Play Dead ac-6 Read online

  Play Dead

  ( Andy Carpenter - 6 )

  David Rosenfelt

  David Rosenfelt. Play Dead

  (Andy Carpenter – 6)

  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.

  ACCLAIM FOR DAVID ROSENFELT’S NOVELS

  PLAY DEAD

  “Riveting… No shaggy dog story, this puppy’s alive with reliable Rosenfelt wit and heart.”

  – Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “There is no way you can read this novel without becoming completely caught up in the story. As always, Andy’s offbeat, outspoken personality shines on every page, and the balance of humor and mystery is dead-on.”

  – Booklist (starred review)

  “Enjoyable… Carpenter continues to amuse and engage.”

  – Library Journal

  “The customary humor abounds in this entertaining novel.”

  – Midwest Book Review

  “A steadily absorbing journey through layers and layers of deceit.”

  – Kirkus Reviews

  “A fun mystery novel… entertaining.”

  – TheMysterySite.com

  DEAD CENTER

  “Entertaining… witty… perfect.”

  – Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Enjoyable… entertaining.”

  – Portland Tribune

  “Rosenfelt is a very funny guy who’s got the gift of glib.”

  – Kingston Observer (MA)

  “Rosenfelt adroitly mixes drama with humor… Those who like the added complexity of character-driven mysteries will find much to enjoy in this award-winning series.”

  – Booklist

  “Written with flair and humor… If there aren’t any real-life lawyers as entertaining, as witty, and as willing to tilt at windmills as Andy Carpenter, Edgar®-finalist Rosenfelt’s engaging hero, then there should be.”

  – Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “A terrific tale… Fans of the series will enjoy Dead Center.”

  – Midwest Book Review

  “Witty… cleverly plotted… very enjoyable.”

  – About Books

  SUDDEN DEATH

  “The author handles the material deftly, mixing humor and whodunit but never letting the comedy overwhelm the mystery.”

  – Booklist

  “Another touchdown!”

  – Publishers Weekly

  BURY THE LEAD

  A TODAY SHOW BOOK CLUB PICK

  “Absolute fun… Anyone who likes the Plum books will love this book.”

  – JANET EVANOVICH

  “A clever plot and breezy style… absorbing.”

  – Boston Globe

  “Exudes charm and offbeat humor, sophistication, and personable characters.”

  – Dallas Morning News

  FIRST DEGREE

  SELECTED AS ONE OF THE BEST MYSTERIES OF 2003 BY PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

  “Entertaining… fast paced… sophisticated.”

  – MARILYN STASIO, New York Times Book Review

  “Suspense just where you want it and humor just where you need it.”

  – Entertainment Weekly

  “Entertaining.”

  – Cleveland Plain Dealer

  OPEN AND SHUT

  EDGAR® AWARD NOMINEE

  “Very assured… packed with cleverly sarcastic wit.”

  – New York Times

  “Splendid… intricate plotting.”

  – Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “A great book… one part gripping legal thriller, one part smart-mouth wise-guy detective story, and all-around terrific.”

  – HARLAN COBEN, author of

  No Second Chance

  “Engaging and likable… The action is brisk.”

  – San Francisco Chronicle

  Also by David Rosenfelt

  New Tricks

  Dead Center

  Bury the Lead

  Sudden Death

  First Degree

  Open and Shut

  For Mike, whom I could never beat

  at anything…

  And for Rick, whom no one would

  ever want to beat at anything.

  Acknowledgments

  I’m not a big fan of acknowledgment pages; most of the time I refuse to even acknowledge them. I especially hate when authors drop names of famous people as a way to impress the readers, and then go on to tell heartwarming little anecdotes to show how tight the author is with those bigshots.

  Not me; that’s not what I’m about. I make my acknowledgments short and to the point, and I don’t go scrounging around for impressive names. I let my literary achievements do my showing off for me. If someone has been helpful or inspirational, I thank them… if not, I don’t. No one gets a free pass.

  So, in no particular order, I would like to acknowledge…

  Michael Jordan Bill Clinton

  Dwight and Mamie Eisenhower Debbie Myers

  Jonas Salk

  Britney Spears

  Clarence and Marlo Thomas Bob Castillo

  Babe Ruth

  Wolf Blitzer

  Wolfman Jack

  Stacy Alesi

  Gandhi

  Jessica and Homer Simpson Little Anthony and the Imperials Derek Jeter

  Susan Richman

  Wayne and Fig Newton Puff Daddy

  My Daddy

  My Mommy

  Alex Trebek

  Various Rosenfelts Golda Meir

  The Barbara sisters: Bush, Streisand and Walters Nelson Mandela

  Ozzie Nelson

  Ozzy Osbourne

  Les Pockell

  Kevin Costner

  Kevin Federline Robin Rue

  George Costanza Joe Montana

  The entire state of Montana David Divine

  Bruce Springsteen Walter Cronkite Norman Schwarzkopf Tony Blair

  Tony Gwynn

  Tony Soprano

  Kristin Weber

  Bialystock and Bloom Ralph and Alice Kramden Bobby and Gladys Knight Doug Burns

  George Burns

  Henry Kissinger Trixie and Ed Norton June Peralta

  The Taylors: Lawrence and Elizabeth Cal Ripken

  Paris and Conrad Hilton Tokyo Rose

  Al and Nancy Sarnoff The Bird Brothers: Larry, Charlie and Big Warren G. Harding Stephanie Allen Celia Johnson

