One Dog Night (4 page)

I’m not sure why, but I do my best thinking during these walks, and much of my trial strategy is planned that way. But today thinking is not a priority; I have no current clients, and no desire to get any.

We get back around nine-thirty, and I’m mildly surprised to see a car in front of the house. It’s the only car parked on the street; there’s an ordinance that during the night all cars must be in driveways or garages. The fact that this one is parked in front of my house leads me to the possibility that someone is visiting me, or Laurie, or Tara. Or not.

I am Andy Carpenter, deducer supreme.

Tara and I walk in the front door and immediately see Laurie in the kitchen with a woman, once again validating my intuitive powers. We walk toward them, Tara leading the way.

The woman gets down on one knee to vigorously pet her, and says something which is hard for me to make out. It sounds something like “henner.”

When I reach them, Laurie says, “Andy, I’d like you to meet—”

The woman interrupts, holds out her hand, and says, “Becky.”

“Hi, Becky,” is my clever retort. Never let it be said that Andy Carpenter doesn’t keep a conversation humming.

“Becky has a story to tell you,” Laurie says, in a way which leads me to think this is not going to be just any story.

“I love a good story,” I say, though I’m not sure I’m looking forward to hearing this one. When strangers tell me stories I usually wind up with clients, and when I wind up with clients it means I wind up doing work.

“Then you’re in for a treat,” Laurie says.

“So you’ve heard the story?” I ask.

She nods. “Just now. You want some coffee?”

I say that I do, though at this point I think I’d prefer scotch on the rocks, or an arsenic spritzer. I’ve got a feeling I should have prolonged the walk with Tara, like until August.

We settle down with our coffees, and Becky starts telling me what she already told Laurie. “I’ve been married for four years, and I met my husband a year before that,” she says. “So what I’m going to tell you is what he’s told me over the years.

“He’s led a very difficult life. I won’t bore you with the details, at least right now, but some of those difficulties have been of his own making, though most have not. He reached his personal bottom, as they call it, about six years ago.”

The way she says “personal bottom” causes me to ask, “Drugs?”

She nods. “Yes. And alcohol. And anything else that can take away one’s connection to life.”

I’m trying hard not to cringe; is this woman asking me to somehow defend her husband on some resurrected drug infraction? I doubt that’s where this is going, because Laurie has reacted strangely to the visit. It’s somewhere between a gleam in her eye and a worry about what might come next.

Becky continues. “About a year and a half prior to that, in an effort to bring some normalcy to his life, he had gotten a dog.”

There is a two-by-four bearing down on my head, but I don’t have time to duck. “This dog,” she says, petting Tara. “Her original name was Hannah.”

I don’t know what to say, and I want her to get through this story as quickly as possible so I can find out where it’s going. Wherever it’s going, Tara is not going anywhere.

“My husband came to understand that with his problems, and his complete lack of sobriety, he couldn’t care for her. He loved her very much, and he was afraid for her safety.”

“So he dumped her in a shelter?” I ask. I have always felt that the person who did that to Tara had to be the lowest sort of vermin on earth.

“He had nothing else to do, or at least that’s what he believed. He had lost all his friends, and his newer acquaintances were certainly not likely to give her the home she deserved.

“So he took her to the shelter, and then he went back there every day, to make sure that nothing bad happened to her. If her stay there was prolonged, he would have taken her back rather than subject her to the cruelties of the system.”

She is obviously referring to the fact that dogs not adopted after a period of time are put down, usually because of overcrowding.

“It was only three days later that you came and adopted her. He was there at the time, and he followed you home from a distance. He wanted to see where she was going to live.”

“Why didn’t he introduce himself to me?” I ask. “He could have told me things about her.”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Hopefully you can ask him that. But for a period of time after you took Hannah … Tara … he watched you with her, to make sure you were treating her well. On one occasion, when the drugs made him careless, he entered your property and tried to peer into your house.”

All of a sudden I know where she is going, and I have a pit in my stomach the size of Bolivia.

“Noah Galloway,” I say.

