David Rosenfelt - New Tricks

“Really? Nobody’s ever mentioned anything like that to me.”

Robinson laughs again; I’m thrilled to pieces that he finds me so amusing. “So how do I get my hands on this dog without us fighting it out in court? He’s a champion, and if Walter had lived he’d be competing already.”

“But Walter didn’t live. And another thing he didn’t do was mention you in his will.”

“Hell, I know that. But the two people he did mention are dead and in jail. Walter and I were best friends; we played golf here every day. And we were partners on some dogs. He’d want me to have the Bernese.”

“He told you that?”

“Nah, if he had lived he wouldn’t let me near that dog. He’d want to use it to kick my ass.”

“What does that mean?”

“That dog could be a champion, and winning was all that mattered to Walter.” He laughs again. “Like me.”

“So you were rivals? I thought you were friends?”

He nods. “We were both. All of my friends are rivals.”

“But you were in the dog show business together?” I ask.

“That ain’t business; that’s fun. It’s like owning racehorses, except they eat less and shit less.”

If Robinson had any chance to get me to give him Waggy, which he didn’t, he just blew it. I move my napkin from my lap to the table. It’s my way of telling him I’m about to get up and leave. “If your intention in inviting me here was to give you custody of Waggy, it’s not going to work. I’ve been asked by the judge to decide where he should go, and it won’t be with you.”

For the first time the smile leaves his face, and it is replaced by a cold anger. “You have a problem with me?”

“No, not at all,” I say. “But I’ve got a hunch Waggy would.”

The smile comes back to his face, albeit a little forced. “So what do they say? See you in court, counselor?”

I shrug. “It’s my home away from home.”

FBI SPECIAL AGENT DAMIEN CORVALLIS doesn’t look the part.

He’s maybe five eight, 160 pounds if you tied weights to his feet. Of course, I have no idea why anyone would tie weights to an FBI agent’s feet; I know I wouldn’t. But if someone were to tell you that Corvallis was in law enforcement, you would guess library cop.

On the other hand, he has mastered the disdainful stare that all agents must be taught their first day in FBI school. It tells the person at whom the agent is staring that he is inferior and not worth the agent’s time.

We are at the FBI offices in Newark, and I’m surprised that the only other person in the room is Cindy Spodek, who flew down from Boston this morning. Usually someone in Corvallis’s position would want a bunch of his minions in attendance, so as to intimidate me. That he’s kept the meeting so small could be a sign that he wants to talk frankly. At least I hope so.

Cindy is no doubt here because she knows me, and might be of value in getting me to cooperate. She and I know better, that I am chronically uncooperative, but Corvallis has yet to be enlightened as to that fact.

“So, Agent Spodek informs me that you may have some insights as to who may have killed Walter Timmerman.”

“In addition to the possibility of having some insights, I also know who did it. And the same person killed his wife,” I say. Again, I feel comfortable that if Childs killed Diana, he killed Walter as well. The alternative would be too great a coincidence to believe.

“She also informs me that you can be an irritating pain in the ass.”

I turn to Cindy in mock exasperation. “You’ve betrayed me.”

“Let’s get this over with as soon as possible,” Corvallis says. “What is it you know?”

This guy is annoying me. “Well, for one thing, I know the ground rules for this meeting,” I say. “We will exchange information. You’ll answer my questions, and then I’ll tell you who put a bullet in Timmerman’s head.”

He stares at me for a few moments, looks at Cindy, and then back at me. “Get the hell out of my office,” he says.

I nod and get up. “Have a wonderful day.”

I leave the office and go out into the hall. As I knew she would, Cindy follows me out a few seconds later.

“Let me guess,” I say. “That bozo sent you out here to tell me that you talked him into giving me one more chance, but that if I don’t drop my attitude, I’m not going to find out anything at all, and I will be in deep shit with the bureau.”

She smiles. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”

I return the smile. “You’re incredibly persuasive, Agent Spodek. Now, shall we get this over with?”

We go back in and immediately get down to more serious negotiating. I repeat that I know with certainty who killed Timmerman, but that I can’t reveal how I know. I also tell him that I’ll need him to answer certain questions, and that I will not reveal where I got any information he provides. But I will, of course, use that information in the defense of my client.

“Agreed,” he says. “With the caveat that there will be certain questions I cannot answer.”

I insist on asking the questions first, because I’m not about to tell him what I know and then have him clam up. He goes along with that, which I take as a good sign. Cindy obviously told him I can be counted on to live up to my terms of the deal.

“Why are you conducting an investigation into Walter Timmerman’s death?” I ask.

“We’re not. Our interest in him started well before he died.”

I nod. “Okay. Why were you interested in him?”

“In the last year of his life he was doing scientific work that was of extraordinary importance.”

“Was he doing the work for you?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No, but it was a matter of national security. We were intent on making sure that it did not get into the wrong hands. Let’s just say that Mr. Timmerman was not quite as concerned about national security as we were.”

“So he was going to sell it to the highest bidder?”

“That was a distinct possibility.”

“What kind of work was he doing?”

“That I cannot tell you. It would cost me my job, as it should.”

“Was he murdered because of his work?” I ask.

“I’ll be better able to answer that when I learn who did the murdering.”

I ask some more questions, trying without success to probe into the kind of work Timmerman was doing. If I can demonstrate to a jury that Timmerman was doing something involving dangerous people, then I have a better chance of demonstrating reasonable doubt.

I’m reasonably sure that Corvallis is telling the truth, but I decide to play my last card as a test. “Where does Thomas Sykes fit in with all this?”

Corvallis looks surprised. “Timmerman’s partner? As far as I know, he doesn’t fit in at all.”

I stand up and start sniffing the air. “Anybody smell any bullshit in here?”

“What does that mean?” he asks.

“It means that I know you are working with Sykes, but you just told me you aren’t. And I know that he called you the other day. So why are you telling me otherwise?”

Corvallis nods. “Sykes has been working with us for months; we’ve been using him to learn as much as we can about Timmerman. He’s still under instructions to call us if he learns anything. He told us about your discovery of his affair with Mrs. Timmerman.”

I nod; the explanation makes sense.

“Your turn,” says Corvallis. “Who murdered Timmerman?”

“Jimmy Childs.”

Corvallis doesn’t look surprised, nor does he ask who Jimmy Childs is. Obviously, he is familiar with the man. “How unfortunate for your client that he turned up dead.”