As Dog Is My Witness (17 page)

“There are two possibilities,” I answered, having
actually given this topic some thought while I was supposed to be
writing an article on lap-top computers. “Either someone thinks
they can advance in the company by making it look like you’re
slipping . . . 

“Or?” Mahoney was concentrating so hard he almost
missed my throw, which was admittedly errant, and came close to
dropping it on Warren, who as usual had abandoned the entire family
he lived with and glued himself to Mahoney’s left calf the minute
my best friend walked in the door. Yes, man’s best friend, but they
don’t specify which man.

“Or, someone just hates your guts.”

“Well, that doesn’t seem likely. It must be the first
one,” Mahoney said, tossing the ball casually at me and dropping it
into my hands so effortlessly it was embarrassing when I couldn’t
hold on.

“Clearly, no one could ever be annoyed with
you.
” The ball rolled a few feet, and I had to get up to
retrieve it. For those of you keeping track at home, that last
remark was sarcastic.

Mahoney, of course, took it seriously. “Obviously. So
. . .  we have to determine who would benefit from
my apparent slippage.”

“That, and I have to figure out why Michael Huston’s
wife thinks he was mixed up with Tony Soprano’s rabbi.” I tried my
curveball on Mahoney, who managed to snare it just before it hit
Warren in a most unfortunate part of his anatomy. Luckily, Warren
had already been taken in for the customary surgery.

“We’re back to that? I thought you were going to turn
this one over to the cops and lawyers, and protect that
low-to-the-ground ass of yours.” Mahoney didn’t like shifting the
discussion away from his problem, so he emphasized the difference
in our height.

“Lori wanted me to,” I told him. “But she wasn’t
going to give up herself.” He nodded.

“Can’t let her be the primary target,” he agreed. His
throw was a little softer this time, protecting my hands.

“Besides,” I continued, “the victim’s wife called me
herself and said she thinks he was involved with the Mob.” I
decided on a one-hopper to Mahoney, and Warren practically had a
heart attack when it bounced over his head into Mahoney’s
hands.

“Why did she do that?”

“Only one in a series of interesting questions. But
it seems to answer why Mr. Shapiro and his minions are concerned
about my general nosiness.”

Mahoney smiled. “Minions?”

I was sitting too close to the door, so when it flew
open, letting in the coldest air in the universe and, appropriately
enough, Howard, the softball almost hit my brother-in-law in the
face. The fact that I managed to snag the ball and save him any
serious injury seemed not to impress Abby’s brother.

“Whoa!” he recoiled, the ball floating harmlessly
into my hands. “What is going on?”

Andrea rushed in after him, not understanding why her
husband was leaning backward. Dylan squeezed in behind them,
sauntered past, and headed upstairs, where he would no doubt try to
shame Ethan into letting the guest play on the PlayStation. He had
no idea the force of nature he was up against.

(Yes, I know I had mentioned that Ethan was supposed
to be banned from PlayStation for biting his cousin. But I figured
that was Abby’s rule to enforce, and so far, she hadn’t done
so.)

“Close the door!” I shouted. “We’re thinking!”

Andrea closed the door while Howard stood in her way,
looking like he was going to ground us for a week before he
realized it wasn’t his house (and he probably thanked whatever
deity he worships for that). I threw the ball back to Mahoney, and
Andrea, lacking any conditioned response for the situation, ran
into the kitchen—and I mean
ran
—to see if Abby needed help
making coffee, or something. It’s my belief that coffee-making is a
one-person task, but it seemed like Millie Helper was always aiding
Laura Petrie in that very endeavor, so what do I know?

Howard stood there and watched incredulously as we
tossed the ball back and forth a couple more times. Neither Mahoney
nor I advanced any theories about either of our dilemmas while
Howard watched. It was intimidating.

“Hi, Howard,” Mahoney said.

“Hello,” the Imperious One answered, clearly having
forgotten either Mahoney’s name or his entire existence since
they’d last seen each other.

The ball went back and forth. Warren was falling
asleep from the sheer thrill of it all. A game of catch, and he
didn’t have to do anything! All dogs do indeed go to heaven.

Finally, I could stand the tension no more. “Do you
mind, Howard?” I said. “We’re trying to work out our problems
here.”

Howard, sharp as a tack, took this as an invitation
to join the conversation, which was at that moment not so much a
conversation as a prolonged silence due to his presence. You just
can’t be blunt with some people. He waited until the ball was not
actually in the air, and sat down to my left, on the sofa. If he
thought we were going to throw him the ball, he was crazy.

“What kind of problems?” he asked with a great degree
of eagerness. Obviously, he was hoping it would be some kind of
financial problem, so he could show off his slick expertise. I was
going to cut him down with a snide remark when I heard Abby’s voice
in my mind’s ear: “He’s trying to help—he’s reaching out. Be
nice.”

Sometimes, it’s annoying having a wife who doubles as
Jiminy Cricket.

Cursing my Inner Abby, I sighed. She was right.
“Well, I’m trying to figure out who killed this guy walking his
dog. The cops think it was a kid with AS, but I’m starting to see
some involvement by a reputed mob figure, and I’d appreciate your
not mentioning that part to your sister. And so far, there’s no
evidence except a replica of the gun that shot Abraham
Lincoln.”

“And I’m trying to determine who could possibly be
sabotaging my repairs,” Mahoney added, clearly reading my tone and
trying to help. “The only possibilities are that someone wants to
advance in my company or that they don’t like me, so I’m assuming
they want to advance in the company. And once I find them, I figure
I’ll beat’em to a bloody pulp.”

I looked at Howard. “What do you think?” I asked.

He never said anything. He just stood up and walked
past us into the kitchen.

Mahoney and I raised an eyebrow at each other,
shrugged, and went back to throwing the ball around.

