Case of the Poodle Doodle

by Erik Schubach

I exhaled and admitted, “It was driving me crazy. I tried to just leave it.”

  She assured me with a knowing grin, “It's what makes you Finnegan Temperance May.”

  “McLeary-May, thank you very much. By the sacred tug-rope, what was I thinking when I took your name?”

  She shrugged and took the last sip of beer, and I held the garbage bag out for her to drop it into. “That you love me?”

  “Well, there is that if you want to get all picky and technical about it.”

  She snagged my arm and swung me around to sit on her lap as I giggled. She just held me around the waist as she placed her chin on my shoulder, “I do.” Then she said as she released me to finish up, “He'll be released in the morning. You should contact him first thing to let him know where he can pick his mutt up.”

  “Poodle”

  “That fuzz muffin isn't a poodle.”

  I cocked an eyebrow at her, ready to dissuade her of her delusion when I realized she was just baiting me. She loved to argue because we both loved the makeup sex it leads to.

  Then I asked, “Does he know the man who attacked him, or why he did it?”

  She gave me 'the look,' the one that conveyed she was working on an ongoing case and wasn't supposed to be sharing anything. She caved to my swishing side to side to flare my skirt, “He says he's never seen the man before. That he was crazed and threatened to kill him and tell everyone that the art was his, just before he flung him over the railing.”

  I hmmed, then went to put my cleaning supplies away and to sort out the recyclables from the trash bag.

  She prompted, “Hmm, what?”

  I looked at her and then narrowed my eyes. “You're baiting me again.”

  She smirked and shrugged and made an ushering motion for me to continue. “Didn't the apartment strike you as weird?”

  She looked at me patiently, and I sighed and said, “It was so dirty and dusty like nobody had lived there in months, and all the canvases had a big layer of dust on top of them. Something about that seems off to me, and I can't put my finger on it. Didn't he just hit the art scene a month or two ago? And, well... it's nothing.”

  “Fiiin?”

  I said in exasperation, “What? I don't want to raise questions about someone who got hurt bad enough to go to the hospital.” When she kept looking at me expectantly, I shrugged and pointed out, “Well... you know... if he was thrown off the balcony, how did he hit the coffee table that was directly below and partially under the loft? You'd think he'd have landed farther out in the room.”

  Then I quickly added when I felt a wave of guilt for questioning the poor man, “I guess an arm or leg could have gotten hung up on the railing when he fell, diverting all the energy down.”

  She was smirking. “All good observations. It seemed a little off to me too. And I did note the state of the studio, but hadn't noted the dust on the canvases.”

  I blurted as I glanced at the new mugshots Jane was going to get framed. “Has Mr. Beckett ever been arrested for painting murals in alleys?”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “Tagging? I don't know, I didn't run him in the system as he's not a suspect. Why do you ask?”

  I looked at my hands and started rubbing some imagined dirt off the sides of them, “Well... His art style. Those paintings...” I trailed off and started from a different angle. “Manhattan is my city.” She nodded patiently.

  Looking toward the light being cast in from the streetlights on the drapes across the french doors. “For years I've seen that exact style in alleys all around the city. So I figure he must have been arrested by NYPD's finest at some point or another. And what made him make the leap from public art to selling his art?”

  She hesitated then asked, “For years? Are you sure?”

  I nodded. “I saw the first one in an alley on the Upper West Side the second day I was in Manhattan. And it looked old, three or four other doodles were painted over parts of it. There's one that looks a decade old in the Bronx.”

  She frowned, and I asked, “What?”

  She shook her head. “Beckett is twenty-two.”

  Oh... a young man. She said more to herself, “I'll have to see if I can find anything to identify his attacker in that bag tomorrow.”

  She turned to me and wiggled her brow. “But right now... bubble bath?”

  Oooo... I nodded, and she grabbed my hand and dragged me squealing upstairs with an excited Calvin flowing up the stairs with us.

  After a relaxing and erotically charged bath with my wife, we turned in. Calvin, the traitor, abandoned us when he heard the front door downstairs opening as we slipped under the blankets. After he sucked all the heat from the ladies downstairs, he'd be back.

