Dog On It (8 page)

“I’m looking for Bernie Little,” the man said. Some people—Suzie Sanchez, for example, or Charlie, of course—had friendly voices. This man did not.

“Present,” said Bernie.

A frown crossed the man’s face. “My name’s Damon Keefer,” he said. “I understand my ex-wife, without consulting me, hired you to look for my daughter, Madison.”

“She hired us, yes,” said Bernie.

“And?” said Damon Keefer.

“And what?” Bernie said.

Questions, questions. I had a question of my own. Was there a cat, or maybe more than one, in that black car? Not likely: Cats, unlike my guys, weren’t big on riding around in cars, another one of those bewildering things about them. What beat riding around
in cars? Maybe a few things—I thought of that distant she-bark not too long ago—but not many. Was it possible cats had no idea how to have fun? I didn’t know. All I knew was that the chances of a cat being in that black car were slim but not none. And a cat in that black car meant a cat on our property. A cat on our property? I heard a powerful rumbling sound, had the vague impression it was coming from my own throat. The next thing I knew, I was on the move.

“And what?” Damon Keefer was saying. “I’d like a report on your investigation so far, that’s what. I’m assuming you haven’t found her or else you’d—Hey! what the hell’s that dog doing?”

What was I doing? My job, amigo. And at that moment my job meant checking out this black car—parked in our driveway, by the way, while we were stuck out on the street—for the presence of cats. How do you do that without standing up on your back legs and planting your front paws on the door to get your face right up close to the window? That’s basic.

“He’s scratching the goddamn paint.”

“Chet!”

Good news: no cats. I pushed off, at the same time hearing a sound I wouldn’t call scratching, more like chalk on a blackboard. That sound always did things to me, starting at the back of my neck. I shivered. My lips smacked around loosely. I felt pretty good, so good I charged around the yard a bit, bursting out of one tight turn after another, clods of lawn flying all over the place.

“Chet, for God’s sake!”

I skidded to a stiff-legged dead stop, one of the things I do best, and not easy—try it sometime. A twig happened to be in reach. I flopped down, front and back legs all stretched out, and started chewing on the twig. Ah, eucalyptus, probably blown over from old man Heydrich’s tree. Very tasty.

Bernie and Keefer were standing by the black car, gazing at the door. “Send me a bill,” Bernie said.

I chewed the stick. I could smell my own breath. It smelled nice.

“What would be the point of that?” Keefer said. “You’d just pad your own bill—I know how these things work.”

Bernie gave him a look I’d hardly ever seen from him before. “I don’t pad my bills,” he said.

Keefer met his look, but not for long. “Suit yourself,” he said. “I’ll hear your report and be on my way.”

“Ever dealt with a private investigator before?” Bernie said.

“No, thank God,” said Keefer.

“Then you’re probably not aware that I don’t report to you. I report only to the client, except for certain information I’m compelled by law to pass on to the police.”

“The client? What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m on a retainer from Cynthia. That makes her the client.”

Keefer’s face swelled up: another blood-flow thing, but not a blush. This swelling up was a sign of human rage. In my world, rage and noise went together, but when Keefer spoke, his voice didn’t get louder; in fact, he lowered the volume. Humans—not all, but some—have a way of putting you off balance.

“What that tells me,” Keefer said, “is that you’re a touch slow in the detection department. Any half-decent detective would have figured out that every cent Cynthia has comes right from me.”

Bernie? A touch slow? I stopped chewing the stick, got my back legs up under me, ready.

Bernie stayed calm. “That doesn’t change anything. But I know this is a tough time for you, and if Cynthia gives her permission, I’ll fill you in.”

“I don’t need her permission for—”

“Maybe the three of us could meet at your place.”

“My place? Why my place?”

“Does Madison have a room there?”

“Yes, but—”

“I’d like to see it.”

“Why?”

“Standard procedure,” Bernie said. “I’m trying to get your daughter back.”

“She probably took off for Vegas.”

“Vegas?”

“She’s impulsive, just like her mother.”

“Does Madison have a gambling problem?”

“I didn’t mean Vegas per se,” said Keefer.

“Has she ever run away before?”

“How would I know? Think I’m in the loop?”

“According to Cynthia, there’s no history of running away.”

“What do you expect her to say?”

