Paw and Order (15 page)

“Well, well, well,” said Bernie. Bernie's well well wells were a real good sign: they meant the case was just about cracked. And after, we always had a nice celebration. The nicest celebrations included steak tips.

“Remember how we climb ladders?” Bernie said.

What a question! We'd worked so hard at it, Bernie'd had to clean out the complete Slim Jim supply from the convenience store at the far end of Mesquite Road. Now I could climb ladders like you wouldn't believe—except maybe if you'd met me—and come down even faster, especially by jumping the whole way.

Bernie swung one leg into the opening, then paused, reached back and put his hand on my head, strong and gentle at the same time. “Me first, Chet,” he said.

Him first? Meaning . . . whoa! Not me? How could that possibly make sense? Going first was part of my job.

“Chet?”

Panting started up, big-time. Meanwhile, Bernie grabbed the ladder and began climbing. The next thing I knew, I was right behind him, every bit as fast, or maybe even faster. It's a lot like scrambling up the steepest kind of hill: you get a good grip with your back paws and then comes a kind of surging push. Love that feeling! I surged on up the ladder, getting my nose brushed once or twice by the sole of Bernie's sneaker. I had the craziest thought: why not nip him on the ankle? Just the lightest possible nip, as a way of continuing our conversation about who goes first, if you see what I mean. But at the last moment, I changed my mind, not my usual MO at all, and left his ankle unnipped. I'm pretty sure of that, although betting the ranch might not be a good idea on your part.

We came to the top of the ladder, just about side by side, for some reason. A narrow shaft of light appeared, shining not far above our heads. Bernie reached out, gave a little push above that shaft of light. A door opened. On the other side was a small bathroom, not much of a surprise to me, since I'd been smelling bathroom smells all the way up the ladder. The tile floor was at eye level. We climbed onto it and Bernie shut the door. On the inside, the door had no handle of any sort and bore a full-length mirror so you couldn't even tell it was a door. Bernie gave it a poke and it sprung back open. He nodded to himself, don't ask me why, and looked around. A single towel hung on a rail. Bernie—sniffed at it? Yes! Had to love Bernie! I wondered what he smelled. A woman's scent rose from the towel, very faint, but I was pretty sure I knew it.

Bernie took a quick scan inside the medicine cabinet: empty shelves. Then he turned to a normal sort of door, the kind with a handle, and opened it. On the other side was an office. A woman, sitting at a desk, looked up, her face going through lots of emotions, like shock and fear and surprise. I was a bit surprised myself, since this was not the woman who'd left her scent on the bathroom towel. Instead, it was Suzie.

NINETEEN

S
uzie rose in a shaky kind of way, leaning on the desk for support. Only one light shone in the room, a desk lamp that lit the lower part or her face but kept the rest of it in shadow. That made Suzie look scary, something I'd never thought I'd see, but of course there are many things I'd never thought I'd see—maybe even more than the other way, meaning things I'd never thought I wouldn't see, or possibly . . . How about we forget this part?

“Bernie?” Suzie said. “What are you doing here?” She glanced beyond us, toward the bathroom. Her voice rose, got screechier than I'd ever imagine hearing from Suzie, like she was afraid of us, which made no sense. “How did you get in? Have you been here the whole time?”

“I'll show you,” Bernie said, “if you really don't know.”

Suzie's face twisted up in a way that made her look almost ugly, although I'm the type of dude who can always find some little thing to like in just about every human face.

“Are you stalking me?” she said. Her voice stopped being screechy, went cold instead. “This is turning into a cliché.”

“That could never happen,” Bernie said.

“Which part?”

“The stalking. That other bit was actually over my head.”

Suzie's face untwisted, now looked normal, although in an unfriendly way. “Talk,” she said. “Explain what you're doing in a way that makes you look not like a complete jerk.”

“How about I just explain the way it is?” Bernie said. “I'm doing the same thing you are.”

“What would that be?”

“Have I ever told you about the two miners?”

“Miners with an
e
?” Suzie said.

Bernie smiled. “That's what I like about you—a journalist to the end.”

“That's what you like about me?”

“Uh,” he said, looking down at his feet, as though . . . as though he could maybe get some help from them? Wow! I understood Bernie like never before. “That's not, um, all, not even the most . . .”

“Go on with the miners,” Suzie said. And what was this? She was drumming her fingers on the desk? Always a bad sign, not just with Suzie, but humans in general.

“It was this book I had as a kid,” Bernie said. “Two miners who don't know each other start digging into a mountain from opposite sides and they meet in the middle.”

Oh. Those two miners. I'd heard this one many times. But here's the thing with me and Bernie: every time is like the first time!

“A metaphor for you and me?” Suzie said.

