Heart of Barkness Page 10

  Whoa! Bunny? No one had ever called Bernie that before, and why would they? Ever seen a bunny in a barroom brawl, for example? Or—

  But I was way off course, because the next thing that happened was Myron saying in an irritated voice, “Damn it, Oksana, can’t you see we’re talking?”

  “Then how about a nice cigar? You like cigars for when you’re talking.”

  “Sure, sure, a cigar.” Myron turned to Bernie. “Cigar?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Make that two,” Myron called to Oksana.

  “As many as you like, Mister Man,” said Oksana, and she pivoted in an interesting way and disappeared back inside the condo.

  Their eyes met, meaning Bernie’s and Myron’s. Myron looked down. “Cigars are the one vice I’ve got left,” he said.

  Bernie nodded one of his nods, namely the nod for when he’s trying not to laugh. Probably my very favorite of all the nods. For one thing, it usually meant we were in the driver’s seat. As for why this had just happened between us and Myron, I had no clue.

  Oksana came outside, wearing shorts, a halter top, and high heels, and carrying a tray with cigars and foam-topped beer mugs.

  “Who said anything about beer?” Myron said.

  “You’ll be thirsty,” said Oksana. “It’s thirty-eight degrees.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you? Talk Fahrenheit.”

  “Fahrenheit is stupid.”

  Oksana stuck a cigar between Myron’s lips, struck a match with her thumbnail, and lit the cigar. Myron blew out some smoke. “Oksana, meet Bernie. He’s a private detective.”

  “Is he going to lock you up?”

  “A private detective,” Myron said. “Private detectives can’t lock anybody up.”

  “Shut up! What a country!”

  “Nice to meet you,” Bernie said.

  She turned to him. “So handsome,” she said.

  “Well, uh,” said Bernie.

  “What’s his name?” Oksana said.

  “Ber—” Bernie began, but Myron interrupted.

  “She means the pooch,” said Myron, now more annoyed than ever.

  “Oh,” said Bernie. “Uh—”

  “Of course I am meaning the pooch!” Oksana patted Myron’s cheek. “Who’s my little jealous fellow?”

  “Don’t call me little,” said Myron.

  Oksana threw back her head and laughed and laughed. Bernie started laughing, too. And finally Myron joined in. Why? I had no idea. When all that died down, Oksana picked up a mug and said, “Here’s to this beautiful creature,” she said. “His name?”

  “Chet,” Bernie said.

  He and Myron took their mugs. Then clink, and Oksana said, “To Chet.”

  Well, how nice! My tail got going big-time, cooling off the whole outdoors. Bernie, Myron, and Oksana took a sip of their beers, except for Oksana, who chugged hers and went back into the condo.

  * * *

  A little cloud of smoke hung over our table by the pool. Myron had opened the umbrella and I lay in the shade.

  “The first time I became aware of Lotty Pilgrim was in high school,” Myron said. “Coronado High, now moved because of various mining pollutants that were ignored for years. Someone should be tracking the birth defect rate for the kids of all the girls who—” He shook his head. “Forget that. Still makes my blood boil.” He puffed at his cigar. “In those days Coronado was seven through twelve. Senior year I was editor of the school paper—wrote the whole thing, end to end. Naturally I covered the school talent show. In the auditorium, always a raucous affair. Lotty was a seventh grader. Just a little thing with a banjo, alone on the big stage. Raucous, as I said, on the edge of being a snakepit.”

  “What did she sing?” said Bernie.

  “Don’t rush me,” Myron said. “I tell my stories how I tell them. Understood?”

  “Got it.”

  “And spare me the undertones.” He drank some beer, licked his lips. “She sang a hymn.”

  “Which one?” said Bernie. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “Relentless,” Myron said. “Relentless and a hard-ass—it’s the damn desert that makes men like you. Ever considered that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then.” Myron nodded in a pleased way. “Lotty sang ‘Are You Washed in the Blood.’ Familiar with that one?”

  “I am.”

