New Tricks - By David Rosenfelt Page 0,8

he can use his contacts to find out the status of the investigation, and after about ten minutes of grumbling he agrees.

Then I turn to Vince. “You knew Timmerman, didn’t you?” Vince has mentioned him to me in the past, but even if he hadn’t, the overwhelming likelihood is that he did know him, since he knows virtually everyone. He has a separate closet in his office just for his Rolodexes.

He nods. “One of the worst low-life scumbags who ever lived. May he rest in peace.”

“I take it you didn’t like him?”

He grunts. “When he came up with that arthritis drug… he didn’t give me an exclusive on the story.”

In Vince’s mind, giving someone else a story is original sin. “That was fifteen years ago,” I say.

It takes Vince a lot longer than that to give up a grudge. “Feels like yesterday.”

“Who did he give the story to?”

“The New England Journal of Medicine,” he says, frowning at the recollection. “Those hacks.”

Unlike most pharmaceutical semi-titans, who own or run companies in which other people do research and make discoveries, Walter Timmerman was himself a chemist and researcher. Twenty years ago he developed a drug called Actonel, which revolutionized the study of DNA by allowing for a much smaller sample to result in a reliable test. The implications to the justice system were enormous.

As important as that discovery was, it was not what made Timmerman absurdly wealthy. That came later, when he developed a drug that greatly reduced the pain, and therefore increased the mobility, of arthritis sufferers.

“Do you know the son?” I ask. “Steven?”

Vince nods. “Yeah. Good kid. Nothing like his father.”

“You like him?” I ask, making no effort to conceal my astonishment.

“Hey, I’m not in love with him. He’s a good kid, that’s all. He did me a favor once.”

“What kind of favor?” Vince generally doesn’t like to ask for favors, for fear of having to return them. I’ve done him a couple of major ones, though he’s done more for me.

“He got his father to make a big donation to a charity of mine. And then he showed up and worked a couple of events; just rolled up his sleeves and did whatever was needed.”

Vince is a huge fund-raiser for an organization called Eva’s Village, a Paterson-based group whose mission is to feed the hungry, shelter the homeless, treat the addicted, and provide medical care for the poor. It is such an amazingly worthwhile charity that I don’t know how Vince ever got involved with it. But he hits me up for a donation every year.

“You think he could have committed two murders?” I ask.

Vince sneers, which is pretty much his natural facial expression. “I said he’s a good guy. How many good guys murder their parents?”

I can’t think of too many, and I’ve already reached my three-beer quota, so I call for the check.

Vince and Pete are fine with that.

BEFORE I GO TO SLEEP, I CALL LAURIE.

At times like these, I like to tell her what I’m thinking, so she can tell me what I’m really thinking.

This time I reveal that I’m getting semi-obsessed with the Timmerman murders, even though I know very little about the circumstances and only barely knew one of the victims. “It must be because I was almost a victim myself,” I say.

“Or because you’re anxious to get back to work,” she says.

“Excuse me?”

“Andy, when you’re working on a case, you’re engaged intellectually in a way that’s unlike any other time. I think you need that more than you like to admit.”

“That’s crazy. I had a very satisfying intellectual discussion with Vince and Pete tonight at Charlie’s.”

“I can imagine,” she says. “What did you talk about?” “Faulkner and Hemingway.”

“What about them?

“Vince said neither of them can hit the curveball, and Pete said that Vince is an asshole.”

Laurie laughs, probably as appealing a sound as exists in the world. Then, “I’m serious, Andy. I’m not telling you to get involved in this case, other than to take care of Waggy, but I do think it might be a good idea for you to get back to work.”

By the time I wake up in the morning, I’ve decided that it’s possible Laurie knows what she’s talking about. I place a call to Steven Timmerman at the number that was in the records the court provided me. He answers the phone himself, which for some reason surprises me.

I tell him that I’m trying to determine the proper home for Waggy, and that while I know this is