“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.”
LAURIE 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
“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.”
