Play Dead Part 30

I start to do so, and I'm almost finished when I realize something else I can give her. "I have pictures of the people at his funeral. They meant nothing to me, but maybe..."

I stop talking, and the pause becomes so long that she says, "Maybe what?"

All of a sudden I'm not inclined to explain it to her. All I want to do is get out of her office and go home, because I just realized who is not in those funeral pictures.

On the way home I call Sam Willis and ask him to come right over with the pictures. I want to go through them again, just to make sure I'm right.

Next I call Kevin and ask him to check whether a golden retriever was reported missing to the Ess.e.x County Animal Shelter during a specific one-week period back in March.

Sam is already at my house and set up when I arrive, and I look at each one slowly and carefully. I still don't recognize anyone, which is exactly what I was hoping.

I call Karen, Pete Stanton, and Marcus and ask them all to come over on a matter of urgent importance. I want Pete with us where we're going, because law enforcement should be present, and I want Marcus with us in case we run into a couple of hundred bad guys with machetes and bazookas.

Karen, Pete, Marcus, and I are in the car and heading off within forty-five minutes. Kevin calls me on my cell while we're on the road, and he confirms exactly what I suspected about the animal shelter records.

Next I ask Kevin to check the records of Gary Winston, the surgeon who was on that chopper. What I want to know is what kind of surgery he specialized in. Actually, I believe I already know, and I just want to confirm it.

Karen is surprised when I tell her that we are heading for the cabin, and shocked when I tell her why. I'm encouraged when Pete hears what I have to say and doesn't ridicule it, but even if he did, it wouldn't matter.

I think I'm right.

I'd better be right.

It takes almost an hour and a half to get up there, and we park close but out of sight of anyone in the cabin. I'm not sure how to go about approaching it, since there is a very good chance that gunfire might be heading our way when we do.

Pete and Marcus come up with a plan; they will sneak up and enter the cabin, disarming anyone who might be inside, while Karen and I wait by the car for them to signal to us that it's safe to come up. As far as I'm concerned, it's the perfect plan.

Pete and Marcus head off, and for the next fifteen minutes Karen and I hear nothing. No voices, no gunfire, no noise of any kind. I'm trying to figure out whether that's good or bad news, when my cell phone rings.

"Come on in," Pete says.

"Is there anyone there?" I ask.

"Come on in," he repeats, and hangs up.

Karen and I drive the rest of the way to the cabin. No one is outside and everything is completely quiet, and I have a brief flash of fear that Pete was forced to call me and that we could be walking into a trap. Then I remember that Marcus is with him, and I get a new infusion of artificial courage.

Karen follows me as I enter the cabin. Pete is leaning against the counter that separates the kitchen area from the main room. Someone I a.s.sume to be Anthony Banks lies on the floor unconscious, with Marcus standing over him.

In the corner of the room, lying on an area rug and chewing on a toy, is Reggie, looking none the worse for wear from his adventure.

And sitting at the small dining table is a woman I recognize as Yasir Hamadi's live-in lover/employee, Jeannette Nelson.

Also known as Diana Carmichael.

Also known as Stacy Harriman.

Even though she was expecting this, Karen doesn't recognize her at first, but slowly it starts to sink in. She stares at her as if trying to process what she is seeing. Stacy just sits there, sullen and silent, as Karen slowly walks toward her.

"You," Karen says slowly, "are a piece of s.h.i.+t."

YOU WOULD THINK that discovering that a murder victim is actually alive would be enough to quickly spring from prison the man wrongly convicted of the killing. that discovering that a murder victim is actually alive would be enough to quickly spring from prison the man wrongly convicted of the killing.

Unfortunately, the system does not work nearly that efficiently. The state has to endlessly investigate the developments, a hearing has to be scheduled, and witnesses have to be heard. That would all be fine, except that Richard is sitting in jail.

His reaction when I told him that Stacy was alive and Reggie was safe was not what I expected. I expected shock and euphoria; what I got was an almost dulled acceptance. This man has been battered and beaten down by events, and I have to get him out of that cell as soon as possible.

To that end I once again call to arrange a meeting with Alice Ma.s.sengale. This time she doesn't resist at all, asking me to come in right away, which I'm happy to do.