  “Hardcore, doctrine-wise, wouldn’t you say?”

  “But rousing,” Bernie said.

  “You’re right about that.” Myron gestured at Bernie with his cigar. “From the first note she sang till the end, you could have heard a pin drop. I felt chills. It was then and is still the most moving musical experience of my life.” He knocked ash off his cigar. “I considered converting. My father would have killed me.”

  Bernie laughed. How I love when he enjoys himself! Maybe he was happy because Myron was about to become a paying client. I checked out his bathing suit: no pockets, meaning no wallet. A bad sign.

  “I went away to college after that,” Myron went on, “worked out of Houston for a while, and when I came back, Lotty was a senior herself. All grown up, the most beautiful girl in town. And already making a name for herself in the music world, singing every weekend in some club or other in southern Arizona or over in New Mexico. Her boyfriend was Boomer Riggs, the varsity quarterback, big handsome kid. He’s up in the Valley now, made a lot of money.”

  “How?”

  “He started a private security firm that got some big military contracts, based on connections from growing up here. His father commanded the base.”

  “Which private security firm?” Bernie said.

  “Western Solutions,” said Myron. “Heard of it?”

  Bernie nodded.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Myron said. “Boomer Riggs isn’t important to the story—just threw him in so you could see Lotty reached the high school pinnacle. The relationship didn’t last long. Lotty fell in love with a musician—Mexican, I believe—dropped out of high school around Thanksgiving, and left town for good.”

  “Who was the musician?”

  “Lotty doesn’t talk about him.”

  Bernie set his cigar down on the edge of the table. “You’ve been in touch with her?”

  “Why the hell not? Retirement’s going to kill me—haven’t I made that clear?”

  “You’re writing an article about Lotty?”

  “A book was what I had in mind. What I didn’t realize was how the target would keep moving even at this late stage of Lotty’s life.”

  “Is she cooperating?”

  “To a point. I wish I’d started sooner.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Myron shrugged. “She’s been based out of that ranch for over a year but I didn’t find out till last month.”

  “So therefore?” Bernie said.

  What was this? The way we had things arranged, Bernie handled all the so-therefores while I brought other things to the table. But now he was looping Myron in on a so-therefore? This was something brand-new. I didn’t like it.

  “So therefore,” Myron said, “if I’d found out sooner, maybe she wouldn’t have done what she did.”

  “Maybe she didn’t.”

  “The sheriff’s convinced otherwise. He’s a prick and a bully but he’s not stupid.”

  “What do you think?”

  Myron gazed at the smoking tip of his cigar. “Until recently, I wouldn’t have believed her capable of something like that.”

  “What happened recently?”

  Myron’s head snapped up. “You’re pumping me. I don’t like being pumped.”

  “Then you find her,” Bernie said.

  Myron’s whole body tensed up. He was real mad about something, but I didn’t know what. Or why: Bernie hadn’t even raised his voice. Now he spoke again, even quieter.

  “We’ve found a lot of missing people, Chet and I.”

  Myron turned to me, sitting very still in the shade. At first
he looked angry, and then not. “Do all dogs have eyes like that?” he said.

  “Like what?”

  “His eyes give me the feeling he’s following along.”

  Bernie smiled but he didn’t say anything.

  Myron turned back to him, took a deep breath, just a bit wheezy. “A few weeks ago, I made what might have been a mistake. For a good reason, of course, which is how the worst mistakes get made.” His voice was starting to get a little scratchy. “I didn’t factor in what a passionate woman Lotty is—still is. Like a character in one of her songs.” Myron went silent, as though listening to something.

  “What did you do?” Bernie said.

  “It began with a chance sighting,” Myron said. “Well, there was context, of course. I’d noticed—how could anyone not—the way that nasty pipsqueak had her wrapped around his little finger.”

  “You’re talking about Clint Swann?”

  “Hell, yes—try to keep up,” Myron said. “It was pathetic and infuriating. I took the chance of raising the subject once with her, in a subtly understated way. Although Oksana will tell you that subtle understatement and I are ships passing in the night, or whatever the Russian equivalent is. She often speaks to me in Russian equivalents.” Myron glanced at the sliding door of the condo and his eyes warmed up for a moment.

