Of Mutts and Men

by Spencer Quinn

I felt Florian thinking, and again was reminded of Rummy. Finally he took a deep breath and said, “Butchie Dykstra. He operates outta—”

  “I know where he is,” Bernie said. “Now try to remember your lawyer’s name.”

  Florian squeezed his eyes shut tight, a sight that lasted way too long. “No go,” he said. “But I got her card.”

  Bernie’s eyes lit up in a lovely way. How nice to see him having fun!

  Florian took a card from inside his orange jumpsuit—a jumpsuit with no pockets, hardly worth pointing that out—and handed it to Bernie.

  “She works for Lobb and Edmonds?” Bernie said.

  “Like I told you, kind of on loan. Pro bono, if you’re familiar with the expression.”

  Bernie gazed at Florian and said nothing.

  * * *

  We rode up in an elevator in one of the tallest downtown towers, one of those bronze-colored towers that can look like they’re melting in the hot sun. Elevators are not my thing, and real fast ones are worse. This was the fastest I’d ever been on, so fast my stomach couldn’t keep up. That was a problem because when my stomach falls behind like that, the next thing that happens, which was going to be a big no-no, would be a whole lot of—

  Bernie put his hand on the top of my head, nice and gentle. The next thing I knew, the elevator came to a stop, the door sliding open and fresh air flowing in. Maybe not fresh, more like AC, but good enough. I walked out of there head high, unpuking, a total pro.

  “A white-shoe law firm if ever there was one,” Bernie said in that voice he uses just for talking to himself.

  We headed to the reception desk. This whole floor seemed to be one big fancy office, a setup I’d seen before when we’d gotten involved in a cryptocurrency case, incomprehensible from start to finish, the end coming somewhat unexpectedly on our last visit to their HQ, which we found empty, all equipment, furnishings, and people gone, nothing remaining but a miniature lemon tree plant that we took home as payment, the tree dying soon after, although Bernie did make lemonade from some of the lemons, and Charlie sold a few cups out front of the house, unfortunately making the customers sick. But this was a brand-new day!

  “Looking for Gudrun Burr,” Bernie said to the receptionist. She sent us down a wide and brightly lit hall—lined on both sides with framed blow-up photos of cats and also sculpted cats on pedestals, which was around when I lost my concentration—to another receptionist, this one a dude, a rather large dude with a neatly trimmed beard and wearing a very nice suit, of the kind called cashmere. Cashmere suits have an interesting smell all their own, and also an unusual mouth feel, which I knew from an experience I’d had with a suit belonging to Malcolm, Leda’s husband, an experience that will never be repeated, not if I can help it.

  He gave us a friendly look. “What can I do for you?” He was a handsome guy, reminding me slightly of a Hollywood actor we’d once worked with, an actor who had a cat named Brando, the case off the rails from the get-go. A difference with this receptionist guy was one of his ears, slightly cauliflowered like he’d done some wrestling in college. Was that a common route to being a receptionist? I didn’t know.

  “We’d like to see Gudrun Burr,” Bernie said.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m afraid—”

  “We can wait.”

  “Ms. Burr’s schedule won’t accommodate any more meetings today. Her earliest availability is next Tuesday, two forty-five p.m.”

  “This is about one of her clients,” Bernie said. “I’m guessing she’d want to meet sooner than that.”

  “Which client?”

  The receptionist had one of those name plates on his desk. Bernie glanced at it and said, “Well, Mr. Venatti, that—”

  “Mason, please.”

  “Well, Mason, that’s for Ms. Burr to hear.”

  Mason had had a small smile on his face the whole time, and it didn’t go away now. “Are you in law enforcement?” he said.

  “No,” said Bernie. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because of your companion here,” Mason said. “If he’s not in the K-nine corps he should be.”

  Oh, Mason! You don’t know the half of it, whatever that might mean. I flunked out on the very last day! The leaping test, Mason! And leaping’s my very best thing! Was this a good time for a demonstration? Perhaps a quick leap right over Mason’s head and then scurrying back to where I was, no time wasted?

  I was going back and forth on that when Bernie took out our card and handed it to Mason. “Maybe you could show her this.”