It is clear from the moment I arrive that Ma.s.sengale is angry, and it doesn't take much longer to discover that it's not me she's angry with. "Stacy Harriman-Diana Carmichael-was part of WITSEC," she says. "I shouldn't be confirming that for you, but I am."

"Thank you for that," I say.

"I had been told otherwise, which is why I made those representations to the court."

I believe her, and I tell her so. I also tell her that I am here to negotiate with the U.S. government, and I have chosen her as their representative.

"I have no standing to represent anyone," she says.

"I think you'll have all the standing you'll need," I say. "All I ask is that you convey my terms to the appropriate officials and tell them they have twenty-four hours to respond."

She smiles; she doesn't yet know what my terms are, but she thinks she's going to like them. "Fair enough," she says.

"Good. Here's what I want. Richard Evans must be released from jail immediately; I don't care how it's done. I want him out and the conviction wiped from his record. Then I want ten million dollars to help compensate him for the loss of five years of his life, to say nothing of the pain and suffering he has had to endure. I believe he can get more in the lawsuit I will otherwise file."

"What are you offering in return?" she asks.

"Partial confidentiality."

"What does that mean?"

"Mr. Evans is free to discuss everything with the press, with the following exceptions. He will not reveal that the government was aware of his innocence, that it misrepresented to the court, or that it tried to wiretap and otherwise sabotage his legal team. He also will not reveal the terms of the settlement."

"Ten million dollars is something of a reach, don't you think?" she asks.

"Not compared to what the government will recover when they start digging into Hamadi and everyone else. Either way, it's not negotiable. If my offer isn't accepted by close of business tomorrow, we file suit the next morning and start booking talk show appearances immediately. And with what I know about Afghanistan and the government's behavior in this case, ten million dollars to shut me up is a bargain."

She agrees to convey my offer, and I get the feeling she's relis.h.i.+ng doing so. I also wouldn't be surprised if she testified for our side, should this ever go to trial.

I head home for a planned meeting with Pete Stanton. Pete is feeling pretty good right now; the arrests of Stacy Harriman and Anthony Banks are by far the biggest of his career. He's been all over the media talking about it, including an interview on the Today Show Today Show this morning. He has had to say repeatedly that he can't reveal details of the investigation, so basically all he does is smile a lot. this morning. He has had to say repeatedly that he can't reveal details of the investigation, so basically all he does is smile a lot.

If Pete is grateful to me for putting him in this position, he's hiding it well. I tell him that there are a few things I still can't figure out, and ask if he can fill me in on where the investigation stands.

"I should tell you, a private citizen, about confidential police work?" he asks. "Why would I do that?"

"Let me take a shot at a reason," I say. "How about so you're not forced to buy your own beer from now on at Charlie's?"

"On the other hand, we need more openness between law enforcement and the private citizenry," he says.

"Since it obviously wasn't Stacy, whose body washed up on sh.o.r.e?" I ask.

"Still no ID on that. We're checking missing-persons records for that period. Whoever it was, they took her hair and put it on the hairbrush at Richard's house and then put some of her blood on the boat, so it would seem to match Stacy's DNA."

"They would have had to find someone with the same body type, hair color..."

He shakes his head sadly. "Good reason to get murdered, you know?"

"Any luck finding Gary Winston?" I ask.

"Not yet... Hopefully Stacy will give him up. But he'll be found-surgeons aren't the type to hide in the wilderness eating leaves and s.h.i.+t. They like to come out and have a good meal once in a while."

As far as I can tell, and Pete agrees, Winston is the last missing member of the conspiracy. Had I realized earlier that Winston was a plastic surgeon, stationed in Afghanistan to deal with serious battle wounds, I might have caught on to the scam earlier.

I hadn't recognized Durelle or Carelli from their pictures and just a.s.sumed that it was because they were taken years ago. In fact, Winston had altered their faces enough to be consistent with new ident.i.ties, as he had done with Stacy.

Karen was targeted out of fear that because of her closeness to Stacy, she might see through it and recognize her. The night before she was shot, Franklin heard me agreeing to let her accompany me to Short Hills to see Hamadi. Their fear was that she might see Stacy then or shortly thereafter.

Stacy had obviously only pretended to be a witness for the government, to deflect suspicion from her. She was actually a key conspirator but allowed herself to be put into WITSEC, knowing full well she would not remain there.

