Paw and Order (9 page)

“So?”

“So maybe she didn't have to.”

“You're saying . . . she knew who we were?”

Bernie nodded, just one simple brief movement. I knew that nod very well. It only happened when Bernie was certain he was right.

“Come on, Bernie,” Suzie said. “There are much likelier explanations than that. We said we were friends of Eben's. Why wasn't that enough?”

“How about we ask her?” Bernie said.

“Ask her why she didn't want our names?”

“Yeah,” Bernie said. “Call Preakness Development and see if they can put you through.”

“And then just say, ‘Hi, us again—we're hurt that you didn't card us?' ”

Bernie laughed. “Why not?” he said. “If it goes that far.”

“If it goes that far?” Suzie said.

Bernie didn't answer. Suzie started up on her phone, tapping at the screen with the look on her face that humans get when they're deep into their gadgets, a look like maybe they're starting to turn into a gadget themselves. Doesn't show them at their best, in my opinion. No offense.

“Bernie?” Suzie said. “There doesn't seem to be a listing for Preakness Development.”

“No?” Bernie said, not sounding surprised.

“Not only that—there are no hits at all for them, not a single hit of any kind!”

“Uh-huh.”

More tapping. “What's more,” Suzie said, “that building is owned by an outfit called Treetop Properties.” She looked up, turned to him. “What the hell? Next you'll be telling me that—” She bent over the phone. “But there is a Terrapin Exports.”

“Try them.”

Suzie made a call. “Hello, Terrapin Exports? I had a question about the new office you're opening at 1643 Ellington Parkway.” She listened for moment. “Any plans to?” She listened again, then clicked off. “They know nothing about it, Bernie.”

“What bothers me the most,” Bernie said, swinging onto an off-ramp, circling around, and heading back on the highway in the direction we'd come from, “is how she came up zip on the Maryland references. That's kind of worrisome.”

“More worrisome than the rest of it? How?”

“Not sure,” Bernie said. “Did you notice her accent?”

“Accent?”

“Very faint,” Bernie said. “I couldn't place it.” He pulled off the road, parked again in front of the brassy-colored office building. We were back? Hadn't we just left? A puzzler. But if it was okay with Bernie, it was okay with me.

TWELVE

I
n the elevator again! Way too much elevator work on this case already. I'm no fan of elevators, couldn't tell you how often they'd made me puke. But not this time: the doors opened just as I was getting the first hints of pukiness. I stepped into the hall, a pukey air bubble rising up through my throat and into the air. Right away I went from feeling not quite tip-top to my tip-toppest. We walked down the hall to the World Wide Solutions office, all systems go, and go is how I roll, if that makes any sense.

No sign of Mr. York, the renovation dude, or taxi driver dude, or whatever he was, but he'd left scrapings on the carpet and there were still some letters on the door.

“He got to ‘World Wi' and took a break?” Suzie said.

“Damn it,” said Bernie.

He charged forward, turned the knob, turned it so hard it twisted right off. Had I seen that before? Never. But that was Bernie: just when you think he's done amazing you, he amazes you again. The door—what was it left of it—swung open.

No sign of the cat's-eye woman. No sign of much of anything. All the boxes, all the papers: gone.

“Chet was on to something,” Bernie said.

“I'd wondered about that,” said Suzie.

While I waited to find out what I'd been on to—what an interesting subject!—Bernie said, “And I'm an idiot.” That had to be his sense of humor popping up, which could happen just about any time. He went through the office, yanking at the desk and file cabinet drawers. Empty, empty, empty. But that didn't make Bernie an idiot. Nothing could.

“This means they didn't have permission from the cops?” Suzie said.

Bernie slammed a drawer shut and shook his head.

“So therefore,” Suzie went on, but I stopped right there. I mean, whoa! Bernie handles the so therefores at the Little Detective Agency, and I bring other things to the table. Didn't Suzie have somewhere to go? And meanwhile, Bernie was listening to whatever she had to say with total interest, like he couldn't look at anyone else if he tried.
Try, Bernie, try
.

But he didn't. The next thing I knew we were back in the hall. Bernie hurried from door-to-door, flinging open the ones that would open, glancing in. I caught glimpses of different sorts of humans surprised at work. Then at the end of the hall, we came to a door that wasn't like the others, just a plain gray door with no writing on it. Bernie rattled the knob. From the other side of the door came sound, faint and low. Call it a moan.

