Collared: A Gin & Tonic Mystery

by L. A. Kornetsky

  After 11:00 p.m., the lights in Mary’s were dimmer, the conversation softer, and the drinks were being ordered more slowly, as though people were starting to roll it up for the night. It contrasted oddly with Ginny’s memories of last call, but she figured she’d hung out at different kinds of places—and with different kinds of people—when she was in her twenties.

  Mac had gone home a while ago, with a wink and a smirk in Tonica’s direction. Ginny hadn’t even bothered to tell him otherwise: Mac had long been convinced the two of them should hook up, and never mind that they didn’t even like each other.

  Not that way, anyway. After the past few days, Ginny was willing to admit that, for an opinionated, know-it-all, probable ex-jock, he wasn’t too bad.

  Something soft brushed her ankle, and she looked down to see Mistress Penny weaving a gentle figure eight around her ankles.

  “Hello, you,” she said. “Been visiting poor Georgie in purgatory?”

  Behind her, she heard Tonica come back, and swung around to face him. He had lifted her glass up off the bar, swishing it as though to determine how much of it was ginger ale and how much was melted ice, and then dumped the mess into the sink, scooping more ice and refilling her glass. She didn’t really want more soda, but it gave her a reason to still be there without anyone raising an eyebrow. Although that hadn’t stopped Mac.

  Not much stopped Mac. Ginny tried to remember that, and take some of that for herself. Nothing stopped her, either. Not even the client—or the client’s uncle.

  “Seth says the cops are going to send a uniform around at close, to make sure there’s no trouble. Not that I expect any, but . . .” He shrugged, and bent down to scoop Penny up, cradling her in his arms. She rested her wedge-shaped head against his chest, and began to purr. One sleepy paw reached out and batted at Ginny’s shoulder, trying to tangle in her hair.

  “You should come home with me,” he said suddenly.

  Ginny made an effort to raise her eyebrows the same way Mac had done to her, and failed.

  “Stop that.”

  “You think they’re going to come back to my apartment at two in the morning?” She hadn’t even thought about the possibility.

  “No. But I know you, Ginny Mallard. Now that you’re over your shock, you’re pissed off, and seeing your apartment, if it’s half as bad as you said, you’re not going to be able to sleep until you sort it out and clean it up. Which means you’re not going to sleep at all. We only have one more day to figure out what to do about all this, and your being sleep deprived and cranky is not going to help.”

  She wanted to argue—if for no other reason than arguing with him always made her feel better—but he was right, damn it. They both knew it. Finding a way out for Joe—not racing over to tell Zara to put her damn gun away before she shot the wrong person—was the smart move.

  Ginny let out a massive, intentionally theatrical sigh. “All right. Anything from your friend’s friend?”

  “No. Look, you know that’s a long shot, right? I’m not even sure exactly what the State Bureau of Investigations does, actually, or if they can be any help at all, coming from another state. And if she doesn’t call by tomorrow afternoon, anyway—”

  “If she doesn’t call, we go back to Plan A, Part Two. Bring in the local cops, no matter if Joe likes it or not, and let the blood splatter. I get that.” But she didn’t like it. Neither of them did.

  It felt like failure.

  11

  Georgie had been confused when she was coaxed back into the car and driven somewhere else: it was nighttime, and they should be going back to the den. Instead, they had gone to another building, and Herself said they were going to sleep there. Then she’d remembered what Penny had said, and was relieved. Penny had gotten the entire pack together, like she’d promised.

  The new den—it smelled like Teddy—wasn’t as nice as theirs, but there was a pillow for her, and her bowl and food, and a chunk of rope to chew on. Georgie waited until the humans went to sleep, and then settled herself, determined to stay up all night, watching, in case the slippery man, or the bad men, or anyone else tried to come in, but the whole night is a very long time, and she was very tired.

  New place and bad dreams made her sleep restless, though, and well before dawn, a noise woke her.

  “Hey.”