  “What was Lotty’s reaction?” Bernie said.

  “She told me to mind my own goddamn business, and if I didn’t, the book thing was done. Fine. Her life, not mine, and who can know the heart of another, et cetera. But later that same day, moving ahead to the chance sighting, we—Oksana and I—were up in Pottsdale, having supper outside at Café St. Petersburg. Just an average spot in my opinion, but we’re practically regulars. When Oksana needs blinis she needs blinis. So we’re at this sidewalk table and a convertible passes by, Clint Swann at the wheel and a woman of his own age beside him. Not really beside him—more in his lap. Kissing him, running her fingers through his hair—get the picture?”

  Bernie nodded. “And you told Lotty?”

  “The next morning. We had a scheduled meeting at a coffee place here in town, to work on the book.”

  “What was her reaction?”

  “At first, she went completely white. I was sure she was going to faint, but she mastered herself. Amazing to see. She got up and said, ‘Please cancel my order, Myron. I’m not hungry after all.’ And then she walked out, steady on her feet, but still white as chalk. That was the last time I had any contact with her. She stopped taking my calls.”

  “Did you tell that story to the sheriff?” Bernie said.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not sure what I would have done if I’d been alone, but Oksana was here.”

  “So?”

  “She gave me a look,” Myron said. “Oksana despises cops of any nationality. She has great instincts in general.”

  “You’re a lucky man,” Bernie said.

  “Lucky in love, anyway,” said Myron, “even if it came so late.”

  Bernie got a faraway look in his eye. He reached for his cigar, puffed, but it had gone out. Myron struck one of the matches Oksana had left, leaned forward, and gave Bernie a light. Their faces were close together.

  “I didn’t tell Grimble a thing,” Myron said. “Especially not about Leticia Wells.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “Lotty’s daughter,” said Myron. “Her only child. Lotty didn’t mention her till last month. She’s in the area but Lotty had hardly seen her in thirty years. I was actually hoping to get the details that morning at the coffee shop.”

  “Leticia Wells,” Bernie said. “Any relation to Jordan Wells?”

  “Who’s he?”

  “I thought he was just a fan of Lotty’s,” Bernie said. “Now I’m not so sure. Is Leticia in Phantom Springs, New Mexico?”

  “How did you know that?” said Myron.

  “Just a guess.” Bernie rose. And so did I. “What we need is a client. It doesn’t matter about the fee—a nominal amount will do. But any case goes better when there’s a client in place, especially if the law’s involved.”

  Myron stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray. “I’ll pay the going rate,” he said.

  I checked his bathing suit one more time. No pockets, as I’d already seen, and therefore no wallet. Was I missing something? Also, what were blinis?

  Thirteen

  Bernie can find out all kinds of things on his phone, even without talking to anyone—just another amazing thing about him. Of all the human brains in the world, I ended up with numero uno! Who’s luckier than me? I felt so happy—this was at a red light on the way out of Fort Kidder, Bernie tapping away on his phone—that I came close to jumping right out of the car. Good idea? Not good? I was going back and forth on that when Bernie looked up. “Leticia Wells, 299 Bluff Street. Should have been on top of that before.”

  On top of what? Why? The light turned green and we sped out of town.

  “In fact,” Bernie went on, “I bet we’ve already seen her face. Remember that photo I picked up off the floor—Lotty and Jordan with a dark-haired woman, the only one not smiling?”

  I searched my mind and came oh so close! Like a step or two away. Wow. I felt pretty good about myself.

  “This is why I like the psychological approach,” Bernie said after a while. “Ever notice how so many cases turn out to be about family?”

