Dog On It Page 12

  Keefer’s voice was low and buzzing, the way human voices get under pressure. “I need more time.” Then, after a silence: “Don’t even say that—where are you? I’ll . . . Hello? Hello?” We heard him coming back and moved deeper into the room, Bernie on tiptoes, me on those old reliables, silent padded paws.

  “What was that about?” Bernie said.

  “Business,” said Keefer. “And none of yours.”

  “Did it have anything to do with Madison?”

  “Of course not.” Keefer’s tongue flicked out again. “I just told you. We’re in a little dispute with some suppliers.”

  “Which ones?”

  Keefer’s nostrils widened. What was that about? I had no idea, just felt uneasy. “Irrigation,” he said. “But what’s it to you?”

  “I need you to be forthcoming.”

  “And I have been.”

  “Not entirely. Before that call, you were about to tell me something.”

  Keefer paused, his eyes on Bernie. “You seem pretty smart,” he said. “How did you end up in law enforcement?”

  “I wasn’t actually smart enough for law enforcement,” Bernie said. “That’s why I’m a private eye.”

  Keefer blinked. Some kind of struggle was going on, but about what and who was winning: anybody’s guess. And how was all this back-and-forth going to lead to me grabbing the perp by the pant leg? All I knew was that when Keefer spoke again, his voice was different, less unpleasant.

  “You said there were two types of kidnapping, for ransom and . . .”

  “And not,” Bernie said.

  “Meaning what?”

  “Do I have to spell that out for you?”

  Keefer shook his head. “I’m just wondering why your focus is on the ransom kind.”

  “You’ve got some other idea?”

  “I hesitate to say.”

  “There’s no time for hesitation.”

  Keefer nodded. “This is pure speculation.”

  “But you have a name for me.”

  Keefer blinked again. “Not based on any facts, you understand, just the odd . . . feeling or two.”

  “And the name is?”

  “First off, you didn’t hear it from me.”

  Bernie tilted his head to one side. Did Keefer take that for agreement? I knew it was one of Bernie’s head tilts, not necessarily meaning anything, simply moving things along the way he wanted.

  “And don’t hold me to it,” Keefer went on. “Pure speculation, as I said, and I would never—”

  “The name.” Bernie’s voice rang through the empty house. That was thrilling.

  Keefer licked his lips one more time. His tongue was stubby and stiff, pointed and pale, next to useless, in my opinion. “Simon Berg.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “I thought you might have run across him by now.”

  “Why?”

  “Simon Berg is Cynthia’s boyfriend.”

  “Ah,” said Bernie.

  “What does that mean—‘ah’?” Keefer said.

  I had no clue myself.

  “Have you ever seen him around Madison?” Bernie said.

  “Once or twice.”

  “And?”

  Keefer shrugged—that raising and lowering of the shoulders, one of those human expressions I’d never liked. “I just got a feeling, that’s all. Probably nothing.”

  “Did you ever mention this feeling to Madison?”

  “No. Maybe I should have.”

  “Or Cynthia?”

  “Think I’m nuts? I have enough trouble with Cynthia.” He wrote on a piece of paper, gave it to Bernie. “Here’s the address—he owns a business in Pedroia.”

  * * *

  “Think he’s nuts?” Bernie said when we were back in the car.

  That was a tough one. Sometimes—like now, on the freeway, stuck in traffic stretching as far as I could see, everybody going slower than walking speed—I thought just about all humans were nuts.

  “I don’t,” Bernie said.

  In that case, I didn’t, either.

  “The expression ‘crazy like a fox’ comes to mind.”

  Not to mine. I knew foxes, had dealt with them more than once in the canyon. Cowards, each and every one, skulking around out there, sneaking up and backing down. What did “crazy like a fox” mean, anyway? I glanced at Bernie, hoped he didn’t think foxes were smart, or even worse, smarter than my guys. Impossible. I stopped worrying about it, sat high in the shotgun seat, and enjoyed the ride.

