Disco shrank back in his chair. “Don’t know nothin’ about her, like I told the sheriff.”
“Explain about the car, Disco,” the sheriff said.
“Car?”
“Beetle,” said the sheriff. “The yellow beetle.”
Disco nodded. “I didn’t know nothin’ about it and I didn’t ask. Thurman drove up in it and put her, you know, inside. Then we went over to Red Butte and me and Crash dug the hole and Thurman pushed the car in and we covered it up.” Disco started to shrug again, glanced in alarm at Bernie, stopped himself.
“Why Red Butte?” the lieutenant said.
“Thurman’s idea—far from Clauson’s Wells and nobody was gonna look there.”
“You ever have any ideas of your own?” the lieutenant said.
“It was all about the money, man,” Disco said. “No one was sposta get hurt. Would never have gone through with it if we’d knowed Thurman could wig out the way he did.”
“Here’s what I don’t get,” Lieutenant Stine said. “You kept her little dog, Princess. Why? Might as well hang a guilty sign around your neck.”
Disco glanced at the sheriff. “Yeah, we knew. The pooch kind of followed us, me and Crash. We told Thurman we’d get rid of her, but the thing is, we just couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t kill the dog—is that what you’re saying?” the lieutenant said. “But you can kill a human being?”
“Not me. Not a human being.”
The lieutenant pointed his finger at Disco. “You,” he said.
“In the eyes of the law, you, just as much as if you’d pulled the trigger.”
“Disco understands that,” the sheriff said, “which is why he’s cooperatin’. Correct?”
“Yeah,” said Disco. “Cooperatin’ to the fullest.”
Silence. I heard some small creature scratching inside the walls.
“There you have it,” said the sheriff. “Any questions, gentlemen?” “What’s the point?” Bernie said.
“Excuse me?” said the sheriff. He gave Bernie a hard look. Bernie gave it right back.
“Okay,” Bernie said, “here’s a question for our dog lover.”
“Always had a soft spot for ’em,” said Disco.
“Then,” said Bernie, “knowing Thurman’s true character— this is after the murder of Adelina Borghese—how come you sold Chet to him?”
Disco looked at me. I looked back at him. “Sorry, fella,” he said. Hey! He was saying sorry to me? Didn’t that make him a good guy? Why was he in cuffs? Disco turned to Bernie. “The money.”
“There’s a surprise,” said Bernie, rising. I rose, too. “That’s it for us. Lieutenant?”
“I’m done.”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” said the sheriff. “Any follow-up questions, don’t you hesitate.”
We went outside. The air felt great.
“Well?” said the lieutenant.
“You tell me,” Bernie said.
“I’ll go back, bounce this off Thurman and Crash.”
“They won’t say a thing,” Bernie said. “Disco got there first.”
“Then we’re still left with a case that looks pretty makeable to me,” the lieutenant said.
“Yeah?” said Bernie. I glanced at the station, saw Les watching from a window.
We hopped in the car, took off. “Here’s all we’ve got,” Bernie said, “one little thing. Suzie was alive when her car got buried. Otherwise she’d have been in it. And if she was alive then, why wouldn’t she be alive now?”
I didn’t know, was still trying to figure out if Disco was a good guy or a bad guy. After a while I remembered something about the munchies and how he hadn’t shared that last Slim Jim. So didn’t the answer have to be: bad guy?
TWENTY-SEVEN
Once in a while, we got together with the Valley DA, Cedric Booker. Not sure what a DA is, but something important, so I was always on my best behavior, easy to do with Cedric, because he liked me and I liked him. We met Cedric in a little park downtown, not far from the courthouse, the same one where I’d made my only court appearance. Cedric was an interesting guy, the tallest human I’d ever seen up close. A long time ago, he’d starred on the Valley College basketball team, might have gone pro, Bernie said, except he couldn’t play with his back to the basket, whatever that meant. The truth is, I’ve never had much interest in basketball, on account of the ball being impossible for me, as I may have mentioned already. Did I also get into the story about the Police Athletic League game and how I softened up that ball a little? If not, some other time.
