New Tricks

Book 7: The Andy Carpenter Series

by David Rosenfelt

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Andy Carpenter gains possession of an adorable Bernese puppy whose owner was brutally murdered. Few can rival Andy's affection for dogs, and he will do whatever it takes to insure that this little pup doesn't fall into the wrong hands. However, his playful new friend is valued by several people, many of whom are willing to resort to violence to get what they want. It will take more than Andy's usual courtroom theatrics to save this dog, including a little help from his beloved golden retriever, Tara. Andy soon discovers that anyone around him is in danger, including his long-time girlfriend Laurie, and he will have to muster all of his wits to save those he holds most dear.

Release date: July 18, 2009

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 320

Sample

“ANDY CARPENTER, Lawyer to the Dogs.”


That was the USA Today headline on a piece that ran about me a couple of months ago. It was a favorable story overall, but the headline was obviously
designed to make a humorous comparison between me and those celebrity attorneys who are often referred to as “lawyers to the
stars.”


While you would naturally think it would have exposed me to ridicule from my colleagues in the legal profession and my friends,
it really hasn’t. This is because I don’t hang out with colleagues in the legal profession, and my friends already have plenty
of other reasons to ridicule me.


Actually, referring to me this way makes perfect sense. Last year I went to court to defend a golden retriever who had been
scheduled to die at the hands of the animal control system here in Paterson, New Jersey. I saved his life, and the media ate
it up with a spoon. Then I learned that the dog was a witness to a murder five years prior, and I successfully defended his
owner, the man who had been wrongly convicted and imprisoned for that murder.


Three months ago I cemented my reputation as a dog lunatic by representing all the dogs in the Passaic County Animal Shelter
in a class action suit. I correctly claimed that my clients were being treated inhumanely, a legally difficult posture since
the opposition took the position that a key part of “humane” is “human,” and my clients fell a little short in that area.


With the media covering it as if it were the trial of the century, we won, and living conditions in the shelters have been
improved dramatically. I’m in a good position to confirm this, because my former client Willie Miller and I run a dog-rescue
operation called the Tara Foundation, named after my own golden retriever. We are in the shelters frequently to rescue dogs
to place in homes, and if we see any slippage back to the old policies, we’re not exactly shy about pointing it out.


Since that stirring court victory, I’ve been on a three-month vacation from work. I find that my vacations are getting longer
and longer, almost to the point that vacationing is my status quo, from which I take infrequent “work breaks.” Two things
enable me to do this: my mostly inherited wealth, and my laziness.


Unfortunately, my extended siesta is about to come to an unwelcome conclusion. I’ve been summoned to the courthouse by Judge
Henry Henderson, nicknamed “Hatchet” by lawyers who have practiced in his court. It’s not exactly a term of endearment.


Hatchet’s not inviting me to make a social call, and it’s unlikely we’ll be sipping tea. He doesn’t like me and finds me rather
annoying, which doesn’t make him particularly unique. The problem is that he’s in a position to do something about it.


Hatchet has been assigned to a murder case that has dominated the local media. Walter Timmerman, a man who could accurately
be referred to as a semi-titan in the pharmaceutical industry, was murdered three weeks ago. It was not your everyday case
of “semi-titan-murdering”; he wasn’t killed on the golf course at the country club, or by an intruder breaking into his mansion.
Timmerman was killed at night in the most run-down area of downtown Paterson, a neighborhood filled with hookers and drug
dealers, not caddies or butlers.


Within twenty-four hours, police arrested a twenty-two-year-old Hispanic man for the crime. He was in possession of Timmerman’s
wallet the day after the murder. The police are operating on the safe assumption that Timmerman did not give the wallet to
this young man for safekeeping, knowing he was soon to be murdered.


This is where I am unfortunately going to enter the picture. The accused cannot afford an attorney, so the court will appoint
one for him. I have not handled pro bono work in years, but I’m on the list, and Hatchet is obviously going to stick me with
this case.