  Mason gave the card a good look. His little smile stayed on his face. “Happy to.” He rose—yes, a very big dude—walked over to a door, knocked, and went inside.

  Bernie turned to me. “K-nine. That would be like Sherlock Holmes walking a beat.”

  A complete puzzler. I couldn’t make anything out of it. Bernie laughed and gave me a quick scratch between the ears. “Which makes me Dr. Watson.” Also a complete puzzler. Holmes? Watson? I’d never heard of them. Perps? For no reason at all, I doubted that. Funny how the mind works. From somewhere far away came a sharp sound, possibly a hand smacking a desktop. Bernie didn’t seem to hear it. We waited.

  Mason opened the door, still looking friendly although no longer smiling.

  “Ms. Burr will see you now.”

  A familiar scent was suddenly in the air.

  Twelve

  A woman sat behind a desk. Her eyes went to me right away. They showed nothing, but her smell sure did. It was all about being surprised in a real bad way. She rose—a dark-haired, green-eyed woman, a woman smelling of dying flowers: Dewey’s boss.

  “Mr. Little?” She smiled at Bernie, her teeth small, white, even, and very sharp for a human. I was just guessing on that last part, maybe a bit unfair, but I was no fan of this woman. “Gudrun Burr,” she said, coming around the desk and shaking Bernie’s hand. Some humans have a lot of force inside them, but most less or none. Of the forceful types, some show it all the time, some a lot of the time, a few, who keep it deep inside, hardly ever. Handshaking is when you might see these kinds of things. For example, Gudrun Burr was the forceful type who showed it all the time, and Bernie was the forceful type who kept it deep inside.

  “How can I help you?” she said.

  “Uh,” Bernie said, “excuse me for a moment, please.” He turned to me and said, “Chet? What’s the problem?”

  Problem? I knew of none. We were in a nice big office, way up high; we had views of the Valley that went on and on past the last suburbs and into the shimmering desert; soft music played in the background. So no complaints. Perhaps there was a sound somewhat like growling coming from here or there, not worth a mention.

  “Chet? Buddy? What’s with the growling?”

  Growling? Not worth a mention. Hadn’t I just covered that?

  “Chet!”

  “I don’t think your dog likes me,” Gudrun said, putting her hand to her chest.

  “I’m sure that’s not the case,” said Bernie. “He’s not comfortable in elevators, probably just letting me know.”

  Elevators? It had nothing to do with elevators. What a weird situation! Bernie was wrong and this woman was right. I didn’t like her, not one little bit. And I had every reason! What I would actually have liked to—or more accurately what my teeth were itching to do, especially those long ones, was to—

  “Chet? Do you want to wait outside?”

  Wait outside? Meaning while Bernie stayed inside? I couldn’t believe my ears, except they’ve always been totally believable. Okay, maybe not quite in the league of my nose, but the next best thing. Wait outside? While we were working a case? I happen to have a way of standing that makes me just about immovable. I stood like that now.

  “Then you’ve got to amp it down.”

  Bernie gave me a look. I gave him a look back. And then I noticed that Gudrun was also giving me a look, a very thoughtful one. It made me consider possibl
y going over to her and—

  “Chet? I mean it.”

  Uh-oh. Bernie meant it. That changed everything. The growling—wherever it happened to be coming from—stopped at once.

  Bernie turned to Gudrun. Gudrun’s thoughtful look vanished just before his gaze fell on her. “Sorry,” he said. “Don’t know what that was about.”

  “Probably the elevator, as you said,” Gudrun told him. “Dogs usually like me.”

  I didn’t believe that for one second, but now was not the time for any of the violent—well, not violent, more like … active. Yes, that was it! Now was not the time for any of the active things I wanted to do. Instead I yawned a great big yawn. Gudrun laughed.

  “What a character!” she said, and motioned Bernie to a chair.

  Bernie sat down. I sat on the floor beside him. Gudrun went back around the desk and sat in her chair.

  “We’re the ones who brought in your client, Florian Machado,” Bernie said.

  “I’m aware of that,” said Gudrun. “So I’ll ask again—how can I help you?”