  Georgie got up from under the kitchen table, where Teddy had put down a blanket, and padded over to the window. Penny sat on the fire escape, grooming her paw. She looked up and smoothed her whiskers.

  “Hi,” Georgie said. “What are you doing here?”

  Penny got that offended look on her face. “Why shouldn’t I be anywhere I want to be?”

  “No, I meant . . .” Georgie got tangled over what she had meant. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I checked on your place and it’s quiet, and the busy place, too. No new smells.”

  “Quiet here, too. Except the Man snores.”

  Penny’s whiskers twitched. “I don’t like it.”

  “That he snores?”

  Penny’s whiskers twitched backward this time. “No. That it’s quiet. You’re sure that she talked about a threat, when she was on the phone?”

  “Yes.” Georgie hadn’t liked that, but there hadn’t been anyone there to growl at. She was no good if the threat wasn’t in front of her. That’s what Penny was good at.

  “What did they talk about last night, here?”

  “They didn’t, not really.” Georgie tried to remember. It was hard. “Not a lot. It was late and I slept most of the way here. About going to the cops, maybe. And the missing-man. And getting some sleep before they made any decisions. But they’re waiting for something. When it comes, they’ll know what to do.”

  “Hrm.”

  “I wish you’d just have come with. I’m not smart enough to know what to listen for. Would it really be so bad, to sleep inside for one night?”

  Penny flexed her claws, and her tail lashed once, then stilled.

  “You’re a dog. You don’t understand.”

  Georgie rested her muzzle against the windowsill. “No, you’re right. I don’t.”

  “Hey, Georgie.”

  Ginny’s voice caused Georgie’s tail to thump once, instinctively, and she swung her head off the sill to give her owner a lick on the hand that came down to pet her. When she looked back, Penny was gone.

  “What were you looking at, girl?” Ginny stretched, looking out the window. The place wasn’t a dump—she hadn’t expected it to be, really—but it wasn’t fancy, either. The view out the window was someone else’s window, about ten feet away. The neighborhood was mostly apartments, both multistory brick buildings and repurposed old houses. On a Sunday morning, it was quiet—not even the church bells were ringing yet.

  Last night Tonica had tossed a pair of sweatpants at her and pointed toward the bed, and that was about all she remembered before sleep took over. Now, with the faint morning light filling the space, and snores still coming from the lump on the sofa, Ginny explored the studio.

  The bathroom was clean and functional, but that was about all she could say for it. The black-and-white tile was chipped, the shower handles were old-fashioned, and the sink had traces of dried shaving cream on the faucet, but the shower curtain was new, and the toilet showed signs of regular scrubbing. The medicine cabinet had shaving cream—he had sensitive skin—and the usual assortment of aspirin, toothpaste, cold medicines, and a pack of condoms. No prescriptions, nothing incriminating, other than the fact that he used a tooth whitener.

  She went back out. Tonica was still snoring, and Georgie had lain down again in front of the window. The main room was pretty barren, too: a kitchen table, and the sofa and a coffee table, plus an old leather armchair that, despite being worn, still looked expensive. A single bookcase was filled with paperbacks and the occasional hardcover. Something caught her eye, and she picked it up, smiling a little.

  The only other thing really of interest was a narrow desk again
st the far wall, less a desk than a narrow table with stacked cubbyholes. Aware in the back of her head that she’d gone beyond investigating and into prying, she walked over, and looked more closely. Based on the style, and the age, Ginny decided that it was a post office cubby, or maybe from a hotel, the cubbyholes where each guest’s messages would be placed. It was old, whatever it was, in the way that whispered “antique” rather than shouting it. She hadn’t realized Tonica had that much money, to afford something like this, and that leather chair.

  No, wait. Hadn’t Joe asked about the Tonicas of New Hampshire? Huh.

  Ginny touched the desk, running her hands over the satin-smooth finish.

  “It was my grandfather’s,” a voice said. “He had a demolition business, back in the day. Used to pick through the pieces of every building he took down, save what he liked, sell what he could.”