I arrive at the courthouse at eight thirty, which is when Hatchet has instructed me to be in his chambers. The arraignment
is at nine, and since I haven’t even met my client-to-be, I’ll have to ask for a postponement. I’ll try to get it postponed
for fifty years, but I’ll probably have to settle for a few days.


I’m surprised when I arrive to see Billy “Bulldog” Cameron, the attorney who runs the Public Defender’s Office in Passaic
County. I’ve never had a conversation of more than three sentences with Billy in which he hasn’t mentioned that he’s overworked
and underfunded. Since both those things are true, and since I’m personally underworked and overfunded, I usually nod sympathetically.


This time I don’t have time to nod, because I’m in danger of being late for my meeting with Hatchet. Lawyers who arrive late
to Hatchet’s chambers are often never heard of or seen again, except for occasional body parts that wash up on shore. I also
don’t get to ask Billy what he’s doing here. If I’m going to get stuck with this client, then he’s off the hook, because I’m
on it.


I hate being on hooks.



“YOU’RE LATE,” says Hatchet, which is technically true by thirty-five seconds.


“I’m sorry, Your Honor. There was an accident on Market Street, and—”

He interrupts. “You are under the impression that I want to hear a story about your morning drive?”

“Probably not.”

“For the purpose of this meeting, I will do the talking, and you will do the listening, with very few exceptions.”

I start to say Yes, sir, but don’t, because I don’t know if that is one of the allowable exceptions. Instead I just listen.


“I have an assignment for you, one that you are uniquely qualified to handle.”

I nod, because if I cringe it will piss him off.

“Are you at all familiar with the case before me, the Timmerman murder?”

“Only what I’ve read in the paper and seen on television.” I wish I had more of a connection to the case, like if I were a
cousin of the victim, or if I were one of the suspects in the case. It would disqualify me from being involved. Unfortunately,
I checked my family tree, and there’s not a Timmerman to be found.


“It would seem to be a straightforward murder case, if such a thing existed,” he says and then chuckles, so I assume that
what he said passes in Hatchet-land for a joke. “But the victim was a prominent man of great wealth.”


I nod again. It’s sort of nice being in a conversation in which I have no responsibilities.

“I’m told that you haven’t taken on any pro bono work in over two years.”

Another nod from me.

“I assume you’re ready and willing to fulfill your civic responsibility now?” he asks. “You may speak.”

I have to clear my throat from lack of use before responding. “Actually, Your Honor, my schedule is such that a murder case
wouldn’t really—”


He interrupts again. “Who said anything about you participating in a murder case?”

“Well, I thought—”

“A lawyer thinking. Now, that’s a novel concept. You are not being assigned to represent the accused. The Public Defender’s
Office is handling that.”


Relief and confusion are fighting for a dominant position in my mind, and I’m actually surprised that confusion is winning.
“Then why am I here?”


“I’ve been asked to handle a related matter that is technically before Judge Parker in the probate court. He has taken ill,
and I said I would do it because of my unfortunate familiarity with you. Are you aware that the victim was very much involved
with show dogs?”


“No,” I say. While I rescue dogs, I have little or no knowledge of dog shows or breeders.

“Well, he was, and he had a seven-month-old, apparently a descendant of a champion, that his widow and son are fighting over.
The animal was not included in the will.”


This may not be so bad. “So because of my experience with dogs, you want me to help adjudicate it?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Glad to help, Your Honor. Civic responsibility is my middle name.”

“I’ll remember to include it on the Christmas card. I assume you have a satisfactory place to keep your client?”

“My client?”

He nods. “The dog. You will retain possession of him until the issue is resolved.”

“I’m representing a dog in a custody fight? Is that what you’re asking me to do?”

“I wouldn’t categorize it as ‘asking,’ ” he says. “I already have a dog, Your Honor.”

“And now you have two.”



TARA KNOWS SOMETHING IS GOING ON.

I don’t know how she knows, but I can see it in her face when I get home. She stares at me with that all-knowing golden retriever
stare, and even when she’s eating her dinner, she occasionally looks up at me to let me know that she’s on to me.


