The Silence of the Chihuahuas (19 page)

I looked at the caller ID. It read “Amber Trout.”

“Amber?”

“Yes. Who do you think it is?” She sounded irritated.

“Where are you? Is it safe to talk?”

“I'm in the bathroom. I told them I had to go. They don't know I still have my cell phone. I tucked it into my bra.”

“Why me?”

“Why not?” She sounded even more irritated.

“You don't have to be so snappy!” I said. Pepe had rushed over to listen and I switched the phone so it was on speaker so he could hear.

“You would be too if you had spent the last night tied to a chair in a basement.”

“What does it smell like?” asked Pepe.

I heard a little dog barking. The sharp outraged barking had an echo.

“Is that your dog?” I asked.

“Yes, Party Girl's in here with me! Thank God!”

“Did you call Jeff?”

“Yes, but he just handed his phone to the FBI. I don't want to talk to them. These guys said they'll kill me if the FBI shows up. They want your sister.”

“Ask her how it smells,” Pepe said again.

“What does it smell like?” I asked.

More barking on the other end

“What?”

“What does it smell like? Where you are?”

I could practically see Amber shaking her head.

“Pizza! It smells like pizza.”

“Hey! Who are you talking to?” I heard a gruff male voice, muffled somewhat.

“Tell him you're talking to your dog,” I said. “I do it all the time.”

“I'm talking to my dog!” Amber shouted out. “She has more intelligent things to say than you!”

I had to admire her moxie. “Does she really talk to you?” I asked.

“What?”

“Ask her what sounds she hears?” said Pepe.

“Sounds?” I asked. “Anything that would help identify the place?”

“Yeah, it sounds like a bowling alley. You know the thud, the crash of the pins, some shouting.”

“I think I know where you are,” I said. “I think my boss is staking out the place.”

“Let me talk to Party Girl!” said Pepe.

“What?”

“Hold the phone down by me!” he said.

“But—”

“Geri, it will only take a minute. I have a plan.”

“Pepe has something he wants to say to your dog,” I told Amber.

“What?”

“Just make sure your dog can hear him,” I said.

“Geri, are you crazy? I'm holed up in a bathroom in a basement and they're going to kill me and you want your dog to talk to my dog?”

“Hey! You're taking too long in there!” I heard pounding on the door. “I'm busting down this door in ten seconds.”

“Trust me!” I said.

She laughed bitterly.

I held the phone down by Pepe and he barked into the receiver. I heard some frantic barking on the other end.

“I'm coming in!” said the male voice and I heard a thud and the crack of wood. There was a thunk as the cell phone fell to the floor. I could hear a volley of fierce growling. Then silence, then a male voice shouting, “Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!”

“Well done, Party Girl,” murmured Pepe, listening intently. “Now she should go for the chair to finish him off.”

I heard light footsteps, then a thunk, then a thud and a grunt. Then silence.

A few minutes later, Amber was back, picking up the cell phone.

“Oh my God!” she said. “That was amazing.”

“You took down the bad guy?” I asked.

“No, Party Girl talked! I heard her talking! She told me to pick up the chair and hit the guy over the head with it.” There was a moment of silence and the scrape of nails on the floor. “You are Mommy's good, good girl,” said Amber, making kissing noises.

“What's up with the bad guy?” I asked, not wanting to break up the celebration but knowing every moment counted.

“It looks like he's out cold. Or maybe I killed him! Oh my God, what if I killed him?”

“You've got to get out of there,” I said. “Look for an escape route.”

There was some scuffling and some scraping. “Nothing here,” said Amber. “No it's locked,” she muttered. She got back on the phone. “All the windows are boarded up and the door to the outside is padlocked.”

“Where did the guy come from?”

“Down the stairs?”

“Did you try that?”

“Umm, wouldn't there just be other guys like him up there?”

“Maybe. But if it's a bowling alley, there should be customers. You could listen at the door.”

“I'll check.”

I heard the creak of steps. Silence for a minute. Pepe listened intently.

