“It’s even more complicated than that,” Bernie said. “Do you know a Valley Tribune reporter named Suzie Sanchez?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?”
“In my work I get interviewed a lot,” Ganz said. “I can’t keep track of every two-bit reporter.”
Now Bernie’s eyes got cold, too, as though some light had turned off inside. I never liked seeing that. And maybe neither did Sherman Ganz. Under the table, one of his legs started twitching. That I always liked seeing: it meant we were getting somewhere. Where, I didn’t know, and another problem: grabbing Ganz by the pant leg wasn’t going to happen because he was wearing shorts; had that ever come up before? I tried to think.
“I wouldn’t characterize Ms. Sanchez that way,” Bernie said.
Ganz shrugged. The wind rose and fluttered the pages of the magazine. Bernie laid his hand on it. He had beautiful hands; I never got tired of looking at them.
“You mentioned your work,” Bernie said. “What is it, exactly?”
“I’m an investor.”
A new one on me. I was familiar with lots of human jobs— cop, perp, gangbanger, correction officer, biker, sharpshooter, bodyguard, vet, groomer, and of course PI, just to name a few— but not investor. Oh, and developer. From the look on Bernie’s face, I decided investor was something like that.
“Investor in what?” Bernie said.
“Nothing esoteric,” said Ganz. Didn’t know esoteric, but it sounded bad. And I didn’t believe him: with that pointy gray beard and those skinny legs, the color of bone, Ganz was capable of esoteric and probably worse. “Brick and mortar,” he went on, losing me completely. “Hotels, shopping malls, apartments.”
“Anything down in Rio Loco County?”
Under the table, the twitchy leg got twitchier. “Not that I recall,” Ganz said. “I don’t carry the whole portfolio around in my head.”
“You look like the type that would,” Bernie said.
I came very close to getting this, on account of a show we’d once seen on the Discovery Channel with women carrying big loads on their heads; although those women didn’t look at all like Ganz, so maybe Bernie was on the wrong track.
“What are you driving at?” Ganz said.
“Here’s a hint,” Bernie said. “Clauson’s Wells.”
That twitchy leg, and how bonelike it looked: I got a funny feeling at the roots of my teeth, like they wanted lots of pressure real bad, the kind a lacrosse ball could provide, if one happened to be around, which was not the case.
Ganz stopped meeting Bernie’s gaze. “I might have some interests there, now that you mention it.”
“Such as ownership of the whole town?” Bernie said.
“Perhaps,” said Ganz. “We’re not talking much of an investment. It’s more of a public service.”
“Oh?”
“The plan is to fix it up, show people what the Old West was like,” Ganz said. “Schoolkids, church groups, tourists.”
“Do you do a lot of public service?”
“Ten percent of our profits go to the ASPCA, not that it’s any of your concern.”
“Good for you,” Bernie said. “How about law enforcement organizations? Do you give to them, too? Or maybe just the odd lawman?”
“You’re not making much sense.”
“The Rio Loco county sheriff, for example? Or his deputy?”
“I don’t know them,” Ganz said. “Never actually been to Clauson’s Wells. I have people for that.”
“Did one of your people call the sheriff, tip him off ?”
“Tip him off about what?”
“That we’d be showing up in Clauson’s Wells, give him plenty of time to set up in the saloon.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. In fact, I have no idea what you’re doing here. And I don’t appreciate your tone.”
From his pocket, Bernie took out the bull’s-eye photo. He unfolded it, opened the magazine, slid the photo into place.
The twitchy leg went still. Bernie said nothing. He just waited. I waited, too, for what I wasn’t sure, but the whole world had gone still, a weird thing that happened sometimes, and it always had a big effect on me. Then, from down on the court, came the voice of the tall guy: “Brush up. Up and through. Spin, spin.”
Ganz winced, something humans do when they feel a sudden pain—I knew that from Leda’s migraines. “I sent this,” he said. “But I had nothing to do with Princess disappearing, or Adelina, whatever’s going on now.”
“Can you prove it?”
Ganz took a cell phone from his pocket, the big kind, and pressed buttons. “I was in meetings in LA the day of the kidnapping. The governor was there, now that I think of it—he can vouch for me.”
