New Tricks (18 page)

T
HOMAS
S
YKES
seems less happy to see me this time.

I find that’s not unusual in my interpersonal relationships; my sunny disposition is usually good for one relatively pleasant
meeting. Two max.

“Let’s make this brief, Mr. Carpenter. Say what you came here to say. Ask what you came here to ask.”

“Here’s the way I work, Mr. Sykes. I ask a lot of questions, and people give me answers. Then I ask some more questions, and
sometimes I find out that the previous answers that people gave me weren’t true. They were lies. That’s what happened in this
case, with you.”

“Lies?”

“Yes. You told me you barely knew Diana Timmerman. Hardly well enough to say hello. Then I find out that she visited you repeatedly
at a hotel in New York. Based on my definition, that qualifies as lying.”

Sykes smiles. “Believe it or not, there could be some private matters that I might not want to share with you.”

“The woman was murdered,” I say. “That makes this a rather public matter.”

“Our relationship had nothing whatsoever to do with her death.

That I can say without fear of contradiction.”

“Just what was your relationship?”

“We had an affair.”

I’m surprised that he comes right out and says this. “Which was still going on when she died?”

“I don’t really know how to answer that. The last time I saw her was about a week before Walter’s death. Whether I would have
seen her in the future or not, I really don’t know.”

“So their marriage was in trouble?”

He smiles. “I’m not sure what that means. Obviously, she was not completely faithful, and my understanding was that he was
not, either. But to say the marriage was in trouble, does that mean it was nearing an end?”

“Possibly, yes.”

“I can’t imagine Walter would have given her a divorce. It would have been a public humiliation for him, and a financial disaster.”

“No prenup?”

“Diana? No way. I wasn’t kidding when I told you she was a woman who knew what she wanted.”

“You’re going to have to testify to all of this at the trial,” I say. “Why?” he asks, but he doesn’t seem fearful or concerned,
just amused.

“Because generally in a murder case it’s good to explore what the victims were doing, and who they were doing it with.”

He shrugs. “I’m not married; I can handle the embarrassment.” I nod. “Can I use your phone?”

He points to the phone on his desk. “Help yourself.”

I go to the phone and pick up the receiver. “Do I dial nine?” Sykes shakes his head. “No, it’s a private line.”

I dial Sam Willis’s number, and he answers on the first ring. “I got the number,” he says. “The dope didn’t block it.”

I pretend that I’m talking to a machine. “Kevin, it’s Andy, give me a call at the office later.”

Sam laughs and hangs up, and I hang up as well.

“Thanks,” I say to Sykes.

He smiles. “No problem.” He’s held up pretty well under my less-than-withering questioning.

“By the way, you said that it was your understanding that Walter Timmerman was fooling around as well. Any idea who he was
doing it with?”

“Not a clue,” he says.

As soon as I get outside, I call Sam Willis again and tell him that I’ve left. He promises to call me back with any information
as soon as he can.

When I return to the house, Laurie tells me that Cindy Spodek called: The agent in charge of the task force investigating
Walter Timmerman has agreed to see me. She will be setting up the meeting at a convenient time for everyone, and will be coming
down to New York to join us.

I’m not surprised that the agent has decided to meet with me; Cindy would have represented me as being credible, and the chance
to find out who killed Timmerman must be very appealing to him.

I’m very interested in having that meeting, but my interest increases tenfold when Sam Willis calls me. I instructed Sam to
find out who, if anyone, Thomas Sykes called when I left his office. My assumption was that Sykes was at least somewhat worried
by what I had to say, and that if he had any kind of accomplice in whatever he was doing, he would call that person and alert
him.

“He made one call immediately after you left his office,” Sam says. “The call lasted eight minutes.”

“Who did he call?”

“The FBI.”

L
AURIE AND
I can barely find a place to park at the dog show, and we’ve arrived almost an hour before it starts. It’s taking place at
a large civic center in southern Connecticut, but given the packed nature of the parking lot, you would think we were at Giants
Stadium for a play-off game.

“I’m surprised no one is tailgating,” I say as we get out of the car.

“You are hereby notified that you have just used up your quota of puns for the evening,” Laurie says.

“One? That’s all? What kind of quota is that?”

“Sorry, that’s my ruling.”

We go into the ticket-buying area, where a sign tells us that upper-level seats are the only ones available. That’s not a
problem for the well-connected Andy Carpenter, because Barb Stanley has left tickets for us at the will-call window.

We get the tickets and hand them to the woman letting people in, and she informs us that we are allowed down in the prep area,
which is what Barb had told me. So that’s where we go.

We walk into a room that is truly hard to believe. It is divided into walled cubicles, maybe fifty of them, each one containing
one dog and anywhere from one to three humans. In each case the dogs are the absolute center of attention, as the humans fuss
over them and talk to them, frequently in a baby-talk kind of voice.

It reminds me of a boxing match between rounds, where the fighter sits on the stool and he gets worked on by the cut man and
given guidance by his trainer. One major difference is that fighters occasionally pay attention to their trainers, while these
dogs couldn’t be less interested in what is being said to them.

Barb Stanley sees us, waves, and comes over. “Andy, glad you could make it.”

I introduce her to Laurie, and she offers to show us around. The tour really involves little more than what we have already
seen, just more of it. We won’t be going out into the main area where the competition takes place until later.