  Magic Johnson

  Andrew Johnson

  Johnson amp; Johnson Norman Trell

  Gracie Allen

  Ernest Hemingway The Jacksons-Michael, Stonewall and Phil Simon amp; Garfunkel Scott and Heidi Ryder Joe Frazier

  Christopher Columbus Christopher Cross Sandy Weinberg

  Sam and Whitney Houston Anthony, Bernard and Johns Hopkins Muhammad Ali

  John and Carol Antonaccio The Rogers: Kenny, Roy and Ginger Rocky Balboa

  Geraldo, Chita and Mariano Rivera George Kentris

  Abbott amp; Costello Chief Justice John, Julia and Robin Roberts Michael, Sonny and Don Corleone I apologize if I left anyone out.

  On a serious note, please e-mail me at [email protected] with any feedback on the book. Many people have done so in the past, and I very much appreciate it.

  “ANDY, YOU’RE NOT going to believe this.”

  This is the type of sentence that, when said in a vacuum, doesn’t reveal much. Whatever it is that I am not going to believe might be very positive or very negative, and there would be no way to know until I see it.

  Unfortunately, this particular sentence is not said in a vacuum; it’s said in the Passaic County Animal Shelter. Which
means that “positive” is no longer one of the possibilities.

  The person speaking the words is Fred Brandenberger, whose job as shelter manager is an impossibly difficult one. There are far more dogs that come through his doors than potential adopters, and he therefore must helplessly supervise the euthanasia of those that are not taken. I know it drives Fred crazy; he’s been in the job for two years, and my guess is he’s not going to last much longer.

  It bothers me to come here, and I rarely do. I leave this job to my former legal client, Willie Miller, who is my partner in the Tara Foundation, a dog rescue operation. We rescue a lot of dogs, over a thousand a year, but there are many more worthy ones that we simply do not have room for. I hate making the life-or-death decisions on which ones we will take, and Willie has been shouldering that responsibility.

  Unfortunately, Willie and his wife, Sondra, are in Atlantic City for a few days, and we’ve got some openings for new dogs, so here I am. I’ve been dreading it, and based on what Fred has just said to me, I fear that dread has been warranted.

  Fred leads me back to the quarantine room, which houses dogs who are sick or are unavailable to be adopted for other reasons. The other reason is usually that the dog has bitten someone; in that case they are held for ten days to make sure they don’t have rabies, and then put down. “Put down” is shelter talk for “killed.”

  Fred points to a cage in the back of the quarantine room, and I walk toward it, cringing as I do. What is there turns out to be far worse than expected; it’s one of the most beautiful golden retrievers I’ve ever seen.

  Golden retrievers do not belong in cages. Ever. No exceptions. The dog I’m looking at is maybe seven years old, with more dignity in his eyes than I could accumulate in seven hundred years. Those eyes are saying, “I don’t belong in here,” and truer eye words were never spoken.

  I can feel myself getting angry at this obvious injustice. “What the hell is this about?” I ask as Fred walks over.

  “He bit his owner. Eleven stitches,” Fred says. “Not that I blame him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, for one thing, the owner is an asshole. And for another, he might not even be the owner.”

  “Tell me everything you know,” I say.

  It turns out that Fred doesn’t know that much. A man named Warren Shaheen, who had just come home from the hospital, called him to a house in Hawthorne. He said he had been bitten by his dog, Yogi, for no reason whatsoever. He wanted the dog taken to the shelter and put down.

  As Fred and Yogi were leaving the house, a young boy who claimed to live next door approached. He said that Warren was always kicking the dog, and he was sure that the dog bit him in retaliation. Further, he claimed that Warren had found the dog wandering on the street less than three weeks ago and apparently made no effort to find the real owner.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked.

  Fred shrugged. “You know the drill. After ten days, we put him down. We’re not allowed to adopt him out.”

  I ask Fred if he’ll open the cage and let me take the dog out. He knows he shouldn’t, but does so anyway.

  I take Yogi into a small room where potential adopters go to get to know the dogs they might take. I sit in the chair, and Yogi comes over to me. He has cut marks on his face, clearly visible in this light. They look old, perhaps remnants from some long-ago abuse. It’s likely that Yogi has not had the best life.

  He puts his paw up on my knee, a signal from goldens that they want their chest scratched. I do so, and then he rests his head on my thigh as I pet it.

  Fred comes over to the room, looks in and sees me petting Yogi in this position. “Pretty amazing, huh?”

  “Fred, I’m aware of the regulations, but there’s something you should know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing bad is going to happen to this dog.”