  I was just starting to doze off in Jane's arms just after midnight when my cell buzzed on the nightstand. I yawned and glanced at it, prepared to let it go to voicemail when I saw the name on the screen. I almost fell out of bed as I rolled over to grab it and answered, “Mrs. Doyle?”

  Luce whispered, “Finnegan? It's me, Luce. I've stolen Mrs. Doyle's phone.”

  I reprimanded, “Luce O'Conner!”

  She said in a small voice, “You said Jane was dying to speak with me. I wanted to show her I knew more than just about canis lupus familiaris, and had information she could find helpful in her work. I've read a few more studies since we spoke earlier.”

  She sounded almost desperate to prove her worth to us. Didn't she know just how amazing she was? My heart ached over that desperation. What kind of life would I have had in an orphanage, with couple after couple passing on me? Would I have any hope left that someone would think I was worthy? How hardened would I be, and how guarded with any emotions?

  I whispered back, not knowing why I was whispering, possibly because I could picture here hiding in some closet in the wee hours of the morning making this call, “Just a second.”

  Jane looked at the phone in confusion as I passed it to her. “It's Luce. She wants to talk to you to show you she has value.”

  She must have heard the heartbreak in my tone as she cupped my hands first, locking eyes with me in the dark before putting the phone to her ear, her smile blossoming like a flower opening to the sun as she said, “Hello, Luce?”

  Chapter 8 – Darryl Beckett

  The next morning, I was beat again. Jane and Luce had talked until almost two in the morning until the women at the Girl's Home had tracked Luce down where she had hidden herself away in the pantry and confiscated the phone from her.

  When they said goodbye, my evil wife just smiled at me and placed the phone on the bedside table and pulled me into the little spoon position without a word. Gah! The stinker! I only got half the conversation. The look on her smug cop face told me I couldn't pry what Luce had said out of her if I tried.

  As we prepared for the day, I got a call first from Miss Smythe, then Mrs. Doyle, apologizing for Luce's late night call. That they hadn't known she had spirited away the phone. Jane had snorted loudly when I shared that Mrs. Doyle said that Luce was a trouble magnet at the home.

  What? I don't get what was so funny. Hey, I didn't ask you for comments, and I am not a trouble magnet either... ish.

  The bonus we got from it was that we set up another official call with the sassy young Miss O'Conner. And I may or may not have told them, “It's ok if she calls any time. She's a joy to speak with, and I get the impression from you that she doesn't get many calls.”

  Mrs. Doyle didn't affirm that instead, she deflected by sharing that Luce had inquired as to if we had Irish ancestry, what with names like McLeary and Finnegan. I informed her that alas, on my side no, mother just loved the name Finnegan, but Jane's grandfather had immigrated from Dublin with his Japanese bride, which makes Jane second generation American.

  I told them that they could share my email address with Luce, but was dismayed to find that she only got an hour of computer time per day on a shared computer in her dorm wing, they were too underfunded t
o have more. And that any contacts between the girls at the orphanage and outside people were supposed to be supervised or monitored.

  I made a mental note after the call to ask them if they had any rules against someone gifting Luce a cellphone of her own that she could text with. Though I'm sure, it would be against the rules as the texts or calls would need to be monitored too. I can understand why. I shot off a quick email to Mrs. Doyle anyway before sending the ladies all off to work.

  I texted Miss Smythe to inquire what it would take to set up a charitable technology fund for international orphanages. Then added domestic too before I hit send. She responded so fast that I almost got whiplash, that she would look into it.

  I looked at Calvin then said, “One last text and we can go pick up the boys.” He understood since he was trotting into the girl's room as I texted. I'm pretty sure he thinks he owns the entire apartment and just allows us to stay here with him. I sent a text to the number Jane gave for Mr. Beckett. “Floof is at the Central Park Tails dog rescue. You can pick him up at any time.”

  He sent back a minute later, “I'm still recovering and can't get out there today. Is it possible to have him dropped off instead?”

