Dog Bless You (23 page)

Rochester tried to fake me out, darting to the right,
but I held on tight. He was so strong, though, that he pulled me along behind
him. I couldn’t plant my feet enough to stop him, and I didn’t want to try and
grab more of the leash for fear I might lose my grip.

Striker jumped into a beat-up old sedan and turned on
the ignition. As it roared to life, Rick got close to him and pulled out his
gun. Striker put the car in reverse and hit the gas, rocketing backwards from
the parking space. I dove into the flowerbed on the other side of the street
from the mailboxes, pulling Rochester with me, as the car roared toward us.

Rick fired his gun in what sounded like a series of
small explosions. When I looked up I saw the Chevy veering crazily as the two
driver’s side tires went flat. I sat up, still holding tight to Rochester’s
leash. Striker leapt out of the car and took off at a run away from Rick.

He was going to run right past me. I didn’t think; I just
ran on instinct, and I hoped that Rochester would, too. I pulled the tennis
ball from my pocket, and threw it directly in Striker’s path.

As it bounced once, Rochester took off. I jumped up,
holding tight to his leash, and the ball flew across Striker’s path. Rochester
had forgotten about the bad guy in his eagerness to get the ball, and he raced
right past.

Striker saw the taut leash blocking his path, but it
was too late for him to stop. He tripped over it and went flying to the
pavement.

Rochester’s leash flew out of my hand as he rushed
ahead and retrieved the tennis ball. Rick ran up to Striker and slapped a pair
of handcuffs on him as he was still on the ground. I caught up to Rochester and
scratched below his chin. “Good doggie,” I said.

I dialed 911 and requested an ambulance for Owen as
Rick called in for backup. I told Rochester to sit, and knelt beside Owen, who
was moaning in pain. “Ambulance is on its way,” I said. “Just hold on for a few
minutes.” The blood was pouring out of his head, and I took off my shirt and
created a makeshift bandage, applying pressure to the wound.

A couple of neighbors came out to see what was going on,
including a slim blonde named Kelly Vincent who had a schnauzer Rochester liked
to play with. She was some kind of doctor, and as soon as she saw Owen she ran
back into her house and returned a moment later with a medical kit. She took
over from me, and I stood up, feeling dizzy.

Rochester came over to me, sniffing at my blood-covered
hands. A state police car arrived a few minutes later in response to Rick’s
call for backup, and then the two cops who’d been busy at The Drunken Hessian
showed up, along with an ambulance for Owen.

Striker had hit his head on the pavement too, which I
thought was a kind of poetic justice, though his wound wasn’t nearly as severe
as Owen’s. Once the uniforms had taken Striker into custody, Rick came over to
me. “You look like shit,” he said.

I was shirtless, and there was blood on my hands and my
chest—either Owen’s, or my own, from a multitude of cuts and scrapes.

“Another triumph for the Hardy Boys, huh?” I said, as we
watched the patrol car drive away, its lights strobing the darkness.

“We’re hardly boys,” he said. “And you’re not even a
cop. How do you keep getting yourself into these situations?”

“Blame it on the dog,” I said. “He’s the one who found
DeAndre’s body in the first place.”

I related to Rick the conversation I’d overheard
between Owen and Striker. “If Owen hadn’t done that bump of cocaine, he
probably wouldn’t have lashed out at Striker, and they could have made a clean
getaway.”

“I have to track down the Keelys and tell them about
Owen,” Rick said.

“I hope this is the wakeup call he needs to turn his
life around,” I said.

“Awake or asleep, he’s going to prison.”

I wondered how long that word, prison, would create
such a visceral reaction for me. “I ought to get cleaned up,” I said. “Come on,
Rochester. You deserve a treat.”

Back home, I took a long hot shower, dressed my cuts
and scrapes. After a couple of pain pills I was able to get to sleep.

It was about noon on Saturday when Rick called me.
“Turned Striker over to the Feds as part of their investigation into the thefts
of those religious objects,” he said. “Tony Rinaldi will have to work out with
them how to charge him for DeAndre’s murder. I have a few charges to place
against him myself, but they’ll have to wait.”  He paused. “I’m at The
Chocolate Ear. You want to come down here?”

“I can be there in ten.” I took Rochester out for a
quick pee, then loaded him in the car for the trip downtown.

Rick was sitting at a square table on the sidewalk when
Rochester and I walked up. He looked like he hadn’t been to bed yet—his brown
hair was tousled, and there were puffy places under his eyes. I felt guilty for
getting a good night’s sleep—but then, as he had pointed out, he was the cop,
not me.

Gail came outside and I ordered a café mocha and a
Napoleon. I thought the pastry was particularly appropriate given the case’s
connections to Bonaparte.

“Put it on my tab, Gail,” Rick said.

She agreed and said she’d bring the pastry out with the
coffee when it was ready.

I sat down across from Rick. “In all the confusion
yesterday, I didn’t tell you. The project at Friar Lake is a go, and I still
have a job.”

“That’s good news,” he said. He raised his hand to
wave, and when I turned around I saw Lili approaching us. She looked New
York-chic in her black capri pants and black tank top. The only bright spot in
her outfit came from her hot pink ballet flats, with a matching pink ribbon
pulling her hair back into a curly ponytail.

I got back up and kissed her hello. “What brings you
down here?” I asked.

“Rick called me.”

I looked over at him, but he was ignoring me, focusing
on some paperwork in front of him.

Gail came out with my coffee and pastry, and Lili
ordered an iced tea and a croissant. As Gail walked back inside, I expected to
hear more from Lili, but she just sat down and put her hand on Rochester’s
head. “How’s my good boy?” she asked him and I felt a momentary pang of
jealousy.

He looked up and snuffled her hand. I looked from Lili
to Rick, but neither of them said anything. “What’s going on?” I asked.

The café door opened, and Gail returned with Lili’s
order. When she had gone back inside, Rick said, “It’s called an intervention.”
His face was grim, his lips tight.

I looked from him to Lili. She looked more sad than
anything else. “Rick and I have been talking,” she said. “You’ve got to stop
the computer hacking, Steve. It’s too dangerous, and I want to be sure you’re
going to be around for a long time.”

“But,” I began.

“Save it,” Rick said. “I’ve heard it all before. It’s
not a problem. You can control it. And you’re not hurting anybody.”

I took a deep breath, and let it out. Rick was right;
those were the things I would have said. I figured I had two choices at that
point. I could listen to that little devil perched on my shoulder who kept
telling me that I could control my computer use. That would mean getting up and
walking away from  The Chocolate Ear, sacrificing my friendship with Rick and
my budding relationship with Lili.

Or I could listen to these two people, who had cared
enough about me to take drastic measures.

They both were quiet. The only noise was the low hum of
some French pop music from inside the café, and the traffic along Main Street.

I broke off a piece of Lili’s croissant and handed it
to Rochester. Then I looked up at my two friends. “How do I get started?” I
asked.