New Tricks (8 page)

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“It was on the news. They were talking about the Timmerman case, and they mentioned that you had custody of him. His father
was apparently a legend in the dog show world.”

I’m surprised and a little annoyed that the word has gotten out; I hope people don’t start coming around trying to get a look
at him. I glance over at Waggy, who has jumped off Tara and is now smacking a tennis ball with his paw and then chasing it
around the room. “I’m not so sure he’d be proud of his son.”

We have dinner and then settle down to drink wine and watch a movie. It’s nights like these that give me a weird, certainly
unwarranted feeling of continuity. As soon as Laurie arrives it’s as if she never left, and my remembering that she’ll soon
be leaving again is both surprising and jarring.

The movie we watch is called
Peggy Sue Got Married,
a Francis Ford Coppola film made in the 1980s about Kathleen Turner magically going back to high school and reliving those
difficult years, with the benefit of knowing what life has in store for her.

It’s something I occasionally think about. What would I do if I could start over, knowing everything that has happened since?
I don’t really know, but I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t involve law school. And I’d make a fortune betting on sporting events
of which I already know the outcome.

When it’s over I ask Laurie what she would do differently now that she knows how things have worked out. My hope is that maybe
she’ll say she wouldn’t have moved to Wisconsin.

“Nothing,” she says. “Because I don’t want to know how things will work out. That’s not what the real world is about.”

“I understand that. I’m just presenting a fake-world hypothetical. What if you could go back, knowing what was going to happen
in your life? How would you change it? What would you do differently?”

“I’d eat less chocolate.”

“You’re not taking this seriously,” I say.

She nods. “Correct. Because if I knew what was going to happen in my life, it wouldn’t be living. I take each day as it comes.”

I shake my head in frustration, though I’m not sure why I keep pushing this. “Of course you take each day as it comes. Everybody
does; there’s no choice. What I’m trying to do is get you to imagine knowing about the days before they come.”

“Andy, would you like to know what is going to happen before it does?”

“Of course.”

“And it would change your behavior?” she asks.

“Absolutely.”

“Okay, let’s try it. If you keep talking about this, we’re not going to make love tonight, and I’m going to sleep in the guest
bedroom.”

“Can we drop this whole thing?” I ask. “I mean, it’s just a stupid movie.”

“Maybe it works after all,” she says.

I
SET AN EARLY MEETING
with Sam Willis to bring him on board.

Sam has been my accountant for as long as I can remember, and has an office down the hall. In the last couple of years he
has also taken on assignments as a key investigator for me, a task that he accomplishes without even leaving his desk.

Sam has mastered cyberspace and can navigate it to find out pretty much anything. He is simply a genius at hacking into government
agencies, corporations, or any other entity naive enough to think it is secure. If I need a phone record, or a bank statement,
or a witness’s background, all I need to do is put Sam on the case. The fact that it’s not always strictly legal is not something
that has kept either of us awake nights.

I set the meeting at nine o’clock, because I’m due in Hatchet’s chambers at ten thirty to give him an update on what is happening
with Waggy. It’s a meeting that was arranged before I took Steven on as a client, and I’m hoping the new situation will at
least get me off the Waggy hook.

I’m in the office at nine sharp, and Sam arrives ten minutes later. Sam always has a disheveled look about him, and it’s exaggerated
in the summer, when he’s hot and sweaty. Today is a particularly stifling day, and he comes in looking much the worse for
wear. Sam has often said he would rather the temperature were ten than eighty.

“Hot out there,” I say after he has grabbed a cold soda.

He nods. “You ain’t kidding. Summer in the city. Back of my neck gettin’ dirty and gritty.”

Sam and I are practitioners of a juvenile hobby we call “song-talking,” during which we try to work song lyrics into our conversations.
Sam is a master at it; if they gave out rankings in song-talking he would be a black belt.

He’s opened with a Lovin’ Spoonful gambit. Fortunately, I am somewhat familiar with it, so hopefully I can compete. I nod
sympathetically. “Isn’t it a pity. There doesn’t seem to be a shadow in the city.”

He doesn’t miss a beat, walking over to the window and looking down on the street. He shakes his head sadly. “All around the
people looking half dead, walking on the sidewalk, hotter than a match head.”

“You’re too good for me,” I say. “You ready to start the meeting?”

“If we have to,” he says, with some resignation.

“I need some help on a case.”

He brightens immediately. “You do? Why didn’t you say so?”

“I just did. That’s how you found out about it.”

“I mean when you called me. I figured you wanted me to do some boring accountant stuff.”

“Sam, you’re an accountant.”

“And you’re a lawyer, but I don’t see you jumping for joy on the judge’s table.”

“Bench,” I say. “The judge sits behind a bench.”

“Whatever. What do you need me to do?”

“Find out whatever you can about Walter Timmerman.”

“The dead drug guy?” he asks.

I nod. “The dead drug guy.”

“What do you want to know about him?”

“Ultimately, I want to know why he’s not still a live drug guy, but don’t limit yourself. I want to know about his money;
how he earned it and where he spent it. I want to know who he spoke to on the phone in the last month before he died. If he
sent e-mails I want to see them, if he traveled I want to know where he went and who he went with. Basically, anything you
can find out about him interests me.”

“What’s the time frame?” he asks.