“Tell her it's safe!” Pepe said.

“But how do I know?”

“I know,” he said. “Tell her it's safe.”

“If the door is unlocked,” I said.

But it was. I told her to go ahead and the next thing I heard was a blast of sound. Jan and Dean singing about Dead Man's Curve. The clash of bowling pins being knocked down. A shout of triumph.

“Jimmy G is there somewhere,” said Pepe. “I heard his voice.”

“Is there a bar?' I asked.

“Yeah, looks like back in one corner. The signs say M
UST
B
E
21
TO
E
NTER
.”

“Poke your head in. Look for a guy wearing a fedora and a really loud tie. If you see him, that's my boss, Jimmy G.”

“Uh, OK.” I heard more laughter, snippets of conversation, a hollered order for food, the thunk of a bowling ball rolling down a lane. Then all the sounds got quiet, except for the clink of glasses and Frank Sinatra singing about what a good year it was.

“I see him!” said Amber. “He's sitting at a booth with an old man with a pork pie hat.”

“Is there anyone else with them?”

“No, just the two of them.”

“Go up and tell him you're a friend of mine,” I said. “Give him a fake name. Just ask him if he can give you a ride home.”

“So you talked to Party Girl and she understood you?” I asked Pepe.

“
Si
. Why would she not?”

“It sounded like you were just barking to me,” I said.

“Because you do not speak Dog. Just like most dogs do not speak English. To most dogs, your language sounds like gibberish.”

“How come Amber could suddenly understand Party Girl?” I asked.

“Because I told Party Girl how to say what needed to be done in English, of course,” said Pepe. “Now we must turn our attention back to the matter at hand. The murder of Mrs. Fairchild.”

“What if that guy in the pork pie hat recognizes Amber?” I asked. “Jimmy G thought he might be a mobster.”

“Call Jimmy G,” suggested Pepe.

“Yes, if only he will answer his cell phone,” I said. Jimmy G hates the cell phone. He prefers the old-fashioned, rotary dial phone in his office. And, sure enough, there was no answer on Jimmy G's cell phone. So I called Amber's.

She answered on the first ring. “Oh, Geri!” she said. Her voice was light and breathless. “Your boss is such a hero.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Well, your boss said it looked like Amber needed a drink. And so he ordered a Cosmo. And Amber was drinking it and talking to him and the nice old man with the pork pie hat, and the next thing you know, that huge goon who Amber smashed over the head with the chair came wandering in, all dazed-looking.”

“Have you picked up Jimmy G's annoying habit of talking about himself in third person?” I asked.

“Amber doesn't think it's annoying. Amber thinks it's cute.”

“Oh, please!” I said. “What happened next?”

“The goon said to the old man, ‘Hey boss, this chick just hit me over the head and her dog bit me on the ankle.' And the guy in the pork pie hat said, ‘Why am I surrounded by idiots?' And he asked Jimmy G, he said, ‘Would you consider working for me?' And your boss said as cool as could be, ‘I only work for the good guys.' And the guy with the pork pie hat just shook his head and said, ‘Well, if you ever reconsider, let me know.' And then they shook hands and Jimmy G scooped Amber up and whisked Amber away in his shiny red convertible.”

“That's very touching,” I said. “Are you sure you weren't followed?”

Amber laughed again. “Not the way Jimmy G is driving. No one could follow us. Whoa!” I could hear tires screeching. She giggled again.

“So is he taking you home?”

“Where are you taking Amber?” I heard her ask him.

“Where ever you want, princess!” I heard Jimmy G say.

“Look, call me again when you get someplace safe,” I told her. “And be sure to call Jeff and your parents and let them know you're free.”

“Free! Free as a fish on a bicycle!” said Amber.

I hung up the phone and gave Pepe the gist of the conversation. “She sounds like she's high or drunk,” I said.

“Freedom can do that to you,” Pepe observed solemnly.

