Of Mutts and Men

by Spencer Quinn

I felt an enormous surge of strength in Bernie, got ready for something very bad to happen to Hoskin. But then Bernie got a grip. The effort made him shiver the tiniest bit. “Which one cut Wendell’s throat—Gudrun or Mason?”

  “I don’t know firsthand,” Hoskin said.

  “Who’s your source?”

  “I … I can’t recall. I was very upset at the time. Wendell and I weren’t friends, but there was a mutual—”

  “Shut up,” Bernie said.

  Hoskin shut up.

  Then came a strange quiet time, where Bernie just gazed at Tildy’s drawing. Soon Hoskin was gazing at it, too. Finally he raised his head. “It was her. Evidently Wendell told them he was going to call the police. She … she lost her temper. She’s said to have a temper.” He touched the cardboard. “There’s a kind of ruthlessness in the land these days.”

  “I don’t disagree,” Bernie said. “Why didn’t she take Wendell’s cell phone and laptop?”

  “A stupid mistake on her part,” said Hoskin. “As will happen when temper gets the best of one. The potential import hadn’t even crossed her mind until I—” Hoskin went silent. Bernie gazed at him. Hoskin looked down.

  “Here,” Bernie said, picking up a bottle of water.

  “I’m not thirsty,” Hoskin said.

  “Drink,” said Bernie.

  Hoskin took a sip.

  “More,” Bernie said.

  Hoskin drank more. We found some duct tape, got him comfortably settled in a chair, and hit the road.

  Thirty-one

  We drove along Upper Camino Royale, as high above the Valley as you can get, and came to the tall metal gate. Last time a bird had been perched on one of the gateposts. Now there was a bird on each, both of them watching us with their unfriendly little eyes.

  “This could be tricky,” Bernie said.

  But just as before, a man’s voice spoke. “Welcome, Mr. Little. Drive on through.”

  So it wasn’t tricky at all! Today was off to a great start. We’d already duct-taped a perp—assuming Hoskin was a perp, since we hardly ever duct-taped non-perps—and we hadn’t even had breakfast yet. That, by the way, was a small problem, but of the kind that can blow up into something very big, as I’d learned way too many times.

  We followed the long curving driveway of polished pavers toward Gudrun’s house, that strange arrangement of boxes that by night had seemed so easily toppleable off the cliff edge, and now by day seemed even more so. We parked in front of the door but while we were still in the car, Gudrun’s voice came from somewhere above.

  “Hey, there,” she said, sounding very friendly. “I’ve been expecting you. Come around to the back.”

  Bernie took the .38 Special from the glove box. We got out of the car. Bernie didn’t tuck the gun in his waistband or stick it in his pocket, instead held it by his side. When had that ever happened? All at once, I remembered the one and only time: very late—too late, as it turned out—on the night of the broom closet case. The little girl’s name was Gail, a name I can’t forget.

  We followed a path lined with flower beds. It led almost to the edge of a cliff, where it ended in a sort of walkway that I didn’t want to walk on at all. The floor part of the walkway was some sort of thick glass, and so were the walls, which were much too low, in my opinion. This walkway followed the cliff edge, but out in midair, and led to another one of those boxes, this one also in midair, although it maybe was being held up by a sort of metal arm rising from below—kind of how a waiter carries a tray. Whoa! What a strange thought! Not me at all. The truth was my mind was sort of spinning out here in midair, and—

  “Chet? We’re all right, big guy.”

  Oh. Good to hear. I’d almost been slightly worried there for a second, which I’m pretty sure is a very short time.

  Meanwhile we were almost at the end of the walkway. There stood this outdoor glass box, similar to those that made up the whole house, except for having no roof. I could tell that from how a fountain in the box was spraying a feathery jet of water into the sky. The fountain itself—and the entire inside of the box—couldn’t be seen at all, on account of those glass walls being the darkened kind.

  “Come on in,” said Gudrun from inside.

  A glass door that had seemed like part of the wall slowly opened. We stepped through. Usually—actually always—I’m the first one through any doorway, but now Bernie blocked me. Yes, blocked me. There was no other way to put it. He went through first, with me behind him, as close as I could get.

