Scents and Sensibility (22 page)

“I'm glad of that,” Bernie said. “I'm not working for any lawyer. And it was a long time ago, as you say, but in my job the past has a way of coming back.”

Summer glanced around. There was no one to see besides us, nice open country all around. “Coming back?” she said, her voice gone quiet.

“I'm afraid so,” Bernie said. “How much do you remember about the trial?” Bernie said.

“The trial of the kidnappers?” Summer said. She shrugged. “Not much.”

“You must have testified,” Bernie said.

“Briefly,” said Summer. “Then we went to Cabo.”

“I'm sorry?”

“During the trial. My parents took me to Cabo for a vacation. I recall it ending while we were down there.”

“With guilty verdicts.”

Summer nodded.

“What can you tell me about the kidnappers?”

She shook her head. “It's like another lifetime.”

“How about their names?”

Summer shook her head again.

Bernie smiled a smile that looked a lot like his friendly one. “How about taking me through the whole thing?”

Summer checked her watch. “I've got a customer coming.”

“Just the CliffsNotes version, then,” Bernie said.

Summer laughed, just a little laugh, here and gone, and regarded Bernie in a new way. That “regarding Bernie in a new way” routine often happens during our interviews, and then come good things, like me grabbing the perp by the pant leg. Summer was wearing a dress and red cowboy boots, as I may have mentioned, a bit of a challenge. Also, I wasn't sure this was the right moment. While I was thinking things over, Lovely snorted a surprisingly loud snort and went prancing off toward the corral fence. I trotted after her. Prancing's not my thing. She poked her head through the rails and started eating grass, a sure sign of an upset stomach, where I come from. Poor little lady. I gave her a friendly nudge. She got right back up and returned to eating grass. I watched over her, not so far from Bernie and Summer that I couldn't hear them easily.

“Your dog's all right,” she said. “Some dogs can't deal with minis at all.”

“Chet's been around,” Bernie said. So true! My whole MO, right there. Bernie never missed a thing. “Why don't you start with the kidnapping itself? Where were you when it happened?”

“At a club downtown,” Summer said. “The Black Rose.”

“I remember it,” Bernie said. “But weren't you eighteen?”

“My dad owned the place.”

“It had a reputation.”

“I know that. But I wasn't into the drinking and drugs part. I just loved to dance.”

“So you were dancing and then . . . ?”

“I went outside to catch a breath of fresh air.”

“Outside on Olive Street?”

“No. The alley out back. You got there through the kitchen. I was just standing by the door when a van drove up and two guys jumped out and grabbed me. They wore ski masks—with the Boston Bruins logo, that sticks in my mind—but it all went down so fast. Then I was in the back of the van with my wrists tied up in those plastic cuffs and a hood over my head. One of them drove and the other stayed in the back with me. He said I wasn't going to get hurt, and it would all be over as soon as my dad paid up.”

“Half a million dollars?”

Summer nodded.

“Did your family have that kind of money?”

She nodded again.

“Those nightclubs must be pretty lucrative.”

She nodded once more, just a very slight motion this time.

“Can you describe the voice of the kidnapper?” Bernie said.

“It was actually sort of gentle.”

“But you still must have been scared.”

“Who wouldn't be?”

“Any chance you recognized that voice?”

“Why—how . . . how would that be possible?” Summer said.

“If you'd known one or both of them from before,” said Bernie.

Summer's voice rose. “Of course I didn't. Where would you even get an idea like that?”

“I'm not pushing any ideas,” Bernie said. “These are just the questions you ask in a case like this.”

“What case? How can there be a case? The case was all done with practically twenty years ago.”

“Fifteen is more like it,” Bernie said. “Which happened to be the sentence the judge handed down. So time's up.”

Summer licked her lips. That sent a tiny whiff of her lipstick my way, lipstick that smelled of those little purple flowers you see in some gardens, including old man Heydrich's in the days before an unfortunate incident. “Time's up meaning . . . ?”

