“Wow. See what that dog just did?”
“Chet? Can you give the Frisbee back, please?”
“Is that your dog?”
“We’re more of a team.”
“I can’t believe he jumped that high. He should be on TV.”
“Don’t give him ideas. Chet? The Frisbee, please?”
I gave back the Frisbee, except for the tiniest little piece that seemed to have been chewed off. Couldn’t beat our place on Mesquite Road, but if we ever had to live someplace else, me and Bernie, here at the college would be nice. College kids were the greatest.
Prof had a couch in his office. He was lying on it when we came in, his hands folded over his big round stomach. “Hi, guys,” he said. “Just contemplating a little aperçu of Marx’s.”
Prof was brilliant—did I mention that? I caught the “hi, guys” part and that was it.
“Which is?” said Bernie.
“‘The production of too many useful things results in too many useless people.’”
Prof: impossible to understand, but, big surprise, I came so close to getting that.
“Like it?” Prof said.
“Yes,” said Bernie.
“Wouldn’t it be funny if Marx turned out to be right after all?” Prof went on. “About everything, that is? I’m not saying tomorrow or the next day, but later, two or three hundred years from now.”
“My sense of humor doesn’t stretch that far,” Bernie said.
Prof laughed. “Working on anything interesting?”
“Kidnapping,” Bernie said.
“Ah,” said Prof, “the life of action.” That I got completely. The life of action: what could be better? “How can I help?” Prof said.
Bernie went over, handed him a sheet of paper. Prof had his glasses up on his forehead. He lowered them, squinted at the sheet. “Passaic Realty Group? You want their financials?”
“Anything about them,” Bernie said. “Also whatever you can find about Count Lorenzo di Borghese and his wife Adelina.”
“Entering rarefied circles now, Bernie?”
“Sir Bernie,” Bernie said.
Prof laughed again, his stomach jiggling, a sight I liked a lot. He rose from the couch, not easily, and went to his computer. Bernie looked over his shoulder. Tap-tap-tap. “She’s the one missing, I see,” Prof murmured. Tap-tap-tap. I moved to the window and gazed out at the kids playing Frisbee. After a while Bernie came over and watched with me.
And sometime after that, Prof turned from the computer. “Well, Sir Bernie, here’s the story,” he said. “Adelina Borghese, née Simkins, is the sole owner of the Passaic Realty Group, a company started by her father, now deceased, and inherited one hundred percent by her. Passaic owns a villa in Umbria, purchased three years ago for four point five million euros, a co-op on the Upper East Side of Manhattan assessed last year for six million and change, a ski house in Sun Valley that I can’t find much about— probably a software glitch; have to get one of my students to fix it—but which judging from comps has a value in the one point five neighborhood, plus a ranch in Rio Loco County paid for with three million in cash last March. Other than that, Passaic’s assets appear to be in tax-free Treasuries amounting to thirty million dollars, give or take.”
“They’re loaded,” Bernie said.
“She is, anyway,” said Prof.
“What do you mean?”
“Passaic is in her sole name, as I mentioned. And Italian counts—counts of any kind—aren’t necessarily rich. How much is the ransom demand?”
“There is no ransom demand.”
“No? Why else kidnap a wealthy person?”
“It’s possible she wasn’t the real target.”
“Who was?”
“A show dog champion named Princess.”
“Hmmm,” said Prof. He put his hand to his chin. I got the feeling he was going to figure it all out, right there and then. “A statistical study of the role of the accidental in crime—wonder if anyone’s done that?” he said.
“No idea,” said Bernie.
Meaning Prof had figured it out or not?
Prof thought some more. We waited. “Marx had a dog named Toddy,” he said at last.
“Didn’t know that,” said Bernie.
“He liked dogs,” Prof said. “Speaking of which, I happen to have a rawhide bone somewhere around here. Think Chet would be interested?”