  There are big surprises and small surprises in our line of work. A small surprise would have been Gudrun waiting for us with a gun in her hand, even though her voice had been sounding so friendly today. I wouldn’t have been very surprised by that small surprise, on account of the way Bernie was carrying the .38 Special by his side. He could raise it and make it talk its .38 Special talk real quick from that position, take it from me.

  But he did not. Far from it. When Gudrun said, “Please let go of the gun, Bernie,” he did as he was told.

  “And kick it away, if you don’t mind.”

  Bernie kicked it away.

  What we had here was a big surprise. We were on a sort of patio, the glass walls somehow not as high as they’d looked from outside, no higher than my head if I’d been standing on my hind legs. There was a green-glass fountain, its shape not an animal or anything else that made sense to me, and a lawn chair. Gudrun stood behind the lawn chair and held no gun.

  None of that was the big surprise. The big surprise was the person sitting in the chair, namely Tildy. And what Gudrun did have in her hand, namely a knife, a red-handled knife with a very thin blade, but long. She held it by her side, the same way Bernie had held the .38 Special.

  Oh, poor Tildy! Would I ever forget the look on her face? It was the face of a kid who had a great big scream inside her but wouldn’t let it out. Her eyes, wet but not overflowing, were fixed on us, me and Bernie, and sending us desperate messages. There were desperate human smells in the air as well, Tildy’s, and other human smells I’d hardly ever encountered, at least not together, crazed and murderous. Those were Gudrun’s.

  Crazed and murderous for sure—smells don’t lie, one of the reasons I’m so good at this business, as Bernie has explained to more than one perp—but on the outside Gudrun looked relaxed.

  “I could use someone like you, Bernie,” she said. “Especially now that Mason’s gone. Call it a classic Darwinian demonstration.” She laughed. “Not that you and I will be breeding—you made that very clear. But I’d never let that stand in the way of building a productive professional relationship.”

  “You’re out of your mind,” Bernie said, his voice quiet. Also his hand was on my head, just touching. Were we in command? That was my takeaway.

  Gudrun smiled. She almost kept looking relaxed, but one eyelid came down the slightest bit over one of those green eyes, and started to twitch, not a lot, just enough for me to notice.

  “Any chance you’d want to take that comment back?” she said.

  Bernie shook his head.

  “What if you knew Wendell Nero slurred me in those exact words?” Gudrun said.

  “Is that why you killed him?” said Bernie.

  Gudrun reached out with her free hand, touched Tildy’s hair. Tildy made a tiny sound deep in her throat, tiny but terrible.

  “Wendell’s … end result was his own doing,” Gudrun said. “We weren’t asking a lot.”

  “You were asking him to betray his life’s work,” said Bernie.

  “My my,” said Gudrun. “You have a feminine way of thinking. I’d never have guessed.”

  “Fine with me,” Bernie said. “But what we need to talk about now is how to stop all this before anyone else gets hurt.”

  “Please,” said Gudrun. “You must be more of a realist than that.” She glanced down at Tildy. “You’re a smart girl, Tildy, it turns out. Explain to Bernie here what a realist is.”

  “I … I … I can’t,” Tildy
said.

  Gudrun touched her hair again. “Go on,” she said. “This isn’t a judgmental crowd.”

  “That’s enough,” Bernie said.

  “Ah,” said Gudrun. “The almost-but-not-quite apple of my eye doesn’t seem to understand the pecking order here.” She raised the knife, the handle held delicately between finger and thumb. “First comes me.” She lowered the knife. “I’m a reasonable person, Bernie. It’s my defining characteristic. Reasonable people know how to make deals. Following me so far?”

  “Go on,” Bernie said.

  “I’ll go on when I’m good and ready. You don’t define me. Is that clear?”

  Bernie nodded.

  “Say it’s clear.”

  Bernie’s voice got very thick. “It’s clear,” he said.

  “You know what we mean by an NDA, Bernie?” said Gudrun.

  “A non-disclosure agreement.”

  “Bingo.” Gudrun had a wicker basket at her feet. She reached down, took out a folder. “Sign these papers and you walk out of here with Tildy.”

  “What’s to stop me from breaking the agreement?” Bernie said.