“Meaning?” Bernie said.

“She’s a terrible mother—isn’t that obvious?”

“Did you try for custodial rights?”

“No,” Keefer said. “A young girl needs her mother. At least that’s what I thought at the time. But now—” He raised his hands, palms up. Humans did that when they didn’t know what else to do. I knew the feeling. When I reached that point, I took a nap if I was indoors; outdoors, I marked territory, always a good fallback.

Bernie was gazing at Keefer in one of his thoughtful ways, his head tilted to the side. That meant he was changing his mind about something, making new plans. “Tell you what,” he said, “why don’t I call Cynthia now? We can meet right here.”

* * *

We met in the office, Cynthia and Keefer in the client chairs, Bernie at the desk, me under it. From there, I could see Cynthia and Keefer from their waists down. He wore dark pants and dark shoes with tassels; she had sandals and bare legs. Their feet were pointing away from each other. My eyes felt heavy right away.

“First of all,” Bernie said, “I want to start with a very important question.” Feet started twitching, first a sandaled foot, then one with tassels. “Has either of you received a ransom demand?”

“Ransom demand?” They both said the words at the exact same time; something about their voices together sounded unpleasant.

“If you have, the caller almost certainly warned you against telling anyone.” Bernie said. “I promise you that not telling us would be a bad mistake.”

“Who is ‘us’?” Keefer said.

Bernie tapped his foot lightly on my tail. “The agency, of course. But you haven’t answered the question.”

“There’s been nothing like that,” said Cynthia. “What are you saying?”

“Are you telling us this is definitely a kidnapping?” said Keefer.

Cynthia’s hands squeezed tight together. “Oh my God,” she said.

“There’s nothing definite at this stage,” Bernie said. “Do you have any enemies?”

“Me?” said Cynthia.

“Or business rivals?”

Now she was wringing her hands. “I don’t think of them as rivals, but—”

“For Christ’s sake,” Keefer said. “You design e-cards. He’s talking about real business.”

Cynthia’s hands separated, balled into fists. There was a silence. Then Bernie spoke. “And you’re a developer, Mr. Keefer?”

“I own Pinnacle Peak Homes at Puma Wells,” Keefer said. “Competitors come with the territory. But we don’t kidnap each other’s kids. And if all you’ve got is speculation, you have no right to alarm us like this.”

“This is just speculation?” said Cynthia.

“You can call it that,” Bernie said. “But it’s based on information we’ve developed, mostly concerning Madison’s movements last Wednesday—the night she supposedly went to the movies.” He started telling the whole story. The sound of his voice grew fainter. I got all warm and fuzzy, right on the edge of dozing off. I heard Keefer say, as though from a great distance, “Have you run this theory past the police?” Bernie answered from even farther away, “Not yet. She’s already on the wire anyway, and besides . . .” Then I was over the edge, sinking into dreamland.

When I awoke, Bernie and I were alone. He was sitting at the desk, holding a check. I squeezed out from under, stretched my front legs way forward, bringing my jaw almost down to the floor, butt up high. That felt great.

Bernie looked down at me. “That didn’t go so well,” he said. He waved the check. “Two grand.” What was wrong with that? A grand was always nice, and two grand was nicer. “The problem is Keefer wrote it. They’re co-clients now. I would have preferred sticking with her. He’s so . . .”

Whatever Bernie was planning to say about Keefer, I wanted to know, but at that moment the doorbell rang. We went and opened up. There stood Charlie, wearing his backpack.

“Hi, Daddy. Hey, Chet.”

The window of a car parked on the street slid down, and
Leda looked out. “Have him back by two tomorrow,” she said. “No later.” Looking past her, I could see Malcolm the boyfriend behind the wheel, talking on a cell phone. I barked. Why the hell not? It was good to see the boyfriend glance over. He was scared of me and my kind, I could tell right away.

Charlie came in. I gave his face a nice lick. He said, “Oooo,” and made a funny twisted smile. “I’m ready for camping,” he said.

“Camping?” said Bernie.

“You promised.”

“Then let’s get packed.”

We packed the tent, the sleeping bags, the air mattresses, the air pump, the pegs, the wooden mallet, a cooler full of food and drinks.

“Anything we’re forgetting?” Bernie said.

“Matches,” said Charlie.

