also died there.”

“What?” I ask, as penetrating and clever a retort as I can muster.

“His chopper went down, and all four guys on board died. He was one of them.”

“There obviously has to be a mistake.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

Pete grudgingly agrees to try to find out more about Durelle, but he retaliates for the imposition by ordering the most expensive beer on the menu. It’s a small price to pay, and far smaller than the price I’ll have to pay the bookmaker, since all our bets on the NBA games lose.

I head home and call Laurie before going to sleep. She pumps me with questions about the case, mostly motivated by the close call with the highway shooter. I can hear the relief in her voice when I tell her I’ve hired Marcus.

It feels strange to wake up in the morning and go to the office, but that’s what I do. I get there at nine thirty, and waiting for me are Kevin and the files that Koppell had retrieved from storage. Edna walks in about an hour later, glancing at her watch in surprise at the fact that she’s not the first to arrive.

Kevin and I spend most of the day going through the information. There’s a huge amount to digest, and we’ll be better prepared to gauge the value after we are more familiar with the case in its entirety. There are no exculpatory bombshells, but we didn’t expect any. Koppell was looking for them, and if he’d found one, Richard wouldn’t be in jail.

By late afternoon we are feeling confident enough in our knowledge of the case to set up another interview for tomorrow morning with our client. At least now we know what questions to ask.