This has disaster written all over it.

If what Becky Galloway is saying is true, that Noah was Tara’s original owner, then it’s a secret that they have kept for seven years. The fact that she’s making the revelation now, when he’s just been arrested, is no coincidence.

And the fact that I am a defense attorney who doesn’t want a new client, especially this one, is where the disaster potential comes in.

I’m trying to remember if Tara’s strange, excited behavior before our walk this morning was connected to footage of Galloway on the news, but I just can’t be sure. I hope it wasn’t, because she certainly seemed happy, and if there was a growl involved, I didn’t hear it.

“Would the fact that you’re choosing to reveal this now be in any way related to the fact that I’m a criminal attorney?”

She nods, without apparent embarrassment. “Very much so. I’m hoping you’ll consider representing Noah.”

“Because he used to own Tara?” I ask.

“Yes. Because you both love her. It’s a connection that I’m trying to use,” she says. “I’ll do whatever I can to help my husband.”

“He put her in a shelter,” I say. It’s a fact that I simply will never be able to get over.

She nods. “I know; he says that it was the hardest thing he had ever done. But he used every penny he had to get her the leg operation, and at the same time he felt powerless against the drugs. He couldn’t take care of himself; and therefore he couldn’t take care of her. He knew she would be better off.” She looks around the room, then pets Tara’s head. “And she is.”

“How did she hurt her leg?” I ask. Tara has a plate in her leg, which was always a mystery to me. The operation would have been expensive, and I don’t often see shelter dogs that had received such good care. It’s inconsistent for an owner to spend that kind of money on a pet, and then to throw them away like that.

“I’ll let Noah tell you all that; he knows all the details. Will you at least meet with him?”

I look over at Laurie, but she’s not providing any relief. “Becky, I’m really sorry about your situation. And I’m sure your husband is innocent, but—”

She interrupts me. “He says he did it.”

The surprises are coming in rapid-fire here. “He does? Is that how he’s going to plead?”

“I’m not sure what he’ll do. But he didn’t do it, Andy. No matter what he says.”

I nod, trying to digest this. It doesn’t sound like it will go to trial, so Galloway’s lawyer might simply be called upon to plea-bargain. Less time, less effort, but I still don’t want to get near it. We’re talking about twenty-six people locked in a burning building.

“He says he did it, but you say he didn’t?” I ask, my incredulity showing.

“He believes he did it; he doesn’t specifically remember it. But there is no chance that he did.”

“How do you know that?”

“Could you believe Laurie burned twenty-six people to death?”

“No.” I could point out that I wouldn’t believe Laurie spent years strung out on drugs either, but I don’t. I just want this to go away.

“Maybe I could speak with him, maybe with Hike,” Laurie volunteers. “And get some more information, to help you decide.”

Laurie’s talking about the other lawyer in my two-person firm, “Hike” Lynch. I’m sure Laurie is aware that I’ve already decided against getting involved, so her saying that means she’s on Becky’s side in this one. Or at the very least she’s saying, what’s the harm in talking to the guy?

Of course, there is no harm in it, other than the disappointment Becky would feel when I tell her I’m not taking the case. “Becky, if it means that much to you I’ll talk to him. But I want to be really clear; I don’t want to take on any new clients.”

“I understand,” she says.

“I can recommend other lawyers that are terrific.”

She nods. “Let’s talk after you and Noah meet.”

I turn to Tara. “That work for you?”

She doesn’t answer, remaining her normal noncommittal self. I’ll have to ply her with biscuits to find out what she really thinks.

These guys did what they said they would do.

That’s a pretty terrific quality, Danny figured, especially when it belonged to guys who promised to pay him money.

The morning after Noah Galloway was arrested, Loney was at his apartment with the payment of the other fifty thousand, again in cash. He was alone this time, without Camby.

Danny had decided that while he might strong-arm them with threats to reveal their role to the police, there was no hurry for that. The trial was a long way off, and he could come forward at any time before then.

