Paw and Order (8 page)

Bernie was quiet for a long time. Then he said, “What's your call?”

Suzie was silent.

“If it helps at all,” Bernie said, “I'm going to work this case, with you or without.”

“See right there?” said Suzie. “That's bullying.”

Bernie lowered his head. I hated seeing that.

Suzie breathed in a long, slow breath, let it out even slower. “Eben was still sizing me up, as I told you. But what I didn't tell you is that he had some contact he was gearing me up to meet.”

“Who?” Bernie said.

“He didn't say,” Suzie said. “Eben had to be very cautious because the contact's life is in danger.”

“Why?”

“On account of what he knows.”

“Which is?” Bernie said.

“Quote, something that will change the course of history,” said Suzie.

“That's Eben talking?” Bernie said.

“Yes.”

“Kind of on the melodramatic side.”

“I thought so,” Suzie said. “At the time.”

ELEVEN

S
tep one,” Bernie said at breakfast, bright and early the next morning. “World Wide Solutions.”

“What about it?” Suzie said.

“The name,” Bernie said. “It has
solutions
right in it, and solutions are what we're after.”

Bernie's always sharp, but it was clear right from the get-go that today he was at his sharpest. Is that why Suzie balled up her paper napkin and threw it at him, as a kind of prize? I always like a prize myself, and without really knowing how—although a leap right over the kitchen table might have been involved—I'd somehow snatched that balled-up paper napkin out of the air. I stuck a twisting landing, and sat up nice and straight facing Suzie, whose eyes were open wider than normal, and Bernie, who'd reached out to steady an orange juice glass that had gotten a bit tippy for some reason. Meanwhile, the paper napkin was dissolving in an unpleasant sort of way in my mouth, but I wasn't sure what to do about it. I'd completely forgotten that I actually disliked chewing paper! Can you believe it?

“He's a big ball of id, isn't he?” Suzie said.

“Id?” said Bernie.

Suzie reached for another napkin like she was going to do the same thing all over again—which would have suited me just fine, doing the same thing all over again being one of my go-to moves—but then thought better of it. I was with Bernie on this id thing, totally out of the picture. At the same time, I liked the sound of it. Big ball of id—why not? I couldn't have been in a finer mood when we stepped outside and headed toward the Porsche.

A beautiful day, sunny, not too hot, all very nice except that some of the trees seemed to be turning from green to yellow and brown and red, a new one on me, and somewhat unpleasant in a way I couldn't possibly describe. I let Bernie and Suzie go on ahead and took a moment to do what I had to do, first against a lovely-smelling bush at one end of Lizette's garden, then a quick splattering back and forth over one of those flowering vines that climbs the side of a house, reserving just a splash, as high as I could manage, right into a sort of raised-up bowl. What were those raised-up bowls called? Birdbaths? I wasn't sure, but before I got anywhere on the problem, I noticed Lizette, sitting motionless on her screened porch, eyes on me. I paused, one rear leg raised way up, and gave her one of my very friendliest looks. She turned away and picked up her phone.

I trotted out to the street and . . . and what was this? Suzie settling into the shotgun seat? I love everything about Suzie except her forgetfulness in this one little area. I went over to let her know in the nicest possible way that—

“Chet! You'll wake the dead!”

Uh-oh. I got a grip and pronto. I'd seen it happen once already in my career—a perp name of Wixie Fryar getting lowered into a coffin by these other perps who thought they'd done him in, when all at once . . . I didn't even want to go there and for sure never wanted to see another dead dude wake-up scene again. Those fluttering eyelids and nothing but the whites of the eyes behind them? Uh-uh. I hopped onto the tiny shelf behind the front seats—totally inappropriate for a hundred-plus pounder such as myself—without the slightest objection and sat up straight and tall, a no-nonsense pro and on the job. Bernie stepped on the pedal and we were off.

“What do you think goes on in his mind?” Suzie said. Or something like that. I had no idea who they were talking about, soon lost interest in the conversation. High above I caught a quick silvery flash, saw the strange bird making a turn in our direction. Birds had tried to poop on me more than once, but this one didn't. That didn't make me trust him.

• • •

We crossed the river and soon were back in the world of office parks. Maryland? Was that it? And all this around me was about elephants and donkeys? I couldn't pick up a single sniff of either one, meaning the case was going well so far.