  A long ride. We drove away from the sun but still had many suns glaring off car windows ahead of us. Bernie put on his wraparound shades. I didn’t like it when he wore them, maybe barked a little.

  “For God’s sake, Chet—it’s me.”

  We got off at a ramp, were soon in an industrial area—I could tell from all the trucks, loading docks, chain-link fences.

  “Pedroia,” Bernie said. “Know what used to be here? The original Pedroia Ranch, very first cattle ranch in the whole Valley. And now look.”

  I laid a paw on Bernie’s knee.

  We parked in front of a long, low building. Bernie read the sign: “‘Rover and Company.’ Wonder what they do.” He opened the door, and we went in. A security guard at a desk looked up.

  “Looking for Simon Berg,” Bernie said.

  “He’s expecting you?”

  “No,” said Bernie, handing over our card. “We’re conducting an investigation. I think he’ll see us.”

  The security guard glanced at me, didn’t seem bothered that I was inside, not always the reaction we got. “Wait here,” he said, leaving through a door at the back. Bernie went to the desk and read the writing on the guard’s clipboard. I smelled around. Hey! The smells in here were really nice, even better than that.

  The security guard returned with another man, much smaller than Bernie or the guard. He was dressed all in white, also wore a white hairnet.

  “Bernie Little?” he said, coming forward, hand extended. “Simon Berg. Cynthia’s told me a lot about you.” They shook hands, one of the best human customs going, to my way of thinking, although in my world we do some cool meet-and-greet stuff, too. “Have you got any news?”

  “No,” Bernie said. “Can we talk for a minute?”

  “Right now?”

  “It’s important.”

  “Sure.” Simon Berg turned to the guard. “Do me a favor—tell them to hold number three?”

  The guard hurried off.

  “What goes on here?” Bernie said.

  “At Rover and Company? We make high-end dog treats. One hundred percent organic, fresh ingredients, no additives. And tasty, too.”

  I knew one thing right then: This was not the perp.

  Simon Berg looked at me and smiled. “And this must be Chet. I had one a lot like him when I was a kid—the original Rover.” He got down on his knees, took my head in his hands in a way I didn’t mind at all. “Oh, you’re a good-looking boy, aren’t you? This is a real stroke of luck.”

  “Why is that?” Bernie said.

  Simon Berg rose. “We’re testing a new rawhide chew today, made from grade-A hides imported from Argentina. I wouldn’t mind seeing Chet’s reaction.”

  “Doesn’t sound like his kind of thing,” Bernie said.

  Simon Berg gazed at Bernie, then burst out laughing. “And maybe you’ll have time for a tour.”

  “Thanks,” Bernie said. “But first—do you drive a BMW?”

  “Me?” said Simon. “Oh, no—a Prius.”

  I tested the new rawhide chew. We toured the plant where the high-end treats got made and did some more testing. It didn’t get better than this.

  “I want to talk about Madison,” Bernie said as we left the testing kitchen.

  “Of course,” Simon said. “Cynthia’s worried to death about this, and so am I, although I try not to show it around her. Madison’s a great kid, and not only because of how bright she is. If you need more money to pursue the investigation, let me know
.”

  Bernie nodded. “Tell me about your relationship with Madison.”

  “It’s a good one, I hope,” Simon said. “We go to the movies sometimes, the three of us. I’ve been careful not to impose myself—I’m new in both their lives, and Cynthia’s divorce is still a bit raw.”

  “What do you think of Damon?” Bernie said.

  Simon paused. Just then some of my new friends from the testing kitchen came out with a number of fresh bowls, and I missed whatever Simon ended up saying. In fact, I missed everything until we were back in the car.

  “Exactly what I was afraid of,” Bernie said. “A wild-goose chase.”

  That was a wild-goose chase? No geese? But who cared? Even a goose or two couldn’t have made it any better.

  sixteen

  Maybe not a wild-goose chase,” Bernie said, farther along the freeway. “Maybe more like a red herring.”