Cedric and Bernie shook hands. Cedric towered over Bernie and Bernie’s hand practically disappeared in his. Seeing Bernie looking up at someone hardly ever happened, was kind of fun.
“How’s Exhibit A?” Cedric said, reaching way down to give me a pat. “Got something for you.”
Something for me?
“Always amazes me how high he can jump,” Cedric said, brushing something, possibly a tiny clump of dirt, off the shoulder of his suit jacket. Uh-oh. And was that a small tear in the fabric?
“Christ,” said Bernie.
Cedric laughed and produced a tennis ball, hidden until then in his other hand. A real fresh one: I could smell it. Then he reared back and threw—very far, but not quite as far as Bernie. Bernie had a great arm, had pitched for Army, which if I haven’t mentioned already I should have.
I took off. Is there anything better than chasing tennis balls? Grabbing perps by the pant leg, maybe, but that was it. Some days I’m faster than others, no idea why—always fast, you understand— and today was one of those fast days. Was I zooming or what? I caught up to that ball on its last low bounce, just before it was about to start rolling, scooped it up and whirled around in one motion, and flew back across the park, ears flat back, skidded to a stop, the turf rippling up in green waves and making a lovely ripping sound, and dropped the ball at Cedric’s feet.
“Ballistics report came in,” Cedric said, bending to pick up the ball. I heard a crack that seemed to come from his knees, had heard it before when humans bent down. Forced to get around day after day on only two legs: spare me.
“And?” Bernie said.
“Thirty-ought-six,” said Cedric.
“Got the weapon?”
“Hasn’t turned up yet. Stine’s looking. So’s the Rio Loco sheriff.” He hurled the ball again, maybe farther than before. Far as you like, Cedric! Zoom. I was off. But what was this? One of my guys, member of the nation within, bounding in out of nowhere, making tracks for my tennis ball? Just like the Porsche, I’ve got an overdrive—that’s what Bernie says. I shifted into overdrive—my paws hardly touching down at all, a hard-to-describe feeling— tore across the park, sprang at the ball, now rolling, at the exact same instant this other dude—kind of big and ugly, with long long legs and lots of drool—was leaping, too. Then came some confusion and clouds of dust, and when that was pretty much over, I trotted on back to Cedric with the ball and dropped it at his feet.
Cedric looked down at it and said, “Should have brought another ball.”
“You haven’t answered my question,” Bernie said.
“Which one, Bernie? I count half a dozen so far.”
“What if no weapon turns up?”
Cedric sighed. “Sometimes it is what it is,” he said.
“What’s that?” said Bernie. “A koan?”
Koan. Rang a bell. We’d worked on the Bert and Stacie Cohen divorce a while back, one of our very worst jobs—would I ever forget what happened after that diamond ring got flushed down the toilet?—and if they were involved in this—especially Bert—I wanted no part of it.
“What’s your IQ?” Cedric said.
“No idea,” said Bernie.
“The army must have tested it.”
“Then maybe you can find out through the Freedom of Information Act,” Bernie said. “What’s your point?”
“There’s such a thing as being too smart,” Cedric said. “That’s m
y point.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning we’ve got a confession, we’ve got Princess, found in possession of the suspects, thanks to you, we’ve got the body, also thanks to you, dug up at one of their known hangouts, and we’ve got the vehicle used in the kidnapping, the green one-fifty. No case is perfect—whether you believe that or not—but the decent ones all get to some tipping point and it’s my judgment that we’re there. In short, Bernie, don’t overthink. The case is solid.” Cedric picked up what was left of the ball and threw it once more, not very far this time, and it didn’t bounce at all, just landed with a soft thud. I ambled over to get it.
Not far at all, so I could hear their conversation quite easily. “No VIN, no plates, no registration,” Bernie said.
“Brought the Borghese’s driver—” Cedric flipped open some device, pressed buttons. “—Rui Santos over for a look. He ID’d it, also had no memory of plates on the kidnap vehicle.”
“How come he didn’t ID it before?”