  I sighed and replied, “I can drop him by personally this afternoon if that works for you. He has been a perfect gentleman and has enjoyed his stay with the other pups at the rescue.”

  After reading his affirmative accompanied needlessly by his studio loft address, I leashed up my fuzzy lieutenant and informed him, “Sorry Calvin, it looks like we have another long day ahead of us.” I was still dreading the call from the owner of the building I got caught correcting punctuation on. I saw groveling in my near future.

  When had my life gotten so hectic?

  It was a spectacular day in the city, so that washed away any anxiety I was feeling about my days compressing. We walked the heck out of our clients in style. Princess was feeling all kinds of tricksy with Cal. Nipping at him all during the walk and getting him to play.

  We strutted into CPT afterward, and I prompted Ralph, “Hook a girl up with a Floof?”

  He chuckled out something like, “You are a floof, boss.”

  “Wha?”

  “Nothing.” His grin told me it wasn't nothing. That's ok, I'd get him later for it. Like maybe two snickerdoodle cookies for the staff, but only one for him my next baking day.

  Then he prompted as he prepared some paperwork. “You returning him to his owner?”

  I nodded. “He got out of the hospital and isn't feeling well enough to retrieve him here. I told him I could bring the fuzzy guy to him this afternoon.”

  Signing the paperwork, I grabbed a release form with me for Mr. Beckett to sign. Then I made silly kissing sounds at the poodle who sauntered up to get some lovin' when he heard us saying his name. I harnessed and leashed his fuzzy butt, and we were off to Hell's Kitchen.

  I sighed as I looked down at the goofy pup as we got close to his home, but his tail didn't start wagging until we entered his building. Didn't he know his own neighborhood?

  I noted it wasn't a security door which accessed the entry hall to the residences and wondered if they at least locked it at night. Anyone could just walk in and squat in one of the open rooms. Come to think of it, maybe that was what I saw in the mess in the one with the broken door.

  We reached the door that once had a uniformed officer standing by it and, seeing as how there was no doorbell, I knocked.

  After a moment a guy, a little younger than me with an impeccably groomed beard and mustache the same straw color as his shoulder-length hair, answered the door. His arm was in a sling, and one leg in a cast as he stood there with the help of a crutch. He looked from me with interest to the two dogs with me.

  Then he just put a hand out like he was expecting me to hand him the leash. I'm sorry but I only buy the best quality leashes and harnesses, and I don't give them away, even to cute dogs like Floof. Two things put me at odds with the man which didn't have anything to do with the leash.

  First, any loving dog owner would have fussed over their dog first thing when some stranger returned him to them. Second, he had no manners, just expecting me to hand the dog over without even an introduction.

  Floof, on the other hand, was oblivious to the apparent lack of compassion, as his tail was wagging a mile a minute.

  I looked at the man then said without handing him the leash, “Hello, I'm Finnegan McLeary-May. We spoke on the phone, I'm with Central Park Tails.”

  He exhaled like I was tedious then hobbled back. “Of course, come in, please. Darryl Beckett. Thank you for returning the dog. My ex got him for me, and he's always making a mess of everything. He's clumsy as hell.”

  Ok. My Finnegan sense was tingling. I didn't care for this guy. He was acting like being a dog owner was a burden, not a privilege. I looked over to the coffee table behind the man, he hadn't taken the time to clean it up yet. His condition probably had something to do with that. I looked at its positioning halfway under the overhang.

  He followed my eyes and then said, “Yes, it was a long drop. Terrifying.”

  Then I crouched and started taking the harness off of Floof as I whispered sweet nothings to him. When I set him free, I stood and said as I fished the paperwork for him to sign from my shoulder bag, “He's just growing and doesn't know how big he is. It's the awkward puppy phase. He'll grow out of it.”

  I handed him the paperwork and a pen and motioned my hand around, “There are so many canvases, are you an artist?”

  He put the paper on a wood timber column and scribbled out his signature and handed the form back to me. “Yes. I've a premiere opening at the Uptown Gallery this Friday night. You're welcome to attend.”