TWENTY
This guy Marx was all right in my book—I’d actually had a book once, a leather-bound book that smelled very interesting, not really mine, but the property of an antiques dealer who’d hired us for something, not sure what. A long story, kind of crazy, since while Bernie and the antiques dealer were busy in the front of the store, I’d taken the leather-bound book out back and buried it in the yard. Why, I can’t say at this late date, just hope we return there someday so I can dig the thing up and put it back where I found it. Where was I? Right, Marx. A good guy I looked forward to meeting someday, and Toddy, too, of course.
I thought about all that while I finished off Prof ’s rawhide bone, a big thick one with a lovely smoky smell. Meanwhile, we were stuck in traffic, sun glaring off rear windows as far as I could see. Getting stuck in traffic was one of those things that made Bernie’s hands go tense on the wheel, but not today. In fact, he had only one hand on the wheel; the other held Suzie’s recorder. Click. “. . . a certain someone comes shambling—” Click click. “Conte. Contessa. Christ, what a—” Click click. “Hello? Yes, this is she? Who are—” Click click. “Who are—” Bernie kept doing that, kind of driving me crazy a bit, although I knew he had his reasons—hey, we’re talking about Bernie here—so I stayed quiet, except for just the slightest picking at the armrest with one of my paws, my other paws remaining absolutely still. But I was relieved when the phone rang and Bernie put the recorder aside. “Hello?” he said.
Aside, and actually in reach of my—but, no: at the last instant—I was already on the move!—he picked up the recorder and slipped it into his shirt pocket.
“Hello?” A voice I knew came over the speakers. “Count di Borghese speaking.”
“Hi, Lorenzo,” Bernie said. Silence on the other end. “You said to call you Lorenzo, right?”
“Certainly—this is America, after all,” said Borghese. “I await your report.”
“Nothing to report yet,” Bernie said.
“What does that mean?”
“We haven’t established any leads, not the kind worth reporting.”
“Should not the client be the judge of what is worth reporting?” Borghese said.
“That’s not the way we work,” said Bernie.
Another silence, longer than the one before. What was this conversation about? Was it going well? No idea on both counts, but I spent no time on the problem because at that moment in a car stuck beside us I spotted a very annoying sight: a fat white cat perched on the driver’s shoulder. On the driver’s shoulder, and a cat—that really bothered me. I shifted closer to Bernie, but somehow climbing or hopping up on his shoulder? Big shoulders on Bernie? Yes. Big enough for me, a hundred-pounder? No way. The cat swiveled its head, looked right at me. And, yes, again, for the second time in one day, a cat yawned right in my face.
“Lorenzo? Going to put you on hold for a second.”
Uh-oh. Bernie was looking at me in a way I hardly ever saw from him, maybe never. I stopped what I was doing, whatever that happened to be, and gave myself a shake, not a complete one on account of being in the car: for a real good shake I need the wide open spaces.
“Lorenzo? I’m back. You were saying?”
I glanced out the window. Traffic was moving now, the cat no longer in sight. But can you believe it? A cat on the driver’s shoulder. What was next? Cats at the wheel? I stuck my head out the window and panted until my mind cleared. It happened real quick.
“I was saying—trying to say—before all that uproar,” said the count, “that your way of doing business is not satisfac
tory.”
“In what way?”
“I need more information.”
“I told you there wasn’t any.”
“An accounting of your activities, then.”
“My activities?”
The count’s voice sharpened. “To take one example—did you follow up on my suggestion?”
“The Babycakes lead?” Bernie said. “A dead end.”
“Dead end? Did you interrogate Ganz?”
“We talked.”
“And?”
“We ruled him out.”
“Ruled him out? This means?”
“That he didn’t do it.”