“That happens.”
“What about Nancy Malone, the trainer?”
“Thought the color was right, otherwise couldn’t say. Still seemed a bit traumatized, in my opinion.”
“In what way?”
“A lot of crying, that kind of thing.”
“Nance?”
“Anything surprising about that?”
“Doesn’t strike me as the type.”
“The type who gets upset by a violent crime happening right in front of their eyes? What’s the other type?” Cedric gazed down at Bernie. Bernie gazed up at him. “Not everybody’s as hard as you,” Cedric said.
“If you think I’m hard, you’re in the wrong job.”
“Don’t push me.”
“I’m not pushing you, Cedric. I’m trying to hold you back.”
“From what?”
I didn’t like the sound of their conversation, hard to say why, soon found I’d chewed up the remains of the tennis ball and maybe swallowed them. Right away I didn’t feel too good.
“From making a big mistake,” Bernie said. “Suzie Sanchez is missing, remember? That means mistakes, real big ones, are still possible.”
“I don’t need you looking out for me,” Cedric said. “And I don’t need reminding about Suzie. We offered Crash a deal this morning—reducing the charge down to involuntary manslaughter for any information.”
“And?”
“His PD was in the room, of course—Crash and Thurman lawyered up right away—and practically told him flat out to take the deal, but Crash said he knows nothing, never heard of Suzie. Then he went into a rant about what he’d do to Disco if he ever got his hands on him.”
“Maybe he’s telling the truth,” Bernie said.
“You’re saying whatever happened up in Clauson’s Wells Thurman did on his own?”
“That’s possible, but it’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then what?”
“Do one thing for me,” Bernie said. “The Rio Loco sheriff gets nowhere near either of them, Crash or Thurman.”
“Can’t promise that,” Cedric said. “But I’ll be in the room.”
“And let me know if he or the deputy even asks to see them.”
“Taking the little scrap you had with them personally?” Cedric said. “That won’t help you think straight.”
Silence. Bernie stuck his chin out a little; Cedric did the same. “Also,” Bernie said, “if that rifle turns up, I need to know.”
“That’s three things, Bernie. You said one.”
I went behind a trash barrel and puked up what was left of the tennis ball, felt better.
We drove in silence for a while. Then Bernie said, “Like two or three mil. Christ. That’s the whole story right there.” It was? I didn’t get it, waited for more. But no more came. How about some music? But that didn’t happen either. Bernie’s hands were tight on the steering wheel, knuckles sticking out. “Gotta stand back,” he said, “see the big picture. Why do I always have to keep reminding myself of that?” Bernie was great at asking questions, could make people squirm, always good for us. Sometimes, though, like now, he made himself squirm. That was bad. I shifted a little, put a paw on his leg. “Chet—I’m driving.”
I took it off.
“Sorry, boy,” he said, and gave me a pat. “This case is just so . . .” His voice trailed off. Outside the shadows of the downtown towers slanted across the street, making me feel hemmed in. “Big picture,” Bernie said, as we turned a corner and came to a huge domed building I recognized: the Metro Arena. “Big picture—Suzie wasn’t in that car. Meaning she’s out there, Chet, I can feel it.”
I’d been in the Metro Arena once, back before the hockey team left town, me and Bernie working on a case involving some crazed fan. Hockey: the strangest game I’ve ever seen, made no sense, plus all the fans turned out to be crazed, and we maybe didn’t even end up finding the right one and clearing the case, which hardly ever happens. Also, I got to go on the ice, supposedly a treat. Ice! Once was enough, let me tell you. Plus the players smelled very bad and the puck was none too tasty.
The Metro Arena parking lot was huge, almost empty at the moment, with rows of tall metal lampposts going on and on. For some reason the sight of all those lampposts made me uneasy. As soon as we got out of the car, I marked one of them, then another and another and an—
“Chet! For God’s sake.”