“Right. Well, it sounds like she's safe. At least as safe as anyone can be with Jimmy G.”

“It is better than having her come here,” said Pepe. “Especially since we must leave.”

“We must leave?”

“
Si
, we must go find Brad and get him to tell us what he knows about the murder.”

 

 

It was turning out to be a pretty busy Sunday considering that I had planned to stay home all day and recover from my stint at Forest Glen.

I didn't have any luck finding Brad by calling Forest Glen. The receptionist there (who was not Lacey) simply said she couldn't give out any information on their “guests.” When I asked for Dr. Lieberman, I got his voice mail. The county sheriff who had jurisdiction over the rural area where Forest Glen was situated told me they didn't have anyone in their system by the name of Bradley Best. The Seattle police told me the same thing. I even called my friends, homicide detectives Sanders and Larson. To my surprise, Sanders did answer his phone.

“Funny you should call at this moment,” he said. He didn't sound amused.

“Why do you say that?”

“We just got done questioning your friend, Brad.”

“What did he tell you?”

“That's just it. Nothing. He's all lawyered up. Thanks to you alerting his partner. But I don't think he would talk even if he didn't have a lawyer.”

“I need to talk to him,” I said.

“Well, good luck with that.” He hesitated for a moment. Then he said, “Hold on.” I could hear a muffled conversation.

“You know that just might be something we could work out. Can you come downtown to talk to us?”

“Yes! Anything to help Brad!”

 

 

Pepe had plenty of advice for me on the trip downtown. “You know that they record all of these conversations, Geri,” he said. “You cannot say anything that would implicate Brad.”

“Of course I know that!” I said. “But how do you know that?”

“
The First 48
,” he said. “One of my favorite shows.”

“I've never heard of it.”

“It is a reality TV show which follows homicide detectives as they try to solve murders. I find it instructive in my study of police procedures, but it would also be a great benefit to criminals if they watched it.”

“What would they learn?”

“Never talk to the police. Ask for a lawyer right away.”

“Well, apparently Brad isn't talking,” I said.

“Maybe he also watches
The First 48
,” said Pepe.

 

 

The Seattle Police Department headquarters were downtown in an imposing building in the area that houses all the government offices including the jail, the courthouse, and City Hall.

Unfortunately, they were adamant about not letting a dog into the building.

“But he's just a little Chihuahua,” I said. I didn't dare try to claim, as I have in the past, that he's a therapy dog because I assumed the police would have some way of checking on that.

“Chihuahuas are the worst!” said the rather humorless black woman at the front desk. “You're safer around a German Shepherd or a Rottweiler.”

“You can say that again!” said Pepe who was indignant. And then he growled.

“See what I mean,” she said, narrowing her eyes and pointing to the sidewalk.

I didn't know what to do, but luckily as I stood there, I saw Jay exiting the building.

“Jay!” I shouted.

He seemed surprised to see me. “How did you know Brad was here?” he asked.

I told him about my phone call with Sanders. “Did you get a chance to talk to him?”

“Briefly. I just dropped off some street clothes for him. He was wearing only a bathrobe.” Ah, the famous Forest Glen complimentary bathrobe. “They're holding him for questioning. But I got him a lawyer and hopefully he's not saying anything.”

“You don't think he did it?”

“How would I know?” said Jay. “I don't know where he's been for the past week. And he won't tell me.”

“He's not talking?”

Jay shook his head sadly. “He barely seemed to know me.”

I remembered Brad's dazed look at Forest Glen.

“Probably for the best,” said Pepe. “The police listen to everything you say when you are in jail.”

“Do you think he would talk to me?” I asked.

Jay shrugged. “I don't know. You are his best friend.” He said it grudgingly. Jay and I have never been close.

“Here!” I said, thrusting Pepe into his arms. “I can't take him inside, but I'm going to go try to talk to Brad.”

“I need a drink. I'll be in there,” said Jay, pointing at a bar across the street.

“Great!” said Pepe. “I am a big fan of bar food.”