Bernie lowered his shoulder to the door. In a flash, I was pretty much beside myself: I loved breaking down doors more than anything! And what's more natural when you love something than to pitch in and help get it done? We're a team, me and Bernie, in case that's not clear yet. We broke down that door together, side by side, broke it practically to smithereens, smithereens turning up in this job from time to time, just another one of the great things about it. I was so excited about breaking down doors and smithereens and Bernie that I didn't quite see what we'd found on the other side of the door, which turned out to be a sort of storage closet, full of brooms and mops and buckets and other stuff you'd expect. But how about something you wouldn't expect, namely a uniformed cop all tied up in a tight little bundle, his head completely hidden in crime scene tape, wrapped around and around? That's what we found in the storage closet, me and Bernie. Suzie was there, too, wouldn't be right to leave that out. And another thing about her: a lot of people not in our business tend to look shocked when they see a sight like we were seeing, covering their mouths, saying “Oh, my God,” that kind of thing. There's something scary about it after all, a face that's crime scene tape and nothing else. But there was none of that with Suzie. Her eyes were as hard as Bernie's eyes at that moment, which means like stone. The crime-scene face man moaned again. I backed up just the tiniest bit, for no particular reason. Don't think for a second that I myself was scared. Not possible. I'm a pro. Please keep that in mind.

• • •

“That's it, Nevins?” said Lieutenant Soares. “That's all you've got?”

We were back in the emptied-out World Wide Solutions office, all of us—me, Bernie, Suzie, Soares—on our feet, except for the man from the storage closet, now untied and unwrapped, sitting on the couch for office visitors. He was turning out to be just a normal cop who'd screwed up, name of Nevins, unless I was off the track. That can happen, especially if it's the kind of track that doesn't involve my nose. If my nose is in the picture, you can bet the ranch.

Some people, when they screw up, get what's called a hangdog look, maybe the strangest human expression there is. But that wasn't where I was going with this. Where was I going? I was going . . . cops! Yes, cops, screw-up cops specifically. Screw-up cops don't get that look, the name of which we can do without. Instead, they get the high school screw-up kid look, kind of up from under and mulish. Don't get me started on mules—no way I'll ever forget that mule called Rummy—because there's just no time. The point is that Nevins, the cop from the storage closet, had that look on his face. And did he even smell a bit like Rummy? I thought so. In fact, I was sure of it! What a life!

“Yeah,” Nevins said. “That's all.”

“You were standing outside the door, as per your orders,” Soares said. “You thought you heard a sound coming from one end of the hall—”

“I heard it.”

“—turned and took a step or two that way, and got clocked from behind by an unseen attacker.”

Nevins stuck his chin out and made a quick nod, kind of chopping and aggressive. It made me want to aggress him right back, but this wasn't my play. I'd seen way too much cop back-and-forth in my time to make a mistake like that.

“And after that you remember nothing until these nice folks came to the rescue?” Soares said.

Nevins's glance went to Bernie and Suzie, skipping over me. If folks come to your rescue, you tend to be fond of them, maybe want to give them a nice big lick. Nevins didn't have anything like that in mind, not even close.

“Yeah,” he said.

Soares gazed down at Nevins. “Anything to add?”

Nevins shook his head.

“Go to the ER,” Soares told him. “Get yourself checked out. Then take the day.”

Nevins pushed himself off the couch and walked out with no backward look. Soares watched him go, kept looking in that direction even after Nevins was out of sight. I heard the elevator's ping.

“You're wondering how to handle the union,” Bernie said.

Soares turned to him. “Not worth it,” he said.

“But potential evidence in a murder case has disappeared before it could be evaluated.”

“You can drive a truck through potential,” Soares said, losing me completely. Even Bernie looked a bit confused—you could tell from his eyebrows, so beautiful and thick, with a language all their own. “The takeaway will be officer harmed in the performance of his duty.”

Bernie nodded.

“I suppose I owe you,” Soares said.

“Nope.”

“Mind telling my why you came here this morning?” Soares said. “I'm asking real nicely.”

“Someone tried to hang a murder on me,” Bernie said.

“And you're not the type to let that slide.”

“How about you?”

“What about me?” Soares said.

“They used you as their tool.”

Soares's eyes turned colder. “You don't even want to get along, do you?”

Bernie didn't answer.

Soares turned to Suzie. “Plan on writing about this case?”

“Of course,” Suzie said. “Where are you in the investigation?”

“Off the record, nowhere.”

“And on the record?”

“It's an active investigation. We're pursuing a number of leads.”

“Such as?”

“Wish I could share that information.”