  * * * * *

  I HAVE COME to the conclusion that the entire “work ethic” concept is a scam.

  Hardworking people are to be admired, we’re told, though no one mentions that the very act of working is contrary to the natural order of things. It falls to me, Andy Carpenter, philosopher extraordinaire, to set the record straight.

  I believe that humans have an “enjoyment drive,” which supersedes all others. Everything we do is in the pursuit of that enjoyment. We eat because it’s more enjoyable to be full than hungry; we sleep because it’s more enjoyable to be rested than tired; we have sex because… I assume you get the picture.

  We work simply to make money, because money makes our lives more enjoyable in many ways. If you take money out of the equation, the work system falls apart. Without the desire for cash, who is going to say, “I think I’ll spend ten hours a day for my entire life selling plumbing supplies”? Or waiting tables? Or repairing vacuum cleaners?

  There are people, I will concede, who would pursue certain occupations independent of money. For example, artists, politicians, or perhaps entertainers might do what they do for the creative satisfaction or the power or the acclaim. But that’s only because they enjoy creative satisfaction, power, and acclaim.

  Which brings me to me. I am work-ethically challenged. Simply put, I’m a lawyer who has never been terribly fond of lawyering. Since I inherited twenty-two million dollars a few years ago, money has ceased to be a driving force, which means I don’t exactly have a busy work life.

  There are exceptions to my aversion to plying my craft, which fit neatly under my drive for enjoyment. I’ve handled a number of major, challenging cases in the past few years, most of which became big media events. The key for me is to treat them as sport, as a challenge to be relished, and that’s what I did.

  But those cases were as important to me personally as they were professionally, which elevated the stakes and made them that much more enjoyable and exciting. They ignited my competitive fire. If I were representing some stranger in a divorce or suing an insurance company over an auto accident, I’d rather stay home.

  Right now I can feel my juices starting to flow as I head for the office. On the way there I call my associate, Kevin Randall, on his cell phone.

  His “Hello” is spoken in a hushed whisper.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask.

  “I’m at my urologist,” he says.

  Kevin is the biggest hypochondriac in the Western Hemisphere, and five out of every ten times I might call him he’s at the doctor. “You have your own urologist?” I ask. “That’s pretty impressive.”

  Kevin knows I am unable to resist making fun of his devotion to his perceived illnesses, but he is equally unable to resist talking about them. “You don’t? Who do you see for urology issues?”

  “I have no tolerance for urology issues,” I say. “I piss on urology issues.”

  He doesn’t like the way this conversation is going, which makes him sane. “Why are you calling me, Andy?”

  “To ask if you could meet me in the office. When you’re finished at the urologist.”

  “Why?” he asks. Since we haven’t taken on a case in a few months, it’s a reasonable question to pose.

  “We’ve got client issues,” I say.

  “We have a client?” He’s not successfully masking his incredulity.

  “Yes.”

  “Who is it?”

  “His name is Yogi,” I say.

  “Yogi? Is that a first name or a last name?” Kevin knows nothing about sports, so he is apparently not familiar with Yogi Berra. However, I would have thought he’d know Yogi Bear.

  “Actually, it’s his only name, and probably not his real one at that. Listen, Kevin, I’m pretty sure he can’t pay our fee. Are you okay with that?”

  “Of course.” I gave Kevin half of a huge commission we made on a case a while back, so money is not a major issue for him, either. Additionally, he owns the Law-dromat, a thriving establishment at which he dispenses free legal advice to customers who bring in their clothes to be washed and dried. “Wh
at is he accused of?”

  “Assault,” I say.

  “Where is he now?”

  “On death row.”

  “Andy, I sense there’s something unusual about this case.”

  “You got that right.”

  * * * * *

  “WHAT ARE YOU doing here?”

  This is the greeting I get from Edna, who for fifteen years has been my secretary but who now insists on being called my “administrative assistant.” In neither role has Edna ever done any actual work, but as an administrative assistant she can do nothing with considerably more dignity.

  Like all of us, Edna strives to satisfy her enjoyment drive, and she does so by doing crossword puzzles. She is the greatest crossword puzzler I have ever seen, and possibly the greatest who has ever lived. Just as art collectors seem to discover DaVincis or Picassos at flea markets or in somebody’s garage every month, in three hundred years crossword puzzle devotees will be finding long-lost Ednas and selling them for fortunes.

  She is polishing off today’s New York Times puzzle when I walk in, and her surprise at seeing me is justified. I haven’t been here in at least a week.

  “We’ve got a client,” I say.

  “How did that happen?”

  Her tone is somewhere between baffled and annoyed. “I was in the right place at the right time. Come in with Kevin when he gets here.”

  I head back to my private office with a window overlooking the finest fruit stand on Van Houten Avenue in Paterson, New Jersey. If I ever blow my money, it’s not going to be on office space.

  I use the time to look through some law books and browse on the computer, finding out as much as I can about dog law in New Jersey. What I learn is not encouraging; if there’s a dog lover in the state legislature, he or she has been in hiding.