  “Good question,” said Gudrun, “although a little strange that you’d be the one to raise it. The answer is that Chet will be in my care for a temporary but undefined period, the end date of which will depend on the finalization of certain business arrangements and your continuing good behavior.”

  “Out of the question,” said Bernie.

  “That’s just your emotional reaction,” Gudrun said. “I’m confident that the rational part of you soon takes command in situations like this.” She reached into the wicker basket again, took out a strange jumble of things, tossed the jumble to Bernie, his hands sort of catching it on their own. “Let’s get started,” Gudrun said.

  Bernie gazed at the jumble. So did I. At first I didn’t make sense of what I was seeing. And then I did. What Bernie had in his hands were a leash and a muzzle. He dropped them on the floor.

  “You’re delusional,” he said.

  Gudrun took a firmer grip on the knife, held it close to Tildy’s throat, although not touching. Tildy made a tiny little squeak, a bit like a baby having a bad dream. “Why are you not getting this?” Gudrun said.

  “Hurt her and I’ll kill you,” Bernie said.

  “But it would be too late,” Gudrun said. “And even then I like my chances. Now muzzle your dog.”

  Bernie shook his head.

  Gudrun moved the knife. The point touched the side of Tildy’s neck. And now, finally, Tildy let out the scream that had been building inside her. Had I ever heard a sound so terrible? And meanwhile there was the sight of her neck, such a child-like, innocent neck, if that makes any sense.

  Gudrun raised her voice. “Zip it.”

  A tiny drop of blood appeared on Tildy’s neck. She went silent, although tears now streamed down her face.

  “Bend down,” Gudrun said. “Pick up the muzzle. Do the right thing.”

  Bernie looked at me. For a moment I thought tears were going to start streaming down his face, too. But why? And in the end, they did not. Instead he bent down and picked up the muzzle.

  “Easy, big guy.”

  Sure thing. If Bernie said easy then I was at ease. He opened the wide end of the muzzle and slipped it over my face. No one had ever muzzled me before except for two perps, real bad guys who’d gotten what they deserved. Bernie was not a bad guy. He was the very best. And besides he was Bernie. I let him muzzle me, no problem. Bernie had to have his reasons. Wasn’t he always the smartest human in the room? Snap snap—and I was all buckled in.

  “The leash,” Gudrun said.

  Bernie hooked on the leash.

  “Now send him over.”

  Bernie took my head in his hands, gazed deep in my eyes. Oh, no! He looked so unhappy, the unhappiest I’d ever seen him. What was going on?

  “Go, Chet,” he said, and pointed toward Gudrun.

  Did I want to go over to Gudrun? Certainly not. But Bernie always knows what he’s doing. That’s why he’s in charge of the thinking at the Little Detective Agency. I bring other things to the table.

  I walked over to Gudrun, not fast, but I did it. She grabbed the leash with one hand, stepping slightly away from Tildy. And now—whoa!—the knife was at my throat. I felt its sharpness through my fur.

  “Get the folder out of the basket, Tildy,” Gudrun said.

  Tildy, still sitting in the chair, took the folder from the basket.

  “Take it to Bernie. There’s a pen inside. He’s going to sign the agreement. Bring it back. And then you’re free to go, no harm done.”

  Tildy rose, very slowly, like her legs weren’t giving her much help. Gudrun glanced at me, then turned her gaze to Bernie. If she wasn’t scared by the look on his face, she was scared of nothing. The knife was still at my throat. Tildy took a first hesitant step, one of her hands still on the arm of the chair. Both of Gudrun’s hands were busy, one holding the leash, the other holding the knife. One more point: Gudrun’s eyes were still on Bernie.

  Right then was when Tildy did an amazing thing. She dropped the folder, grabbed the arm of the chair so she now had both hands on it, whipped around, the muscles in her arms sticking out like cords, and heaved it at Gudrun.

  Gudrun hadn’t seen this coming! The chair hit her in the chest. She reeled back, almost fell, let go of the leash and—and dropped the knife! It clattered across the floor. I charged after it, completely forgetting about the muzzle. How was I ever going to pick up the knife while wearing a muzzle? That thought didn’t even occur to me. I charged my hardest charge.