“The prison sentences are over,” Bernie said. “Billy Parsons is no longer in prison.” Then his eyes locked right on Summer's in a way I wouldn't want them locking on mine, as of course they never would. Bernie loves me, simple as that. “Neither is Travis Baca.”

Was he looking for something in those big blue eyes? Did he find it? I had no idea. A fly came idling past. Lovely flicked at it with her fluffy golden tail, missed again, and went on munching grass. The sound annoyed me, hard to say why. Hurry up and puke, was my thought.

“You must be right,” Summer said, looking down. She kicked at a hard clump of dirt with the toe of her red cowboy boot. “About the timing. I'd forgotten. Their names, that night, the next day, everything.” Summer looked up. “What is it you're doing, exactly?”

“Right now I'm trying to reconstruct the events of the kidnapping,” Bernie said. “What happened after they grabbed you off the street?”

“There was a lot of driving. Then . . . then must have come the blowout, which was when some trucker spotted them changing the flat. The trucker called it in on account of Bi—on account of the kidnappers wearing the ski masks, which seemed kind of weird to him. That gave the cops the clue to the van. After the blowout, we went to a house—maybe out in some isolated place, since it was so quiet. They kept the hood on me the whole time, except for when they gave me a shake and a burger.”

“Did you see their faces?” Bernie said.

“They kept the masks on,” Summer said. “I fell asleep, and when I woke up, one of them had gone to pick up the ransom.”

“Where?”

“Out in the desert somewhere. I'm not sure I ever knew. The one who'd gone for the ransom called when he had it. Then the other one dropped me off at an abandoned gas station, actually not far from here, although there's nothing left of it now.”

“Was he the one who'd been with you in the back of the van?”

Summer nodded. “He left me there with the hood on and my wrists still cuffed. But after a while I got the hood off. That was around when the detective drove up.”

“Mickles.”

“I think that was his name. A very nice guy, kind of jolly.”

“Jolly?”

“Laughing and smiling, that kind of thing. He took me home. The kidnappers got caught. That was that.”

“How were your parents?”

“That's a strange question. They had their daughter back. How would you be?”

“Understood,” Bernie said. “But I gather the five hundred grand was never found. What was their reaction to that?”

“My mom couldn't have cared less.”

“And your dad?”

“My dad?” Summer said. She kicked another dirt clump, much harder. “My father was an asshole.”

L
ovely kept on chewing grass. And how strange was this? It was me who started feeling pukey! Some things are impossible to explain. I moved away from her, circled around for a bit, and laid myself down. I don't like feeling pukey. Was it Lovely's fault? I leaned in that direction.

“Meaning, among other things, your father's dead?” Bernie said.

“That's one way of putting it,” Summer said.

“What happened to him?”

“Heart attack.”

“When?”

“About eight years ago.”

“So not associated with the kidnapping.”

“No,” Summer said. “He was always the heart attack type.”

“In what way?” Bernie said.

“Mostly in the dishing-it-out way, until his own came around. He was the explosive type.”

“Violent?”

“With anybody he thought was weaker, oh yeah. In a . . .” She stopped herself, then spoke more quietly. “In a heartbeat.”

“You, for instance?”

“We're not going there.”

“Your mom?”

“She lives in Florida.”

“I meant—”

“I don't give a shit what you meant. She lives in Florida.”

“In what circumstances?” Bernie said.

“Huh?”

“Your family took a half-million-dollar hit.”

Summer gestured at the surroundings. “Does this look like poverty?”

“No,” Bernie said. “But I take it you're married now.”

“I brought plenty to the table,” Summer said. She gave Bernie a real unfriendly look. “What are you up to?”

“Just trying to fill in the blanks,” Bernie said. “What do you think happened to the money?”

“Don't know and don't care,” said Summer. “Is that your angle? You're after the money?”

Oh? This was interesting. I waited for Bernie to say “exactly,” or “no doubt about that,” or “bet the ranch, baby.” We were on our way! I could just feel it!