I take her for a long walk through Eastside Park, which is about six blocks from where I live on 42nd Street in Paterson.
Except for a six-year span while I was married, it is where I’ve lived all my life, and no place could feel more like home.
No one that I grew up with lives here anymore, but I keep expecting to see them reappear as I walk, as if I were in a Twilight Zone episode.


It’s home to Tara as well, and even though the sights and smells must be completely familiar to her, she relishes them as
if experiencing them for the first time. It is one of the many millions of things I love about her.


It’s been really hot out lately, but the evenings have been cool, and tonight especially so. All in all it’s a perfect couple
of hours, but the ringing phone when I get home is a reminder that perfection is fleeting, and not everything is as it should
be. I can see by the caller ID that it’s Laurie Collins calling from her home in Wisconsin. The Wisconsin that is nowhere
near New Jersey.


“Hello, Andy.”

Every time I hear Laurie’s voice, every single time, I am struck by my reaction to it. It is soothing, and welcoming, and
it makes me think of home. But I’m already home, and Laurie isn’t here.


We talk for a while, and I tell her about my day, and my new client. I glance over at Tara to see if she’s listening, but
she seems to be asleep. Laurie tells me about her day as well; she’s the police chief of Findlay, Wisconsin, and has been
since she moved back there, a year and a half ago.


We broke up when she first moved, and those first four months were maybe the worst of my life. Then I went up to Findlay to
handle a case, and we reconnected. Now we have a long-distance, committed relationship, which is feeling more and more like
an oxymoron. Telling her about my day isn’t really cutting it. I want her to be an actual part of my days.


“So when are you getting the dog?” she asks.

“Tomorrow.”

“Have you mentioned it to Tara?”

“No. I think she’ll be okay with it, but it’ll cost me a truckload of biscuits.”

“You seem a little quiet, Andy. Is something wrong?” she asks.

Of course something’s wrong. It’s wrong that you’re in Wisconsin and I’m here. It’s wrong that we only talk on the phone,
and we sleep in beds a thousand miles away. It’s wrong that we only see each other on vacations, and that we can’t be making
love right now. These are the things I would say if I weren’t a sniveling chickenshit, but since I am, all I say is, “No, I’m fine. Really.”


Laurie is coming here on a week’s vacation starting in a few days, and we talk about how nice it will be to see each other.
Talking about it is enough to cheer me up, and it puts me in a more upbeat mood.


I hang up and turn to my sleeping friend. “Tara, my girl, there’s something we need to talk about.”

Tara takes the news pretty well, though the fact that she keeps falling asleep during my little speech means she may not be
fully focused. She’s sleeping a lot more than she used to, a sure sign of advancing age. It doesn’t worry me, though, because
Tara is going to live forever. Or even longer.


I settle down to read about my new client in a three-page report prepared by the probate court. The dog is a seven-month old
Bernese mountain dog named Bertrand II, which strikes me as a pretty ridiculous name for a puppy, or a dog of any age, for
that matter.


The dog is currently living at the home of Diana Timmerman, the widow of the murder victim. I have been told to arrive promptly
at her house in Alpine, half a mile west of the Palisades Interstate Parkway, at ten AM. I’m a punctual person, and pretty much the only times I’m ever late are when someone instructs me to arrive promptly. I
get to the Timmerman house at ten forty-five.


Actually, it’s less a house than a compound, or maybe a fortress. There are two guards on duty at the gate, one inside the
gatehouse and one patrolling outside. The one outside is actually wearing a gun in a holster. He’s at least six five, 260
pounds, and would probably only need the gun if the intruder happened to be a rhinoceros.


“Name?” the guard inside the gate asks me.

“Carpenter.” I’m a man of as few words as he is.

He picks up a clipboard and looks at it for a few moments, then puts it down and says, “Drive up and park to the left of the
house. Someone will be out to get you.”