"When is your client getting out of jail?" Pete asks.

"I'm working on it."

"Let me see if I understand this," he says. "You lose a murder case in which there was no murder, and you can't spring your client even though the victim turned up?"

"These things are complicated."

Pete nods. "I know one thing for sure. Clarence Darrow, you ain't."

"CHECK YOUR E-MAIL."

That is the short and to-the-point message from Alice Ma.s.sengale that is on my answering machine when I return from my morning walk with Tara and Reggie. Tara is clearly loving having Reggie back, so much so that I'm thinking maybe I should get another dog when he leaves. I'll have to discuss it with her.

I turn on my computer, and I see an e-mail from Ma.s.sengale, which seems to contain a doc.u.ment to be downloaded. After ten minutes of trying, I am forced to admit that downloading is simply not something at which I have the required expertise.

I am about to call Sam Willis, when the doorbell rings. It is Karen, coming over to find out in person if we've made any progress in getting Richard out of jail. The situation is even more frustrating to her than to me.

"Do you know how to download something from an e-mail?" I ask.

"You don't don't?" is her incredulous response.

"Of course I do. It's just that you said you wanted to help out on Richard's case, and-"

"Where is it?"

I take her over to the computer, and she sits down. She makes a few clicks with the mouse, and within thirty seconds she is jumping up and down and screaming with pure joy.

My instincts tell me this is good news, but I sit down and look at the screen to find out just how good. The doc.u.ment Ma.s.sengale sent is a letter, for me to sign, essentially agreeing on behalf of the government to the terms as I presented them to her.

Richard is going to be free, and Richard is going to be rich.

Karen prints out the agreement, and I sign it. She offers to hand-deliver it to Ma.s.sengale's office so I can focus on the mechanics of getting Richard out of jail.

I place a call to Hawpe's office and am pleased to learn that the process has already begun. Ma.s.sengale had a.s.sumed I would find the terms acceptable, since they were my terms, and had taken the initial necessary steps.

Once I've done all I can over the phone, I head down to the prison. It is my opinion, based on very substantial feedback over the years, that I can be even more obnoxious and annoying in person than on the phone.

Even under my relentless prodding, there is a limit to how fast the bureaucracy will move, and it's not until three o'clock that I get to enjoy the sight of Richard Evans walking through the prison doors to freedom.

He sees me immediately and comes over. We just stare at each other for a few moments.

"It took you long enough," I say.

He smiles. "Sorry-I was tied up."

With that we hug. I'm not a big fan of hugs, and man hugs are my least favorite, but this one is okay.

"Come on," I say. "There's somebody at my house who wants to see you."

When we pull up to my house, Karen, Reggie, and Tara are on the porch waiting for us. Richard has the door open even before I bring the car to a full stop, and he heads for the porch. He doesn't quite get there, because Reggie comes bounding down the steps and leaps on him.

Within moments Richard and Reggie are on the ground, with Richard on his knees, hugging and petting him. Reggie's tail is wagging a mile a minute, and he seems to be doing his best to lick the skin off Richard's face.

"You saved me, buddy. You saved me." Richard says it over and over, punctuated by laughs. Reggie doesn't comment, so I a.s.sume he agrees and is being modest. And Reggie did save Richard's life, as certainly as La.s.sie ever saved anyone.

"Is this great, or what?" says Karen, constantly dabbing at her eyes. She comes over to hug Richard, but Reggie doesn't seem to be in the mood to share.

Yes, it's definitely great.

Tara stands off to the side, watching the scene, clearly bewildered that she is not receiving any of this affection. She comes over to me, and I pick up the slack and pet her, but she knows she's getting the short end of the stick.

We go into the house, and I fill Richard in on what I have learned from Pete or figured out on my own.

"Do you have any idea where Reggie was all these years?" he asks.

I nod. "With Stacy. She drugged you on the boat, and when you were unconscious, she left on another boat with one of her partners. She took Reggie with her."

"Why?"

I shrug. "I think she genuinely loved him. It's why she had him taken from my house."

"So how did he get away from her?"

"There was a storm last March, and a tree fell and badly damaged the house she was living in. My guess is that Reggie was home alone and that he took off when that happened."