  Teddy was awake. She turned, torn between brazening it out and apologizing for snooping.

  “Find anything interesting?”

  “No bodies, no safes, no incriminating letters. You’re really incredibly boring.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Either he didn’t mind her poking around in his stuff, or he hadn’t expected anything else. Ginny thought it might be a little of both.

  “Nice place you’ve got there. I mean, a little spartan, but nice.” She wasn’t being sarcastic: in daylight, she could tell that the building itself was in solid shape, and that his limited decor wasn’t poverty but aesthetics. Not her taste, no, but it suited him.

  “I especially like this.” She lifted the book she’d found on the shelf, and tilted it back and forth. The flagged pages fluttered, and it fell open to a page liberally marked with yellow highlights. The same book he’d been reading in the storeroom on Friday. She held it up, marking the page. “The Moron’s Manual for Private Investigation?”

  To her surprise, Tonica blushed.

  “You can call it research all you want,” he said, running a hand through his hair and making it stand up even worse than previously. “Me, I like having some clue what we’re doing, and what we’re doing is investigations. Unlicensed and technically without any legal standing, but investigating.”

  “If it quacks like a duck?” She was trying to make a joke, but he wasn’t having any.

  “Then it can get cooked like a duck. Ginny, you know we are way the hell over our heads on this one, right?” He waited, staring at her, and for once it wasn’t a challenge, no sense of “step into my trap so I can show off and show you up.” She couldn’t read people the way he did—she was spectacularly bad at it, in fact—but she knew Teddy Tonica well enough, by now.

  “Yeah. I know.” She’d known since she took the job, deep in her gut, but her pride hadn’t let her admit it. “But . . .”

  “Yeah.” He echoed her, without either of them finishing the sentence. But they weren’t going to give up. Somehow, they’d do the job they—she—had been hired to do, and keep Joe out of trouble, too. If they could.

  “All right.” He practically shook himself down, the way Georgie did sometimes, and started over to the kitchenette, reaching for the coffeemaker as though expecting it to be ready to go.

  “Damn, didn’t prep it last night. And two, not one. I assume you want coffee?”

  “Please. God, yes.”

  He reached into the cupboard and took out filters and a coffee can. “All I have is dark roast.”

  “That’ll do.” She wasn’t going to critique the coffee options. Not right now, anyway.

  She took a seat at the table, watching him go through the familiar motions of making coffee. Georgie had woken up, and now paced the room, occasionally stopping by the window as though to look for whatever had gotten her attention earlier, although it didn’t seem to be the birds calling outside. There was still food in the bowl; she hadn’t eaten all the kibble last night, but she didn’t seem very hungry, so Ginny didn’t bother to refill the dish. There was water left, but not much; she was going to need to walk Georgie soon.

  “I’m going to go for a run,” Teddy said. “There are extra towels in the closet there, if you want to take a shower. Then we should go back to your place and clean up.”

  “You’re offering to help clean up?”

  “Jesus, Mallard. You think I’m just going to leave you to deal with it alone?”

  She had, actually. He’d already gone above and beyond; she hadn’t expected anything more.

  “How long until the coffee’s ready? I need to walk Georgie.”

  “She can come with me, we’ll have a nice run.” He made the offer, but even with his back to her she could tell that it was a spur-of-the-moment thing.

  “Tonica, Georgie’s built to walk, not run. And she needs to pee. You really don’t know a thing about dogs, do you?”

  He shrugged, hitting the BREW button, and turned, looking not at her but her dog, who looked back expectantly, as though she knew what they were talking about.

  “Yeah, those legs, not exactly going to keep up,” he admitted. “There are spare keys on the hook by the door: the round one’s for the apartment, the square head is for the building. Try not to lock yourself out? I’ll be back in about half an hour.”

  It felt odd, leaving her there—he wasn’t in the habit of letting women—anyone—have the run of his place. But it was Ginny. He might not like her much, but he trusted her. So Teddy laced up his running shoes, snapped his iPod to the waist of his jogging shorts, and headed out.

