Dog On It (4 page)

“Oh, no,” she said. “But my parents were, so I know about the life-changing part.”

Bernie sipped his coffee. I’d tried coffee once or twice, didn’t get what all the fuss was about. Water was my drink: delicious every time, never failed. “So you’re, uh, married?” Bernie said.

People began coming out the doors of the office buildings. I knew what that meant: lunchtime. I was getting a little hungry myself, although strictly a breakfast-and-dinner type, don’t ask me why—take it up with Bernie.

Now was when we had to watch extra hard, in case our guy got lost in the crowd. But Bernie wasn’t watching hard, wasn’t watching at all. In fact, he was gazing down at his hands—Bernie had big strong hands, one or two fingers bent a little out of shape—doing what, I had no idea. Waiting for Suzie’s answer to his question? Could that have been it? And Suzie did say something, but whatever it was, I missed it because there stepped our guy, out from behind two women on the other side of the street. Bernie was much better with faces than me, especially from a distance, but we’d been tracking this guy off and on for days, and he had a mustache, a big black one that divided his face into two parts, making him easy to spot.

“Why is Chet growling like that?” Suzie said.

“I don’t—” Bernie raised his head at last and glanced out the window. “That’s him. Justin Anthony III.”

“He even looks suspicious,” Suzie said.

Bernie laughed. What was funny?

Justin Anthony III got into a huge SUV, possibly one of those Hummers that Bernie hated so much; or maybe not—car identification was another one of my weaknesses. They all smelled the same. He pulled in to traffic. We followed.

Bernie drove, always keeping a car or two between us and the subject, which was the word we used for anyone we tailed. I sat up straight, then stood so I could get my face right next to the windshield.

“Chet. Siddown, for God’s sake. Look what you did to the mirror.”

But—I sat down.

“And don’t pant.”

Nothing I could do about that.

Suzie took out a notebook. “So the background here is that your client, Mrs. Justin Anthony III—”

“You’re not planning to use real names?”

“Just yours.”

“And Chet. You can use his real name.”

“Is it short for anything? Chester?”

Chester? That was a name? Don’t tell me my real name was Chester.

“Just Chet,” Bernie said.

Whew.

Suzie wrote in her notebook. “So your client suspects that her husband’s cheating on her?”

“But can’t prove it. The divorce will go much better for her if she can.”

“Are they rich?”

“I wouldn’t say rich. He’s a stockbroker and she’s a real estate appraiser.”

“Typical Valley couple.”

Bernie laughed again. Why? No idea, but it was nice to hear.

“And what’s your gut feeling?” said Suzie. “Cheating or not?”

“Cheating,” said Bernie.

“But you’ve been following him for a week with no result. What makes you so sure?”

“Ninety-nine percent of the time, if a wife suspects the husband of cheating, she’s right.”

“Why is that?”

“They sense something.”

Suzie’s pen was moving fast. “And the other way? Husbands suspecting wives?”

“They’re right half the time, if that.”

“Yeah?” said Suzie. “Why?”

“Maybe men have more active imaginations.”

“You’re pulling my leg.”

I glanced at Suzie’s leg. Bernie wasn’t even touching it, had both hands on the wheel. No explanation came—not that I cared about this particular subject, or any of the back-and-forth when we were on the job—because at that moment the SUV turned onto a narrow street and parked in front of a long low building with lots of doors and a big cactus sign.

“The Saguaro Motor Inn?” Suzie said. “My sister and her girlfriends stayed here last year.”

“A respectable place in a safe area,” said Bernie, backing into a space on the opposite side of the lot. “He’s a stockbroker, after all.”

Justin Anthony III got out of his car, went through a door at the end of the building, returned with a key in his hand. He walked all the way to a door at the other end and let himself in.

Bernie took out his recorder, spoke low. “Twelve-twenty-two P.M., subject Justin Anthony III enters room thirty-seven at the Saguaro Motor Inn, sixty-three-seventy-one East Pico Road.”

We waited. “Mind if I smoke?” Bernie said.

“You smoke?”

“No. Not really.” He didn’t light up. On one hand, as humans said—maybe if they had four paws, they’d think differently—I knew how hard he’d tried to quit; on the other, I liked the smell.

“How long have you known Lieutenant Stine?” Suzie said.

“A few years.”

“He spoke highly of you.”

