Play Dead Part 8

"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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sumption 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 a.s.signed 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 a.s.sistant to get the information, but it proves to be unnecessary, as the a.s.sistant 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.

There are not many people around, just thousands of unattended boxes and crates. Security is either nonexistent or very subtle; I get the feeling that if one of the boxes had "ANTHRAX IF YOU ARE WITHIN TWO MILES OF THIS CRATE, YOU WILL BE DEAD IN FOUR MINUTES" printed on the side it wouldn't attract attention.

After about twenty minutes of intensive investigating, all I've really managed to do is get lost, to the point that I have no idea where my car is.

I happen upon a small building that contains a few gla.s.s-enclosed offices. A woman sits behind one of the desks, so I lean in and ask if she knows where Joel Marshal's office is, since that's where I parked my car.

She smiles. "Just walk in the direction you were going, and after the second building make a right."

"Thanks," I say, and then decide to try another question. "Do you happen to know where I can find Roy Chaney?"

She smiles again, ever helpful, and calls out, "Roy! Somebody here to see you!"

All this time I thought I was lost, when in fact I was relentlessly zeroing in on Chaney's office. Within a few moments a man I a.s.sume to be Chaney comes out of a rear office and walks toward the doorway, where I am standing. He looks as though he's pus.h.i.+ng 40, pus.h.i.+ng 5'10", and has already pushed past 240 pounds. I wouldn't want to try to sneak any contraband chocolate cupcakes or potato chips into the country with this guy around.

"What can I do for you?" he asks.

"You're Roy Chaney?"

He nods. "Yup. Who are you?"

"My name is Andy Carpenter. I'm an attorney representing Richard Evans."

"Is that right?" he says as he walks past me and out the door, leading me to step out as well. It was a clumsy attempt to conceal that he does not want the woman at the desk to hear the conversation.

"Yes. I understand you replaced him when he went on trial."

"That's right. I didn't know him, though. I mean, we never met. When I got here he was already gone."

I'm not that great a judge of human behavior, but Chaney seems nervous. "But you took over his responsibilities?"

"Right."

"Was there anything unusual about any of the things he was working on? Or any of the people he was working with?"

"Unusual like what?"

"Unusual like something which would have made someone want to get him off the job and out of the way. Do you remember anything like that?"

"No." It's far too quick an answer; this was five years ago, and he would have had no reason to be thinking about those days until my question. This guy is hiding something and is not at all good at it.

"You didn't notice anything out of the ordinary with his work... anything that you might have reported to your superiors?"

"I haven't done anything wrong," he says. "I just show up and do my job." It's an answer completely unresponsive to my question, and when I get those kinds of answers, I usually a.s.sume they are both unresponsive and untruthful.

I give him my card and tell him that he should call me if he thinks of anything. As I'm leaving, he says, "You trying to get Evans out of jail?"

I nod. "I'm doing more than trying."

Laurie calls on my cell phone as I'm leaving the port area.

"Andy? Where are you?" is how she starts the conversation.

"Newark," I say.

"You're kidding," she says.

"I am?"

"Are you serious?" she asks.

"Why would I lie about being in Newark? And why are we having this inane conversation?"

"Because I'm in Newark, also. At the airport."

"Are you serious?" I ask.

"Why would I lie about being in Newark?" she asks, and then laughs. "I got someone to cover for me... We switched vacation times. There was a flight and I rushed to catch it; I tried your cell but it didn't go through. Can you pick me up?"

"Gee, I sort of had plans for tonight," I say as I race at high speed toward the airport.

"Okay, I'll hitch a ride with the good-looking guy I sat next to on the plane."

"Or I can change my plans."

I'm at the terminal within ten minutes, and Laurie is waiting for me outside baggage claim.

She looks fantastic, which does not come as a major surprise. A long flight is not going to affect that; she could go through three wash cycles at Kevin's Law-dromat and come out looking one corsage short of ready for the prom.

As I pull up, I'm faced with a choice. I can get out and help her get the suitcases into the car, or I can let her do it herself. My instinct is to get out, but it means that our hug and kiss h.e.l.lo will take place out in public, surrounded by travelers. If she gets in, we can do it in the car, in relative privacy.

It's decision making like this that is the reason they pay me the big bucks.

I get out, put the suitcases in the trunk, and we do the hug and kiss routine for all Newark Airport to see. It's not ideal, but it's not half bad, either. In fact, it's so not half bad that I briefly consider whether to take a room at the airport hotel.

Five minutes into our ride, Laurie says, "Is this where you got shot at?"

I was so focused on getting Laurie home that I hadn't even noticed that. "Just up ahead."

"Is Marcus around?"

