But she's not letting it drop, so I decide to steer the conversation toward the nuts and bolts of today's news. "Do they have any suspects?" I ask.
"Doesn't seem like it. Pete's theory is that his mob friends turned on him once he was no longer of any value to them."
"Pete" is Lieutenant Pete Stanton, my closest, and only, friend on the police force, and one of the few officers who openly supported Laurie during the tough times. I'm not surprised that he would be the one to provide her with information about Dorsey's death.
"Where was he found?" I ask.
"In a warehouse on McLean Boulevard. Kids called in an alarm when they saw smoke. Turned out it was Dorsey that was on fire."
She takes a deep breath and continues. "They think his head was sliced off, maybe with a machete. Whoever did it must have kept it as a souvenir. And the body was burned beyond recognition. They only ID'd him based on some unusual kind of ring he was wearing."
My antennae go up. "That's all?"
She nods. "But they're running a DNA test to be sure."
I'm glad to hear that. I wouldn't put it past Dorsey to murder someone else and fake the whole thing. People on both sides of the law have a tendency to stop chasing you when they think you're dead.
We talk about the Dorsey situation some more, until there's nothing left to say about it.
"Are you going into the office tomorrow?" she asks.
I nod. "Probably late morning. I'm meeting with Holbrook on the Danny Rollins case at nine-thirty."
"Wow. Practice is really taking off, huh?"
Laurie is gently mocking both the fact that I'm representing Danny Rollins, who happens to be my bookmaker, and the fact that I've got absolutely nothing else to do. I haven't taken on a significant client in the six months since the Willie Miller case. And it's not that I haven't had the opportunities. The way the trial ended, with Willie getting off and the real killers exposed, I became a media darling and Paterson's answer to Perry Mason. I've been at the top of every felon's wish list ever since.
But I've rejected them all. Each turndown had its own rationale. Either the potential client seemed guilty and therefore unworthy, or the ease wasn't challenging, or interesting, or significant. Down deep it feels like I've been inventing reasons to decline these cases, but I truly don't know why I would.
I think I have lawyer's block.
WEALTH TAKES SOME GETTING USED TO.
When one suddenly becomes really rich, as I have, there's just nothing natural about how it feels. It's sort of like driving an old, beat-up Dodge Dart for a bunch of years, and then somebody gives you a Ferrari. You say you won't let it change your life, but you think twice before parking it at the 7-Eleven.
My father, Nelson Carpenter, left me twenty-two million dollars. It was money he received dishonorably, taking a payment in return for covering up a crime committed by his oldest friend, who eventually became my father-in-law. My father was a respected district attorney, and to my knowledge, this was the only dishonorable act he ever committed. It set off a chain reaction that left my now-ex-father-in-law in prison and me rolling in dough.
It could have been worse, of course. My father could have done something bad and then left me poor, but instead he shocked me by leaving me all this money that I didn't know he had and that he never touched, letting it accumulate interest for thirty-five years. So for the last six months I've been trying to figure out what to do with it.
I definitely intend to be a regular contributor to charily, and I've made sporadic efforts at that. But what I really want is to find a charity, a cause, that I can attach myself to and make my own. That sounds like it would be easy, but it's been anything but.
First of all, I talked too much about it, the word got around, and charities started coming after me like I was fresh meat. Which I was. Which I am.
The low point came a couple of days ago, when the president of the Committee to Save the Otters of Guatemala Bay came to see me. She was a nice enough woman, but it was probably the tenth solicitation of its kind I endured last week, and I'm afraid I was not on my best behavior.
"Who did you beat?" I asked.
"I beg your pardon?"
"In the election, when you became president of the Committee to Save the Otters of Guatemala Bay … who did you run against?"
"We are not a political organization," she said defensively. "We are a cohesive, organized effort to right a terrible wrong. Guatemala Bay is being systematically contaminated, and the otters are left unprotected."
"So you ran unopposed?" I pressed.
"In a manner of speaking." Her annoyance with me was showing. "Mr. Carpenter, if we could get to the reason why I am here."
"I'm sorry, but until now, I didn't even know there was a Guatemala Bay. I thought Guantanamo was the only 'Gua' with a bay."
"If people like you don't intervene, it soon will be."
"How much of an intervention are you looking for?" I asked.
"Ten thousand dollars."
I intervened her a thousand. I'm hoping it'll be enough to get me a cute picture of the otter I've adopted, with maybe a letter or two.
Today being Sunday, that letter won't be coming, so I'll have to content myself with sitting on the couch with Tara and watching basketball. I'm feeling very comfortable at home these days. A couple of months ago, I sold my house in the allegedly fashionable suburbs and moved into the one I grew up in. It is located in the decidedly less fashionable Paterson, but it is the only house to which I will ever feel a real attachment. When my father died, I had planned to sell it but couldn't get myself to do it. Laurie suggested I move in, and since I did, I know that I've come home.
The only addition I've made to the place is a large-screen TV, which I will put to great use today. The Knicks are on at one o'clock, then the Lakers are playing Utah at four, then Nets-Sacramento at six, overlapped by Marquette-Cincinnati at seven, and finishing up with UNLV-Utah at nine. If I plan it right, I can have the pizza arrive before the Laker tip-off, just about the time I'm having my third beer.
If this were a movie, it would be called The Perfect Day.
My first step is to call in a bet on the Knicks, minus three against Toronto. The bookmaker, Danny Rollins, wishes me luck both on the game and especially in my meeting tomorrow with the assistant DA, who has the nerve to be accusing Danny of bookmaking. Obviously a trumped-up charge against a law-abiding citizen.
Tara gets up on the couch and assumes her favorite position, lying on her side with her head resting just above my knee. It virtually forces me to pet her every time I reach for my beer, which works for me as well as her. If there's a better dog on this planet, if there's a better living creature on this planet, then this is a great planet, and that must be one amazing living creature.
The Knicks are up by four with a minute to play when I once again feel the reverse sting of great wealth. I bet two hundred on the game, and I realize the money has absolutely no significance to me. Betting is only fun when you're worried about losing. Absent the possibility of the agony of defeat, there can't be a thrill of victory. I'd better get another beer.
It's ten o'clock when the phone wakes me up during the UNLV game. I'm up three hundred bucks; I wish I could get excited about it.
"Hello?"
"Sorry to wake you, but you shouldn't be sleeping on the couch anyway," Laurie says. How does she know these things? Of course, she is a professional investigator; I have to remember to check the house for hidden cameras.
I stand up immediately. "I'm not on the couch."
"Yeah, right," she says in a voice that implies "You're full of shit, but who cares?" "Anyway, I just heard from Pete."
"And?"
"The preliminary report came in. The DNA matches. The body is definitely Dorsey."
"Are you okay?" I ask.
"I'm fine. I'm glad it's over;" she says. "Go back to sleep."