New Tricks (7 page)

So once again I spend an hour looking at the arrivals screen, checking to see if other planes are arriving early, as if that
might signify a pattern. They’re not.

By the time the plane lands and Laurie gets her bags, it’s past eight thirty. It’s been an almost nine-hour trip for her;
she’s had to switch planes twice. Some people might look tired or disheveled from that kind of day, but not Laurie. She would
look great if she traveled cross-country strapped to the top of a covered wagon.

I’m not much for public hugging, but I make an exception in this case. We hold it for at least fifteen fantastic seconds,
at which point she pulls back and looks me right in the eye. “Andy, I have missed you so much.”

“Oh?” I ask. “Have you been away?”

We make it home in less than thirty minutes. It’s about fifty feet from the garage to the front door, then another forty feet
to the twelve steps leading upstairs, then another twenty feet or so to the bedroom. My plan is to navigate this distance
and have Laurie in bed in less than twenty-eight seconds, which would represent a new record.

Unfortunately, Tara and Waggy have other ideas. Tara goes nuts as soon as she sees Laurie, and Waggy goes nuts because he
is nuts. Within a few seconds Laurie is on the floor rolling around, petting them and laughing. The look on her face is pure
delight.

“You look tired,” I say. “Ready to turn in?”

“Tired? Let’s take them for a walk.”

“A walk?” This is not going according to plan, so I shake my head. “No can do. I tried walking them this morning. They hate
walks; they refused to go. We argued about it.”

She smiles. “That’s a shame. A nice walk would have put me in the mood to make love with you. But if they don’t want to walk…”

“Hey, they’re dogs,” I say. “We’ll just show them who’s boss. Let’s go.”

I take Waggy and Laurie takes Tara, and we walk for about an hour through Eastside Park. By the time we get back we’re all
a little tired and ready for bed, except for Waggy. Waggy wouldn’t get tired if we walked to New Zealand.

Laurie and I are undressed and in bed within a few minutes of entering the house. She stretches out her arms. “You changed
the sheets,” she says.

“I change them every day,” I say. “Force of habit.”

“You’re lying,” she says.

I nod. “I also lie every day. It’s another habit.”

She pulls me close to her. “Let me show you something you don’t do every day.”

And she does. It would be nice if it could become a habit.

While Laurie makes breakfast the next morning I tell her all I know about the Timmerman case. The depth of my knowledge is
such that I would have time to relate the entire story even if she were making instant oatmeal, but she’s making pancakes.
Her pancakes occupy a prominent spot on the list of things I miss when she is in Wisconsin.

“So where will you start?” Laurie asks after hearing my spiel.

“The father. He was the one with the money and the power.”

She nods. “That’s what I would do.” Then: “You’re going to be a busy boy.”

She’s verbalized what I already knew, and was feeling terrible about. I’m going to be consumed by a case while Laurie is making
one of her rare visits. “I’m sorry; the timing is not great,” I say.

She shrugs. “It is what it is. I can use the downtime, and there’s a lot of friends I can catch up with. Plus, I’ll be here
to help if you need it.”

“I could hire you on a temporary basis, maybe try it for ten years or so, see if it works out. Fifty bucks a week, but you’ll
always have a place to sleep.” It’s a pathetic attempt to suggest she move back, but it’s as close as I’ll come to broaching
the subject.

She doesn’t take the bait. “That’s an incredibly appealing offer,” she says. “I’ll talk about it with my agent.”

I head down to Timco Pharmaceuticals, the company Walter Timmerman founded and ran for the last twelve years. Company-naming
was obviously not his strong suit.

I usually find that calling ahead in these situations is not the best way to get people to speak to me, especially when I
have no idea who those people are. I can be more insistent and obnoxious in person, or at least that’s what everybody tells
me.

Timco is located on Route 17 in Mahwah, in a building much smaller and less expensive than I would have expected. It looks
like one of those mini medical center complexes that have sprung up everywhere. The entire thing looks like it could have
fit in one of the bedrooms of Timmerman’s now exploded home.

The small lobby is not exactly a beehive of activity, matching the feeling that the exterior gives off of a slow-moving environment.
Not what one would expect from the cutting-edge company that Timmerman was said to run.

The directory still lists Walter Timmerman as the chairman and chief executive officer, with Thomas Sykes next in line as
chief operating officer, so when I approach the receptionist I give her my name and ask to speak to Sykes.

“Is Mr. Sykes expecting you?”

“Anything’s possible,” I say, “but only he can really answer that.”

“What is it about?”

“I’m representing Steven Timmerman.”

She picks up the phone and relays my message to whoever answers. The response is obviously positive, because within moments
a young woman comes out to lead me back to Sykes’s office.

The main part of the building is surprisingly alive. It is one large laboratory, with what appears to be the most modern equipment,
and a large staff of earnest people using them. If anyone is over thirty-five, they’re aging well. The average basketball
team is older than this group.

Sykes himself seems under forty, though he is clearly the elder statesman here. He smiles and shakes my hand, welcoming me
to Timco, as if I am joining the team. I thank him and enter his modern, well-appointed office, which has a large painting
of Walter Timmerman looking down from the wall, as if he were Chairman Mao.

“Thanks for seeing me,” I say.

“No problem. But I doubt I can help you much; I don’t know Steven very well. The truth is, I’m not sure I’d want to help you
if I could.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, if Steven… if Steven did this…”

“That, as we say in legal circles, is a big ‘if.’ ”

Sykes nods vigorously. “I understand. Innocent until proven guilty. I get it.” He shrugs. “But I really don’t know him well
at all.”

