Dog Tags (17 page)

“That is not something I considered, no,” he says. “I feel so ashamed.”

“I forgive you, old friend. In fact, there may be a way you can make it up to me.”

“I’m all tingly at the prospect.”

“I need to talk to someone who understands the world oil market.”

“Why?” he asks.

“It’s in connection with a case,” I say, knowing what is coming next.

“A case that might prove to be newsworthy?”

“Yes, and if there’s a story that comes out of it, you will get the exclusive.”

“You got a pen?” he asks.

“Sure.”

“Call the Institute for Energy…”

“Hold on, I need to get the pen,” I say.

“You thought when I asked if you had a pen, I meant did you own one? I was asking if you had it ready.”

“Vince… Okay, I’m ready.”

“Call the Institute for Energy Independence, it’s in Manhattan on West Forty-eighth Street, and ask for Eliot Conyers. He’s
the director.”

“And he’s knowledgeable about the oil market?” I ask, instantly regretting it.

“No, I just thought you two would make a nice couple. In case Laurie wises up and goes back to Wisconsin.”

Vince gives me the phone number of the institute, so after we hang up I wait ten minutes, and then call it. Three minutes
after that I have an appointment for tomorrow morning with Eliot Conyers.

Vince is amazing.

I’ve been focusing my energies on the explosion in Iraq for a couple of reasons. For one thing, the prosecution is going to
use it as evidence of Billy’s motive, claiming that he was getting revenge for what he thought was Erskine’s culpability that
day in Iraq.

In addition, there is always the chance that what happened that
day ultimately led to Erskine’s murder. According to Billy, the death of the newly appointed Iraqi oil minister enabled corruption
to go on unchecked, with billions of dollars the prize. If Erskine was truly involved in that world, certainly subsequent
violence could be expected for a variety of reasons.

But there is of course another possibility: that I am spinning my wheels, that the explosion in Iraq has nothing whatsoever
to do with Erskine’s death. I won’t know that until it’s over, and maybe not even then, but it’s something I have to pursue.

Besides, it gives me something to do.

I
T PAINS ME TO DO IT, BUT
I
TURN OFF THE
M
ETS GAME.
It’s in the fourth inning of a scoreless game, but it’s time for one of the “trust sessions” that I’ve been doing with Milo
every night. Juliet Corsinita told me I should try to hold them as close to the same time as possible, and even though I don’t
have a clue why that would be important, I’m following her advice.

She also told me not to have a television on, and to limit the distractions. The only thing I wouldn’t go along with is her
suggestion to keep Tara out of the room. As the song sort of goes, “If being with Tara is wrong, I don’t want to be right.”

Trust sessions with dogs are different than I imagine they would be with people. There is no endless and cloying talk about
“feelings,” and nobody is falling backward, counting on the other party to catch them before they hit the ground. Instead
it’s all about basic commands and consistency.

I have never been a practitioner of commands with dogs. In my mind it seems demeaning to the dog to force him to obey commands
or do tricks. Even the “sit” and “come” orders irritate me;
if somebody tried to get me to do that stuff I’d be pissed and would refuse.

Unless, of course, it was Laurie doing the commanding, or Marcus.

But with Milo I have to make an exception, since Juliet and Billy agree that trust will be the key if we’re to have a chance
of getting Milo to lead us to the envelope.

So Milo takes his position on the floor, me standing beside him. Tara reclines on the couch, watching the action. Occasionally
she looks around, maybe for a biscuit vendor, but mostly she just enjoys the show.

“Sit, Milo, sit!” I say, followed by “Good boy!” when he performs the task. Unfortunately, I’m forced to say this and all
other praising comments in a ridiculous, high-pitched voice that Juliet says will somehow remind him of his time in the womb.

I am supposed to ask minor, easy things of him, like sitting, coming to me, and walking obediently on a leash.

Once he does these things, which he’s smart enough to do in his sleep, I’ve been told to reward him with these special treats,
which Billy said he loves. I’ve been stuffing him with so many treats that he’s going to be too fat to lead us anywhere.

The one who’s enjoying this process the most is Tara on the couch. Since I can’t give treats to Milo without giving them to
her, she’s got it made. She’s sucking down the treats without having to do anything to earn them. If I know Tara, when I’m
not around she’s counseling Milo against finding the envelope, since that would effectively shut off the treat faucet.

I occasionally interrupt the sessions to go over and pet Tara. I’m concerned that she might be jealous of the personal attention
I’m giving Milo. Tara and I have never had similar sessions, and I don’t want her to think I prefer him.

She doesn’t let on whether or not she’s feeling any resentment,
probably because she fears that if I realize she isn’t jealous, I might cancel the biscuit parade.

As we’re nearing the end, Laurie comes in and watches with a bemused expression. “You know. I don’t completely trust you,
either.”

“Is that right?” I ask. “Anything I can do to change that?”

She nods. “I’m thinking chocolate-covered strawberries.”

I have no idea if any of this stuff with Milo is working, since Juliet has instructed me to wait a good while before trying
to get him to find the envelope. But I don’t really mind, since I’d rather hang out with dogs than people anyway.

Milo and Tara are better company than Pete and Vince, and I don’t have to buy the beer.