Hey! That was what it meant? I’d heard the expression a lot, had never quite grasped it. Good thing the count asked. He had a funny way of talking, hard to understand, plus his breath had smelled of fish and he had a mustache and mustaches always bother me, but still, I started to like him. I liked most humans I’d come across, except for bad guys, perps, and gangbangers, and even some of them—take this one dude, for example, who’d got his ear caught in a—
But maybe a story for another time, because at that moment the count, even though I was starting to like him, sounded annoyed. “How can you be ruling him out? Ganz is ruthless, capable of anything.”
“Don’t think so.”
“What are you saying?”
“That he’s not the type who’s capable of anything.”
“Then you have misunderstood the man, and badly,” said the count. “I am paying for results.”
The count was paying? Had I known that already? Now I liked him even more.
“I’m aware of that,” Bernie said. “But we’re in for the duration, money or no money.”
Uh-oh.
“Your business plan is unusual, no?” said the count. He had that right.
“It works for us.” Oh, Bernie. “How well do you know Earl Ford?” he said, losing me completely.
And maybe the count, too. After a slight pause, he said, “This name again?”
“Earl Ford.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s the sheriff of Rio Loco County,” Bernie said. “His office is about twenty miles from your ranch.”
“There are still sheriffs here? Like the Wild West? What a country!”
The count had that right, too!
“How about his deputy, Lester Ford?” Bernie said.
“Is he of the Detroit Fords?” said the count. “I dined with several on the Costa Smeralda.”
“These aren’t the Detroit Fords,” Bernie said.
“Then I don’t know them,” said the count. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m surprised they haven’t interviewed you,” Bernie said.
“Why would they?”
“The kidnapping happened in their jurisdiction.”
“I have talked only with Lieutenant Stine and the state police. Your system is very complicated.”
“So is this case,” Bernie said.
“How troubling to hear that,” said the count. “I’m boarding a plane right now, but I expect to be informed of your progress from now on.”
“All right,” Bernie said. “Just one more thing—what were the circumstances of Nancy Malone coming to work for you?”
“How can that possibly concern you?”
“Is it true she used to work for Ganz?”
“What lies has he been telling you?”
“We’re trying to separate truth from lies. That’s a big part of our job.” It was? First I’d heard about it. Our job was to track down perps and grab them by the pant leg. But Bernie had his reasons, whatever that meant, and I had my own ways, which was why we were such a good team, except for our finances. “. . . backstage at Balmoral,” Bernie was saying, “and so the Nancy Malone question may be relevant.”
“Ah,” said the count, “now we get to the famous kneecapping.”
“Did it happen?”
“Of course not.”
“Did you see it?”
“See something that didn’t happen? What kind of detective are you?”
I wasn’t exactly sure what this conversation was all about, but one thing I did know at that moment: I’d stopped liking the count.
“Someone saw it happen,” Bernie said.
“That’s a lie,” said the count. “Ganz claims to have seen it— even you are aware of the difference, no? Poor Nance hardly even touched that foul creature.”
Fowl? A kind of chicken, right? I’d had some fun with chickens in my time, but where did they fit in?
“Not only an accident,” the count was saying, “but Babycakes wasn’t even hurt, could have competed.”
“Why didn’t she?”
“Because of Ganz.”
“Why wouldn’t he want her to compete if she could?”
“He is—what is your expression?—a drama queen. Have you not spotted such an obvious fact?”
“But if Nance—”
The count’s voice rose. “This has nothing to do with Nance.”
“Is it true she worked for Ganz?”
“Did you not hear me?” the count said, his voice rising some more. “Do what I’m paying you to do—find Princess.”
“And Adelina?”
“Yes, yes, of course. Did I say Princess? This is the stress. My meaning was Adelina. Find her. And Princess, too.”
“It would help if—”
Click.