Bernie nodded, a tiny movement. That tiny nod was my favorite: It meant Bernie was pleased.

“He mentioned you’d gone to West Point.”

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s quite an accomplishment, just getting accepted.”

Bernie was quiet. We watched the door—I could see the number, two little metal pieces, but I’d have to take Bernie’s word that it was 37.

“How does baseball fit in? Lieutenant Stine said something about that.”

“I played a little ball. They were short on pitching that year. Otherwise they’d never have taken me.”

“You pitched for Army?”

Another nod, this one not so happy.

“I love baseball. Were you a power pitcher or the finesse type?”

“Power, if you want to call it that, until I blew my arm out. That’s when I learned that finesse wasn’t my—” He stopped talking. A little car pulled quickly into the lot and parked beside the SUV. A woman of the curvy type got out, went to the door of number 37, a little unsteady on pointy heels, and knocked. The door opened from the inside. I caught a glimpse of Justin Anthony III with no clothes on. At the same moment I heard a click from Bernie’s camera. The door closed.

Bernie spoke into his recorder, described the woman, noted the time of arrival, make and license number of the car. He snapped a few more pictures. Then he opened his laptop, tapped at the keys. “Car’s registered to a Ms. Cara Thorpe.” Tap tap tap. “She has a condo in Copper City, works for an insurance company, never married, no kids, credit rating six-three-five.”

“Are we getting out of the car?” Suzie said.

“What for?”

“Don’t you want to try to take pictures through the window or something?”

Bernie didn’t answer. I took my eyes off the motel door and looked at him. The color of his face was changing, getting darker. This, I knew, was called blushing. Blushing was something Bernie always watched for when questioning someone, very important, although I wasn’t sure why, but I’d never seen him doing it himself. “The evidence we have already should be sufficient,” he said.

I’ll say. Full-frontal nudity was the kind of evidence that couldn’t be beat, not in our work. Humans look so guilty without clothes on, case closed; so different from me, for example, or any of my buddies, even Iggy. We just don’t need them, end of story. Shoes, for example—what would I do with shoes? A coat and tie? Please.

Suzie turned a page in her notebook. “Lieutenant Stine said you left Metro PD about six years ago.”

“True.”

“Why was that?”

Sometimes Bernie had a way of taking a deep breath in through his nose—making a faint whistling sound—then letting it out of his mouth, slow and silent. He did it now. “Time to move on.”

“And what was the path that led you here from West Point?”

“Is that really part of your story?”

“Off the record, then.”

“I like the desert,” Bernie said. “The American desert.”

“You’ve been to other deserts?”

“Yes.”

“In combat?”

“Yes.”

“What can you tell me about that?”

I perked up. This was something Bernie never talked about, not to anyone. Bernie reached over, adjusted my collar; the metal tags had gotten twisted inside. Ah. That felt better. “There’s really not much to say.”

Then came a long silence, except for the faint sounds of Suzie writing in her notebook. Time passed. My mind drifted to a kind of Portuguese sausage I’d had once; couldn’t remember where or when, but I could taste it, right there at the stakeout.

“What about—” Suzie began, just as the motel door opened. Justin Anthony III appeared, fully dressed. He smoothed out his mustache, climbed into the SUV, drove off.

Bernie recorded the time.

“That’s it, then?” said Suzie.

“We’ll wait till she goes.”

“Why?”

“No real reason. The room was empty when we got here.”

“A full-circle kind of thing?”

Bernie smiled. “Exactly.” He and Suzie exchanged a quick glance; if it had any meaning, I missed it.

We sat there, waiting for Ms. Cara Thorpe to appear. A car drove into the lot, slowed down, parked beside hers. A man wearing a cowboy hat got out. He walked to the door of number 37 and knocked. The door opened. The man went inside, but before
the door closed, I caught a glimpse of Ms. Cara Thorpe with no clothes on.

Suzie’s eyes were wide open. “She’s two-timing the two-timer?”

“On the two-timer’s tab,” said Bernie. “Wonder if they’re using the minibar.”

Suzie laughed. “Are you going to report this part to the client?”

Bernie shook his head. “Wouldn’t lead anywhere good.” He turned the key. I thought I heard a tiny squealing sound from behind the door to number 37. Humans squeal, and sometimes pigs, like the javelinas, for example: I’d heard them squeal up close, more than once. Any others? None that I could think of.

