As Dog Is My Witness (32 page)

“
W
e never should have
brought him here to begin with,” Big said to me as we unlocked the
minivan. “You realize, of course, that now I’m going to have to
chase him down.”

“I figured that,” I said. I let Ethan into the van
and closed the side door to get him out of the wind. “I assume the
whole thing about protecting me and my family was really about
being around me in case I tracked Kevin down.”

As I unlocked the passenger door, he grinned and
shook his head. “You need to be more trusting,” he said. I opened
the door, and he shook his head again. “The guys will come by in
the car and get me,” Big said.

“Okay. I’ve still got a few stops to make myself. I
assume you realize I’m going to have to call the cops and tell them
what I know.” We walked around to the driver’s side.

“You have to do what you have to do,” he said. “I
hope you won’t mention my actual name, though.”

I tilted my head a bit, thinking, but shook it. “No.
It’s not my place to get you in trouble, although you might want to
look into another line of work. You’re smart enough to do a good
many things.”

“There are benefits to this,” was all he said.

We shook hands (well, gloves, really) and I got into
the van, then rolled down my window as I started it up. “Hey,” I
said. “Your real name is
Duane.
”

Big chuckled. “So is the Rock’s,” he said.

I closed the window and put the minivan in drive. As
we pulled away, Ethan said, “The Rock’s real name is Duane?
Really?”

I ignored it, and a little time went by with no sound
as we headed home. There was time now to consider the fact that I’d
just subjected my twelve-year-old son to a ride in a car and a
dangerous situation with at least one cold-blooded killer, who
didn’t hurt us because he was prevented by an admitted gangster. I
don’t know why I had such confidence in Big, especially since it
turned out he wasn’t infallible in keeping an eye on Kevin, but I
did. Based on the way he was watching us, I had known that Ethan’s
and my safety was his priority, and he’d see to it. Still, my
judgment in bringing my son into this whole business was, at best,
questionable.

“Were you scared?” I asked him out of the blue, and
Ethan looked surprised.

“No,” he said. “It was like watching TV. I was paying
attention to the story.”

“What did you think?” I’m not sure what I was looking
for, but with Ethan, it’s best not to have expectations, because
they’ll inevitably be exploded.

“Well . . .  He seemed hesitant to
explore his feelings, which was not unusual. That only awakened the
nosy reporter in me.

“Well, what? Don’t worry about my reaction.”

“When you said what had happened, the only thing I
could think of was that I wouldn’t go to jail for Leah. I’d be too
scared.” He looked embarrassed, as if that was confessing he wasn’t
a good brother.

I smiled a little, trying not to look like I was
laughing at him. “I don’t think you’ll have to make that choice,” I
said.

He looked at me sideways, then smiled. “No, I guess
not.” We both broke out laughing at the thought of Leah doing
something worth jail time.

When the hilarity died down, I waited at a red light,
then dialed

Lieutenant Rodriguez in North Brunswick. Strikingly,
he was there, and when I told him what had transpired (minus Big’s
contributions), he immediately applauded my efforts and my
resourcefulness.

“Are you crazy?” he said. “You could have gotten
yourself
and
your son killed.” Some people have a harder
time expressing admiration than others.

“You’re missing the big picture,” I responded. “We
know who killed Michael Huston, and we know it’s not Justin
Fowler.”

“You don’t know a damn thing. You just
think
you know,” Rodriguez said. “There are two things
I
know.”

“What?”

“First of all, we’d better find Kevin Fowler in a
hurry. And second . . . 

“Yes?”

“You’re making me work late on Christmas Eve. I want
you to give me a written statement as soon as you can get here.” He
hung up.

I was dropping Ethan off first, whether Rodriguez
wanted to talk to him or not. Ethan had had enough. And then I
could regroup and go down to talk to the lieutenant myself.

That
was
the plan, anyway, until out of the
blue, my son turned halfway around in his seat to face me and said,
“The dog didn’t growl when we came in.”

I came very close to slamming on the brakes. It took
me a few long moments to collect myself and think things through,
and then I handed Ethan the cell phone.

“Call your mom. She’s probably home early.”

He took it and started to push the number for home. I
could have explained speed dial, but he knew the number, and what
time was I saving? He stopped at the second four, and looked at
me.

“What am I telling her?” he asked.

“That you just solved Michael Huston’s murder,” I
said.

A
ctually, I had more to say
to Abby than Ethan did. As excited as he was at having noticed this
important detail, Ethan was not entirely sure he should be happy
that he’d figured out who killed someone.

Once I got on the phone with Abby, I asked for help
with a question I’d meant to ask her days ago, but forgot. She
admonished me for involving Ethan, but her heart wasn’t in it, and
as her lawyer instincts kicked in, she was anxious to put the right
person behind bars. So we got off the phone quickly.

After about ten minutes, Ethan and I pulled up in
front of our house and he shot out of the car and into the house.
This is unusual—quite often, we arrive home and he’ll sit in the
car by himself for a few minutes, either unaware or unconcerned
that we’ve reached our destination. In this case, I think Ethan
wanted to get his mother’s appreciation for the fine work he’d
done, and maybe a hug, just to reassure him that he was, indeed,
safe.