Loney did throw him a bit of a curve ball, though. The job as driver for him and his family was still his for the asking, but it was in Vegas, not New Jersey. That was where Loney was going to be for at least the next six months, and the increased cost of living that Danny would face there would be recognized with an increase of twenty thousand in the agreed-upon salary.

This was getting better all the time. Danny had only been to Vegas once, almost fifteen years ago. On his thirtieth birthday. It probably would qualify as his favorite place on earth, but it was a city you didn’t want to be in if you had no money.

Which was okay, because Danny had plenty of money.

Loney gave Danny a plane ticket, one way, to leave that night. The fact that it was a coach fare was slightly annoying, but at least it was an aisle seat.

“You can leave tonight?” Loney asked.

Danny smiled and made a hand motion to show Loney the room he was standing in. “Why not?”

Loney said that a car would pick Danny up at five o’clock, to take him to Newark for the eight o’clock flight. “Don’t get too comfortable out there,” he said. “You’re coming back here for the trial.”

“No problem. One day on the stand is all it will take.”

Loney nodded. “But that’s an important day. We’re going to rehearse you for it.”

“Piece of cake,” Danny said. “So when I get there, where do I go?”

“A driver will take you to the Mirage; you’ve got a prepaid reservation there for two weeks. During that time you’re going to need to get an apartment.”

Danny said that he thought that was a really good idea, though at that point apartment hunting was the last thing on his mind. He had a hundred grand and two weeks at the Mirage, and he was going to enjoy every minute of it.

“Don’t blow this, Danny,” Loney said, possibly reading his mind.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” Danny said.

“Okay. See you in Vegas.”

“You going to be there?”

Loney smiled. “See you in Vegas.”

“Who are you guys?” Danny asked. “Come on, level with me.”

“Concerned citizens.”

“Connected concerned citizens?”

Loney didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to. Danny was smart enough to know that these guys were not people to mess with, and he immediately discarded the idea of holding them up for more money. Instead he was going to make himself indispensable to them, until they brought him into the club.

The flight out to Vegas was pretty comfortable, considering Danny was in coach. The seat next to him was empty, and Danny utilized the tray in front of the empty seat to rest his bloody marys. He had six of them, and only stopped when the good-looking flight attendant told him he had had enough.

He could have told her there was never enough.

A driver met Danny at baggage claim. He called Danny “Mr. Butler,” and asked how his flight was, and a lot of other meaningless kind of stuff. Danny kept up his side of the conversation as best he could, but his mind was on the bar at the Mirage.

The driver took Danny’s bags and led him out to the curb. He then spoke into a walkie-talkie kind of device, and Danny realized that this wasn’t the driver, that he was only calling for the car. These guys had their act together.

The car pulled up, and they loaded Danny’s bags into the trunk. Danny half climbed, half fell into the backseat, as the actual driver welcomed “Mr. Butler” to Vegas.

They drove off, and Danny was asleep before they got out of the airport. He woke up a short time later, as the parking attendant at the Mirage opened the door.

Except it wasn’t the parking attendant at the Mirage; it was somebody else, who got into the backseat next to Danny. And Danny barely had time to realize that they weren’t at the hotel at all, they were on a dark street, in front of what looked like a vacant warehouse.

Within three seconds the man had a device around Danny’s neck, but it took almost thirty seconds to make sure he was dead.

After which they drove off again.

I decide to take Hike with me to the jail.

On one level, it seems to make perfect sense. It’s a depressing place, colored grey and filled with people who have for the most part moved past desperate into hopeless. Hike is a depressing person, an incurable pessimist who himself sees the world through grey-colored glasses.

I wouldn’t be surprised if he makes an offer on a cell, maybe with a watch-tower view.

“So you owned the same dog?” Hike asks, moments after he gets in the car.

“Yes.”

“That’s it?” he asks.

I nod. “That’s it.”

“I’m not missing anything?”

“Nope.”

“Why do you care about that?” he asks.

“Hike, you don’t have a dog, right?”

“No way. I’d wind up with the mange, and I’d break out in rash pimples, filled with pus. I hate pus.”