  “First I want to make sure I’ve got the facts straight,” Bernie said. “Is it true you’ve advised Florian to cop a plea?”

  “Cop a plea,” Gudrun said. “I hate that expression.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s just another way of saying this entire enterprise is jaded.”

  Bernie’s eyes got an inward look. That didn’t happen often in company, just when it was him and me. Something must have really caught his attention. As to what that might be, I had no clue.

  “You’re about to tell me that’s the inevitable result of the subject matter,” Gudrun said. “Which is criminality.”

  Bernie nodded. “Something like that. But not as eloquently. How about I revise it to taking a plea deal?”

  Gudrun smiled, just a quick show of those small, even white teeth, and then gone. “Who told you I’d done that?”

  “Florian.”

  “When?”

  “A couple of hours ago.”

  Gudrun went still, very slightly, more just on the inside—in fact, reminding me of Bernie. Strange, what with their smells being so different, Bernie’s having not a trace of dying flowers. “You saw him in prison?” she said.

  “Correct.”

  “I don’t understand. Did he ask for you?”

  “No. It was my idea.”

  “Is that your usual practice? Jail follow-ups with men you’ve—how did you put it—brought in?”

  “No,” Bernie said. “But it has happened.”

  “In situations where the case has not been completely resolved, I assume?” Gudrun said.

  Bernie nodded.

  “Or not resolved to your satisfaction?”

  “I won’t argue about that,” Bernie said.

  Good to hear! An argument now might not have been a good thing, almost sure to remind me of my feelings toward Gudrun, which could lead to a certain sort of … activity that would end with me no longer in this room and part of the conversation. As to what they’d been close to arguing about, I leave that to you. Some human conversations are harder to follow than others. This was one of those, plus I also had the feeling that another conversation was going on at the same time, but unspoken. That wasn’t new, these unspoken conversations giving off certain smells, a snap to pick up if you’re someone like me. Otherwise … otherwise I guess you’re on your own.

  One particular kind of unspoken conversation can happen between a man and woman, especially when they’re meeting for the first time. We have something not that different in the nation within! It’s all about a certain kind of exciting possibility. Do you know what I’m getting at? Maybe you’ve experienced it. I hope so.

  There’s also a scent that gets loose when two men—especially the tough kind—meet for the very first time. We’ve got that one in the nation within, too, and plenty! More than enough, you might say, but it always gets the blood flowing, a feeling I love. The only reason I bring this up is that some of that scent was also now in the air, mixing with the man and woman excitement scent in a very unusual way that actually didn’t work for me. In fact, it got me a bit confused.

  Meanwhile, since arguing was not in the cards, Gudrun had moved onto something else. “If Florian didn’t ask for you, how did you get in to see him?”

  Which sounded a bit like arguing, but I must have been wrong about that.

  “It wasn’t that hard,” Bernie said.

  “I believe you,” said Gudrun. “But you’d still need permission from either the warden, the sheriff—in the current interregnum Deputy Beasley—or the DA. Which one was it?”

  There was a slight pause, like maybe Bernie didn’t want to answer. I’d seen pauses like this before, but always when Bernie was asking the questions and someone else was doing the pausing. I got a little more confused.

  “The DA, then,” Gudrun said.

  Bernie nodded.

  “No reason to hesitate on either of the others,” Gudrun went on. “Deirdre Dubois is no pushover and you have no standing and you’re for sure not her type. So what’s your secret?”

  “Chet here did most of the persuading,” Bernie said.

  Gudrun was the good-looking kind of woman, unless I was missing something. She had very smooth skin, plus those green eyes and those shining teeth, but it wasn’t just that. The good-looking women also knew who they were and always acted in a good-looking way, hard to explain. And Gudrun certainly acted in a good-looking way, although right now an expression that was almost ugly crossed her face, real quick. Then, back to normal, she said, “You’re quite the joker,” she said.

