New Tricks Read online

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2009 by David Rosenfelt

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Grand Central Publishing

  Hachette Book Group

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  New York, NY 10017

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  First eBook Edition: August 2009

  Grand Central Publishing is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The Grand Central Publishing name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  ISBN: 978-0-446-55089-5

  Contents

  Copyright

  Also by

  Begin Reading

  Also by David Rosenfelt

  Open and Shut

  First Degree

  Bury the Lead

  Sudden Death

  Dead Center

  Play Dead

  I am raising a literary glass in a toast to a long and wonderful life for Oliver Baron Rosenfelt.

  “ANDY CARPENTER, Lawyer to the Dogs.”

  That was the USA Today headline on a piece that ran about me a couple of months ago. It was a favorable story overall, but the headline was obviously designed to make a humorous comparison between me and those celebrity attorneys who are often referred to as “lawyers to the stars.”

  While you would naturally think it would have exposed me to ridicule from my colleagues in the legal profession and my friends, it really hasn’t. This is because I don’t hang out with colleagues in the legal profession, and my friends already have plenty of other reasons to ridicule me.

  Actually, referring to me this way makes perfect sense. Last year I went to court to defend a golden retriever who had been scheduled to die at the hands of the animal control system here in Paterson, New Jersey. I saved his life, and the media ate it up with a spoon. Then I learned that the dog was a witness to a murder five years prior, and I successfully defended his owner, the man who had been wrongly convicted and imprisoned for that murder.

  Three months ago I cemented my reputation as a dog lunatic by representing all the dogs in the Passaic County Animal Shelter in a class action suit. I correctly claimed that my clients were being treated inhumanely, a legally difficult posture since the opposition took the position that a key part of “humane” is “human,” and my clients fell a little short in that area.

  With the media covering it as if it were the trial of the century, we won, and living conditions in the shelters have been improved dramatically. I’m in a good position to confirm this, because my former client Willie Miller and I run a dog-rescue operation called the Tara Foundation, named after my own golden retriever. We are in the shelters frequently to rescue dogs to place in homes, and if we see any slippage back to the old policies, we’re not exactly shy about pointing it out.

  Since that stirring court victory, I’ve been on a three-month vacation from work. I find that my vacations are getting longer and longer, almost to the point that vacationing is my status quo, from which I take infrequent “work breaks.” Two things enable me to do this: my mostly inherited wealth, and my laziness.

  Unfortunately, my extended siesta is about to come to an unwelcome conclusion. I’ve been summoned to the courthouse by Judge Henry Henderson, nicknamed “Hatchet” by lawyers who have practiced in his court. It’s not exactly a term of endearment.

  Hatchet’s not inviting me to make a social call, and it’s unlikely we’ll be sipping tea. He doesn’t like me and finds me rather annoying, which doesn’t make him particularly unique. The problem is that he’s in a position to do something about it.

  Hatchet has been assigned to a murder case that has dominated the local media. Walter Timmerman, a man who could accurately be referred to as a semi-titan in the pharmaceutical industry, was murdered three weeks ago. It was not your everyday case of “semi-titan-murdering”; he wasn’t killed on the golf course at the country club, or by an intruder breaking into his mansion. Timmerman was killed at night in the most run-down area of downtown Paterson, a neighborhood filled with hookers and drug dealers, not caddies or butlers.

  Within twenty-four hours, police arrested a twenty-two-year-old Hispanic man for the crime. He was in possession of Timmerman’s wallet the day after the murder. The police are operating on the safe assumption that Timmerman did not give the wallet to this young man for safekeeping, knowing he was soon to be murdered.

  This is where I am unfortunately going to enter the picture. The accused cannot afford an attorney, so the court will appoint one for him. I have not handled pro bono work in years, but I’m on the list, and Hatchet is obviously going to stick me with this case.

  I arrive at the courthouse at eight thirty, which is when Hatchet has instructed me to be in his chambers. The arraignment is at nine, and since I haven’t even met my client-to-be, I’ll have to ask for a postponement. I’ll try to get it postponed for fifty years, but I’ll probably have to settle for a few days.

  I’m surprised when I arrive to see Billy “Bulldog” Cameron, the attorney who runs the Public Defender’s Office in Passaic County. I’ve never had a conversation of more than three sentences with Billy in which he hasn’t mentioned that he’s overworked and underfunded. Since both those things are true, and since I’m personally underworked and overfunded, I usually nod sympathetically.

  This time I don’t have time to nod, because I’m in danger of being late for my meeting with Hatchet. Lawyers who arrive late to Hatchet’s chambers are often never heard of or seen again, except for occasional body parts that wash up on shore. I also don’t get to ask Billy what he’s doing here. If I’m going to get stuck with this client, then he’s off the hook, because I’m on it.

  I hate being on hooks.

  “YOU’RE LATE,” says Hatchet, which is technically true by thirty-five seconds.