In the front seat, Bernie reached over and patted Suzie's hand. “This is fun,” he said, “working with you.”

What? Working with Suzie? And just like that, things took a real bad turn for the worse.

“Chet?” Bernie said. “A little space, big guy.”

Space? With just my head poking through between the seats, I was giving them plenty, much more than enough. Any possibility of squeezing my shoulder through? Took some doing, but—

“CHET!”

And maybe a sharp swerve, plus a screamlike sound from Suzie, and some loud honking, not necessarily in that order. I got myself back on the shelf, twisted around like I was much more interested in the goings-on in the next lane, and spotted a big member of the nation within hanging out the window of a pickup. I let him have it full blast. He let me have it back, the same way. I felt better.

Bernie turned off the highway and parked in front of a brassy-colored office building that looked familiar. Before we got out of the car, I remembered the whole visit from before, the smell and taste of Eben's briefcase most of all. Hey! I was on fire! Who wouldn't want to work with me, first and only?

• • •

A man in a yellow uniform and yellow cap stood outside Eben's office, scraping the sign off the door.

“Anything I can help you with?” he said. And what was this? He gave off a strong scent of hair gel, a smell that reminded me of bubble gum? It got me thinking.

“Are you a cop?” Bernie said.

In a yellow uniform? I didn't get that. Neither did the dude with the scraper, unless I was missing something. “Me? A cop?”

“I thought there'd be a cop on guard,” Bernie said. “And crime scene tape.”

“They were just leaving when I got here. All done, apparently. Maybe you can reach them at the station.” He turned to the door, raised the scraper. Meanwhile, I was still thinking, hoping for an actual thought sometime soon.

“We don't want to reach the cops,” Bernie said. “We're friends of Eben St. John's.”

The man turned back to us, looked blank. His face was kind of like slabs put together, if that makes any sense, but it was hard to tell on account of the shadow under the bill of his baseball cap. A thought came to me at last: I'd like to see him without that cap on his head. I waited for follow-up, but none came.

“This was his office,” Suzie said.

“Ah,” said the man. He glanced at what remained of the sign. “World Wide Consulting, was it? I'm doing the renovation.”

“World Wide Solutions,” Suzie said.

“Right,” said the renovation man. “By lunchtime, it will be—” He took out his phone, read from the screen. “—Terrapin Exports.”

“You don't waste time,” Bernie said.

“The early bird catches the worm.”

The renovation dude was right about that. I'd seen it so many times, the poor worm struggling to stay in the ground, the bird with its weird skinny bird feet firmly planted, tugging away. Then another bird comes gliding down, way too late. I've often encountered worms—like anyone else whose job requires digging now and then—and eaten my share, but I would never bother to hunt them down. Just between you and me, they're not that tasty.

“. . . quick look around,” Suzie said.

“Look around?” said the renovation dude. “Afraid I'm not authorized to—”

A woman called from inside the office. “Mr. York? Is someone there?”

The renovation dude opened the door. I glimpsed a tall older woman standing at the desk, putting papers in a box. She had swept-back wings of white-and-black hair—a very nice color combo, in my opinion, and not just on account of it being mine, too, although mostly—but what really jumped out at me were the glasses she wore, glasses of the kind they call cat's-eye. I'm sure the name alone gives you the chills. If this was a case—but how could it be? Was anyone paying?—then we were suddenly in trouble.

“Associates of . . . of the previous tenant,” said the renovation dude, Mr. York, if I was getting this right.

The woman gazed out at us. Not us, exactly: her eyes went to Bernie, then to Suzie, and back to Bernie, somehow missing me.

“What can I do for you?” she said. “I assume you've heard the sad news?”

“That's why we're here,” Suzie said. “We're trying to find out what happened.”

“I didn't know . . . the deceased,” the woman said. “I represent the building owners.”

“Who must want this to go as smoothly as possible,” Bernie said.

There was a long pause, Bernie and the woman eyeing each other. Then the woman spread her hands in that gesture humans make to show you're going to get zilch out of them. “I don't see how I can help,” she said. “But please come in.”

By that time, I was pretty much inside the office anyway; actually completely inside. Bernie and Suzie followed. Several boxes lay on the floor, packed with papers, folders, framed photos, plus pens and pencils and other desk stuff. I sniffed out that guinea pig smell right away, weaker than before but still hanging around.

“You're packing up Eben's stuff?” Suzie said.