Metaphor? That came up in my life with Bernie, kind of like one of those soap bubbles that go pop and then you're back in business.

“Just the part about you and me happening to be here right now.”

“I know what brought me,” Suzie said. She reached into her pocket, took out an envelope, tossed it in Bernie's direction.

“Chet! What the hell?”

Oops. This is—I wouldn't call it a problem, exactly—a sort of thing I have involving objects that get tossed or thrown or flung or winged or hurled—all great methods, never ask me to pick a favorite!—and how I just have to snatch them out of the air, simple as that. I dropped the envelope—hardly damp at all, tooth marks barely noticeable—at Bernie's feet, the way we'd practiced with tennis balls out the yingyang. Next comes
Good boy, Chet,
and a treat.

But . . . but no? No
Good boy, Chet,
no treat, instead Bernie picking up the envelope, smoothing it out, reaching inside, in short, carrying on like we hadn't hit a bump in the road? There are disappointments in life, and my way of dealing with them is to . . . to . . . I promise to get back to that later. At the moment, I'd gotten totally interested in what Bernie was taking out of the envelope, which turned out to be two keys with a little paper tag attached.

“The key to this office?” Bernie said.

“And the main entrance,” said Suzie. “It was shoved under my door.”

“At home or at work?”

“I don't have a door at work, Bernie. It's a newsroom.”

Bernie, the keys held loose in his hand, gave Suzie a look. “Am I too dumb for you?” he said. “Is that the issue?”

“No.”

“But you're not saying there are no issues.”

“Can we go into that some other time?” Suzie said. “You still haven't answered my question.”

“About how Chet and I got in here?” Bernie made a little come-with-me motion, and Suzie followed us into the bathroom, me actually entering first, which is our MO at the Little Detective Agency. He poked the mirror door. It sprang open. Suzie gazed down the dark shaft.

“It goes to Eben's office?” she said.

“Through a door hidden behind the clipper ship painting,” Bernie said. “When Mr. York and the middle-aged woman—plus a younger woman who seems to have been on the scene as well—cleaned out Eben's desk, they got there from here.”

Suzie leaned a little farther into the shaft. Bernie reached out to put a hand on her shoulder, but paused at the last second, almost but not quite touching her. I wondered about grabbing her by the pant leg—she was wearing jeans—not because Suzie was a perp, no way that could ever happen—but just to keep her safe. Then I thought of grabbing Bernie by the pant leg for the same reason, or maybe no reason at all! This was a very confusing moment in my career.

“So,” Suzie said, her voice strange and echoey in the shaft, “anyone in this office had constant access to Eben's?”

“Yup.”

“Was it some sort of setup from the beginning? Or more of an ad hoc thing?”

“You ask all the right questions,” Bernie said.

Suzie straightened, turned. “And someone wanted me to find out? Is that another right question?”

“Can't think how they'd expect you to find the back passage,” Bernie said. “This office itself? Yes.”

Suzie glanced around. “But there's nothing here,” she said. “It's totally empty.”

“Looks that way,” Bernie said. “But let's take it apart.”

We were going to take this office apart? Of all the things we do at the Little Detective Agency, taking places apart is just about the best, maybe second only to collaring perps.

“Chet! Down!”

We took the office apart. That meant yanking out all the drawers, tearing up the carpets, punching holes in the walls, and a whole bunch of other fun things that I never wanted to end. And even if we found nothing, so what? This was living. I was hit by one of the biggest thoughts of my whole life: why not take apart the whole building? We'd be rich! Hard to explain that last part, maybe, but some things you just know are true.

After that, it got quiet except for our breathing, kind of on the heavy side—mine, Bernie's, Suzie's. Sometimes during a heavy-breathing episode, you pick up a faint scent you might have otherwise missed. And that was just what happened now, the faint scent being that of guinea pig food pellets, tasteless and unsatisfying, as I'd proved to myself more than once. I followed the scent back into the bathroom.

A small bathroom, as I may have pointed out already, with sink, medicine cabinet, toilet. The guinea pig food pellet smell—now with the faint addition of actual guinea pig scent—was coming from behind the toilet. I squeezed my way around the toilet and sure enough, in the little space between the base of the toilet and the wall: some food pellets. There was also a partly rolled-up magazine or something like that. I was licking up a pellet or two just to remind myself of how much I didn't like them, when I heard Bernie in the doorway.

“Chet? What's back there?”

Bernie reached in beside me and picked up the magazine-like thing.

“What is it?” Suzie said.

Bernie held it up.

“A calendar?” she said.

“This year's.” Bernie flipped through it. “Nice photos, all snowy winter scenes.”

Suzie came closer, looked over Bernie's shoulder. “The writing's Cyrillic?”