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor. There was an accident on Market Street, and—”

  He interrupts. “You are under the impression that I want to hear a story about your morning drive?”

  “Probably not.”

  “For the purpose of this meeting, I will do the talking, and you will do the listening, with very few exceptions.”

  I start to say Yes, sir, but don’t, because I don’t know if that is one of the allowable exceptions. Instead I just listen.

  “I have an assignment for you, one that you are uniquely qualified to handle.”

  I nod, because if I cringe it will piss him off.

  “Are you at all familiar with the case before me, the Timmerman murder?”

  “Only what I’ve read in the paper and seen on television.” I wish I had more of a connection to the case, like if I were a cousin of the victim, or if I were one of the suspects in the case. It would disqualify me from being involved. Unfortunately, I checked my family tree, and there’s not a Timmerman to be found.

  “It would seem to be a straightforward murder case, if such a thing existed,” he says and then chuckles, so I assume that what he said passes in Hatchet-land for a joke. “But the victim was a prominent man of great wealth.”

  I nod again. It’s sort of nice being in a conversation in which I have no responsibilities.

  “I’m told that you haven’t taken on any pro bono work in over two years.”

&n
bsp; Another nod from me.

  “I assume you’re ready and willing to fulfill your civic responsibility now?” he asks. “You may speak.”

  I have to clear my throat from lack of use before responding. “Actually, Your Honor, my schedule is such that a murder case wouldn’t really—”

  He interrupts again. “Who said anything about you participating in a murder case?”

  “Well, I thought—”

  “A lawyer thinking. Now, that’s a novel concept. You are not being assigned to represent the accused. The Public Defender’s Office is handling that.”

  Relief and confusion are fighting for a dominant position in my mind, and I’m actually surprised that confusion is winning. “Then why am I here?”

  “I’ve been asked to handle a related matter that is technically before Judge Parker in the probate court. He has taken ill, and I said I would do it because of my unfortunate familiarity with you. Are you aware that the victim was very much involved with show dogs?”

  “No,” I say. While I rescue dogs, I have little or no knowledge of dog shows or breeders.

  “Well, he was, and he had a seven-month-old, apparently a descendant of a champion, that his widow and son are fighting over. The animal was not included in the will.”

  This may not be so bad. “So because of my experience with dogs, you want me to help adjudicate it?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Glad to help, Your Honor. Civic responsibility is my middle name.”

  “I’ll remember to include it on the Christmas card. I assume you have a satisfactory place to keep your client?”

  “My client?”

  He nods. “The dog. You will retain possession of him until the issue is resolved.”

  “I’m representing a dog in a custody fight? Is that what you’re asking me to do?”

  “I wouldn’t categorize it as ‘asking,’ ” he says. “I already have a dog, Your Honor.”

  “And now you have two.”

  TARA KNOWS SOMETHING IS GOING ON.

  I don’t know how she knows, but I can see it in her face when I get home. She stares at me with that all-knowing golden retriever stare, and even when she’s eating her dinner, she occasionally looks up at me to let me know that she’s on to me.

  I take her for a long walk through Eastside Park, which is about six blocks from where I live on 42nd Street in Paterson. Except for a six-year span while I was married, it is where I’ve lived all my life, and no place could feel more like home. No one that I grew up with lives here anymore, but I keep expecting to see them reappear as I walk, as if I were in a Twilight Zone episode.

  It’s home to Tara as well, and even though the sights and smells must be completely familiar to her, she relishes them as if experiencing them for the first time. It is one of the many millions of things I love about her.

  It’s been really hot out lately, but the evenings have been cool, and tonight especially so. All in all it’s a perfect couple of hours, but the ringing phone when I get home is a reminder that perfection is fleeting, and not everything is as it should be. I can see by the caller ID that it’s Laurie Collins calling from her home in Wisconsin. The Wisconsin that is nowhere near New Jersey.

  “Hello, Andy.”

  Every time I hear Laurie’s voice, every single time, I am struck by my reaction to it. It is soothing, and welcoming, and it makes me think of home. But I’m already home, and Laurie isn’t here.

  We talk for a while, and I tell her about my day, and my new client. I glance over at Tara to see if she’s listening, but she seems to be asleep. Laurie tells me about her day as well; she’s the police chief of Findlay, Wisconsin, and has been since she moved back there, a year and a half ago.

  We broke up when she first moved, and those first four months were maybe the worst of my life. Then I went up to Findlay to handle a case, and we reconnected. Now we have a long-distance, committed relationship, which is feeling more and more like an oxymoron. Telling her about my day isn’t really cutting it. I want her to be an actual part of my days.

  “So when are you getting the dog?” she asks.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Have you mentioned it to Tara?”

  “No. I think she’ll be okay with it, but it’ll cost me a truckload of biscuits.”

  “You seem a little quiet, Andy. Is something wrong?” she asks.