  Weren’t most of them about gunplay? Grabbing perps by the pant leg? Snapping up crullers at Donut Heaven? What did I know about families? Nothing came to mind. There was my own family, of course. Me and Bernie. Oops. Almost left out Charlie. That would have been terrible. I loved Charlie! What about Suzie? And … and Bernie’s mom? Her new boyfriend, what’s his name? Uh-oh—and Shooter? This was starting to get not totally comfortable. What was the other method again, besides the psychological? Any hope of going back to that?

  * * *

  We drove up Bluff Street, back into the sound of all those wind chimes chiming, and parked in front of the yellow house. Last time a big dude in a business suit had been on his way out. A light-on-his-feet big dude. For some reason I could see his face quite clearly, a face with strong features and eyes that were in no hurry. You could say those same things about Bernie, but this dude looked nothing like Bernie. The inside part of humans is sometimes on their faces, and the inside part of Bernie is gentle. Also, you never smell hair gel on him and never will.

  Meanwhile Bernie was knocking on the door and no one was coming to answer it. A car pulled into the driveway, not the direction we were looking in, which is why you’ve got to watch your back in this line of work. My eyes are probably positioned a little better than yours for doing that, no offense. As for the car, I recognized it right away: the little yellow number that Shermie had pulled the steering wheel out of.

  “Matches the house,” Bernie said, finally turning to look. “Maybe this case is color coded.”

  What did that mean? Were we entering new territory? I couldn’t wait.

  The car door opened and the driver got out. She was a big woman with black hair, curly and glossy, and wore jeans and a denim jacket with little birds—yellow birds!—embroidered on it. At that moment I knew Bernie was right about the case, and way ahead of the curve, as usual.

  The woman paused in front of the open car door and gave us a look, not friendly. “Yes?” she said. Bernie says there’s a yes that means no. Kind of puzzling but now at last I got it.

  “My name’s Bernie Little.” Bernie stepped away from the door. “And this is Chet. We’re looking for Leticia Wells.”

  The woman’s eyes went to me, then back to Bernie. The expression in them changed, that change you see when something in the human brain clicks into place. Once Bernie told Charlie that the human brain is very complicated and down at the bottom is the reptile part. “What’s reptile?” Charlie had said, the exact same question that had risen in my own mind. “Like lizards,” Bernie had said. “Or snakes.”
I’d never forgotten that, even though I’d tried. There were snakes in the human brain? I feel so bad for all of you.

  Back to the woman. Somewhere in her brain—I hoped not in the snake section—something had clicked into place. She stood by the yellow car, arms folded across her chest. “Why?” she said.

  We moved closer to her, across the tiny yard—mostly dirt and pebbles with a dried-up bush or two—and stopped maybe one leap away; a leap of mine, not Bernie’s.

  “I think you know who we are,” Bernie said. “We want to help.”

  “I don’t need any help.”

  “That’s what your mother said, Leticia. Just before things went south.”

  “I don’t have a mother,” said the woman, almost certainly Leticia since she hadn’t said she wasn’t. That was just another of Bernie’s many techniques, not as good as shooting dimes out of the air, but still nice. “And things went south long before you,” she added.

  “Oh?” said Bernie. “How?”

  “Forget it,” Leticia said. “Running my goddamn mouth.”

  “I told you—I want to help,” Bernie said. “Among other things, that means getting to Lotty before Sheriff Grimble does.”

  Leticia’s voice rose. “Otherwise he won’t pay you?”

  Curtains parted in the house next door—sliding curtain rings make a sound that’s hard to miss, at least by me. A woman in curlers appeared in the window. Women in curlers scare me every time. I made my low, rumbly bark. Bernie’s gaze went to the window, and so did Leticia’s.

  “What is wrong with people?” Leticia said.

  The curtains closed. “How about inviting us inside?” Bernie said.

  “I’m inviting you to leave.”

  “Because the house is a mess?”

  Leticia pointed her finger at him. “Was that your doing?”

  Bernie shook his head. “You’re in an urgent situation. We deal in those. And we’re not working for any lawman.”

  “Then who are you working for?”

  “Someone who’s worried about your mother.”

  “Stop calling her that!”

  “Why? Isn’t it true?”