  Exactly right, although if Bernie had just made a joke, I’d missed it. Was this the moment for some sort of explanation? If so, Bernie was letting it pass by. He just sat there, eyes on Gudrun and saying nothing. I’d seen lots of people bothered by that quiet look of Bernie’s, but Gudrun wasn’t one of them. She pointed a finger at him—a well-shaped finger with a bright red nail—and said, “Here’s the answer to your question. I didn’t tell Florian to take a plea deal. I described all the available starting points and the likely outcomes of each. He asked me to make the best arrangement I could. I’m in the process of doing that right now. Is there anything else you want to know?” She folded her hands on the desk.

  “Yeah,” Bernie said. “Why aren’t you going to trial?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Gudrun said. “Because of you.” She turned to a screen, hit a key or two, read what popped up. “This is from Beasley’s arrest report. ‘According to Bernie Little, the private investigator, when confronted the suspect charged him and brandished a knife.’” She turned back to Bernie. “Would that be your testimony?”

  “Part of it.”

  “That’s all it would take in the mind of any juror who ever lived. Guilty, murder one.” She gave Bernie a close look. “You disagree?”

  “Not with your analysis.”

  “With what, then? What are you doing here? You want to go to trial? You want the maximum punishment? Making the collar isn’t enough for you?”

  Bernie shook his head. “I want you to slow things down a little bit. Ask for a postponement. Delay, somehow. You’ll find a reason. I just need time.”

  “For what?”

  “I want to dig a little deeper.”

  What great news! Where and when? Clearly not here in this office high over the Valley. I moved across the room and waited by the door.

  “Into what?” said Gudrun.

  I was with her on that, waited to hear. Flower beds are always a good choice, but there’s a lot to be said for putting greens.

  “The death of Wendell Nero,” Bernie said.

  “Death? You’re not calling it a murder? Now you have my interest.”

  “Oh, it was murder, all right.”

  “Then what? Someone else was involved? Maybe did the actual throat-cutting? And my client’s covering up for him?”

  “It’s possible.”

&nb
sp; “Have you got some evidence for that statement?”

  “No.”

  “So what are you doing?” Gudrun said. “Don’t say you want me to hire you.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Therefore you’ll work for free? Or do you already have a client?”

  “I do.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “I protect my clients’ identities.”

  “How convenient.”

  “Usually not,” Bernie said.

  Gudrun laughed. She gave Bernie a look that some women sometimes give to some men, although not often to Bernie, in my experience. As for what it meant I wasn’t sure. If humans had tails they’d be easier to— Well, I’m sure it’s a fine thing to be human, all in all. Let’s leave it at that. The important thing was digging, when and where. I was hoping that Gudrun would bring that up, and stat. She sat back in her chair like she was getting comfortable and said, “I’m going to take a wild guess. Your client is—or was, in this case—Wendell Nero.”

  “No,” Bernie said. He has many ways of saying no. They all end up meaning no, but was there something odd about this particular no, like it had a little bit of yes mixed in? What a thought! Way too much for me.

  Meanwhile Bernie was sitting up straight like he wasn’t relaxed, but I could feel that inside he was. And Gudrun was sitting back like she was relaxed, but I could feel that inside she wasn’t. Was this interview going well? I didn’t think so. Of course I’d seen Gudrun in action and Bernie had not. Bite her, Bernie, bite her! Whoa! What was with my mind all of a sudden? Thinking too-big thoughts, and now this? I tried to shut it down completely.

  “Can’t you sell that a little better?” Gudrun said.

  Uh-oh. Bernie’s selling ability. That had come up once before, actually last Christmas, when Bernie’s mom paid us a visit, accompanied by her boyfriend, fiancé, or husband, something we never quite got clear, named Tommy Trauble, owner of Tommy Trauble’s Auto Mile Dealerships in Flamingo Beach, Florida, which was where Bernie’s mom lived. Tommy Trauble had the deepest tan I’d ever seen on a human face, tiny bleached-out eyes, and shoulder-length white hair that gleamed. But, according to Bernie’s mom, he was also the greatest salesman in the whole state, and—well, it went something like this: “Bernie? I’ll have another one of those lovely old-fashioneds you mix. He really does have all sorts of talents, Tommy, but his problem is he just doesn’t sell himself. Can you explain to him, honey, how important that is?”