I liked to sleep at the foot of Bernie’s bed, but my favorite napping spot was in the breakfast nook, under the table with my back against the wall, all cool and shady, plus there was often good snacking around Bernie’s chair. I took a nap every day, sometimes two, and had settled down for a long quiet one when Bernie came in. I opened one eye. The top half of him was out of view. He was wearing sneakers and shorts; the long curved scar on one of his legs looked very white on his skin.

“You asleep?”

I gave my tail a little thump.

“The article’s in the paper. About that stakeout.” Then came paper sounds, rustling and crinkling. Bernie cleared his throat; I did that only in emergencies, like the time a bone got stuck.

“‘Gotcha! On the Job with a Leading Valley PI, by Suzie Sanchez. Ever see Robert Mitchum as Raymond Chandler’s ace detective Philip Marlowe? Although their faces are very different, that’s who Valley PI Bernie Little of the Little Detective Agency reminded me of—a big shambling guy, one of those athletic types
a decade or maybe two past his prime.’” Bernie stopped reading. One of his feet tapped the floor a few times. “‘Shambling?’ What the hell’s that?” His chair squeaked. He got up and left the room. An airplane flew overhead, very high, making a faint, soothing buzz. I closed my eye.

And was nodding off when Bernie returned. “‘Shambling,’ dictionary definition—‘moving awkwardly, dragging the feet.’ Where’d she get that? I don’t drag my feet.” Bernie walked around the kitchen in an experimental sort of way. I opened my eye again. From my angle, he didn’t appear to be dragging his feet. Sometimes Bernie limped a bit, especially when he was tired, but that was from his wound.

He sat down. Paper rustled. “‘Little, accompanied on a recent stakeout by this reporter as well as his lively mongrel dog, Chet, claims not to like divorce work but on this occasion proved . . .’”

I turned my back. Mongrel? What kind of rag would even print a word like that? I closed my eye, stretched my legs way out, got comfortable.

“Chet? C’mon, wake up. Time to get in shape.”

Huh? Get in shape? Speaking for me, I was about one hundred percent pure muscle, as always. I squeezed out from under the table, leaned forward, loosening up my back, then had a nice shake, the kind that rippled my skin back and forth in waves. Bernie was standing there in shorts and a wife beater.

“We’re going for a run.”

Both of us? There were lots of outings where Bernie walked and I ran, but Bernie running would be a first. We went out the back door, through the yard, out the gate, into the canyon. Bernie started running, sort of, up the trail that led to the hill with the big flat rock on top. It was nice out, the sun hidden by the distant
mountains but the sky still light, the air not too hot. I loped along beside Bernie, then ran circles around him, and when that got boring, took off for the hilltop.

And right away spotted a lizard, one of those green ones with the tiny eyes! He saw me, too, and darted toward higher ground. I tore after him, closed the distance fast, and sprang, my front paws outstretched, and came down right on him. Or not quite. What was this? He’d bolted down a hole, a small round hole in the dirt. I started digging right away, real fast, got a nice clawing rhythm going, all four paws involved, and soon had a big hole under way. But all of a sudden I caught a whiff of something, a nasty smell with a bit of bacon mixed in, that meant one thing and one thing only: javelina.

I raised my head, sniffed the air. No doubt, and it was coming from down the hill, closer to the trail. I glanced around, saw I’d dug a hole, although I wasn’t sure why. I lowered my nose and trotted after the scent.

It got stronger and stronger. This was going to be cake! Nothing beat hunting, the absolute best. And when I caught up to the little squealer, just you—

“Chet! Chet!”

I looked down. Bernie was no longer running, no longer moving at all; he stood on the trail, hands on his hips, chest heaving.

“Come on. We’re going home.”

That was it? The getting-in-shape run was over? At that moment, just when the fun was ending, I spotted the javelina, a big fat one, so close. And then I was charging, flat out, the wind whipping by. The javelina bared his tusks—as if that would stop me!—and made a quick little sideways movement. I ducked sideways, too, the hair rising all down my back, feeling hot and cold at the same time, and—

Ow.

I ran right into one of those skinny cactuses, the kind with the needles.

Back in the kitchen, Bernie removed the needles with tweezers, one by one, starting with my nose. “I’m going to be running three or four times a week now, so you’ll have to use better judgment if you want to come along.”