“Maybe you just made the arrangements.”
Ganz started to rise from his chair, and his voice rose, too. I got my legs under me. “I’m not a violent man. I abhor violence.”
“You think defacing that photo and sending it to the Borghe-ses wasn’t a violent act?”
Ganz sank back down. “I’m ashamed of that,” he said. “But it was symbolic—I would never ever harm a dog. I was just so incensed about what happened at Balmoral. It obsessed me.”
“Obsessed people can do uncharacteristic things,” Bernie said.
“And I did,” said Ganz. “I confess—I sent the photo. But that’s all.” He gazed at Bernie’s face, which showed nothing, not even to me.
“You told us you admire Adelina,” Bernie said.
“Exactly. I could never harm Adelina either.”
“What’s admirable about her?”
“Everything—her devotion to the show world, her generosity, her stoicism.”
“What does she have to be stoic about?”
“You’ve met her husband.”
“Do they have problems?”
“Nothing that I know of.”
“This admiration of yours—how far does it go?”
“That’s a nonstarter if you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting,” Ganz said. “I have no interest in women. You can’t be much of a detective if you didn’t twig to that.”
Words were flowing back and forth over me, not unpleasant though I’d pretty much stopped paying close attention. But what was this? Bernie not a good detective? He was the best! And something about a twig? I glanced around, spotted a twig immediately, and snatched it up. A tasty twig; I gnawed on it, went back to being all peaceful until I heard Bernie say: “What do you know about the cabin above Clauson’s Wells?”
That brought the memory of Adelina and the ants, and I let go of the twig.
“Nothing,” Ganz said. “I didn’t know there was a cabin. Why is it important?”
“It may not be,” Bernie said.
But it was. Did I make some sound, one of those low barks? Maybe, because all at once Bernie tapped his foot against my side, soft and gentle. Then he rose. I rose, too.
Ganz eyed the magazine. “You said you were returning it.”
“Maybe someday.”
“Meaning you don’t believe me,” Ganz said. Bernie didn’t answer. “I want Adelina found,” Ganz said. “I’ll pay you to find her.”
“We already have a client.” Bernie turned. Me, too. We started up the flower-lined path, but after a few steps Bernie turned back. “Nance used to work for you?”
“Correct.”
“Why did she leave?”
“I assume she got a better offer.”
Down on the court, the tall guy got excited. “Yes!” he said. “Spin, always spin. Spin controls the ball.”
I thought about that all the way back to the car, couldn’t quite make it work for me.
NINETEEN
Motive, means, opportunity,” Bernie said as we drove away from Sherman Ganz’s tennis club, Bernie at the wheel, me riding shotgun, a nice fresh tennis ball in my mouth. “Three strikes and you’re out. And he sent the threatening photo that started it al
l. So why don’t I get the sense that . . .” He went silent. I could feel him thinking, like pressure in the air. I was thinking, too: didn’t three strikes and you’re out come from baseball, not tennis? Any way Bernie could be confused? I wasn’t buying that, not for a second, whatever a second happened to be. But something about time, not a whole lot of it, maybe—
“A red herring?” Bernie said. Uh-oh. We’d run into red herrings before, very bothersome, although the truth was I’d never actually laid eyes on one, hadn’t smelled the faintest hint of fish at the tennis club. Also I’m not a seafood fan. Once at a cookout I’d gotten hold of piece of salmon—very small, nothing that anyone would miss—but to my complete surprise there’d been this bone that ended up getting caught in my—
“And if so, then this whole trip was a wild goose chase,” Bernie said. “Should have followed that bike.”
Whoa. Wild goose chase? Not the first time that had come up, but we still hadn’t gone on one and, oh, did I ever want to, real bad. I glanced around, saw no geese, no birds of any kind.
Bernie sighed. “Just won’t click into place,” he said. “Adelina and Ganz having an affair—that would’ve been a different story.” Adelina. And Princess, with her blurry-legged run. Princess: Where was she? I lay down on my seat, curled up. Bernie gave me a pat. “Tired, Chet?” he said. “Grab a little shut-eye.” The fact was, I hadn’t been feeling at all tired, but now I was, just like that. I grabbed some shut-eye.