“Pity,” I said. “I thought he was going to solve it
for us.”

“Yeah,” Mahoney nodded. “Me, too.”

T
here was no point in
following Mahoney’s gremlin again until we had a plan, so the next
morning, I was back at Karen Huston’s house, without
invitation.

She let me in, but seemed wary. She needn’t have
been. Dalma was in the room, and she quite obviously wasn’t happy
she had to share it with me. The dog was growling low in her throat
and watching me carefully as Karen ushered me in. I took the same
seat as before.

“Karen, I’m sorry to burst in on you like this, but I
didn’t understand your phone call yesterday. I don’t see how you
make the leap from your husband being moody to his involvement with
organized criminals.”

Karen sat down. She hadn’t been expecting anyone, and
was in jeans and a sweatshirt that read “Emerson College.” She
looked into my eyes and shook her head slowly.

“You can’t understand,” she said, “because you’re
basing your assumptions on the average marriage. Michael and I did
not have an average marriage.”

“Nobody has an average marriage,” I said.

“That’s true, but I think you know what I mean. We
were much more . . .  intense, I guess, than most
married people. We really were soul mates, and I can’t explain why
I usually knew what he was thinking, and how he usually knew how I
felt. But we did. We had the most symbiotic relationship I’ve ever
seen or experienced. Nobody was as married as Michael and I
were.”

I didn’t bother to contradict her, since the last
thing I needed at this point was a
“my-marriage-is-just-as-good-as-your-marriage” argument. Seeing as
how her husband was dead, it seemed a little unfair to try for the
upper hand.

“So what you’re saying is that some intuitive feeling
told you your husband was involved with gangsters. Is that what
you’re saying?” That didn’t come out right, either. I sounded less
like a friendly reporter trying to understand and more like Perry
Mason trying to pin the crime on her.

“There were also the phone calls, and Michael
. . .  well, Michael was nervous for a couple of
weeks before it happened. He wasn’t as attentive to me as he
usually was, and believe me, that was a major sea change. I was the
center of Michael’s universe, and he wasn’t even noticing when I
was in the room. That was
not
usual, believe me.”

I didn’t know how to say it nicely, so I just said
it. “Isn’t it possible that he wasn’t as . . . 
attentive because his mind might have been occupied, um,
elsewhere?”

Karen started as if slapped, and the dog stood. Her
tail was straight out and stiff, and she growled louder. “Dalma,
no
,” Karen said, and the dog sat down but continued to stare
at me. Karen turned her attention back to me. “If you’re asking
whether I think Michael was cheating on me, Mr. Tucker, I’m sorry,
but I just don’t consider that to be a possibility. You really
can’t understand the kind of marriage we had.”

Or, maybe
she
couldn’t understand the kind of
marriage they had.

Karen made sure Dalma stayed in her dog bed while I
left, apologizing for anything I said that might have been
disturbing. She apologized for her dog, who was staring intently at
me and grumbling as I walked to the door. Karen assured me it was
all right—I was just doing my job thoroughly—and led me back out
into the sub-zero freezer New Jersey had become lately. It was a
miracle we didn’t have snow, but it actually might have been too
cold for it.

With a little time left before the kids got home from
their half day—and stayed until the following year—I decided to pay
a visit on the North Brunswick detective handling the Huston case.
Justin’s sudden arrest, with so little physical evidence, still
didn’t sit right with me.

Since this time I actually knew where I was going, it
took only ten minutes longer than it should have to find Detective
Lieutenant Ronald T. Rodriguez, a man whose clothing and demeanor
made him seem like a tenth grade science teacher disguised as a
cop. Rodriguez, having been told by his chief that a reporter for
Snapdragon
was interested in the case, wasn’t surprised to
see me, but then, he probably hadn’t registered surprise since
1996, when the Yankees came back in Game Four of the World Series
on a three-run home run by Jim Leyritz.

“We didn’t go to Fowler’s house expecting to find a
suspect,” Rodriguez said. “We went looking for expert information
on the gun once the M.E. removed that weird excuse for a bullet
from the vic.”

“Wow. The
vic
? You guys really talk like
that?” I thought only Dennis Farina said “the vic.” Of course, if I
were Miss Marple and someone said “the vic,” they’d probably mean
“the vicar,” and then I’d have to find out what a vicar is, because
before I became an agnostic, I was Jewish, and we don’t have
vicars. But this might be just a hair off-topic.

“We really do,” Rodriguez said without so much as a
tiny grin. He was playing me, and having a great time doing it, so
he couldn’t smile. Probably in his attic at home, a portrait showed
him grinning from ear to ear. “But once we got to the house, and
were allowed in by Fowler’s mother”—he wanted me to know they
hadn’t entered without permission, so the confession couldn’t be
thrown out of court—“we found the gun, and he broke the land speed
record for confessing.”

“No good cop-bad cop?” I asked.

“Nope. Didn’t need it. He owned up within seconds.”
Damn. If the case ever went to trial, and Justin’s Asperger’s
didn’t account for his confession, it would be much more difficult
to discount its importance or validity. Every step I took in this
story seemed to make it worse.

“Who bailed Justin out?” I asked. “Was it his
brother?” Since Kevin had left the house less than an hour before
Justin was released, vowing to get him out immediately, he seemed
the most likely suspect in every way but financially.

“He was bailed out by a bondsman, Terrance McShea of
Carteret, and Mr. McShea’s not saying who put up the money.”

“Is that unusual?”

Rodriguez cast a sideways glance in my direction.
“It’s not unheard of, but it isn’t standard, either. Usually,
there’s no reason to keep the bondholder’s name secret. I’ve only
seen it happen in a couple of cases.” His voice betrayed something
he wanted to say, but he stopped himself.