  He hated running. He did it, but he hated it. The first ten minutes were torture, the middle section was bearable, and the last five minutes, all he could think was, “Can I stop now?” He had heard of the runner’s high, but didn’t believe in it. On the other hand, it kept him in shape, and meant he didn’t have to deal with a gym, the crush of desk-types working off their pudge, and there was a point in the day where he could simply turn off his brain and think about nothing but the pain.

  He turned down the street and headed for the park. There was a series of stairs he used for wind sprints, then he’d turn left and go down Reynold, and—

  “Mr. Tonica.”

  A hundred—or at least three—wisecrack responses flashed through his head, but he repressed the urge, pivoting as his foot came down to face the man who had approached him. A man, the one who had spoken, and a woman to his left. They were a matched set: tall and muscled, and dressed not so much to impress as to repress. He did a quick calculation of his odds, the way bouncers did when they looked at a fight, and held up his hands.

  “Ya got me. Did I jaywalk?”

  “We’re not cops, Mr. Tonica.”

  No, he hadn’t thought they were. Not Feds, either. He would have put his money on the classy end of the crime spectrum, but they didn’t have quite the right rough edge to them. More like they were dressed up to play the part, trying to intimidate him into thinking they were tougher than they were. Maybe after they’d broken into a few places, and not found what they were looking for?

  All that went through his mind in a split second, along with the knowledge that if anything nasty went down, he was probably screwed. If they weren’t armed, he’d eat his iPod.

  “But you know my name, and you stop me on the street, in public . . .” He lifted his hands, taking a quick look around while he talked. There was another jogger farther up the road, and someone walking a large black dog down the street, but that was as “public” as this neighborhood got, this hour of the morning. The odds of a cop car cruising down the street were slim to none. “So I’m assuming this is some kind of bizarre Seattle iteration of a planned meeting, where only one of us planned to meet?”

  “I’d heard that it was your partner who had the wise mouth.”

  “Partner?” He was honestly taken aback, then comprehension flashed. “Oh, Mallard. She’s not my partner—not in any sense of the word. We’re just . . .” Friends? No. But while he was puzzling over the word, the guy spoke again.

  “You and Ms. Mal
lard took a commission from a man by the name of Walter Jacobs.”

  Teddy waited, sure that the man had more to say than stating the obvious.

  “We would like to know the status of that commission.”

  Guy used a lot of ten-dollar language. “Why don’t you ask DubJay?”

  “Because we’re asking you.” Behind him, the woman took a step back, as though she were removing herself from being involved with the conversation. But she didn’t step out of range, Teddy noted. In fact, she was just close enough within reach that, if she were to pull a gun from underneath her jacket and fire, he would be hit point-blank.

  He didn’t think she was going to shoot him. Probably. Not yet, anyway. The fact that his mouth had gone dry and his chest hurt was due to running, that was all. Not fear.

  “Look, if you’re the guys who tossed Ginny’s place, you know we don’t have what you’re looking for.” Whatever that was.

  “We think that you do.” And the guy stepped forward, until they were nose to nose. “Just tell us, and go back to your run. Nothing to see here, nothing to tell, everyone goes away whole and healthy.”

  The wiseass comment escaped then. “And if I don’t?”

  Guy stepped back, his hands spread as though to indicate he was harmless. “Then you don’t. And we have to go back to doing things the hard way.”

  There wasn’t any threat in the voice, just resignation, and that made Teddy more worried than if the guy had shown a knife or gun. He either talked now, or he’d talk later, and it didn’t matter to them, one way or the other.

  “Look, I . . .”

  “Is there a problem?”

  Another voice, and all three of them turned as though their heads were on pulleys, to see someone approaching. The other jogger, who had minutes ago been at the other end of the street. He was solidly built, wearing a Portland sweatshirt and running pants, and his body looked more thickly muscled than you’d usually get in a dedicated runner.

  “No problem,” the woman said.

  “Huh. Looks to me like there’s a problem. You okay, Theo?”