I go along a driveway that slopes upward until I come to the house, an amazingly impressive structure that looks straight
out of Gone with the Wind. I consider myself independently wealthy, having inherited over twenty million dollars from my father a few years back. If
I were willing to part with all of it, I could probably afford the Timmermans’ garage.


Because civil disobedience is my thing, I park to the right of the house, not the left. I get out of the car and wait, and
after about five minutes the front door opens and a young man, probably in his early twenties, comes out. He starts to walk
toward his car, then sees me and heads over.


“You’re here for Waggy?” he asks, and when he sees that I look confused, he adds, “The Bernese.”

“Yes,” I say.

“I’m Steven Timmerman,” he says, which means he is Diana Timmerman’s stepson, and one of the two people fighting for custody
of the aforementioned “Waggy.” He offers his hand, and I shake it.


“Andy Carpenter.”

He nods. “Please take good care of him, Mr. Carpenter.” He starts to walk back toward his car, but stops and turns. “He loves
to chew on things, especially the rawhide bones. And he goes crazy over tennis balls.” He grins slightly at the recollection,
then turns and goes to the car.


As soon as he pulls away, the door opens again and a woman comes out of the house. She is dressed fashionably; my arrival
definitely didn’t interrupt her in the process of cleaning out the attic or scrubbing the toilet.


“Mr. Carpenter?” she asks.

“Andy. You must be Ms. Timmerman?”

She smiles, apparently with some embarrassment. “No, I’m Martha. Martha Wyndham. I’m Mrs. Timmerman’s executive assistant.”

“Nice to meet you. What do you executively assist her at?”

Another smile. “Being Mrs. Timmerman. You’re here for Waggy?”

“Waggy? Is that what everybody calls him?”

She shakes her head. “Just Steven and me. But it would be best if you didn’t mention that to Ms. Timmerman. Bernese mountain
dogs were originally bred to pull wagons. That seemed so funny in this case that Steven and I call him Waggy. You love dogs,
I understand?”


“Guilty as charged. I’m a certified dog lunatic.”

“As am I. But you might want to let him stay here while you make your determination. It could be upsetting for him to be thrust
into a strange environment.”


“He’ll be fine; my house is dog-friendly. Where is he?” I ask.

“In his room. But Mrs. Timmerman would like to talk to you first.”

That’s not completely appropriate; she is the other one of the litigants pressing for ownership of Waggy, and I really shouldn’t
be speaking to her without the opposing party present. On the other hand, appropriateness was never my forte, and I did say
hello to Steven, so what the hell.


I let Martha lead me into what they probably refer to as the library, since the walls are covered with packed bookshelves.
Most of them are classics, and few look like they have been read in a very long time. This may be a library, but it’s not
a reading room.


Five minutes go by, during which Martha and I engage in small talk, mostly about baseball. She’s relatively likable, but I’m
starting to get annoyed. “Where is she?” I finally ask.


“I’m sure she’ll be down in a moment.”

“Give her my regards, because I’m not waiting any longer. I’ll take Waggy and be on my way.”

“Mr. Carpenter.”

I look up and see Diana Timmerman, tall and elegant and completely unconcerned that she kept me waiting.

“Good guess.” I turn and ask Martha to bring me Waggy, and Diana nods that it is okay to do so.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” Diana lies. “I’m Diana Timmerman.”

At that moment the phone rings, and Diana says to Martha, “I am available for no one today.” Martha goes off to tell the caller
just that, and then to get Waggy.


“It’s nice to meet you,” I say. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you; it’s been a difficult time. Walter was a wonderful man. And with the authorities searching the house three times,
going through his things as if he were the criminal, it’s been hard to get back to anything approaching a normal life.”


I nod understandingly, but all I really want to do is get out of here. “Murder investigations can be intrusive things.”

“Yes. Now, I did want to talk to you about Bertrand.”

“I’m sorry, but that would be improper. All conversations about the subject can only take place with both litigants present.”

She smiles without humor. “Well, then it’s unfortunate you didn’t get here fifteen minutes earlier. The other ‘litigant’ was
just here. I’m surprised you didn’t hear him yelling at me from your car.”


