Play Dead by David Rosenfelt Page B

think?”
    “I find myself wanting to believe him.”
    “Do you believe him?” I ask.
    He shakes his head. “Not yet. His version is just too full of holes. The prosecution has it locked up airtight.”
    “Except for Reggie. Reggie says he’s innocent,” I say.
    “He told you that?”
    “Not in so many barks, but I got the message.”
    I like dogs considerably more than I like humans. That doesn’t make me antihuman; there are plenty of humans I’m very fond of. But generally speaking, if I simultaneously meet a new human and a new dog, I’m going to like the dog more.
    I’m certainly going to trust the dog more. They’re going to tell me what they think, straight out, and I’m not going to have to read anything into it. They are what they are, while very often humans are what they aren’t.
    I say this fully aware that dogs cannot replace humans in our day-to-day lives. I have never met a competent dog airline pilot, short-order cook, quarterback, or bookmaker. These are necessary functions that we must trust humans to provide, and I recognize that. It’s not that I’m an eccentric about this.
    So for now I’m going to pursue this case, even though Richard has nothing going for him.
    Except for Reggie.

J OEL M ARSHAL IS on the front lines, protecting our country.
    I can’t say he looks the part. At about five eight and a hundred and fifty pounds, he’s one of the few male adults under ninety that I would be willing to get in the ring with. As a protector of the country, he is not the type you would describe as someone “you want on that wall, you need on that wall.”
    Marshal is U.S. Customs director for the Port of Newark, and it’s his job to ensure that the endless flow of cargo that comes in each year does not include things like drugs, guns, anthrax, and nuclear bombs. It is a daunting task, which is why I’m surprised it was so easy to get an immediate meeting with him.
    It may have been a quickly arranged meeting, but it won’t be a long one. He’s looking at his watch almost as soon as I sit down. It’s a common tactic; I think watches are more often used to demonstrate a lack of time than to tell time.
    “Thanks for seeing me so soon,” I say. “I won’t take much of your time.”
    “I appreciate that,” he says. “It’s a busy day today.” He glances at his watch again, though less than fifteen seconds have passed since the last time he looked. “What can I do for you?”
    He says this with what seems to be a permanent smile on his face. If the smile could talk, it would say, “I am a political appointee, and this smile is government issue. It doesn’t mean I am happy or amused.”
    “I’m representing Richard Evans.”
    “Yes, you mentioned that,” he points out, accurately.
    “I’m operating under the assumption that the evidence against Mr. Evans was deliberately faked. What I am trying to find out is why.”
    “What does that have to do with me?”
    I explain that one of my theories is that Richard was targeted because of something involved with his work. He could have been removed from that work because of something he knew, or possibly to get him out of the way.
    “It hardly seems likely,” Marshal says. “But in any event, there’s little I can help you with. I’ve only been assigned here for one year, and I had never even met Mr. Evans.”
    “So you’re not familiar with his case?” I ask.
    He shakes his head. “Should I be? It’s pretty much ancient history, and my understanding was that it did not involve his job. It was a personal matter.”
    Murders usually are “personal matters,” but I decide not to point this out. “Who replaced him?” I ask.
    “I’m not sure. Roy Chaney is in the job now, but I’m not aware if he followed Mr. Evans, or if there was somebody else in the interim.”
    “Can you check?”
    This prompts another look at his watch and, while not a frown, a slight weakening of the smile. Finally, he asks his assistant to get