“At the request of his head office,” said the woman.

“The police gave you the okay?” Suzie said.

“Would I be doing this otherwise?”

And maybe a bit more chatter along those lines, whatever they happened to be, but meanwhile Bernie was pacing off the distance between the desk and the flowerpot where Ferretti had found our gun. I hadn't seen Bernie's pacing-off thing in way too long! I trotted over and pitched in, pacing in my own way. Did the woman at the desk glance over in alarm? Maybe, but I'm too busy concentrating on my job to be sure.

“. . . head office of World Wide Solutions?” Suzie was saying.

The woman nodded. “Somewhere overseas, I believe,” she said.

“Did they give you a shipping address?” Suzie said.

There was another pause, this one much shorter, before the woman said, “My instructions were to leave everything with the building superintendent for pickup.”

Bernie and Suzie exchanged a look. I got the feeling he was telling her something in a silent sort of way. That was bothersome. Why not me? I liked Suzie just fine, but didn't she have somewhere to go?

Suzie turned to the woman at the desk. “Maybe we could help you.”

“Help me?”

“Sort through things. We knew Eben personally, as I mentioned.”

The woman shook her head. “Oh, I couldn't do that,” she said. “I'm not authorized. It could cost me my job.”

“How about getting authorized?” Bernie said.

“I don't understand.”

“By your boss,” Bernie said.

“That would never happen,” the woman said. “He's a strictly by-the-book type. The whole company's that way.”

Bernie and Suzie exchanged another look. Meanwhile, Mr. York, the renovation dude, was kind of lingering in the doorway, scraper in hand.

Suzie turned to the woman again. “What's the name of the company?”

The woman handed Suzie a card.

Suzie examined it. “Preakness Development?” she said.

The woman nodded.

“We're having a real Maryland-themed day,” Bernie said, losing me completely.

“I'm sorry?” said the woman, showing she and I had something in common, kind of a surprise.

“Terrapin Exports,” Bernie said. “Preakness Development.”

Some quick blinking went on behind those cat's-eye glasses. Mr. York was inside the room now.

“Not important,” Bernie said. “We won't take any more of your time.”

“Nice, ah, meeting you,” the woman said. “Sorry I couldn't . . .”

“Good luck with the assignment,” Bernie said.

Mr. York stepped aside to let us pass, raising his cap in a polite sort of way, and when he did that, I saw that his hair was of the slicked-back kind. At the very moment I ran smack into the thought I'd been waiting and waiting for: namely that I'd seen Mr. York once before, in fact, the day Bernie and I had first driven up to Suzie's house. Mr. York had also driven up—at the wheel of a taxi, if that mattered—and he'd taken a long look at a blue minivan parked nearby. Then there'd been that little scene of Eben coming out of Suzie's house and meeting Bernie, a meeting that maybe hadn't gone well, and . . . But I couldn't take it any further, most likely had already taken it too far. I started barking my head off.

Mr. York jumped back. “What's with him?”

“Do you have a cat?” Bernie said.

“No way,” said Mr. York. “I'd have a dog if my building allowed it.”

“Come on, big guy,” Bernie said to me. “Ease up.”

Ease up? I did the exact opposite!

“What the heck?” said Mr. York. “Dogs usually like me.”

Bernie! Do a so therefore!

But Bernie didn't. He took me by the collar in that gentle Bernie-like way—and eased me out the door. I knocked off with the barking way before we got to the elevator, or possibly on the ride down, or maybe when we got out on the ground floor.

• • •

We drove toward the city, same seating arrangement as before. Maybe we'd soon be dropping Suzie off, getting back to normal. You could always hope, and I always do. It was quiet in the car, no talking, no music. I was in the mood for music! “The Road Goes on Forever,” for example, or “Delta Momma Blues.” “Don't kid yourself, Chet,” Bernie always says, “that one's about codeine and nothing but.” Whatever kidding yourself means, exactly, it's not me. I'm not a kid, and also helped take down Twitchy Tim, a pharmacist gone bad who ran a side business in codeine popsicles, as I'm sure Bernie remembered.

“That was weird,” Suzie said after a while.

“Oh, yes,” said Bernie.

“Meaning?”

“I don't even know where to begin.”

“Try.”

The guinea pig smell! Begin with the guinea pig smell! But Bernie did not. Instead, he said, “She never asked for our names.”