I went back into the police headquarters and passed through the security system without a problem. The uniformed officer at the Information Desk called the homicide unit and soon my friend Detective Sanders appeared. He was all dressed up in a black shirt with a pearlescent tie and pressed black pants that fell perfectly to the floor to reveal the pointed toes of some fancy cowboy boots. Ostrich, perhaps.

“Going some place special?” I asked, wondering why he looked so fancy on a Sunday afternoon.

“I take pride in my appearance is all,” he said with a brief once over for me. OK, so I was still wearing my sweatpants and a t-shirt. That's my normal Sunday attire.

“I'm here to see my friend, Brad,” I said.

“He's in a world of trouble,” Sanders said. “And he's not talking to anyone.”

“Perhaps that's smart,” I said.

“Only if he's guilty,” said Sanders. “We want to clear his name and send him home. But we can't until he tells us what he knows.”

“Maybe he would talk to me,” I said.

Sanders shook his head. “I doubt it, but it's worth a try. That's why I invited you to come down.” He set off down a long hall and I followed. Couldn't help but admire his fine form as he loped ahead of me. But I reminded myself that I have a boyfriend. Which reminded me that I still had not called him.

Sanders turned left at another corridor and we passed a kitchen area containing a refrigerator, a table, and a vending machine. A man in a suit was on his cell phone, pacing back and forth. Just beyond that was a conference room with one glass wall, and I saw Brad sitting at a table, looking down at the table, his whole posture drooping. He was wearing a pair of tight red corduroy pants and a black t-shirt with a mesh inset. He looked like he was ready to go clubbing. It told me something about how Jay viewed Brad. Maybe that was how Brad was dressed when they first met. Which was probably back in the eighties.

I was so overjoyed to see Brad that when Sanders opened the door to the room, I rushed in and hugged him.

Brad seemed happy to see me too. Tears sprang into his eyes and he smiled at me wistfully. But he didn't say a word when I asked, “How are you?” I sat down next to him and grabbed his hand. He seemed so frail. His hand was shaking.

“Hey!” said a man at the door. It was the man in the suit I had seen pacing in the kitchen area. “Who are you?”

“Geri Sullivan,” I said. “I'm Brad's friend.”

“Chuck Caster,” he said. “Brad's attorney. I've advised him to say nothing.”

Sanders rolled his eyes. “Not that it matters since he's not saying anything anyway.”

“My client is suffering from traumatic amnesia. We're going straight from here to a hospital to have him evaluated. He doesn't remember a thing about the events of the past few days,” said Caster.

“But you do know who did it,” I said to Brad. “You saw it happen, didn't you?”

Brad shook his head no. But I could see the fear in his eyes.

“Please stop talking to him,” said the lawyer. “He's in no shape to answer questions.”

“Was it someone you hired?” I asked again. “If you could give us a name, the police would go after him instead of focusing on you.”

Brad opened his mouth.

“Don't say a word!” said the lawyer. He turned to Sanders. “Is he free to leave? You don't have any grounds for holding him.”

“Not at the moment,” admitted Sanders. “But we still need to check his alibi.”

“What alibi? He's not talking.”

“That's precisely my point,” said Sanders. “We can't clear him until we know where he was on Tuesday afternoon when Mrs. Fairchild was killed.”

“I'm so sorry,” said Brad. It came out as a mumble. We all turned around and looked at him. He looked frightened. “I am so sorry.”

“Be quiet!” said the lawyer.

“Sorry about what?” said the detective.

“You were totally right,” Brad said to me.

“Right about what?” I asked.

“I told you to be quiet,” said the lawyer.

“About the color,” he said. “It was the wrong color.”

“What's he talking about?” asked Sanders.

“I don't know,” I said. But then a memory stirred. “The color of the kitchen at Mrs. Fairchild's house?”

Brad nodded. “Very unflattering!” he said. “She hated it!”

“He's talking about a paint color?” asked Sanders.

“Apparently so,” said the lawyer.