“I’m more interested in learning about Walter Timmerman.”

He smiles. “Walter, I knew.”

“Good. Please tell me about him.”

“What do you want to know?” he asks.

“Everything. I’m looking to fill in the blanks, and right now blanks are all I have.”

He nods agreeably. “Okay. Well, there’s Walter Timmerman professionally, and privately. Two very different people.”

“Start with professionally,” I say.

“One of a kind,” he says. “An amazing, amazing man.”

“I’m going to need a little more specificity than that.”

“He was collaborative, inquisitive, brilliant… all he cared about was the science and the idea. He treated everyone whose
ability he respected as an equal, even though he had no equal.”

“What exactly did he do?”

This question sends him headlong into an extended scientific dissertation, of which I understand maybe ten percent. When I
hear the word “biology,” I interrupt. “So he was a biologist?”

“Are you a basketball fan?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Asking if Walter was a biologist would be like asking if Michael Jordan was a shooter. Of course he was, but he was so much
more. Think of it this way. Usually you have chemists and microbiologists working side by side. Walter was the best of both;
I like to say he lived at the intersection of Chemistry Boulevard and Microbiology Avenue. It was an incredible advantage
for him in what he was doing.”

“What was he doing? Particularly recently.”

“Well, I can’t say exactly, because lately he wasn’t very talkative about his work, and whatever he did was in his lab at
home. But for years he was studying the physical aspects of life; he understood it better than anyone who ever lived. He understood
that the human body, any living organism, is a collection of chemicals.”

“So you’re talking about his discoveries in DNA?”

“That was just scratching the surface.”

We talk some more about Timmerman’s work, though Sykes keeps pointing out that in recent months he was utilizing his lab at
home and keeping to himself. This doesn’t seem to fit in with the “collaborative” person Sykes described, but he doesn’t see
the contradiction, so I don’t point it out.

When it comes to the personal Walter Timmerman, Sykes is much less expansive. He professes to know little about Walter’s home
life, but his sense is that Walter could be a demanding husband and father.

“Had you met his wife?” I ask.

“Twice, but just to say hello. At industry dinners. Walter hated events like that, but he was receiving awards at both, so
he couldn’t get out of it.”

“What was your impression of her?”

He grins, but doesn’t look particularly happy. “She was a handful. Knew what she wanted, and how to get it. But Walter seemed
crazy about her.”

“With everything you know about Walter Timmerman, can you think of any reason someone would want him dead?”

He thinks about it for a moment. “Walter Timmerman was a person who pushed at the limits of science and knowledge. So who
might kill him? I guess someone with an interest in preserving those limits.”

Then he shrugs. “Or not. Who knows?”

I
CALL
K
EVIN AT THE OFFICE
,
where he’s been wading through the discovery documents.

As bad as they are, he doesn’t seem too distressed about it. Most of the incriminating facts in there are those that Richard
has already alerted us to, so it’s not quite as awful as Kevin was fearing.

But it’s bad.

I decide not to go back to the office, since it might make me late for the arraignment. Hatchet wouldn’t look too fondly on
that, and I certainly don’t want to get on Hatchet’s bad side at the beginning of a murder case. Or at any other time, for
that matter.

Kevin is not going to join me at the arraignment. There would be nothing for him to do there anyway, and we’re better off
with him spending the time getting familiar with the facts of the case. Or at least those items that the prosecution considers
facts. Hopefully we’ll have a different interpretation.

My plan is to talk to Steven before the arraignment about some of the discovery information, but that plan is thwarted when
a screwup results in him being brought over too late for us to meet. We only have about thirty seconds before the hearing
starts, leaving me barely enough time to tell him what to expect, and how to behave.

It is rare that an arraignment is eventful, and this one doesn’t break any new ground. Richard states the charges clearly
and concisely, and tells Hatchet that the prosecution is current on providing discovery information.

Hatchet asks how Steven pleads, and he answers “not guilty” in an understandably shaky voice. If I were facing two charges
of murder in the first degree, I would barely be able to squeak.

I request bail, pointing out that Steven has never before been accused of a crime. Richard takes the opposite viewpoint, pointing
out the heinous nature of these particular crimes, and adding that a person of Steven’s means is a particular flight risk.

Hatchet disdainfully denies bail, as I knew he would. I can see Steven flinch when he hears it, even though I had told him
we had no chance to prevail and were basically going through the motions.

Richard requests a trial date in two months, and is clearly surprised when I agree to it. Steven has begged me to, since he
doesn’t want to spend one day longer than necessary in prison. He isn’t quite focusing on the fact that a loss at trial means
he’ll never leave that prison. Besides, I can always request a delay if it seems we won’t be ready.

It’s almost four o’clock, so my options are to go to the office or go home. Edna and Kevin are in the office, and Laurie is
at home. It’s not exactly a decision to agonize over, so I ask Edna to have a messenger bring copies of the documents to my
house.

“So I have to copy them?” she asks. I can feel her cringing through the phone. It’s standard procedure for her to have copied
them when they arrived, but Edna evidently is trying a new approach.

“Not by hand,” I say. “You can use the copying machine.”

She reluctantly agrees to perform this heroic task, and I head home. When I get there, Laurie is cooking dinner, Tara is lying
on the living room couch, and Waggy is jumping on her head. Laurie tells me that this particular head-jumping exercise has
been going on for about an hour and a half, and if anything it has gained in intensity.

“It’s amazing how much patience Tara has with him,” I say.

Laurie smiles. “Saint Tara of Paterson.”

“Waggy,” I say, “give it a rest.”

“He’s just excited that they were talking about him on television today.”