David Rosenfelt - Play Dead

Richard shakes his head vigorously. “I never took sleeping pills. Not that night, not ever in my life. I didn’t even have any. They were not mine.”

“Were they Stacy’s?” I ask.

“I don’t believe so. If they were, she never mentioned it. I never knew her to have trouble sleeping.”

“So you have no idea how they got in your system?”

He shakes his head. “None at all.”

We talk some more about the night of the murder, but he has little else to add. While the important things were happening, he was asleep. All he remembers is a pleasant night out on the water, dinner, some wine, and an early trip to bed since he was tired from working all day.

I turn the focus to his job, that of a senior customs inspector at the Port of Newark. I ask him if there was anything about his job that could have made him a target.

“No, nothing,” he says. “It was a slow time.”

The answer is a little quick for my tastes. “Richard, I want you to understand something. You may not have committed this murder, but someone did. Someone with a reason. Now, that reason could involve you or Stacy, or the two of you together. So you need to open your mind to anyone who could have possibly hoped to gain from putting you in this position.”

“Don’t you think I’ve done nothing but think about that for five years? If someone was trying to get rid of me because I knew something, they shouldn’t have bothered, because I sure as hell don’t know that I know it. Besides, if I was a danger to someone, why not just kill me?”

It’s a good question, and one I eventually must answer. But for now I take him through a description of day-to-day life on his job. Border security in this era of terrorism has taken on an obviously extreme importance, and it was Richard’s task to make sure that the Port of Newark was as free of contraband as possible.

Finally, I turn the conversation to Stacy, and even five years later, it’s evident that his grief over her loss is still powerful. “How did you meet?” I ask.

“At a counter, having lunch. She was sitting next to me, and before I knew it we were having a conversation. We had dinner that night, and it just went from there.”

“Where was she from?” Kevin asks.

“Minnesota… a town just outside of Minneapolis. Her parents were killed in a car crash when she was eighteen. She worked there and then decided to move east.”

“What did she do?”

“She was a teacher, but what she really wanted was to be a chef. The things she made were incredible. She wanted to open her own restaurant.”

He talks about Stacy for a while longer, answering every question but never getting much below surface platitudes. He makes her sound so perfect she reminds me of Laurie.

“Were you in the Army?” I ask.

He nods. “National Guard. Served three months in Kuwait during the first Gulf war.”

“Do the names Archie Durelle or Antwan Cooper mean anything to you?”

His facial expression shows no recognition at all. “No, I don’t think so,” he says. “Who are they?”

I’m not ready to tell him that they took a shot at me on the highway. “Just some names I’ve heard; I’m checking out everything I can.”

The last ten minutes of our visit are devoted to the obligatory questions he has about progress we might be making and strategy we might be employing. I fend them off because basically we’re not making any progress and don’t yet have a strategy.

Once Kevin and I are in the car, I ask, “So, what do you think?”

“I find myself wanting to believe him.”

“Do you believe him?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Not yet. His version is just too full of holes. The prosecution has it locked up airtight.”

“Except for Reggie. Reggie says he’s innocent,” I say.

“He told you that?”

“Not in so many barks, but I got the message.”

I like dogs considerably more than I like humans. That doesn’t make me antihuman; there are plenty of humans I’m very fond of. But generally speaking, if I simultaneously meet a new human and a new dog, I’m going to like the dog more.

I’m certainly going to trust the dog more. They’re going to tell me what they think, straight out, and I’m not going to have to read anything into it. They are what they are, while very often humans are what they aren’t.

I say this fully aware that dogs cannot replace humans in our day-to-day lives. I have never met a competent dog airline pilot, short-order cook, quarterback, or bookmaker. These are necessary functions that we must trust humans to provide, and I recognize that. It’s not that I’m an eccentric about this.

So for now I’m going to pursue this case, even though Richard has nothing going for him.

Except for Reggie.

* * * * *

JOEL MARSHAL IS on the front lines, protecting our country.

I can’t say he looks the part. At about five eight and a hundred and fifty pounds, he’s one of the few male adults under ninety that I would be willing to get in the ring with. As a protector of the country, he is not the type you would describe as someone “you want on that wall, you need on that wall.”

Marshal is U.S. Customs director for the Port of Newark, and it’s his job to ensure that the endless flow of cargo that comes in each year does not include things like drugs, guns, anthrax, and nuclear bombs. It is a daunting task, which is why I’m surprised it was so easy to get an immediate meeting with him.

It may have been a quickly arranged meeting, but it won’t be a long one. He’s looking at his watch almost as soon as I sit down. It’s a common tactic; I think watches are more often used to demonstrate a lack of time than to tell time.

“Thanks for seeing me so soon,” I say. “I won’t take much of your time.”

“I appreciate that,” he says. “It’s a busy day today.” He glances at his watch again, though less than fifteen seconds have passed since the last time he looked. “What can I do for you?”

He says this with what seems to be a permanent smile on his face. If the smile could talk, it would say, “I am a political appointee, and this smile is government issue. It doesn’t mean I am happy or amused.”

“I’m representing Richard Evans.”

“Yes, you mentioned that,” he points out, accurately.

“I’m operating under the assumption that the evidence against Mr. Evans was deliberately faked. What I am trying to find out is why.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

I explain that one of my theories is that Richard was targeted because of something involved with his work. He could have been removed from that work because of something he knew, or possibly to get him out of the way.

“It hardly seems likely,” Marshal says. “But in any event, there’s little I can help you with. I’ve only been assigned here for one year, and I had never even met Mr. Evans.”

“So you’re not familiar with his case?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Should I be? It’s pretty much ancient history, and my understanding was that it did not involve his job. It was a personal matter.”

Murders usually are “personal matters,” but I decide not to point this out. “Who replaced him?” I ask.

“I’m not sure. Roy Chaney is in the job now, but I’m not aware if he followed Mr. Evans, or if there was somebody else in the interim.”

“Can you check?”

This prompts another look at his watch and, while not a frown, a slight weakening of the smile. Finally, he asks his assistant to get the information, but it proves to be unnecessary, as the assistant was working here five years ago. She confirms that Chaney replaced Evans.

I thank Marshal and leave. Rather than go straight to my car, I decide to display my awesome investigative prowess and walk aimlessly around the area. It’s an enormous place, with endless, cavernous warehouses starting near the water and stretching well inland.