And woke up feeling tip-top. Where was I? In the shotgun seat, my favorite place on earth. I sat up straight, gave my mouth a nice big stretch.
“Hey,” said Bernie, “feeling better?”
Feeling better? Feeling best! Sun shining up above, warm breeze blowing by, and what was this? We were pulling into Donut Heaven, and just at the very moment it hit me that I was famished. Was life good or what? Ravenous one moment, crullers the next.
Lieutenant Stine was waiting in a cruiser. We parked cop-style, driver’s window to driver’s window. The lieutenant didn’t say hi, just nodded. No smile either—not that he was the smiling type, although he usually had a smile for me—and there were dark patches under his eyes.
“In case you thought it couldn’t get any worse,” he said, “they’re out of crullers.” He handed Bernie a cup of coffee. Love the smell of coffee—have I mentioned that already?—but the drink itself does nothing for me.
“How’s that possible?” said Bernie.
“Hell if I know,” the lieutenant said. “Sometimes everything bottoms out at once—you ever think about that?”
“Too much,” said Bernie.
“The Power of Positive Thinking—ever read that?”
“No.”
“Don’t bother—it’s complete crap.” The lieutenant sipped his coffee. “Thought you were a reader, Bernie.”
“When I get the chance.”
“What do you read?”
“Sea stories, mostly.”
“But you’re one of those desert aficionados.”
“Go figure.”
Lieutenant Stine raised a paper bag. “No crullers,” he said, “but they had some bear claws. Chet care for bear claws?”
Whoa. Care for bear claws? Was that what he said? Had the lieutenant ever watched the Discovery Channel, seen what bears could do with those claws?
“My guess would be yes,” Bernie said. It would? He reached into the bag and pulled out . . . something that didn’t smell like any animal at all—in fact, smelled a lot like crullers—and had no sharp or dangerous parts, not that I could see. Bernie held it out for me. I sniffed but didn’t take it. No rash moves for me, amigo. Bernie laughed and dropped it on the floor in front of my seat. I leaned down, did some more sniffing, finally tried a lick or two.
Well, well, well. Not unpromising. I took the tiniest bite out of one corner. A lot like a cruller, but—was this even possible— even tastier? I tried a bit more, and then some more after that, and then it was all gone. Yes, even tastier than a cruller. Bear claws: what a world!
Bernie and the lieutenant ate bear claws, too, wiped their mouths with little paper napkins. I licked my lips and then again, kept licking them until I couldn’t pick up the slightest taste of bear claw, even took a few more licks after that.
Lieutenant Stine produced a pack of cigarettes, offered it to Bernie.
“Thought you’d quit,” Bernie said.
“Likewise.”
They lit up. A plume of smoke drifted in my direction. Ah. I’ll admit something here and now: if I could smoke I would.
“You look up that guy McKnight?” the lieutenant said.
“He’s clean.”
“What else?”
“Zip.”
“So you’re nowhere?”
Bernie nodded.
“Holding back on me, old buddy?” said the lieutenant.
“Why would I do that?”
“Give me a tough one,” Lieutenant Stine said. “You don’t trust me. You don’t trust the department. You don’t trust anyone.”
“That’s not true.”
“Which part?” said the lieutenant, glancing past Bernie, at me.
“I’m not holding back,” Bernie said. “You’ll just have to take my word for it.” They looked at each other, both squinting a little through the smoke.
“For now,” said Lieutenant Stine.
“Fair enough,” said Bernie. “Anything on the green pickup sighting?”
“The witness turned out to be legally blind.”
“Check on the Rio Loco sheriff ?”
“Earl Ford,” said the lieutenant. “He’s clean, too. Backwater loser, but clean. The deputy, on the other hand, maybe less so.” He took a notebook from his shirt pocket, leafed through. “Lester Ford.”
“They’re brothers?”