Bernie laughed. My tail knocked something off the coffee table. I tried to slow it down.

It was getting dark by the time we left the house. Bernie opened the slider, and we carried all the gear—the mallet was my responsibility—into the backyard. There we set up the tent, pounded in the pegs, pumped up the mattresses, unrolled the sleeping bags. We had two kinds of camping: the kind where we got into the car and drove into the desert, and this kind. Charlie liked this kind better, especially when he missed a real bed in the middle of the night.

Bernie piled rocks in a circle, threw on some wood, made a fire. Charlie grilled sausages on the end of a stick, his face glowing from the flames. Bernie had two, Charlie one, me two, and later the third, right out of the package when no one was looking, because it was there. Then came roasted marshmallows, which I
didn’t touch. Love the skins, but there’s some trick to swallowing the gooey insides that I’ve never mastered.

The fire burned low. Bernie sang a song called “Rawhide.” Charlie joined in. Me, too, with the high-pitched woo-woo I can do if I get my nose pointed right up at the sky.

“Time to turn in, pardners,” Bernie said.

He and Charlie went into the tent. I curled up by the dying fire, gazing at the coals. There was a bit of talking in the tent, then silence. Ah, camping. I closed my eyes.

And was almost asleep when I heard barking far away. I’d heard that bark before, the distant she-bark from the other night. This time it went on and on. Suddenly, I wasn’t so sleepy anymore, more like wide awake. On my feet, in fact, and standing by the back gate, the entry to the canyon. Locked, of course, and high, maybe Bernie’s height or taller. But did I mention my leaping ability? A moment later, or possibly less, I found myself on the other side of the gate.

Bark bark. I followed the sound. I was on high alert, had never felt so strong in my life. This was going to be great! The barking led me not into the open canyon but around the house, onto our street and down the hill, away from Iggy’s place.

I’d only passed a few houses when I noticed a parked car with two men sitting in the front seat. It was dark, the nearest streetlight at the corner, but I can see at night, no problem. And what did I see? The man in the passenger seat had fair hair, massive cheekbones, tiny ears. I knew this man, oh but yes. What else? His window was open, and his arm rested on the door frame. I couldn’t remember everything Bernie had said, but I knew one thing: the perp.

I charged, sprang, clamped down on his elbow.

The perp cried out. The man behind the wheel said, “Boris?
What the—” The driver saw me, reached down, came up with a gun, a fat gun of a kind I’d seen before, back in K-9 school: Taser. Then came a little popping sound, and something light hit my neck. The instant it did, a fiery pain went jolting back and forth through my body.

I fell on the ground, twitching. I wanted to bark, bark for Bernie, camping so close by, but I couldn’t. The car doors opened. The trunk popped up. Boris and the driver—a dark little guy with eyebrows that joined in the middle—jumped out, picked me up, threw me in the trunk.

Thud. The lid slammed shut. I couldn’t see a thing. The car started moving. I went crazy in that tiny space, crashing around. I couldn’t even stand up! Bernie! Bernie!

The car was going fast now. I heard a whimpering sound, realized it was me. Very bad. I wasn’t even hurting anymore.

I lay down and tried to be quiet. After a while I detected a smell I knew, very faint, almost at the limit of what I could do: a smell of young human female, with hints of honey, cherry, and a kind of sun-colored flower I sometimes saw along roadsides. Madison had been here before me.

My night vision is good, so good that whether it’s day or night doesn’t make much difference, but now, for the first time in my life, I couldn’t see a thing. I didn’t like it at all. There were plenty of smells beside Madison’s: oily smells, rubbery smells, rotting-garbage smells. And sounds, too, high-pitched and whimpering. After a while, I realized that was me. Again? I got that to stop. Then came quivering, and I stopped that, too. I just lay there in total darkness. But what good would that do, just lying there, waiting?

I stuck out a front paw, touched one side of the trunk. Was scratching at it a good idea? Scratching at things was pretty much always a good idea, to my way of thinking. I scratched, felt some kind of carpet-type material. I scratched some more, soon had all four paws involved, digging my claws in deep, ripping out all kinds of stuff—hard stuff, soft stuff, maybe even some wires. A tiny spark flew by; then everything went dark again. I didn’t know why, but the tiny spark seemed like a good thing to me. I scratched harder.