Dog Tags

CHAPTER 33

PETE STANTON CALLS AND INVITES ME TO LUNCH, AS LONG AS HE PICKS THE PLACE AND I PAY. He chooses a steak house in Fort Lee, probably the most expensive one in New Jersey. I don’t think that Pete is jealous of my wealth; he doesn’t seem the type to want things that he can’t afford. It’s not that he wants more money; it’s simply that he wants me to have less.

But he says that he has information for me on the case, and he knows that’s something I can’t ignore, regardless of the size of the lunch check.

For some reason, the more expensive the restaurant, the more cloying the service. We spend the first ten minutes at the table answering questions about our preferences from the various waiters, when my first preference is for them to ask us what we want, serve the food, and leave us alone.

Even the water provokes an inquisition. Do we want bottled water or tap? Flat or sparkling? What about ice? In exasperation I finally say that I want sparkling tap water with flat ice, which results in an “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t understand,” and more questions.

We finally order our food, though Pete’s ordering his steak well done causes some apoplexy from the waiter. He tries to talk Pete out of it, but gives up when Pete says, “When the cook thinks it’s just right, cook it another ten minutes. And cook the french fries another twenty.”

“The pommes frites?” the waiter asked, in some confusion.

Pete nods. “Sure, throw some of those in, too.”

Pete asks for the wine list, and orders an expensive bottle of “Château-something.” “But don’t open it,” he says to the waiter, staring at me as he talks. “I’m going to take it home.”

When the waiter finally leaves, I say, “What the hell was that about?”

He shrugs. “I can’t drink when I’m on duty.”

I decide to let that non sequitur die an ignored death. “So what information do you have for me?”

He waits to finish chewing his third piece of bread before saying, “I ran a check on the license plate.”

“And?”

“It was stolen off a car in South Jersey.”

“That’s it?”

“Yup.”

“I’ve learned more about water options from the waiter than I’ve learned about the case from you.”

“Hey, you asked me to run the plate and I ran it.”

“Right. Great job,” I say. “Where do you stand on Childress?”

“He’s dead.”

Pete is starting to annoy me, which is not a major departure from the status quo. “I’m aware of that. Who hired him?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“You’re a detective, so I was hoping you could detect something.”

He shrugs. “Not so far.”

“Who’s hired him in the past? Petrone?” Vincent Petrone is the unchallenged head of organized crime in North Jersey. I’ve had a number of dealings with him in the past. It’s uncomfortable for me, because at any moment he could decide to have me killed. That doesn’t make for a particularly close and trusting relationship.

“Maybe, but I have nothing to connect him to this. It doesn’t seem to fit.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“Well, besides the fact that Petrone has never done much dog-napping, he pretty much sticks to North Jersey. Erskine wasn’t local, and whatever was going on feels much bigger, probably international, especially if the Childress piece is a part of it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because a hundred grand was wired into Childress’s bank account the day before Willie nailed him. From a Swiss account.”

I’m surprised to hear this. “Traceable?

“Of course not. If they were okay with it being traced, they could have sent it from a bank in New Jersey. What the hell would they need Switzerland for?”

“How do you know about the wire transfer?” I ask.

He looks insulted. “Hey, I’m a detective. I detected it.”

“What else haven’t you told me?”

He points to my mouth. “Well, I didn’t want to say anything, but you’ve got a bread seed or something stuck between your teeth.”

“Anybody making any progress on Erskine or the envelope?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Not my case.”

“I know, but you would be aware if something developed. Your friend is in jail, remember?”

“Which is why nothing is likely to happen. I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but once we detectives think a murderer is in jail, we tend to focus on other cases.”

I know this is true; it’s human police nature to consider a case closed when the arrest is made. If Billy is behind bars and guilty, why not work on something else? There is certainly never a shortage of unsolved crimes.

“I need you to get me something,” I say. “I could go through the court, but I might not get it, and it would take too long if I did.”

He stares at me, as if trying to intimidate me from even asking the favor. “What might that be?” he says.

“I need a piece of Erskine’s unwashed clothing. Something with his scent on it.”

“You are a sicko,” he says. “Maybe you want his underwear?”

“The dog trainer says it may help in getting Milo to lead us to the envelope.”

“And you think I have Erskine’s clothes lying around?”

“I think you know people who can get a piece.”

It takes a while, but he promises to see what he can do. The only thing I get out of the rest of the lunch is the check, which includes a two-hundred-dollar charge for the bottle of chardonnay.

I tell Pete the price, and he shakes his head. “At that price, if it’s not any good, I’m going to be pissed.”

“You’re into fine wines, are you?”

“You better believe it. I pour it into ice trays and freeze it, then suck on the cubes. I call them wine-sicles.”

“I hope you choke on them.”