Back to Suzie’s kitchen. The vein throbbed. Bernie said, “You discovered the body?”
“Chet and I, yes.”
“Are you all right?” That had to be meant for Suzie: dead body discovery was part of my job.
“I think so,” Suzie said. “I’m kind of stunned, if you want the truth.”
“Um,” Bernie said. “Uh.” Then he reached across the table and patted Suzie’s hand. Their fingers kind of wound around each other, almost like living things. Whoa. But, of course, they were living things. I’d meant more like . . . like dancers, say. Finger dancers? Back up, big guy. You’re in way over your head.
“. . . a Lieutenant Soares from Metro Police,” Suzie was saying.
“What was he like?” Bernie said.
“Seemed competent, but he wasn’t in charge for long. A plainclothes guy showed up pretty soon and took over.”
“A detective captain?”
“I don’t know. I sensed the usual uniform slash nonuniform tension. Ferretti was his name, double R, double T, Victor D. He seemed even more competent, now that I think about it.”
“How so?”
“For one thing, he hadn’t been there for more than a minute or two before he found what I’m assuming is the murder weapon.”
“Which was?”
“A gun.”
“What kind of gun?”
“A pistol or revolver—I can never hold the distinction in my mind for some reason.”
“A pistol has an ammo clip, whereas—”
“And please don’t explain it again. A twenty-two, by the way, which matched the shell casing Chet found on the floor.”
Bernie gave me a nice smile. I moved closer to him in case a treat was in the cards. Something something part of success is just showing up, Bernie always says. Cards themselves I never wanted to see in the cards. We once had a very bad night with cards, me and Bernie, although more Bernie if you want the actual truth, the problem having to do with inside straights, a complete mystery to me, and I guess from how it turned out, a mystery to Bernie, too. He gave me a nice scratch between the ears, hitting that spot I can never quite reach. No one hits that spot like Bernie. I forgot whatever it was I’d been wanting.
“. . . point I’m making,” Suzie went on, “is that this Ferretti guy was pretty sharp.”
“And he’s satisfied it’s a murder?”
“I think so.”
“What was the distance between the gun and the body?”
Suzie’s eyes shifted.
“What?” Bernie said. “What was that thought?”
“I spoke to Lizette—the landlady—on the way in. She asked the same question in almost those exact words.”
“Maybe she’s a PI in disguise,” Bernie said. “And the answer?”
“Ten feet, maybe a little more. Ruling out suicide, right?”
“How about robbery?”
“It wasn’t mentioned.”
“Did they check Eben’s wallet?”
“Not before we left,” Suzie said.
Bernie gazed down at the table. “What, ah, were you doing there?”
“Interviewing Eben,” Suzie said. “I told you he was a source.”
“On what story?”
Suzie was silent. Bernie looked up at her. Their eyes met. The way they were staring at each other bothered me in a way I could never explain, so I checked what was happening outside the window. And wouldn’t you know it? The very first thing I saw was a bird flying by, a real strange-looking bird, and birds are not my favorite creatures to begin with, not even close. What’s with those angry little eyes? Would I be angry if I could soar around the big blue sky twenty-four seven, whatever that is? There’s a no-brainer for you, and who doesn’t prefer a no-brainer to . . . to . . . a brainer?
Meanwhile, the bird flew past the window and out of sight. And then, whoa, it came back the other way, flying real slow and . . . what was this? Actually stopping outside the window? The bird hovered there for a moment or two. What were those tiny hovering birds we sometimes had near the patio flowerpots back home? Hummingbirds? I listened hard and sure enough picked up a faint hum from this bird outside the window. Humming, yes, but it didn’t look much like the hummingbirds I knew, bigger for one thing, plus its wings, instead of a beating blur, weren’t moving at all. As for angry bird eyes, this particular bird didn’t seem to have any eyes at all! And also—but before I could get to the and alsos, the bird flew away again, wings perfectly still, and this time did not come back.
Back at the kitchen table, Bernie and Suzie were still looking at each other in that way I didn’t like. Suzie said, “I wish I could tell you, Bernie.”
“Why can’t you?” Bernie said.
“He never really told me anything,” Suzie said. “It was more like tantalizing.”
“Oh?”
“He said when the time was right he was going to have a scoop for me, a spooky kind of scoop as he put it.”
Spooky? Didn’t I already know that? Whoa! Was I ahead of Bernie? What a thought!
“Spooky?” Bernie said. “What’s that mean?”
“I don’t really know,” Suzie said. “There were no specifics—I got the impression he was feeling me out.”
“Feeling you out,” Bernie said, in a way Suzie didn’t like one little bit, easy to see in her eyes.