  Of course something’s wrong. It’s wrong that you’re in Wisconsin and I’m here. It’s wrong that we only talk on the phone, and we sleep in beds a thousand miles away. It’s wrong that we only see each other on vacations, and that we can’t be making love right now. These are the things I would say if I weren’t a sniveling chickenshit, but since I am, all I say is, “No, I’m fine. Really.”

  Laurie is coming here on a week’s vacation starting in a few days, and we talk about how nice it will be to see each other. Talking about it is enough to cheer me up, and it puts me in a more upbeat mood.

  I hang up and turn to my sleeping friend. “Tara, my girl, there’s something we need to talk about.”

  Tara takes the news pretty well, though the fact that she keeps falling asleep during my little speech means she may not be fully focused. She’s sleeping a lot more than she used to, a sure sign of advancing age. It doesn’t worry me, though, because Tara is going to live forever. Or even longer.

  I settle down to read about my new client in a three-page report prepared by the probate court. The dog is a seven-month old Bernese mountain dog named Bertrand II, which strikes me as a pretty ridiculous name for a puppy, or a dog of any age, for that matter.

  The dog is currently living at the home of Diana Timmerman, the widow of the murder victim. I have been told to arrive promptly at her house in Alpine, half a mile west of the Palisades Interstate Parkway, at ten AM. I’m a punctual person, and pretty much the only times I’m ever late are when someone instructs me to arrive promptly. I get to the Timmerman house at ten forty-five.

  Actually, it’s less a house than a compound, or maybe a fortress. There are two guards on duty at the gate, one inside the gatehouse and one patrolling outside. The one outside is actually wearing a gun in a holster. He’s at least six five, 260 pounds, and would probably only need the gun if the intruder happened to be a rhinoceros.

  “Name?” the guard inside the gate asks me.

  “Carpenter.” I’m a man of as few words as he is.

  He picks up a clipboard and looks at it for a few moments, then puts it down and says, “Drive up and park to the left of the house. Someone will be out to get you.”

  I go along a driveway that slopes upward until I come to the house, an amazingly impressive structure that looks straight out of Gone with the Wind. I consider myself independently wealthy, having inherited over twenty million dollars from my father a few years back. If I were willing to part with all of it, I could probably afford the Timmermans’ garage.

  Because civil disobedience is my thing, I park to the right of the house, not the left. I get out of the car and wait, and after about five minutes the front door opens and a young man, probably in his early twenties, comes out. He starts to walk toward his car, then sees me and heads over.

  “You’re here for Waggy?” he asks, and when he sees that I look confused, he adds, “The Bernese.”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “I’m Steven Timmerman,” he says, which means he is Diana Timmerman’s stepson, and one of the two people fighting for custody of the aforementioned “Waggy.” He offers his hand, and I shake it.

  “Andy Carpenter.”

  He nods. “Please take good care of him, Mr. Carpenter.” He starts to walk back toward his car, but stops and turns. “He loves to chew on things, especially the rawhide bones. And he goes crazy over tennis balls.” He grins slightly at the recollection, then turns and goes to the car.

  As soon as he pulls away, the door opens again and a woman comes out of the house. She is dressed fashionably; my arrival definitely didn’t inter
rupt her in the process of cleaning out the attic or scrubbing the toilet.

  “Mr. Carpenter?” she asks.

  “Andy. You must be Ms. Timmerman?”

  She smiles, apparently with some embarrassment. “No, I’m Martha. Martha Wyndham. I’m Mrs. Timmerman’s executive assistant.”

  “Nice to meet you. What do you executively assist her at?”

  Another smile. “Being Mrs. Timmerman. You’re here for Waggy?”

  “Waggy? Is that what everybody calls him?”

  She shakes her head. “Just Steven and me. But it would be best if you didn’t mention that to Ms. Timmerman. Bernese mountain dogs were originally bred to pull wagons. That seemed so funny in this case that Steven and I call him Waggy. You love dogs, I understand?”

  “Guilty as charged. I’m a certified dog lunatic.”

  “As am I. But you might want to let him stay here while you make your determination. It could be upsetting for him to be thrust into a strange environment.”

  “He’ll be fine; my house is dog-friendly. Where is he?” I ask.

  “In his room. But Mrs. Timmerman would like to talk to you first.”

  That’s not completely appropriate; she is the other one of the litigants pressing for ownership of Waggy, and I really shouldn’t be speaking to her without the opposing party present. On the other hand, appropriateness was never my forte, and I did say hello to Steven, so what the hell.

  I let Martha lead me into what they probably refer to as the library, since the walls are covered with packed bookshelves. Most of them are classics, and few look like they have been read in a very long time. This may be a library, but it’s not a reading room.

  Five minutes go by, during which Martha and I engage in small talk, mostly about baseball. She’s relatively likable, but I’m starting to get annoyed. “Where is she?” I finally ask.

  “I’m sure she’ll be down in a moment.”

  “Give her my regards, because I’m not waiting any longer. I’ll take Waggy and be on my way.”