David Rosenfelt - New Tricks

There is no evidence, not a shred, that the DNA dustup between Walter Timmerman and Robert Jacoby had anything to do with his murder, or that of his wife. All it provides me with is a hunch, and a road to go down.

Which is better than nothing, but not by much.

LAURIE IS COMING HOME.

With special equipment, and her team of therapists, and me, and two squad cars that Pete Stanton is sending along for protection. It will be a glorious procession down Park Avenue in Paterson.

Laurie said that Dr. Norville is delighted with her progress, though it is hard for me to picture him delighted. She swears that he even smiled once. A little.

He told her that she has at least two months of therapy ahead of her, but that over time she should regain full movement and normal speech. She starts to cry as she tells me this; it has obviously been an incredibly emotional and trying experience for her.

I turn away and pretend to help her pack so she won’t see me tearing up as well. Crying is for girls; besides, I’ve been there, done that while Laurie was in a coma.

Laurie understands that she will not be able to work for at least the two months, and she has so notified the city manager in Findlay. Her second in command will fill in, no doubt adequately, since Findlay is not exactly Dodge City. Except for the aberrational murders that I went up there to investigate a couple of years ago, the closest Findlay has come to violence in the streets was when word got out that Brett Favre was going to the Jets.

“Andy, are you okay with my staying at your house through all this?” she asks.

I think for a moment, trying to search my memory to see if I’ve ever heard a stupider question. None comes to mind.

“Let’s try it for an hour or two and see if it works out,” I say.

“I’m serious,” she says. “It will cause some turmoil.” There are some sounds that she is still having trouble saying, and the oy sound is one of them. It sounds like turmill . I can see the frustration in her face as she hears herself.

“There is nothing that would give me more pleasure than you spending two months at our house.”

I’m sure she noticed that I said “our house,” but she doesn’t correct me. In my pathetic little world, that qualifies as a damn good sign.

Laurie is very shaky on her feet, so she doesn’t resist the hospital’s policy that patients must use a wheelchair on departure. They will let me do the pushing, and once we make final arrangements for the therapist’s equipment to arrive, we’re off.

I feel a hell of a lot better leaving than I did the night I arrived.

When we get home, Laurie wants to walk into the house under her own power, though she holds on to my arm as she does. I help her up the steps and into bed, and I can see that the effort has exhausted her.

“Andy, it’s so good to be here. I feel better already.”

“That’s good, because you’re going to have to pull your own weight. Light housework, cooking, some gardening, sexual favors, that kind of thing.”

Laurie doesn’t answer, mainly because she is already sound asleep. I’ll have to write that line down to use it later.

I call Willie and ask him to bring Tara and Waggy over. He’s busy at the foundation, and promises to do so when they close for the evening. I’m slightly nervous about this, since we have determined that possession of Waggy has proven somewhat unhealthy in the past. But for the time being I won’t take the dogs for public walks; I’ll just play with them in the backyard, which is surrounded by a fence and can’t be seen from off the property.

Laurie wakes up ravenously hungry and anxious to eat the farthest thing possible from hospital food. Since my understanding of cooking ranks with my understanding of DNA, I offer her a bunch of take-out options. She chooses Taco Bell, and I can’t say I’m disappointed with the choice.

I go to the Taco Bell on Route 4 in nearby Elmwood Park and pretty much order everything on the menu. When I get back, Tara and the maniacal Waggy greet me at the door. Willie is sitting on the edge of Laurie’s bed, and they are laughing and enjoying each other’s company.

Things are getting back to normal, and normal is damn good.

Willie takes one look at the bags of food, smacks his hands together, and announces that he is starved. That, coupled with Laurie’s previously announced hunger, is going to leave me sucking on the sauce packets for nourishment.

I bring out a large tray and some plates, and we eat right there in the bedroom. I wind up with a steak quesadilla and half of a chalupa, and consider myself lucky. Laurie and Willie eat enough for twelve normal people.

As I’m cleaning up, the phone rings, and Laurie answers it. Her “hello” is soon followed with, “Great! I’m doing great! It’s so nice to hear from you.”

What follows is a three-or four-minute conversation, mostly about Laurie’s condition, job status, and immediate plans. There are long pauses in which she listens to apparently lengthy replies. It all ultimately ends with, “He’s right here, Marcus. I’ll put him on.”

As she hands me the phone, I say, “You’ve been having that conversation with Marcus? My Marcus?” The longest conversation he and I have ever had consisted of six grunts and a nod. The way this one sounded, Laurie could have been talking to Henry Kissinger.

I take the phone and Marcus says, “Got him.”

“Who? Childs?”

“Yuh. Bergen Street.”

“Where on Bergen Street?”

“Elevator.”

I was once present when Marcus questioned someone in a dilapidated old warehouse at the end of Bergen Street near the Passaic River, hanging him out over a sixth-floor elevator shaft to encourage his truthful responses. It was vintage Marcus, and I think that he’s now telling me he has Childs at the same place.

“You got questions?” he asks.

“For him? Absolutely. Should I come down there?”

“Now,” he says, and hangs up.

I get up and tell Laurie and Willie about the conversation. Willie insists on going with me, an idea that Laurie encourages. That area can be dangerous at night, and in Childs we are talking about a hired killer, albeit one whom Marcus apparently has under control.

I’d certainly like to bring Willie along, since I’m generally afraid of being alone in my bedroom if it gets too dark. He also shares Laurie’s ability to understand Marcus’s unique way of speaking. I’m reluctant to leave Laurie alone for an extended time, but she points out that her assailant is obviously not available at the moment to come after her.

Willie and I drive down to the designated meeting place, which if anything is more run-down than it was last time. Marcus signals to us from a window on the sixth floor, and we start trudging up the steps. When we’re on the third-floor landing, a rat runs across the floor in front of us, causing me to jump so high I almost fall back down the steps.

“I’ve got to make some changes in my life,” I say, once I’ve recovered.

By the time we get to the sixth floor, I am gasping for air, or dust, or anything else I can take in. Willie, on the other hand, looks like he could go another fifty or sixty stories.

We enter a large room, lit only by moonlight through the window and a large flashlight that Marcus has rested on a table. He is sitting calmly in a chair, while a man I have never seen before sits on the floor, tied to a radiator. Even in the sitting position, it is obvious he is very large, maybe four inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than Marcus. He looks none the worse for wear; Marcus apparently got him into this position without resorting to violence.