When the session ends, I quickly turn on the Mets game. While I’ve been gone the Braves have taken a six-run lead.

Can’t trust those Mets.

M
WAS MORE THAN A LITTLE TIRED OF HIS ROAD TRIP.
He had arrived in Albuquerque three days ago, only to find that Tyler Lawson had gone to Las Vegas that morning. It was not
a difficult thing to discover; Lawson had always been a compulsive talker, and he told at least five people, who related it
to M when he arrived.

M had said he was an old army buddy of Tyler, but any excuse would have done. Tyler’s new friends in Albuquerque were not
particularly suspicious, and they were quite willing to share with M what little they knew about Tyler.

M recognized the possibility that Tyler had heard about the deaths of his partners and run off in a panic, planting false
information about going to Vegas to throw off his pursuers. M doubted this was the case, though. Tyler was so dumb that M
thought he should be watered twice a day, and it was unlikely he had read a newspaper in the past decade.

If Tyler said he was going to Vegas, he was likely going to Vegas.

But Vegas is a big place, far bigger than it had been fourteen years earlier, the last time M had been there. Coincidentally,
he had
followed someone that time as well, but had managed to murder him and get out of town within twelve hours. Tyler would prove
a lot tougher to find.

M was anxious to get it over with. Landon was very unhappy, and rightfully so, with the botched attempt to kidnap that dog.
The fact that Childress was killed in the process was a plus; being dead made him substantially less likely to talk.

M checked into Caesars Palace, choosing it mainly because it was one of the few really nice hotels that had been there the
last time he was in Vegas. In fact, he had gunned down his target in the Caesars parking lot, so the place held a sentimental
attachment for him.

Once he checked in, M called room service for dinner and set about calling the hundreds of hotels in Vegas where Tyler could
conceivably be staying. Since Tyler was newly wealthy, M started with the high-class hotels and worked his way down.

After calling twenty hotels and dealing with what he considered to be twenty idiots on the switchboards, he had not found
the hotel that Tyler was registered at. There was always the chance that he was there under a different name, but M doubted
it. If he had told the truth to his friends about going to Vegas, then he wouldn’t try to hide once he got there. He was there
under his own name, or he wasn’t there.

M decided to go to sleep and continue the process in the morning. He never considered going to the casino; gambling had never
interested him. Besides, with the money he was going to make, winning or losing at gambling would have no effect on him whatsoever,
and therefore would provide no excitement.

It took another fifteen calls to learn that Tyler was staying at Circus Circus. It figured; the man was an idiot, child-like
in many respects, and the name alone would have appealed to him.

M went to the hotel and walked around the casino, hoping to see him. He had the advantage of knowing what Tyler looked like,
without Tyler knowing him. M was somewhat concerned about the ubiquitous security cameras, but if the operation went according
to plan, there would be no reason for law enforcement ever to view the tapes.

M was there for eight hours, walking around and occasionally playing fifteen minutes of blackjack or roulette. He never gambled
more than fifteen dollars at a time, careful not to call attention to himself. Gambling serious money in a place like this
would be like shining a klieg light on himself.

Tyler finally showed up and sat down at a twenty-five-dollar blackjack table. M waited ten minutes, and then took the chair
next to him. There was only one player at the table other than the two men. M handed the dealer a fake ID, so that the pit
bosses could track his gambling, in case he was looking for comped meals later.

Tyler was the talkative type at the table, telling M and the other player whether they should draw or stand, and yelling loudly
in support when any of them won. He also ordered and drank three scotch and waters in the first fifteen minutes that M was
there, prompting M to reflect on the fact that it might not be necessary to kill Tyler, that perhaps he should just wait a
few minutes for his liver to explode.

When the table was in the middle of a hot streak, the dealer having busted three hands in a row, M stood up. “Well, that’s
enough for me.” He pushed his chips to the dealer, to change them for larger ones.

“Where you goin’?” asked Tyler. “We’re hot.”

“Believe me, I got someplace better to go.”

Tyler’s interest was clearly piqued. “Yeah? Where?”

M hesitated, as if thinking whether he should say something. “It ain’t for you.”

“What do you mean? Try me.”

M pretended to consider this again, and then finally leaned in to
Tyler and whispered, “Meet me in front of the hotel in ten minutes. Near valet parking.”

“Ten minutes? I’m winnin’ here.”

M smiled. “Then stay and keep winning.” He got up and walked toward the front of the hotel.

Ten minutes later, just as M’s rented Mercedes was being brought up by the valet, Tyler appeared. M pretended that he didn’t
see him, and took the keys from the attendant, as if preparing to drive off.

“Hey, where you goin’?” Tyler asked, then stepped back and assessed the car. “Nice wheels.”

“To a party,” M said.

“I’m always up for a party,” Tyler said.

M thought for a moment, as if weighing an idea, and then smiled. “Get in.”

They drove on US 15 South, toward Los Angeles. M said they were going to a place near Primm, which was a small group of three
casino hotels designed to attract drivers from LA before and after they went to Vegas. He told a story about the cocktail
waitresses throwing a party once a month, admission one thousand dollars, making it sound like a sexual Disneyland.

The story did not have to be particularly well formed or believable, since Tyler was too drunk and stupid to judge its credibility.
“A thousand? No problem, man.”