  I nodded and made a sour face at the canvases which had been slashed. “Thank you, Mr. Beckett, I may just do that. A shame some of these were destroyed. Have you been painting long?”

  He started moving toward the door again, indicating it was time for Calvin and me to go. “For a bit. I just graduated from the New York Academy of the Arts this year. I'm excited for my work to be recognized.”

  I nodded and asked as he was closing the door, “Are you working on something new now?”

  He hesitated and stumbled when Floof nudged his leg as he answered, “I was painting when you arrived. I have to get back to it. Thank you for taking care of my dog.”

  “Not a problem. Goodbye, Mr. Beckett, goodbye, Floof, be good.” And the door clicked shut in my face.

  I spun on my heel, and Calvin trotted after me as I muttered to him, “Rude much? And why did he lie about painting something as we arrived? I didn't smell any fresh paint. And there are dozens upon dozens of paintings in there. Years worth of work. He had to have been in his early teens when he started.”

  I nodded as he cocked his head at me. “Me either, I smell a rat.”

  Contemplating my interaction with the man, we headed over three blocks to the edge of Hell's Kitchen then turned north, for a straight shot home. “I wonder if Jane got the same vibe off the man as we did. I felt sort of bad leaving Floof alone with someone who wasn't glad to see him.”

  “You know, boy, I might...” I trailed off then backed up a bit to look into an alley. I recognized a man who was sleeping against a pallet in his fatigues. I pulled my cell out and pulled up my contacts, my finger hovering over Jane's name. Then I looked at the man again and hesitated, then cursed under my breath as I put my cell away, “By all that's good and fluffy in this world, I can't believe I'm doing this.”

  Cal and I padded over to the sleeping man, who was snoring a bit. An open bottle of alcohol wrapped in a paper bag was beside him. He was big, and even homeless on the street for god knows how long, he was a quite muscular middle-aged man. I knew I should be scared of him since he allegedly attacked Mr. Beckett, but I wasn't for some reason which eluded me.

  I sat down beside the man and signaled for Cal to sit too. Then I asked, “Nice afternoon, isn't
it?”

  He aborted a snore which turned into a snort as he woke in a start, his eyes shooting around everywhere, taking in his surroundings like Jane always does. He almost jerked back from me, but then his panic softened, and it was replaced with a grumpy look as he growled out, “You're the girl from yesterday. You took my shit.”

  He snatched the bottle from the ground between us like he thought I was going to steal it from him.

  I squinted an eye in apology. “No, but my wife did. She's NYPD. Sorry about that.”

  He stiffened and started to rise, but I put a hand on his camouflaged shirt that was heavy like canvas. I offered as he sat back with a thud, a little tipsy from imbibing a bit too much drink, “Finnegan Temperance McLeary-May.”

  He growled out, “It isn't smart to engage a stranger three times your size Finnegan Temperance McLeary-May. I could be a serial killer for all you know.”

  I shook my head and shared, “My gut tells me you're no danger to me. Besides, if you were, Calvin here would be growling and showing off his fangs instead of laying down at your feet. He's an impeccable judge of character.”

  He reached out and grabbed the bottle and went to take a swig, then stopped and wiped the top with his fingerless glove and offered it to me. I shook my head, and he shrugged and took a swig, grimaced, then set the bottle down. “So, what, are you tracking me?”

  I shook my head and tipped my head back to look at the sliver of sky visible between the buildings. “Nope, I just keep running into you.” Then I asked without looking at him, wringing my fingers on my knees, “Did you really attack that man in his apartment?”

  “The fuck you talking about? I didn't attack anyone. That pasty little bastard in my old place? I didn't even know he was there when I broke in to destroy all my old work. The little piss ant is trying to pass it off as his. But it's my pain, not his.”

  I turned to study the man. I could see the pain he spoke of in his steel grey eyes as he went on. “When he popped his head over the loft railing and started screaming at me, and I saw a dog, I beat a hasty retreat. The prick must have been sleeping up there.”