I could have used a hug, too, but Abigail was too
caffeinated to worry about such things. I did notice, however, that
Ethan got the affection, and I got the information. There are
trade-offs one makes as a parent, and some of them aren’t
necessarily welcome.

“I’ve already found out most of what we need to
know,” she said excitedly, already using the royal “we” when as
little as a day previously, she was quite happy to be excluded.
Success has many fathers, or in this case, wives. “I looked up the
lawyer you asked about.”

“Arnold Rezenbach.”

“Yes. Very interesting. He’s supposed to be Karen
Huston’s tax lawyer?” Abby’s lovely face was glowing with
enthusiasm—she lives for this stuff.

“That’s the way I understood it.”

“Well, that’s not his regular field. Rezenbach is a
real estate lawyer. He farms out his tax work, and does a tiny bit
of financial planning for a few well-heeled clients. The idea that
he’d be doing the taxes of a middle-class housewife, even one with
a husband doing well financially, is pretty fishy.” Abigail, her
hair tied back in a ponytail, was almost too adorable to resist,
but I did my best to concentrate on what she was saying.

“So Rezenbach is doing Karen Huston a favor for some
reason,” I said. “What’s he getting out of it? You don’t think
there’s a sexual thing going on between them, do you?”

“God, I hope not,” Abby said, “not after the other
little piece of information I gathered.”

She gave me a devilish grin that, under most
circumstances, would have been enough to distract me from, well,
anything. But she was clearly bursting with her discovery, and
wanted to present it to its full effect. Why not indulge a wife
once in a while? She might indulge you.

“Okay, Marlowe. Spill it.”

“It’s amazing the things you can find online,” she
said, clearly having rehearsed this particular part. “I found Karen
Huston’s name in an Emerson College Alumni Magazine article, and
that led to their engagement announcement from nine years ago.” She
paused.

“And . . . ?” I said, since that
appeared to be my line.

“
And
, that led me to her maiden name. Karen
Huston used to be Karen Rezenbach of Madison, New Jersey.”

It took me a second. “She’s his daughter. Okay. She’s
Arnold Rezenbach’s daughter. So that makes it a lot
less
suspicious. Why shouldn’t he be helping with his daughter’s
financial arrangements?”

Abby’s grin got just a little bit more Cheshire
cat-like. “All right, Nancy Drew,” I said. “What else did you find
out?”

“Here,” she said, “is where it gets
really
interesting.”

T
he drive up to Millburn
didn’t take long, but it was already after two on December 24th,
and I could easily foresee that the traffic coming home would be
heavier. There was no avoiding it, though. This trip was necessary
to ensure my family’s safety.

Luckily, the lack of a blindfold in the black SUV the
last time I made the drive enabled me to note landmarks and street
names, and I happen to have a very good sense of direction, as long
as I stay out of lower Manhattan, where the streets no longer have
numbers and everything is one way in the wrong direction.

I drove up to the gated home and spoke into the
intercom. The gates opened, and I made my way to the front door
after figuring out where a visitor might park his battered minivan
with 122,000 miles on it. I was willing to bet this was the first
such vehicle to make it up the drive since the last party here was
catered.

The tall doors in the front of the house were opened
very quickly by a man I hadn’t seen before, leading me to believe
that Big, Bigger, and Biggest were all out searching for Kevin
Fowler, and that they were not the only employees here at the matzo
ball compound. Without a word, a very large man escorted me back to
the drawing room where I had been once before.

Hyman Shapiro, dressed in sweatpants and a 92nd
Street “Y” sweatshirt, was walking on a treadmill I hadn’t noticed
on my previous visit. Being convinced your life is about to end
might actually decrease the powers of observation. He wasn’t
walking fast, but he
was
walking.

“Aaron Tucker,” he said as I came in and the enormous
butler closed the door. “It’s nice to see you, although I have to
say, it’s somewhat unexpected.”

“Somehow, you failed to give me your phone number the
last time I visited, or I would have called ahead,” I said.

He chuckled, then turned off the treadmill, picked up
a small towel hung on the handlebar, and wiped his face. “You’re
not afraid,” he said, stepping off the machine and draping the
towel around his neck. “I like that. I don’t want people to be
afraid of me. Well, most people, anyway.” He chuckled again, this
time at his own wit.

“Of course I’m afraid. I just cover it up better than
most,” I told him.

“Well, you’re honest, too. Most people aren’t.” I
didn’t contradict that one, since discussing honesty with the Capo
of the Knish seemed slightly surreal. “But I imagine you’re not
here simply because you’ve run out of Sonny’s bagels.” Shapiro sat
behind his desk and drank from a bottle of Poland Spring water left
there for that very purpose.

“You’re right. I’m here because I found out who hired
Kevin Fowler to kill Michael Huston.”

He didn’t so much as blink. “It wasn’t me.”

“I know.”

“So why are you here?” He seemed genuinely puzzled,
but I knew he wasn’t.

“Because you do have an interest in it, and I need a
certain degree of security. I want to know that you’re not going to
retaliate after I blow the whistle on the culprit. And please, if
you really do value my honesty, don’t pretend you don’t know who
the culprit is.”