David Rosenfelt: Play Dead

“Have a lovely day, Your Honor.”

With that, he slams down his gavel. “This hearing is concluded.”

* * * * *

IT HAS TAKEN a while, but I finally understand the joy of sex, and I am now prepared to reveal it to the world.

The purest joy of sex comes from not having to think about it.

About a year ago the person who filled the double role of private investigator and undisputed love of my life, Laurie Collins, left to become the chief of police of Findlay, Wisconsin, her hometown.

We had no contact whatsoever for the next four and a half months, as I tried to convince myself that I hated her. It worked until she called me and asked me to come to Wisconsin to take on a case of a young man accused of a double homicide but whom she considered innocent.

I spent four months in the frozen tundra, won the case, ate a lot of bratwurst, and reconnected with Laurie. When it was time to leave, neither of us could bear the prospect of splitting up again, so we agreed to maintain a long-distance relationship, seeing each other whenever either of us could get away. It’s worked fairly well; since then I’ve gone to Wisconsin three times, and she’s come to Paterson once.

The point of all this is that I no longer have to think about sex or wonder if and when I’m going to have it. When I see Laurie, I’m going to, and when we’re apart, I’m not. It’s incredibly freeing, and pretty much the first time since high school that I’ve spent no time at all wondering whether sex was imminent or possible.

There are other, side benefits as well. For instance, I save gallons of water by cutting back on showers. I always want to be clean, but I don’t have to be “naked in bed with someone” clean, when there’s no chance that’s going to happen. I don’t have to wash the sheets as often; my mouthwash frequency is cut by at least 30 percent… The positives go on and on.

I haven’t talked to Laurie since the Yogi thing began. We usually try to speak every night, but she’s at a police convention in Chicago, and I’ve been pretty busy, so we’ve traded phone messages. I’m not the most sociable guy in the world, and most of the time when I call people I hope their machine answers. This is not the case with Laurie.

The phone is ringing as I walk in after returning from court, and when I pick up I hear her voice. It’s amazing how comforting, how welcoming, how knowing one voice can be. Think Patsy Cline with a New Jersey accent.

I admit it. I may be a little over the top about Laurie.

“Congratulations,” she says. “I just missed a panel on the use of Taser guns watching you on television.”

“I’m sure it was stunning,” I say.

“You were great. I was proud of you.”

“I meant the Taser gun panel must have been stunning. It was a Taser gun joke.”

“Now I’m a little less proud. What are you going to do with Yogi?” she asks.

“Find him a good home. He can stay here until I do, although I haven’t quite discussed it with Tara yet.”

“You think she’ll mind?”

“I think I’ll have to give her an entire box of biscuits as a payoff, but she’ll be okay with it.”

“When do you get him?” she asks.

“I’m supposed to be back at the shelter at three o’clock.”

“Seriously, Andy, I thought what you did was great.”

I shrug off the compliment, and we talk about when we are going to see each other. She has two weeks vacation owed to her, and she’s coming in at the end of the month. It’ll mean showering more, but it’s a small price to pay.

After speaking to Laurie, I do a couple of radio interviews about our victory in court and then head to the shelter to secure my client’s freedom. There is a large media contingent staking out the place, and it takes me ten minutes to get inside.

Fred is waiting for me, a big smile on his face. There aren’t too many happy stories in his job, and he’s obviously relishing this one. “I gave him a bath,” Fred says. “Wait till you see how great he looks.”

We go back to the quarantine section, and he gives me the honor of taking Yogi out of the cage. Yogi does, in fact, look great, freshly scrubbed and wagging his tail at the prospect of imminent freedom.

Yogi and I leave, having once again to go through the media throng to get to the car. I’ve said all I have to say, and Yogi doesn’t even bother barking a “no comment.” We both just want to get the hell out of here.

When we get home I lead Yogi directly into the backyard. I then go into the house and bring Tara back there as well, feeling that somehow the meeting will go better outside. It goes amazingly well; Tara doesn’t seem to show any jealousy at all. My guess is, I’ll hear about it later when we’re alone, but right now she’s the gracious hostess.

I grab a pair of leashes, planning to take them for a walk in Eastside Park, which is about five blocks from my house. We’re halfway down the block, walking at a leisurely pace, when I hear a voice.

“Reggie!”

Suddenly, instead of holding two leashes, I’m only holding one, Tara’s. Yogi has taken off like a track star exploding out of the blocks, surprising me and breaking out of my grip on his leash.

I panic for a moment, fearful that he will run into the street and get hit by a car. I turn to see that he is still on the sidewalk, running in the other direction toward a young woman, perhaps in her early twenties. The woman is down on one knee, waiting for Yogi to arrive. She doesn’t have to wait long; for a middle aged dog, Yogi can really motor.

Yogi takes off about five feet from her, flying and landing on her. She rolls back, laughing, with him on top of her. They roll and hug for about fifteen seconds; I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a happier human or dog.

Tara and I walk back to them; Tara seems as surprised by this turn of events as I am. As we reach them, the woman is struggling to get to her feet, no easy job since Yogi is still draped all over her.

“I have a hunch you two know each other,” I say, displaying my gift for understatement.

She is giggling and, apparently, incredibly excited. “We sure do. We sure do. God, do we ever!”

“I’m Andy Carpenter,” I say.

She nods again. “I know. I saw you and Reggie on television,” she gushes. “I followed you here from the shelter. I’m Karen Evans.”

“His real name is Reggie?” I ask.

“Yup. He was my brother’s dog. My brother is Richard Evans.”

She says the name as if it’s supposed to mean something to me. “How can you be sure it’s him?” I ask, though from Yogi’s-or Reggie’s-reaction I have little doubt that she’s telling the truth.

“The cut marks. My brother rescued him from a shelter when he was a year old. He had the marks then, and the vet had said that his previous owner had wired his jaw shut, maybe to stop him from barking. Is that the most awful thing you’ve ever heard?”

“How would the vet know that?” I ask.

“If you look, you’ll see that there are faint cut marks under his mouth as well. It’s from the wire being wrapped around.”

I hadn’t noticed that, but I look under his mouth, and sure enough, there they are. If there was any doubt she was telling the truth, that doubt has now been eliminated.

The Golden Retriever Formerly Known as Yogi starts tapping Karen with his paw, in an effort to get her to resume petting him. She starts laughing again and obliges. “Mr. Carpenter-”

“Andy.”

“Andy, do you realize how unbelievably amazing this is?”

“It really is,” I say, though that seems to be a little strong. She seems like the type who finds a lot of things to be unbelievably amazing.

“It’s a miracle,” she proclaims.