I just stare at him and frown. He knows that everything is a rush.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m on it.”

“Thanks, Sam. As always, I appreciate it.”

He shrugs. “Hey Andy, you just call out my name, and you know wherever I am, I’ll come running.”

I’m pretty sure he’s doing James Taylor. “Winter, spring, summer, or fall?” I ask.

He nods. “All you have to do is call.”

This could go on forever, so I attempt to end the conversation, though I can’t resist a final jab. “Okay, Sam, we’re done
here. My body’s aching and my time is at hand.”

“No problem,” he says. “But Andy…”

“Yes?”

“Remember, you’ve got a friend. Ain’t it good to know? You’ve got a friend.”

Hatchet is handling an arraignment when I arrive at the courthouse, and I have to wait about half an hour outside his chambers.
When he finally arrives, he forgets to apologize for the slight, and keeps me waiting another five minutes before calling
me in.

Once I come in, he says, “Have you resolved the issue?”

“About the dog?”

“What other issue is there?” he asks.

“Well, Your Honor, as you are well aware, I’m now representing the defendant in the case. It seems like a clear conflict.”

“Then resolve it, and the conflict will go away.”

“Well, Your Honor, there has been something of a change in circumstances regarding the two people seeking custody of the dog.
One is dead, and the other is in prison.”

“Well, then I have a new contender for you to consider.” He searches through some notes on his desk. “Judge Parker’s office
forwarded this. A man named”—he squints to read the name— “Charles Robinson has contacted the court seeking custody of the
dog. He represents himself as a close friend of Walter Timmerman, and a partner of his in the showing of dogs.”

Charles Robinson is someone I’m vaguely familiar with, and I know him to be a multimillionaire who has made his money in oil
and real estate. There have always been vague accusations that his dealings are shady, but as far as I know he has never faced
any criminal charges. “Thank you, Your Honor, I’ll certainly consider Mr. Robinson. But I do need to make sure the dog is
placed in a loving—”

Hatchet interrupts. “Have I given you the impression that I care what happens to this dog?”

“Well—”

“Resolve the matter. Either give him to Robinson or find another solution.”

“Yes, Your Honor. Right away.”

The phone on Hatchet’s desk rings, and he looks at it as if it were from another planet. He picks it up. “Clara, I told you
that I was not to be disturbed. Now…” He stops, an expression on his face that I haven’t seen before. “I see… put him on.”
Another pause, and then: “Just a moment.”

He hands the phone to me, the last thing I would have expected. “It’s for you,” he says.

I am gripped by tension. For Hatchet to allow himself to be interrupted by a phone call for me staggers, and scares the shit
out of, the imagination.

“Hello?”

I hear Pete Stanton’s strained and nervous voice. “Andy, it’s Pete.”

“What is it? What’s going on?”

“Andy, I’m at the hospital. Laurie’s been shot.”

I can feel my knees start to buckle, and I half fall toward Hatchet’s desk. “Is she all right? Pete, is she all right?”

“Andy, I don’t know… I just don’t know.”

“Pete, tell me the truth. TELL ME THE GODDAMN TRUTH!”

“Andy, they don’t know if she’s going to make it.”

I
THINK
H
ATCHET SAYS SOMETHING
,
some expression of sympathy or concern, but I’m not sure.

Everything seems a blur, and I literally stagger out of his office, heading for the elevator to take me downstairs. I think
Pete said there was someone or something waiting for me down there, but I could be wrong.

When I reach the street level, two uniformed policemen seem to be waiting for me. “Mr. Carpenter?”

I nod.

“We’ll be taking you to the hospital.”

I nod again and follow them to their car. It could be the next-to-last car ride I will ever take, because if Laurie does not
pull through, I am going to get in my own car and drive it off a cliff.

I don’t ask the officers what they know, because they probably don’t know anything, and wouldn’t be authorized to tell me
if they did. The horrible fear that keeps popping up, easily overwhelming my well-developed sense of denial, is that Laurie
might already be gone. If she was, Pete wouldn’t have told me over the phone. He would have done just what he did, which was
cushion me for the blow by telling me how badly she was hurt.

The Barnert Hospital is on Broadway in Paterson, about fifteen minutes from the courthouse. There is little traffic, but it
feels as if the trip takes three weeks. They finally pull up to the emergency room entrance, and I rush to jump out, only
to find that the car door is locked.

“Open the door!” I yell. “Open the damn door!”

I hear a popping noise and this time when I pull on the handle the door opens. I get out and run into the emergency room.
Kevin is there waiting, and the stricken, anguished look on his face tells me that Laurie is gone.

But she’s not.

“She’s in surgery, Andy. She went in half an hour ago.”

I am having trouble processing words. “She’s alive? Is that what you’re saying? She’s still alive?”

“Yes. That’s what they told me.”

My feet suddenly feel unable to support my weight, and I move over to some metal chairs. Kevin sits down next to me. “Please
tell me everything you know,” I say. “Everything.”

It turns out that Kevin doesn’t know much. Laurie was in the front yard of my house throwing a tennis ball with Tara and Waggy
when she was shot. She took the bullet in the upper thigh, which became horribly serious because it happened to sever the
carotid artery, causing massive blood loss. Only the quick actions of my neighbor, who called 911 and then rushed over to
put pressure on the wound, kept her alive.