David Rosenfelt: Play Dead

She agrees to convey my offer, and I get the feeling she’s relishing doing so. I also wouldn’t be surprised if she testified for our side, should this ever go to trial.

I head home for a planned meeting with Pete Stanton. Pete is feeling pretty good right now; the arrests of Stacy Harriman and Anthony Banks are by far the biggest of his career. He’s been all over the media talking about it, including an interview on the Today Show this morning. He has had to say repeatedly that he can’t reveal details of the investigation, so basically all he does is smile a lot.

If Pete is grateful to me for putting him in this position, he’s hiding it well. I tell him that there are a few things I still can’t figure out, and ask if he can fill me in on where the investigation stands.

“I should tell you, a private citizen, about confidential police work?” he asks. “Why would I do that?”

“Let me take a shot at a reason,” I say. “How about so you’re not forced to buy your own beer from now on at Charlie’s?”

“On the other hand, we need more openness between law enforcement and the private citizenry,” he says.

“Since it obviously wasn’t Stacy, whose body washed up on shore?” I ask.

“Still no ID on that. We’re checking missing-persons records for that period. Whoever it was, they took her hair and put it on the hairbrush at Richard’s house and then put some of her blood on the boat, so it would seem to match Stacy’s DNA.”

“They would have had to find someone with the same body type, hair color…”

He shakes his head sadly. “Good reason to get murdered, you know?”

“Any luck finding Gary Winston?” I ask.

“Not yet… Hopefully Stacy will give him up. But he’ll be found-surgeons aren’t the type to hide in the wilderness eating leaves and shit. They like to come out and have a good meal once in a while.”

As far as I can tell, and Pete agrees, Winston is the last missing member of the conspiracy. Had I realized earlier that Winston was a plastic surgeon, stationed in Afghanistan to deal with serious battle wounds, I might have caught on to the scam earlier.

I hadn’t recognized Durelle or Carelli from their pictures and just assumed that it was because they were taken years ago. In fact, Winston had altered their faces enough to be consistent with new identities, as he had done with Stacy.

Karen was targeted out of fear that because of her closeness to Stacy, she might see through it and recognize her. The night before she was shot, Franklin heard me agreeing to let her accompany me to Short Hills to see Hamadi. Their fear was that she might see Stacy then or shortly thereafter.

Stacy had obviously only pretended to be a witness for the government, to deflect suspicion from her. She was actually a key conspirator but allowed herself to be put into WITSEC, knowing full well she would not remain there.

“When is your client getting out of jail?” Pete asks.

“I’m working on it.”

“Let me see if I understand this,” he says. “You lose a murder case in which there was no murder, and you can’t spring your client even though the victim turned up?”

“These things are complicated.”

Pete nods. “I know one thing for sure. Clarence Darrow, you ain’t.”

* * * * *

“CHECK YOUR E-MAIL.”

That is the short and to-the-point message from Alice Massengale that is on my answering machine when I return from my morning walk with Tara and Reggie. Tara is clearly loving having Reggie back, so much so that I’m thinking maybe I should get another dog when he leaves. I’ll have to discuss it with her.

I turn on my computer, and I see an e-mail from Massengale, which seems to contain a document to be downloaded. After ten minutes of trying, I am forced to admit that downloading is simply not something at which I have the required expertise.

I am about to call Sam Willis, when the doorbell rings. It is Karen, coming over to find out in person if we’ve made any progress in getting Richard out of jail. The situation is even more frustrating to her than to me.

“Do you know how to download something from an e-mail?” I ask.

“You don’t ?” is her incredulous response.

“Of course I do. It’s just that you said you wanted to help out on Richard’s case, and-”

“Where is it?”

I take her over to the computer, and she sits down. She makes a few clicks with the mouse, and within thirty seconds she is jumping up and down and screaming with pure joy.

My instincts tell me this is good news, but I sit down and look at the screen to find out just how good. The document Massengale sent is a letter, for me to sign, essentially agreeing on behalf of the government to the terms as I presented them to her.

Richard is going to be free, and Richard is going to be rich.

Karen prints out the agreement, and I sign it. She offers to hand-deliver it to Massengale’s office so I can focus on the mechanics of getting Richard out of jail.

I place a call to Hawpe’s office and am pleased to learn that the process has already begun. Massengale had assumed I would find the terms acceptable, since they were my terms, and had taken the initial necessary steps.

Once I’ve done all I can over the phone, I head down to the prison. It is my opinion, based on very substantial feedback over the years, that I can be even more obnoxious and annoying in person than on the phone.

Even under my relentless prodding, there is a limit to how fast the bureaucracy will move, and it’s not until three o’clock that I get to enjoy the sight of Richard Evans walking through the prison doors to freedom.

He sees me immediately and comes over. We just stare at each other for a few moments.

“It took you long enough,” I say.

He smiles. “Sorry-I was tied up.”

With that we hug. I’m not a big fan of hugs, and man hugs are my least favorite, but this one is okay.

“Come on,” I say. “There’s somebody at my house who wants to see you.”

When we pull up to my house, Karen, Reggie, and Tara are on the porch waiting for us. Richard has the door open even before I bring the car to a full stop, and he heads for the porch. He doesn’t quite get there, because Reggie comes bounding down the steps and leaps on him.

Within moments Richard and Reggie are on the ground, with Richard on his knees, hugging and petting him. Reggie’s tail is wagging a mile a minute, and he seems to be doing his best to lick the skin off Richard’s face.

“You saved me, buddy. You saved me.” Richard says it over and over, punctuated by laughs. Reggie doesn’t comment, so I assume he agrees and is being modest. And Reggie did save Richard’s life, as certainly as Lassie ever saved anyone.

“Is this great, or what?” says Karen, constantly dabbing at her eyes. She comes over to hug Richard, but Reggie doesn’t seem to be in the mood to share.

Yes, it’s definitely great.

Tara stands off to the side, watching the scene, clearly bewildered that she is not receiving any of this affection. She comes over to me, and I pick up the slack and pet her, but she knows she’s getting the short end of the stick.

We go into the house, and I fill Richard in on what I have learned from Pete or figured out on my own.

“Do you have any idea where Reggie was all these years?” he asks.

I nod. “With Stacy. She drugged you on the boat, and when you were unconscious, she left on another boat with one of her partners. She took Reggie with her.”

“Why?”

I shrug. “I think she genuinely loved him. It’s why she had him taken from my house.”

“So how did he get away from her?”

“There was a storm last March, and a tree fell and badly damaged the house she was living in. My guess is that Reggie was home alone and that he took off when that happened.”