David Rosenfelt - Dog Tags

I think we’re set up as well as we can be.

Unfortunately, our high-tech operation is delayed by the fact that we can’t find an acceptable parking space, and it’s impossible to double-park on this street. James Bond never seemed to have these problems.

Fortunately a young couple walks up the street and gets in their car, so we wait behind them to pull in when they pull out. Then we experience a phenomenon that is becoming more and more common, and which drives me crazy. It takes them a full five minutes to pull out.

I have no idea what people do in this situation. Are they running through a checklist, like an airplane pilot? “Seat belts… check. Key in the ignition… check. Radio tuned to FM… check.” They’re probably driving to Teaneck, but they act like they’re flying to Tel Aviv.

Finally they pull out, and we pull in behind them. Things are really cooking now.

Juliet had told me to keep Erskine’s shirt in an airtight plastic bag, so that Milo would not smell it in advance. When Laurie and I leave, I give her the bag, but she doesn’t open it.

Once Laurie, Marcus, and I are in our respective positions, I see Juliet get out of the car with Milo, leading him on a leash. I’ve gone over the mechanics of the night of the murder with her, so she knows the various landmarks.

Juliet takes Milo to the tree where he sat that night, waiting for Billy to signal him that he should make his move on Erskine. I can’t hear what she is saying to him, but she makes a motion for him to sit, and he does so willingly. He seems to respond to her well, and is allowing her to control him. I would think that’s a good sign.

With Milo sitting there out in the open, I see Marcus nearby, looking around warily. If there is any suspicious occurrence, be it from a pedestrian or a car coming down the street, I know Marcus will intervene and end the demonstration.

Juliet walks over to the front of the building, where Erskine stood that night, and Milo watches her. She just stands there for five minutes, and then walks slowly to the spot down the street where the murder took place. Milo does not take his eyes off her as she walks.

Once she reaches the murder spot, she waits another few minutes, and then takes the shirt out of the bag. She motions to Milo and calls out something I can’t hear. Milo jumps up from his spot and races toward Juliet, and for a moment I’m afraid he’s going to attack her. But she seems unconcerned, holding the shirt in front of her and not backing away at all.

Milo leaps in the air and grabs the shirt, and Laurie and I get ready, hoping that Milo will now do what we want, which is take the shirt to the same place he took the envelope. With the shirt in his mouth, he comes to a graceful landing and then…

Nothing.

Milo just sits where he landed, holding the shirt in his mouth in triumph, offering it to Juliet and not moving a muscle. I see her talking to him, but all he does is look up at her, the shirt in his mouth not concealing the smile on his face.

She pets him, complimenting him on a job well done, which I assume is a simultaneous admission of defeat. His tail is wagging a mile a minute at the praise.

Laurie, Marcus, and I walk over to them, and Juliet says, “It’s not happening. He doesn’t completely trust me.”

I nod. “Billy said it would be a trust issue.”

“You’d have a better chance than me,” she says. “Because he’s living with you. I could teach you the technique, but it will take a while.”

“Might as well try it,” I say, and then turn to Milo. “You trust me, right, big guy?”

Milo just sits there, not committing one way or the other.

“Talk to Tara; she’ll vouch for me. But if she tells you about the time I ran out of biscuits, it wasn’t my fault.”

CHAPTER 35

CHAPLIN AND FREEMAN, INC., OBVIOUSLY NEVER GOT THE MEMO ABOUT THE FINANCIAL CRISIS. While most of Wall Street has made something of a show of cutting back on extravagant spending, C&F Investments, as the medium-size hedge fund is known on the street, has opted not to be a part of that particular show.

Admittedly, so far my only frame of reference is the lobby, which is modern and very expensively furnished. There is a large painting on the wall signed by Picasso, and unless it’s Freddie Picasso from Parsippany, New Jersey, it has to be worth a fortune.

If there is blame to be assigned for this ostentatiousness, it will have to be laid at the feet of Jonathan Chaplin, the man I am here to see. Stanley Freeman, the other founding partner, is off the hook, since he was killed in the blast that took Billy Zimmerman’s leg in Iraq.

The receptionist is a woman, probably in her early twenties, who is absolutely beautiful. Maybe it’s just based on my limited experience, but I find that upscale firms, be they legal or financial, always have great-looking young receptionists. Downscale firms like mine have Edna.

Whenever I approach receptionists like this I reflect on the fact that I spent my early twenties in bars, trying to meet women, when I should have been hanging out in lobbies. Who knew?

Before I say a word, she says, “Mr. Carpenter?” Either they don’t have many visitors, or her efficiency matches her looks.

“Yes.”

“Welcome to Chaplin and Freeman. Mr. Chaplin is available to see you now. May I offer you something to drink?”

I decline the offer, and another young woman instantly appears to escort me back to Chaplin’s office. It is a study in chrome and black leather, with what I’m sure is even more expensive art on the wall than was in the lobby. I don’t look too hard to check out the signatures, because they’re probably paintings somebody sophisticated should recognize instantly, and I don’t want to look like an uneducated peasant.

The place is so clean that it looks like it’s been detailed. This includes Chaplin’s glass desk, which has only a computer and a phone on it. There isn’t a piece of paper to be seen anywhere. Nor is there any in drawers, since there are no drawers.

Chaplin is around fifty, and probably twenty pounds heavier than he was when he was forty. His hair is jet black, a likely giveaway that it’s really gray. “Mr. Carpenter, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says. “I’m a fan of yours.”

“Really? I haven’t seen you at club meetings.”

He smiles tolerantly. “I’m sort of a courtroom junkie. Not that I attend, but I like to follow legal cases… read about the trials. I think if I had to do it over again I would become a defense attorney.”

“That makes one of us.”

He smiles, a little more condescendingly than before. “What would your choice be?”

“Super Bowl–winning quarterback for the New York Giants, after which I would become a network analyst.”

“Sounds like Phil Simms.”

I nod. “Bastard beat me to it.”

Another smile, moving even farther up the condescending scale, and then, “So how can I help you? Looking to invest your millions?”

I must look surprised, because he says, “I believe in being prepared. I like to check out people I’m going to meet with, and in this case I learned of your inheritance.”

“Thanks, but I’m pleased with the way my money is being handled,” I say.

“May I ask who helps you with your estate?”

“Edna’s nephew Freddie.”

“I don’t believe I’m familiar with him.” He says it in an annoying, pompous way, probably because he is an annoying, pompous guy.

“Really? He’s five ten, maybe a hundred sixty pounds, a small mole on the side of his neck… his mother is Edna’s sister Doris.”

“So why are you here, Mr. Carpenter?”

I have no doubt that he knows why I’m here, since I believe him when he says he checked me out thoroughly before my arrival. However, I play along and tell him that I’m representing Billy. “Two of your colleagues were killed in the same explosion that cost my client his leg.”