“Cousins,” said Lieutenant Stine. He flipped a page. “Lester’s got a dishonorable discharge from the army, even though he was in the marksmanship unit at Fort Benning. Been deputy sheriff of Rio Loco County for eight years, during which time he beat two charges of accepting bribes, was also involved in a resisting-arrest death of some dealer, or possibly an immigrant smuggler, records aren’t clear about that. But the deceased was seventy-two years old.” The lieutenant put his notebook away. “Not prosecuted,” he said.
“Does Lester ride motorcycles?” Bernie said.
“No information on that,” said the lieutenant.
“How does he get a badge with a dishonorable discharge on his record?”
“Out in the sticks like that?” said the lieutenant. “Jack the Ripper could get a badge.” He took one last drag and dropped his cigarette out the window. Bernie did the same. I sniffed up the last of the smoke, felt my mind sharpening. I stood up tall and straight on my seat. Jack the Ripper: a new one on me, but I was ready. We’d taken down a lot of perps, me and Bernie, were afraid of nobody. Okay, bears maybe, and snakes, but except for them, nobody. Bernie reached for the key.
“Almost forgot,” said the lieutenant. He tossed over a small gadget, maybe a cell phone.
Bernie caught it. “What’s this?”
“Suzie Sanchez’s digital recorder. Her boss found it in her desk. No sign of her laptop or any notebooks—must’ve had them on her.”
“Why are you giving it to me?”
“I checked—nothing on it,” said the lieutenant. He gave Bernie a funny look. “Nothing useful.”
Lieutenant Stine drove off. I thought we’d be driving off, too, but I was wrong. Instead Bernie examined Suzie’s recorder, turning it over in his hand, then pressed a button on its side.
“Milk.” Hey! Suzie’s voice, very clear. Some humans have much nicer voices than others, full of all sorts of different sounds, like music. Suzie was one of those; not as nice a voice as Bernie’s, of course, but close. “Eggs, fruit, cheese, um, uh . . . bourbon? In case a certain someone comes shambling over?” She laughed. “Shambling—he’ll never forgive me. Um. And dog treats—don’t forget them.”
<
br /> Never. That made total sense to me. I could listen to Suzie all day.
Bernie did some clicking on the buttons. After that came a little silence, and then: “cheese, um, uh . . . bourbon? In case a certain someone comes shambling—” Click click. “Uh . . . bourbon? In case a—” Click click. Bernie listened to that bit a few more times. Did he have a hankering for bourbon? That was worrisome— still pretty early in the day, no? And us on the job.
Click click and more Suzie. “Count—what is that, exactly? Conte. Contessa. Christ, what a world. Contessa Suzie Sanchez to see you.” She laughed again. “Villa in Umbria—villas have names, maybe? Get name. Manhattan co-op—purchase price? Passaic Realty?” In the background a phone started to ring. “Hello?” Suzie said. “Yes, this is she. Who are—” And after that, nothing.
We sat in the car, Bernie gazing at the little gadget, me gazing first at nothing and then at a cat that appeared in the window of a building across the street. The cat saw me, too—I could just tell—and opened its mouth in a big yawn. Yawning in my face, just to infuriate me, no doubt about it. Care to come outside and try that again?
“Chet? You all right?”
Uh-oh. I was halfway out of the car; I eased myself back inside. Every single thing cats do infuriates me, if you want the truth.
“What’s on your mind, boy?” Nothing at all. But cats were just so . . . so . . . Bernie gave me a pat.
“How about we swing by the professor’s?”
The professor? I got a grip. Loved the professor. I would have wagged my tail, but somehow it was stuck down in the space between my seat and the door.
We drove to the college. We had experts for this and that, me and Bernie, Otis DeWayne, for example, for weapons. The professor—he had a long, complicated name that I’d never gotten clear, but it didn’t matter since Bernie just called him Prof— was our expert for money. Not making money—humans with lots of money have a certain way about them, hard to describe, and Prof didn’t have it—but everything else about money, which was what, exactly? What was important about money except making it? Couldn’t tell you.
The college was close to downtown but didn’t look like downtown, which was all towers and nobody on the streets. It had old buildings with tile roofs and lots of trees and grass, and humans, most of them young, all over the place, walking, sitting, just lying around or even—hey!—playing Frisbee!
Thereby Hangs a Tail Page 15