“Couldn't think of the word.”

“Meaning it's a Russian calendar.”

“Must have fallen off the wall, gone unnoticed,” Bernie said. “Good boy, Chet.”

I'd been waiting for that, and there it was! As for the accompanying treat, a few pellets were still left. I licked them up and felt my very best. Everything comes out right eventually. It's always nicer if eventually turns out to be real soon, of course, goes without mentioning.

• • •

“Should we make a list?” Suzie said. We were back at her place, in the living room, Suzie sitting up tall on a bar stool, Bernie slumped on the couch, me curled up at his feet, which always smelled good at the end of a long day and didn't disappoint me now.

“Might help,” Bernie said.

“Don't you always work things out on that whiteboard in your office?” Suzie said.

“Yeah,” said Bernie. “But I'm flexible.”

“Are you?”

They exchanged a look. Friendly? No. Unfriendly? Not that either. Too complicated for me, whatever it was. It made me uneasy, let's leave it at that. I considered a quick chew of the end of my tail, something I hardly ever do, but that was one of Bernie's no-nos, so I put a lid on it.

They looked away from each other, Bernie's gaze happening to fall on me. “Chet—knock that off.”

What was this? Somehow the end of my tail had gotten into my mouth, completely without my knowledge or cooperation? And was I chewing on it? Put yourself in my place, assuming your own tail had gotten itself into your mouth, wouldn't you . . . Too confusing? Probably. How about we leave it right there, or perhaps even earlier? Whatever I may or may not have been doing, I knocked it off, and pronto.

Meanwhile, Suzie was taking out her notebook and a pen.

“Before we start,” Bernie said, “I've got a question about Eben.”

Suzie looked up, turned her dark eyes on Bernie, their shininess totally gone. “Shoot.”

“Did you know he was a spy?”

“Spy?” said Suzie.

“Working out of the British embassy for a guy named Aubrey Ross. Now retired, supposedly. I was too clumsy with him and now he's done a bolt.”

“I don't get it.”

Bernie went into a long explanation about Mr. Ross, and Brits doing bolts, and lots of other stuff, too hard to follow. When it all finally wound down, Suzie said, “I knew none of that.”

“What I thought,” said Bernie.

“Eben quit working for the Brits and went rogue?”

“Call it independent. We're going to see more of that—self-declared spies for the global community.”

Suzie nodded. “You should be a reporter.”

“Can you contract out the writing part?”

Some shininess returned to her eyes. She lowered the pen over her notebook. “Number one. Who slipped the keys under my door?”

Bernie nodded.

“Someone who wanted me to search that upstairs office.”

He nodded again.

“And find what?” Suzie said. “It was stripped bare.”

“Except for the Russian calendar,” said Bernie.

“You're suggesting it was planted?”

“By someone who had to be very careful.”

“But there's nothing written on it, no notes or anything like that.”

“Meaning the fact that it's Russian is what's important.”

They were talking about the calendar I'd found? That was nice. I waited for some mention of the guinea pig food pellets, also found by me, but that didn't happen.

“Number two,” Suzie said. “There was a third person involved in the cleaning out?”

“A woman with a thirty-five-year-old butt,” Bernie said. “Um, according to Nevins. She also wore her hair in something called a French bob. Ever heard of it?”

“That's how I wear my hair, Bernie.”

“Oh.”

Suzie smiled a small smile. “Why do I find you charming?”

“You say that like it's a problem.”

She gave Bernie a quick look.

“What's that look mean?” Bernie said. I was totally with him on that.

“Can we stick to business for now?” Suzie's gaze went to the notebook.

“Your butt's twenty-five, tops,” Bernie said.

Suzie's gaze didn't budge from the notebook. There was a long pause and then she said, “Number three.”

Just like that, I was out of the picture, topping out at two, as you must know by now.

“. . . did Eben know something that got him killed?” Suzie was saying. “And if so, that leads to number four—who was his source for that knowledge?”

“Yeah,” said Bernie. “And number five is who's using us to make this list.”

“That would be whoever slipped the keys under my door, no?” Suzie rose, left the kitchen, went to the front door, me and Bernie trailing, although me actually more like leading. She opened the door and looked out. A cool breeze was blowing, carrying the scent of a member of the nation within, and then another. I had a strong urge for some playtime with one of my kind.

“Chet?” Bernie said. “Where are you going?”

Me? No place. Perhaps I'd taken a step or two onto the grass in order to catch a bit more of that evening breeze, and perhaps not. I sidled back into Suzie's doorway, or pretty close.

Suzie herself was eyeing Lizette's place, where lights shone upstairs and down. “I wonder if Lizette saw anything,” she said.

“How can it hurt to ask?” said Bernie.