  Red herring? That was new. The truth is, I’m not a seafood fan. I’ve had more than one bad experience with fish bones; plus, there’s a smell I detect, even with very fresh fish, that puts me off my feed, except for a piece of barbecued swordfish I took once at a party from a discarded—at least I thought it was discarded—plate. That was pretty good. But herring, of any color, I’d never tasted.

  “There’s a difference, Chet.”

  Between what and what? He’d lost me. I stuck my head out the side, felt the warm sun and the breeze, so strong it blew my ears back flat. And what did we have in the trunk? Bags and bags of samples from Rover and Company! Did I have a care in the world? You tell me.

  Bernie glanced over. “Just between the two of us,” he said, “I’m getting worried.”

  Uh-oh.

  “Does it feel like a runaway case? No. Kidnapping by a sicko? No. Kidnapping for ransom—that’s how it feels to me.”

  If that was how Bernie felt, I was on board.

  “But you see the problem.”

  I waited.

  “No ransom demand. Whoever heard of a ransom snatch with no demand?”

  Not me.

  “So what’s going on?”

  Did I have the faintest? Was this still about wild-goose chases and red herrings? Wait a minute. Not so fast, Chet. I actually did have the faintest, a weak and fading memory of Madison in a window.

  “Why are you barking?” Not too sure, but I kept on. Bernie glanced around. “Because of where we are?”

  Where were we? In traffic, hardly moving. Outside, I saw a huge mall, parking lots extending far into the distance, all of it vaguely familiar.

  “The North Canyon Mall, Chet. Where you got hurt.”

  Yes, the North Canyon Mall—where I got hurt, you bet. That part was so clear, my first encounter with Boris, how he’d caught me napping, flattened our tires, then knifed me and run me down with his car. But I’d hurt him, too—don’t forget about that. I barked louder.

  “What’s on your mind, boy?” Bernie took the turnoff to the mall. I went quiet.

  We drove around the parking lot for a while. “Somewhere around here, wasn’t it?” Bernie said. “In the shade of this tree, maybe?” He pulled in to a nearby slot. We got out, walked around. Bernie gazed up at the treetop. “What went on here, Chet? What’s the story?”

  The story? I’d napped in the shade of this tree and—I paused by the tree, sniffed at the trunk. Wow. Marks on top of marks on top of marks. Had I ever smelled anything this complicated? It made me dizzy. When the dizziness passed, I took a moment to lift my own leg. Why not?

  The story, not a good one: caught napping. That was the main thing. I hung my head.

  “What’s wrong?” Bernie said. He came over, stroked my back. “What happened?” He took a few steps down the row of cars. “Why don’t we try to reconstruct . . .” His voice trailed off. I followed him. “We were parked in this slot, or maybe here. Then what? When I came out, you were down over there.” He pointed to a spot farther along the row. We moved toward it, side by side, and on the way, we came to a storm grate. I stopped right there, took a sniff, then stuck my nose through a gap in the metal bars.

  “What is it, Chet?”

  I smelled all kinds of things, but that wasn’t the point. The point was those smells brought back a memory of this grate and what had fallen in: one of the sharpest memories I’d ever had, so sharp my side hurt.

  “What are you barking about?” Bernie got down on his hands and knees, peered through the grate. “Can’t see a goddamn thing. Can you?”

  Nope. But I didn’t have to: I knew what was down there. I pawed at the grate. Bernie gazed at me, then went to the car and came back with the flashlight. I loved the flashlight, how it poked holes in the dark, and always got a bit excited when we were using it.

  “Stop charging around like that.”

  I stopped, returned to the grate. Bernie was kneeling again, shining the light down through.

  “Give me some room, for God’s sake.”

  But I just couldn’t. I squeezed up against Bernie, peering down with him. Water glistened at the bottom, and I was pretty sure I saw one of those fast-food burger boxes. I preferred burgers the way Bernie made them on the grill but had no objection to the fast-food kind, none at all. Picky eaters exist—Leda, for example—but I’m not one of them.

  “Hey, mister! Lose your car keys down the sewer?”

  We turned, saw a big woman leaning on a shopping cart.

  “Go see security—they got this thing.”