She’s obviously talking about her stepson Steven, and I sense she wants to engage me in a conversation about him. But I’m
getting more than a little tired of this; I feel like I’m trapped in an episode of Dallas. “It’s been great chatting with you, but it’s time for me and my client to leave.”


Diana looks toward the door, where Martha has silently reappeared with one of the cutest dogs I’ve ever seen. It’s a Bernese
mountain dog puppy, a smile on his face and his tail wagging so hard that it shakes his entire body along with it. There was
clearly more than one reason to name him Waggy.


I walk over and kneel on the floor next to him and start to pet him. He seems about to burst with excitement; his energy level
is overwhelming. Finally I get up and take his leash. “Let’s go, buddy. But you might want to calm down a little before you
meet Tara.”


“Will you be needing his crate?” Martha asks.

“Why would I need a crate?”

“He lives in his crate,” she says.

“Not anymore,” I say. “Not anymore.”

Martha walks me to the door and outside to my car. “Does Steven live here?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No, he doesn’t.”

Martha says good-bye, petting Waggy before she gets into her car. She starts the engine and is beginning to pull out when
I see Waggy’s ears perk up slightly. Somehow he senses what is coming before I do, but I don’t have long to wait.


The explosion is deafening, shocking, and somehow disorienting, and at first I can’t tell where it is coming from. But then
the windows explode from inside the house, and the flames follow. Martha stops her car, and I can see her mouth open in a
scream. Waggy barks, but both of their sounds are overwhelmed by the noise of the house coming apart.


There seems to be a second explosion, not nearly as loud, and then I see security guards come running, but it doesn’t matter
how big they are or how many guns they’re carrying. If their job is to protect Diana Timmerman, they are now officially unemployed.




CRIME SCENES are really boring places to be once the crime is over.


The police on the scene want to question everyone who has the misfortune to have been there, but first they want to spend
hours walking around looking thoughtful and consulting in hushed tones with one another. The rescue efforts ended a while
ago, and Diana Timmerman’s body has been found and carted off by the coroner, but the place is still crawling with police,
firefighters, and investigators.


I’m told to wait by my car for a detective to talk to me. It’s better than waiting in the house, since at this point there
pretty much isn’t a house. Martha is waiting her turn in the back of a police car, though after maybe twenty minutes she gets
out and stands next to it. If she thinks her visibility will speed things up, she hasn’t been at many crime scenes.


Waggy is hanging out with me, and not that happy about it. He still has that irrepressible smile, but he wants to get out
and explore the area and hopefully get petted by the cops. I’m impatient as well, but I have considerably less desire to be
petted.


The state police are in control of the operation, probably because of the nature of the incident. If it can be determined
that the bomb is the work of a terrorist, then I’m sure the FBI will be called in. I’m not sure what distinguishes a terrorist
from a regular person who blows up houses, but it’s probably a matter of intent and the message they are sending.


It hasn’t quite hit me yet that if I had been willing to chat with the late Ms. Timmerman a few more minutes, then Waggy,
Martha, and myself would be leaving this area in jars. I can see and hear Martha periodically breaking into sobs, but I’m
feeling pretty stoic. I’m sure later I’ll start twitching and moaning, but right now it just feels surreal.


Based on his tail movements, Waggy has already moved on.

It’s hot out, and I’m getting very cranky by the time Detective D. Musgrave of the state police finally comes over to question
me. I know his first initial because D. MUSGRAVE is written on his shirt; I assume there are other Musgraves in the state police from whom he’s trying to distinguish himself.


“This your dog?” D asks, backing up in a defensive posture as Waggy tries to jump on his leg.

“Actually, he’s a ward of the court,” I say.

“What does that mean?”

I proceed to explain to D how Waggy came to be my client, but he doesn’t seem that interested, jotting only a small note on
his notepad.


“So you were in the house before the explosion?” he asks.

“Yes.”

This causes a prolonged note-writing flurry; there seems to be no discernible relationship between the length of what I say
and the time it takes him to tr. . .