“For example,” Bernie said, “you must have searched Eben's house, apartment, wherever he lived.”

“He had a studio off Dupont Circle,” Soares said.

“And?” said Bernie.

Soares looked down, like he'd suddenly gotten interested in his shoes. I didn't see it, myself. They were just your everyday cop shoes, scuffed black lace-ups in need of polishing and pronto, shoe polish being one of those smells that adds a little zest to life.

“It was empty.”

“Empty?”

“Like he'd moved,” Soares said. “Which was what we assumed at first.”

“But now you know someone cleaned it out?” Bernie said. When Soares didn't answer, Bernie turned to Suzie. “We're out of here.”

Soares looked up. “And headed where?”

“Wish I could share that information,” Bernie said.

Soares raised his voice. “Think you're the first hard-ass I've dealt with?”

“I'm done thinking about you in any context,” Bernie said.

Then came a silence I knew well, a silence that swells up until there's a sort of explosion and dudes start throwing punches. But that didn't happen this time. Soares held up both hands in the stop sign and said, “No way to fix the past. As for the future, I understand Ms. Sanchez is based here, but is there any reason for you and this champion dog of yours to stick around?”

“Where I'm going is none of your business,” Bernie said, real unfriendly. As for me, this particular champ was starting to see Soares in a whole new light.

“Suit yourself,” Soares said. Then, as we started to go, he added, “One more thing.” He took an envelope from his jacket pocket, handed it to Bernie.

“What's this?” Bernie said.

“A District of Columbia private investigator's license,” said Soares. “Good for one year, with certain provisions you'll see in paragraph four, and signed by a duly authorized officer of the department.”

• • •

“Is that Soares's signature?” Suzie said, reading over Bernie's shoulder. We were standing by the Porsche outside the brassy-colored building. “He's the duly authorized officer of the department?”

Bernie nodded, folded the sheet of paper and put it in his pocket.

“Why would he do this?” Suzie said.

“You tell me,” said Bernie.

Instead, Suzie tilted up her head and gave Bernie's earlobe a quick little kiss. That caught my attention big time and I missed some back-and-forth. When I tuned back in, Bernie was saying, “. . . all we need now to make it totally normal is a client.”

We started getting into the car. There was a moment or two of confusion and then Bernie said, “Chet?”

In the back? Again? I stepped up to the plate, came up big, took one for the team. In short, I squeezed myself onto that horrible little shelf.

“Do you think Chet resents me?” Suzie said.

“No way,” Bernie said. “He loves you.”

“Maybe he loves me and resents me at the same time.”

“Nah,” Bernie said. He glanced my way. “You love Suzie plain and simple, right, big guy?”

What was going on? All so complicated. Sometimes I simply turn my face to the sky and howl. This turned out to be one of those times.

“God almighty,” Bernie said.

“He hates me,” Suzie said.

Hate Suzie? Impossible. Why would she say that? All I could think to do was:
amp it up!
So I did. Bernie burned rubber out of the parking lot. Were we making noise or what? Heads turned, count on it. But we're used to that at the Little Detective Agency.

• • •

Things had quieted down by the time we got back to the city, that strange stone tower straight ahead.

“First in the hearts of his countrymen,” Suzie said.

“Not me,” said Bernie. “Lincoln's the one.”

“That's the sentimental choice.”

“Me? Sentimental? That's a first. Should I take it as a—”

Suzie's phone rang, a good thing since it interrupted all that incomprehensible chatter. Suzie said, “This is Suzie,” and then listened for what seemed like a long time, sitting completely still. When she finally clicked off, she turned to Bernie and said, “That was Eben's dad,” she said. “He's flying back to London with the body.”

“Where is he?”

“Dulles.”

Bernie pulled a tight U-ee and stepped on it.

• • •

We drove up to an airline terminal and pulled over to the curb. The terminal doors slid open, and a small old man came out. He looked around, blinking in the sun. Suzie got out of the car and went over to him. They talked for a little while and then she brought him to the car.

“Bernie,” she said, “this is Maurice St. John, Eben's father. Maurice, meet Bernie Little, the private investigator I was telling you about.”

Bernie got out of the car, shook hands with Maurice, who looked even smaller next to Bernie. But I liked the way he stood, very straight, bony little shoulders back, head up.

“My flight's in less than an hour, so I don't have much time,” Maurice said. “Will you take pounds?”

Whoa. Something about pounds? I knew pounds, never wanted to see the inside of one again. Biting an old man? Not the Chet that I know, but I was prepared to do almost anything to be free.