But Bernie said none of those things. Instead I heard, “I'd like to know what happened to it—that's not the same. And if I do come across the money, your mother will be on the receiving end.”

I got up, puked, and felt much better. At that moment I heard a car coming, not yet in sight. I kept a close watch on the track that led from the corral to the driveway. Lovely went on eating grass. Was she following any of this?

“Why my mother?” Summer said.

“Assuming she's the rightful heir,” Bernie said. “Normally after all these years you'd expect the money to be gone, but this time may be different.”

“Why?”

“Just a hunch,” Bernie said. “A two-parter, really. Hunch one—the kidnappers stashed the money somewhere safe.” He'd been looking my way; now he turned to Summer. “Hunch two—they entrusted it with someone for safekeeping.”

Summer gazed at Bernie. Some humans had eyes that were good at keeping you out. Hers were like that.

“And now, as I mentioned, the sentences are over,” Bernie said. “Billy and Travis are out.”

“Then why aren't you trailing them?” Summer said. “Why hassle me?”

Bernie gazed right back at her. “Have you seen Billy? I mean recently.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

A big fancy car came up the track. Summer moved toward it.

“If he gets in touch, call me,” Bernie said.

Summer stopped and turned. “Are you out of your mind?”

The fancy car parked beside the Porsche, and two women got out and hurried over.

“Where is she?” called one.

“There—hidden behind that overgrown mutt. Lovely! Lovely! Yoo-hoo!”

I looked around for an overgrown mutt, saw none. The case had taken a bad turn. Summer joined the women, the interview abruptly over. Had it gone well? I didn't get that feeling. A big fuss started up over Lovely. She left off eating grass and sampled the sugar cubes they were practically shoving down her throat. I wanted those sugar cubes myself, even though I don't care for sugar. I wanted them badly! What if I sidled over in the nicest way and—

“Chet?”

•  •  •

“A lot to process, huh, big guy?” Bernie said as we drove off.

Uh-oh. We were processing? We hadn't processed since the Sneezy Siragusa case, all about a missing chef, namely Sneezy, whose food Bernie never touched, not sure why, although no one was actually missing—meaning we didn't get paid, so how could processing be the way to go? But what a bad thought! If Bernie said process, we processed.

“Where to even begin?” he said. “How about with the fact that Summer showed zero reaction when I implied that Travis Baca was not only out of the slammer but among the living? Doesn't that prove all this is in the past, as she said, no longer on her radar in any way?”

He glanced over at me, like . . . like for my opinion. I stuck my tongue out—although not as far it could go, not even close—and licked the tip of my muzzle. Hey! It was kind of dry. I licked it again.

“But in direct opposition is the near certainty that there was some sort of relationship between her and Billy. He wore a ski mask, but she recognized his voice—did you catch her start to say his name when she came to the part about the trucker? See where we're going with this?”

I gazed into the distance, saw the tops of the downtown towers, golden in the sun. My best guess? We were going home.

“A near certainty but not a dead cert certainty, huh?” Bernie said. “I hear you.”

•  •  •

When we got home, a car was parked in the driveway, one of those big old cars with the tailfins, although this one looked all shiny and new.

“Do we know any old Caddy collectors?” Bernie said.

Not that I knew of, although there's no guarantee I understood the question. My ears went up all by themselves, letting the rest of me know it was time to be on high alert. We parked on the street and hopped out, me actually hopping, and Bernie pretty far from it. Maybe his leg was having one of its bad days, although why now, when we hadn't been on a long hike, or chased any perps through a drainage ditch, or other fun things like that? But no time to figure out tough problems, or even easy ones, my specialty, because Smoky Cabot was climbing out of the car in our driveway. He came over to us with a nice big smile, nice in Smoky's case because it shrank the tattoos on his cheeks, making them less visible. But that's just me.

He tossed Bernie a small bag of pot, the smell arriving ahead of the bag. Bernie caught it easily, the way Bernie catches things, just swallowing them up in his hand.