After that, Bernie was quiet for a long time. Once or twice he spoke, saying things like, “Business fucking plan” and “Costa fucking Smer-alda,” and somehow I knew things were okay. We drove through the Valley, past malls and big box stores and rows and rows of houses rising into the canyons as far as I could see—and somewhere in those canyons was our canyon with our house and Iggy right next door, my best buddy, who’d once, before the electric fence, caught a bird, I’ll try to get to that later, snatched the little bugger right out of the air!—plus golf courses with fountains of spray shooting up over the putting greens—have I mentioned putting greens yet, my very favorite running surface, the feeling under my paws indescribable?—fountains of spray often topped with rainbows. Was there a better place to live? Hard to imagine.
But we weren’t headed home. I knew that because we didn’t take the ramp just before the longhorn bull billboard, this huge bull raising a frothy mug of beer, one of my favorite sights in the whole Valley. Instead we kept going, in traffic that thinned out as we rose through the hills and came down into the desert on the other side.
“Before we head back to work,” Bernie said, “kind of just for fun, let’s see if the count really did get on a plane.”
Did that sound like fun to me? Not really, and besides, work was fun—I had the best job going—but Bernie deserved some fun, too. Once, on a night when Suzie had stayed for a sleepover, I’d woken up and heard her through the door, saying to Bernie, “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” Did that have anything to do with anything? Hard to tell. All I knew was that no boy named Jack ever appeared, and I missed Suzie.
“Where the hell is she?” Bernie said at that exact same moment. We were partners, me and Bernie. “How do you hide a yellow Beetle?” Good question. For the rest of the ride I kept my eyes on the traffic, saw all kind of cars, trucks, buses, motorcycles, RVs, and even a whole house on a trailer—would it be great to live like that or what?—but no yellow Beetles.
We drove through the gate at Rio Loco Ranch—I remembered that overhead sign, and something about a perp named Hickok—and went past the corral, empty today, no white horse prancing around, but I could smell him, not far away, so passing the barn I let out a quick, loud bark, just to see if anything happened, and what was that? One of those weird whinnies that horses make? Yes, and scared out of his freakin’ mind, no doubt about it. A good feeling came over me, like we were making progress on the case.
The road swung around the barn, led to a huge house with the kind of tile roof I like, lots of trees and gard
ens, all very nice.
“Call this a ranch house?” Bernie said as we hopped out. I had another quick scan of the house, found nothing not to like.
Bernie knocked on the door, a real big one. I always enjoyed this moment—on the trail of some perp, waiting for a door to open. My tail was up high, stiff; all set for anything. Once, at a moment just like this in Sunshine City, a whole hive of— The door opened and there stood a big dude with a ponytail, taller than Bernie and just as broad. I remembered him from before, cleaning a rifle in the barn. He looked at Bernie, then at me, back to Bernie: I loved when they did that!
“Hi, Aldo,” Bernie said, “we’re looking for the count.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“It’s about the case—he’ll want to see us.”
Aldo’s forehead wrinkled up and his eyebrows got closer together, always a sign of something, what, I wasn’t sure of, but something good for us. “He’s not here.”
“Where is he?”
“I’m not, uh, authorized.”
“Requires an object,” Bernie said.
“Huh?” said Aldo, which was my thought, too.
“Not authorized to do what?” Bernie said.
“Tell you his whereabouts. But it wouldn’t matter anyway because you couldn’t reach him.”
“He’s in jail?” Bernie said.
“Jail? Why do you say that?”
“No reason,” Bernie said. When he’s really enjoying himself, Bernie sometimes gets this crinkly look around his eyes; he had it now. “Central State or the Federal Pen down south?”
“For God’s sake,” said Aldo. “The count’s not in prison—he’s on a plane.”
“Where to?”
“New Yo—I’m not authorized.”
“Understood,” Bernie said. “He’s on a plane to parts unknown.” He sniffed the air and said, “Do I smell coffee?” I almost fell over. For one thing, I’d never seen Bernie sniff the air. But mostly: I myself didn’t smell coffee, not the faintest whiff.
“Coffee?” said Aldo. “There’s none made.”
Whew.
Thereby Hangs a Tail Page 16