  Meanwhile Gudrun was charging, too, charging for the same thing as me, the red-handled knife. We dove for it at the exact same moment and crashed together. Gudrun went flying. Don’t forget I’m a hundred-plus pounder.

  Gudrun flew. She hit the rail of the low glass wall, clutched at it, missed, did a whole sort of somersault, and suddenly spun over to the other side of the rail, all of that meaning she was turned toward us but in midair, high over the Valley. The expression on her face was all about not believing. And then she was gone.

  Bernie ripped the muzzle off my face. He knelt and brought me and Tildy in close.

  * * *

  Loudon DeBrusk, who had something to do with the Veritan Endowment Fund, whatever that was, exactly, wanted to meet us at the Veritan Club. Bernie laughed in his face—not really, since it was a phone call, but close enough—and told him the venue—his exact word—would be the 7-Eleven parking lot under the Rio Vista Bridge approach.

  DeBrusk’s driver opened the back door of the long black car and DeBrusk came over to us, Bernie leaning against the Porsche and me leaning against Bernie. He held out his hand for shaking. Bernie ignored it.

  “I just wanted to thank you for all your work on this,” DeBrusk said.

  “Oh?” said Bernie.

  “We at the fund are simply not constituted to cope with a rogue employee—in this case not even an employee, but a contract worker.”

  “So that’s how it’s going to be?” Bernie said.

  “Absolutely,” said DeBrusk. “We couldn’t be sorrier about allowing someone like her to slip through our screening process.”

  “She slipped through a number of times,” Bernie said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “She was a Veritan graduate, and a graduate of Veritan Law—in fact came first in her class. Also taught there a few semesters, I believe. That’s three slip-ups for starters.”

  DeBrusk smiled the kind of smile that’s only a slight upturn of the lips, no more. “Do I detect the whiff of class resentment?” he said.

  A whiff of what? I’d sniffed in more whiffs in a morning than a dude like this would deal with in a lifetime, and I’d never come across anything of the kind, and certainly not now. Wasn’t I supposed to be grabbing DeBrusk by the pant leg? Bernie! Ándale!

  But Bernie just said, “Nope.”

  “Glad to hear that,” said DeB
rusk. “And you yourself might be interested to hear that the endowment is undertaking a top-to-bottom reassessment of our investment plan, with special reference to land use, pricing, and transparency.”

  “Are you quitting or waiting till they fire you?” Bernie said.

  DeBrusk’s snowy eyebrows rose. “Neither.” He laughed. “As far as I know.”

  “So the fall guy will come from the higher-ups?” said Bernie.

  DeBrusk stopped laughing.

  “I’ve seen Suzie Sanchez’s story,” Bernie said. “You’ve got a supporting role, but not insignificant.”

  DeBrusk glanced around like he heard somebody coming, but the 7-Eleven parking lot was empty except for us.

  “Netflix bought the rights yesterday,” Bernie said. “But you know how they streamline these things. You may end up on the cutting room floor.”

  That didn’t sound good, but DeBrusk’s mood seemed to brighten. “We happen to own a sizable chunk of Netflix. Don’t I have a cousin on the board?” He reached into his pocket, took out an envelope. “One last thing. Please accept this as a token of gratitude from the Veritan community.”

  Bernie turned and hopped in the car. Hopped right in! Bernie! Even with his wounded leg. I hopped in right after him.

  “Don’t you even want to see the amount?” DeBrusk said.

  Va-voom!

  Well, maybe what with our finances being the way they were, it might have been … but too late. Rubber burned. That was us.

  * * *

  Felicia, together with Wendell’s two other wives, or perhaps girlfriends—some cases remaining complicated right to the end—took us out to lunch. They had very small salads and several bottles of white wine, later switching to rosé. Bernie had a burger and a beer. I had the remains—generous remains—of a bone-in ribeye, thanks to a friendly gentleman at the next table.

  “What do we owe you?” Felicia said.

  Bernie named a figure. Too high? Way too high? I could tell from the looks on the faces of the ladies—all those faces now kind of pinkish—that we had a problem.

  “Tell you what,” Felicia said.