  “Excuse me?” said Bernie.

  “For getting them out,” the woman said, at the same time chewing on a big wad of gum; nothing but trouble, gum, I’d learned that lesson more than once. “Reason I know, I’m as dumb as you, did the same thing myself.”

  A little later, we had a big crowd around the grate: security guards, shoppers, skateboarders—I can ride one, by the way, might have time to go into that later—and a wino with blurry eyes swaying beside a cart full of dented cans, his smell strong enough to wipe out everything else, plus two small trucks with flashing lights.

  The head security guard had a long pole. “Big-ass magnet on the end, my own invention,” he told Bernie. “Fish those keys up in no time.” He stuck the pole down through the grate. Everyone moved in closer, except for the wino, who saw me and smiled; a real big smile but no teeth. No teeth? How did that work?

  “Stand back now,” said the head guard. The pole was in deep, and he had his head cocked to the side, as though listening for something. People standing around the grate cocked their heads, too, like they were all doing imitations of one another. Once we’d watched a show about monkeys, me and Bernie. Great show: I haven’t thought about humans the same way since.

  “Think we got a bite,” said the head guard. “Stand back.”

  “Stand back,” said the other guards.

  Everyone drew in closer instead. “Tricky part,” said the head guard. “Landing the critter.” He raised the pole, slow and careful. “Wouldn’t want to—”

  The end of the pole came up through the grate, and everyone gasped, all but Bernie and me—we don’t gasp—and the wino. Stuck to the horseshoe magnet on the end of the pole was a knife, a long one with a gleaming blade. Then came silence, except for the tiny sound of water dripping off the sharp point.

  Otis DeWayne was our weapons expert. He lived in Gila City, which was somewhere in the Valley or maybe not—I couldn’t remember what Bernie had said—and had open country in the hills behind his house. I always liked visiting Otis. Couldn’t beat open country, of course, and guns often got fired out back for testing purposes, which was always fun, but the best part was General Beauregard, the German shepherd who lived there, too.

  Otis opened the front door. He had hair down to his shoulders and a beard down to his chest, was wearing a gray uniform—did I mention he did a lot of Civil War reenacting, had even talked us into trying it once? Civil War reenacting was a mystery to me then and still is. Never been so hot and dusty in my life—the Civil War’s all yours. Bernie gav
e him the knife.

  “Ah,” said Otis, turning it in his hands, “interesting.”

  “How so?” said Bernie.

  But I missed whatever made it interesting, because General Beauregard came bounding out, growling, mouth in biting position, huge fangs exposed, a bit on the aggressive side, as was the big guy’s habit. Then he realized it was me, and his attitude changed right away. General Beauregard and I had had a tussle or two when we’d first met—just one, actually—and the general had been surprised, let’s leave it at that. Now we got along great; not like Iggy and me, but with the electric fence, Iggy and I don’t get to pal around like in the old days.

  General Beauregard gave me a nip on the ear, saying hi. I gave him a nippier one on his, saying hi back. He charged around our car, came zooming back, knocked me on my butt. I charged around the car and knocked him down harder, General Beauregard being the type who needed constant reminding.

  “Hey, you guys.”

  “There’s blood already.”

  But by then we were out of there, sprinting around the house, neck and neck, dust rising above us. We stampeded up into the hills, birds taking flight all over the place, and then all of a sudden picked up a very interesting scent, kind of like our own, but gone sour: coyote! It led us over a rise, across an arroyo—water smells but no water—up another rise and across a wide flatland with a single big saguaro in the distance. The scent grew sharper. Was that a gray tail way up there, glistening in the sunshine? We picked up the pace as one, running flat out.

  We were pretty thirsty when we returned, General Beauregard and I, and climbed onto the back porch, maybe limping a bit. The General’s water bowl stood in the corner. We went to it, pushing and shoving, and lapped up every drop, butting heads at the same time. Bernie and Otis came outside.

  “Christ,” Otis said.

  They took us in and started tweezing out all the cactus spines, me first. I was the guest.