All the dogs are very large, and I recognize a Saint Bernard, a bullmastiff, a Great Dane, and a Bernese mountain dog like
Waggy. It’s a little disconcerting to see big, powerful dogs like this being fussed over; it would be like watching someone
apply eye shadow and lipstick to a middle linebacker.

“These are called working dogs,” says Barb, but the truth is, I don’t think any of them have worked a day in their collective
lives. I’m feeling a little envious.

Barb brings us to her own cubicle, where her assistant from the doggy day care business is fussing over Barb’s dog, an Australian
shepherd. Barb introduces us to her assistant, Carrie, and then says, “This is Crosby. Isn’t he beautiful?”

“Crosby?”

She nods. “Yes. My grandfather was a huge Bing Crosby fan. He used to play his records when I came over in the hope that I
would stop listening to ‘hippie music.’ I’ve been naming dogs Crosby in his honor for as long as I can remember.”

“Can we pet him?” Laurie asks.

“Sure.”

Laurie and I do that for a few minutes, and then back off so that Carrie and Barb can finish prepping Crosby. Barb says that
the dogs really enjoy this, but you’d never know it. They pretty much just sit there impassively. If Waggy ever had to remain
this calm, he’d commit doggy suicide.

When the time comes we go out with Barb into the main ring for the competition. It is as bewildering as anything I’ve ever
seen. There is constant motion, owners moving their dogs around the ring when competing and into position when not competing.
And all spare time is spent making sure their hair hasn’t gotten mussed in any way.

Everything is done strictly to time, and people are expected to have their dogs exactly where they should be at exactly the
time they should be there. It’s all run by someone called a ring steward, which is dog show language for Kommandant. No one
messes with the ring steward.

It only takes about three or four minutes for me to get bored with this, and I’m about to suggest to Laurie that we take off
when I hear a voice. “Andy Carpenter, right? I heard you were here.”

Standing in front of me holding out his hand is a very, very large man, who must be carrying 320 pounds on a six-foot frame.
Everything about him is oversize. His nose is fat; his ears are fat. If he turned around I would expect to see taillights.

“I’m sorry,” I say as I shake his hand. “Have we met?”

“We have now. I’m Charles Robinson. Actually, I’m about to fight you in court.” He says this in a matter-of-fact, fairly cheery
manner.

“So you are.”

“I love showing dogs; it’s almost as much fun as golf. My entry for today is over there.” He points in the general direction
of about a thousand dogs. “Name’s Tevye.”

When I don’t say anything, he says, “You know, from
Fiddler on the Roof
. I always liked that song, ‘If I Were a Rich Man.’ ” He laughs at his own joke a little too loudly. Robinson seems relentlessly
upbeat and garrulous, and sounds a lot like Santa Claus, without the
ho, ho, ho
. “But between you and me, I don’t think he’s going to win.”

“Don’t you have to be with him?”

“Nah, I’ve got people who do that.” He leans in to confide that he wouldn’t know what to do anyway, and then goes on to ask,
“What are you doing for lunch tomorrow?”

“Probably eating Taco Bell at my desk.”

He fake-laughs. “Well, I’ll do you one better. Meet me at my club. You play golf?”

“No.”

“Smart man. If I had all the time I spent on golf back, I could have saved the world. Come on, maybe we can talk this through
and avoid going to court.”

I have no desire to have lunch with this guy, especially with the trial date almost upon us. But I have even less desire to
spend my time in court on the custody issue, and I can’t afford to have Waggy unprotected. So I agree to have lunch with Robinson
at his club, which is located in Alpine, about twenty minutes from my house, and he goes back to watching Tevye.

Laurie and I say our good-byes to Barb and wish her luck. On the way home, Laurie says, “So if not for you, Waggy would be
doing that?”

I laugh. “Waggy in that ring. Now, that would be worth the price of admission.”

I
DON’T PLAY GOLF
,
I don’t watch golf, and I don’t get golf.

I just can’t get interested in anything that requires a “tee time.” Even if I wanted to play, if I went for a four-hour walk
on the grass without taking Tara, she would turn me into a giant steak bone.

Everything about golf is grossly oversize. First of all, it takes forever. People drive to a club, get dressed, play eighteen
holes, and then spend more time talking about it than it took to play. It’s a full day’s operation; I can watch six college
basketball games in that time, and drink beer while I’m doing it.

And the space these golf courses occupy is unbelievable. The one I am driving along now, the one at Charles Robinson’s club,
is endless. If this amount of land were in a normal city, it would have four congressmen.

The idea of taking turns swinging a stick every ten minutes has no appeal for me. One of the reasons, I think, is that I prefer
games where defense can be played. Football, basketball, baseball, even pool, all include attempts to prevent the opposition
from scoring. Golf doesn’t, and that for me is crucial. It’s probably why I became a defense attorney. I don’t like golf,
or swimming, or figure skating, or anything else in which defense isn’t a major factor.

As I’m handing my car off to the valet guy, I see Robert Jacoby standing in front of the club, waiting for his car. I’m not
surprised he’s here; Walter Timmerman was also a member, and Jacoby’s e-mail had mentioned that they golfed together.

He waves to me and I just wave back. If I go over to him I’ll start talking about the DNA e-mail again, and neither of us
would be in the mood for that. When the valet guy gives him his keys he calls him Mr. Jacoby, and he responds, “Thanks, Tim,”
so I assume he’s a member here.