We walked toward the big doors at the front of the arena, but before we got there a small door opened and out came Aldo. He carried a suitcase, wore a jacket and tie. Ties were interesting, especially swinging freely the way they did sometimes, kind of inviting. Bernie had a tie for wearing to court, a nice tie decorated with saguaro cactuses. It hung in the closet, just out of reach.
Aldo saw us and paused.
“Going on a trip?” Bernie said.
He nodded. “They canned me.”
“The count?”
“And Nance,” Aldo said. “Mostly Nance. They’re inside now.”
“Doing what?” said Bernie. “Things don’t start till tomorrow.”
“Rehearsing the opening ceremony,” Aldo said. “The whole show’s being dedicated to Adelina’s memory. I heard—” Aldo’s voice went funny and his eyes got wet; a bit surprising, what with Aldo being a big strong guy. “I heard you caught the killers,” he said. “Thank you.”
Bernie nodded. He had all kinds of nods; this one meant nothing, just moved the conversation along.
Aldo brushed his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “A botched kidnapping? Is that the story?”
“There’s a confession to that effect.”
A taxi pulled up. “Will they get the death penalty?”
“I’m the wrong one to ask,” Bernie said. “But probably not.”
“Life in prison?” Aldo said.
“That’s more likely.”
Aldo looked up at the sky, the normal downtown sky, hazy blue. “Knowing that doesn’t make me feel any better,” he said. “Not even if they got the death penalty.” He brought his gaze down to Bernie. “Does it make you feel better?”
“Punishment for criminals?” Bernie said. “Yes.”
Aldo watched Bernie for another moment or two, then looked at me. I was standing at Bernie’s side, remembering my only ride in a taxi, a ride that would have gone much better if the driver hadn’t left his lunch lying out on the front seat; my first encounter with pepperoni—the smell turned out to be too much for me.
“Your dog is great,” Aldo said. Hey! What a guy after all! He opened the back door of the taxi. And damned if I didn’t smell pepperoni right away!
“Where’re you headed?” Bernie said.
“The airport,” Aldo said. “I’m moving back east.”
“Suppose I need to get in touch with you,” Bernie said.
“For what?”
“Maybe you’ll think of something you forgot to tell me.”
“That won’t happen.”
�
�What if I think of something I forgot to tell you?” Bernie said.
Aldo took out a card and handed it to Bernie. Then he got in the taxi and rode away, pepperoni scent lingering in the air. Bernie and I went into the arena.
TWENTY-EIGHT
We went down a long, dark tunnel—not too fond of tunnels—and came to a railing high above the arena floor, rows and rows of empty metal seats all around. A blue floor, no ice. I was just noticing that when a horrible sound filled the air, part blare, part squeak.
“It’s all right, boy,” Bernie said. “Just feedback.”
The sound faded at once; had Bernie somehow made it go away? And feedback? Did that have anything to do with food? How was that possible? Food was one of the best things going. I didn’t get it, but strangely enough at that very moment, with my mind on food, I spotted part of a pretzel, one of those big soft ones, under a nearby seat. Easy pickings, and I picked it—not quite as soft as I remembered, but I hadn’t had a pretzel in way too long—and joined Bernie at the railing.
Down below on the arena floor stood a small group of people, more than two, plus one of my guys, whom I recognized partly from her being such a little fluffball, more from how she held her head in that determined way: Princess. And the people? I picked out the count, with that big nose—big for a human—and the mustache beneath it; and Nance standing beside him, somewhat taller, holding the end of Princess’s leash.
Another tall woman, this one blond, had a microphone in her hand. Her lips moved, and just after that a voice boomed out through the arena, her lips and the words not quite lining up, making it hard for me to understand. “I’ll just say, and now to open the Great Western Dog Show, please welcome our mayor, blah blah, blah blah. Then the mayor will take the mic—”
“After the boos,” Bernie said, very quiet.
“—and he’ll say this year’s show is being dedicated to the memory of Adelina Borghese and—”
The count leaned forward and his lips moved although I heard no sound.
“My apologies,” said the blond woman. “Countess Adelina Borghese, and after that, he’ll pass the mic to you. And then—”
Thereby Hangs a Tail Page 22