I shrug. "You know Marcus. He'll show up if I need him." Then it hits me. "Wait a minute-you switched your vacation and came here early because you were worried about me. You don't think I can take care of myself."

She smiles. "You can't."

I laugh. "Then it's good you showed up."

We get home, and Laurie spends five minutes petting and hugging Tara, then another five meeting and petting Reggie.

"You want something to eat?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "I want to get these clothes off."

"Don't let me stop you," I say.

She smiles. "I was talking about your clothes."

"Don't let me stop you."

GETTING OUT OF bed early has never been my strong point. bed early has never been my strong point.

It usually runs counter to my enjoyment drive; the bed is comfortable, right near my television, and an easy stroll to the kitchen refrigerator. All in all, not a good place to leave.

Leaving it when Laurie is lying next to me is positively goofy, and I am simply not going to do it. Unfortunately, Tara and Reggie have a different point of view, and at six thirty their scratching on the door tells me in no uncertain terms that they are anxious to take their morning walk.

I get up and grab the leashes, resisting the impulse to leave an "I'll be right back" sign on my side of the mattress. We walk for about twenty minutes, which is about nineteen minutes longer than I had planned. They just seem to enjoy it too much to cut it short.

Reggie has developed an interesting walking style. He keeps his nose close to the ground at all times, as if it were a metal detector. When he hears a sudden noise, like a car horn, his ears lift up but his nose stays down.

When we get back, my own ears alert me to an impending crus.h.i.+ng disappointment. The shower is running, which means Laurie is out of bed, which in turn takes away my reason for getting back in. My day is officially starting, far too soon.

I grab a cup of coffee and head for the bedroom to get dressed. Laurie is already on the way out, in sweats.h.i.+rt, sweatpants, and running shoes. It is one of her idiosyncrasies that she showers before and after exercising. "You want to go running?" she asks.

"I'd sooner go root ca.n.a.ling," I say, and she leaves.

She comes back maybe ten seconds later. "Miss me?" I ask.

"Let me have your cell phone," she says, her voice serious.

I get it off the table and hand it to her. "What is it?"

"There was a phone guy working on the line by the house. He was just leaving when I got outside, and when I called to him he drove off."

"So?"

"So it's seven o'clock in the morning. Has the phone company changed that much since I lived here?"

She calls a former colleague in the Paterson Police Department and asks him to send someone out to check the house for bugs. Then she says she'll wait for him to arrive, so I have to a.s.sume he's sending someone right away.

I think she's overreacting to this and is being overly cautious. When she hangs up, I ask, "Do you want me to hang around? We could get back in bed."

"Have a nice day, Andy."

"I take it that's a no?"

"That's a no."

I head for the office and an early meeting that Kevin has arranged with Dr. Gerald King, a prominent criminologist. We had sent Dr. King the photographs, toxicology, and other reports on the physical evidence that we received from Lawrence Koppell. Koppell had admitted that he didn't have the resources to hire the top available experts to aid in the defense, so we decided to pay to get the best.

Dr. King is at least sixty years old, with degrees in everything from criminology to toxicology, to chemistry, and just about every other "y" I can think of. When I arrive he is drinking a cup of Edna's coffee-or, more accurately, looking at it. My guess is, he's anxious to take it back to the lab to find out what bizarre ingredients she puts into it to give it that lumpy texture and uniquely horrible taste.

I'm expecting a dry, tedious recitation of Dr. King's findings, but that expectation lasts for about three seconds. "Events on that boat were not as the prosecution described them," is how he begins.

Suffice it to say that he's gotten my attention. "How were they different?"

Dr. King takes out the pictures of the inside of the boat, and those of Richard. He points to a substantial bruise on the left side of Richard's head, which the prosecution claimed happened when Richard fell out of bed after being knocked out by the sleeping pills.

"This is not a bruise that could have been received from falling out of this bed." He proceeds to talk about the pattern of the bruise and how it could only have been caused by a blunt, rounded instrument. Then he goes over to the couch and demonstrates that the fall from that height, and at that angle, would have had Richard land on the right side of his head, not the left.

It's compelling but not overwhelming, and I'm hoping there's more. There is.

He takes out the toxicology reports, which show an overdose of Amenipam, the sleeping pills that almost killed Richard. His estimate is that Richard would have been dead if the Coast Guard medics had gotten to him fifteen minutes later. "But he did not take those pills; the drug was either ingested in liquid form or, more likely, administered by injection after he was unconscious."

This, if true and if it can be proven, is a blockbuster. "How do you know that?"

He points to a line on the toxicology report that shows Richard had traces of campene, a preservative used in test tubes. His theory is that liquid Amenipam was administered, that it was preserved in a test tube before that, and that that is why the trace was found in Richard's blood.