This was hard to follow. Even worse, they were angry at each other. The next thing I knew, I was barking, and barking pretty loud. It was all sorts of things, like them being angry at each other, and the strange bird, and . . . and—
“Chet!” Bernie said.
They were both looking at me. The anger faded from their eyes. “What’s bothering him?” Suzie said.
“No idea,” Bernie said. He got up, went to the window, and glanced out. “Maybe he’s thirsty.” Bernie filled my portable water bowl at the sink, set it down beside me. I wasn’t thirsty at all, but what with Bernie being so nice, I lapped up a little sip, just to be nice back. The next thing I knew I was thirstier than I’d ever been in my life! I slurped my way right down to the bottom of the bowl absolutely nonstop—even getting sprayed a bit! And by my very own self! What a life!
There was a knock at Suzie’s front door. And just when we were all getting along so well! Suzie went to answer it. Bernie mopped up the floor. I gave myself a quick, businesslike shake and was practically finished winding it down when Suzie returned, not alone: she had Lieutenant Soares with her. His little raisin eyes went to Bernie, then me, and back to Bernie. I actually smelled raisins.
“Didn’t realize you had company,” Lieutenant Soares said. “You might want to—”
“I’d prefer Bernie’s presence,” Suzie said. “Lieutenant Soares, my friend Bernie Little.”
“The one who belongs to the dog?” said Lieutenant Soares.
“His name’s Chet,” Bernie said. They didn’t shake hands.
Suzie sat down at the table. Lieutenant Soares took the chair Bernie had been using. Bernie leaned against the counter. I sat at his feet. A mouse made scratching sounds in the far wall. Nothing else was happening.
“I looked you up,” Lieutenant Soares said to Suzie, “read some of your work online. That story you wrote about those Neanderthal reenactors was pretty funny.”
“Thanks.”
“That was how it is, or you made some of it up?”
“I don’t make anything up, Lieutenant.”
Soares nodded, a kind of nod with his head tilted to one side. Bernie, the best nodder there was, had one just like it. What did it mean? You tell me.
“Glad to hear that, and no insult intended,” Soares said. “Fill me in on Eben St. John.”
“What about him?” Suzie said.
“A telling anecdote would be nice,” Soares said.
“Telling anecdote
?”
“The kind of thing that conveys the essence—the way you did with those Neanderthal guys and the bone marrow episode.”
I felt a change in Bernie. He didn’t move, or go tense, or anything like that, but something inside him had switched on to the max. It was a change I’d felt in him before, the last time being just before we’d walked into an ambush at the old airplane graveyard out in the desert. All those bullets ricocheting off all those planes! I’d never heard such a racket, and I’m counting on it being a one-time-only event.
“I don’t have an anecdote like that,” Suzie said. “All I can tell you is that Eben was well educated—he had a BA from Oxford and a PhD in economics from Georgetown—spoke several languages, and was an expert on Russia and Eastern Europe.”
“What do you know about World Wide Solutions?”
“That was his consulting company.”
“Who was behind it?” Soares said.
“Behind it in what way?” said Suzie.
“Funding,” Soares said. “Ownership.”
“I was under the impression that Eben owned it himself.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Are you saying that’s false?”
“Just gathering information,” Soares said.
“I should be doing that myself,” Suzie said. “Are there any suspects?”
“Too soon to say.” Soares’s glance went to Bernie, then back to Suzie. “How would you characterize your relationship with Mr. St. John?”
“We were acquaintances,” Suzie said, “as I think I mentioned before.”
“You did,” Soares said. “My apologies. Mind telling me the purpose of your visit? We’ve got his appointment list and you weren’t on it for today.”
“I was following up on some earlier conversations.”
“About . . . ?”
“About a possible story.”
“And the subject matter of the story?”
“Do you really expect an answer?” Suzie said. “That’s not how journalism works.”
“This is a murder investigation, Ms. Sanchez.”
I knew Bernie was going to say something even before he opened his mouth, not because I was actually following all this blather, no offense, but because I felt it coming. We’re partners, which should be pretty clear by now. “So?” he said.
Soares turned slowly to Bernie. “Bernie, was it?” he said. “Are you familiar with murder investigations, Bernie?”
“Familiar enough to know you’re out of line,” Bernie said.
Soares smiled, the first smile I’d seen out of him. He was one of those smilers who could do it without showing teeth. “Which side of murder investigations are you most familiar with?” he said.
Bernie smiled right back. His smile showed teeth: big beautiful white teeth that might even have been half-decent for biting, although I was still waiting for Bernie to bite anybody. What a day that’s going to be! “Been on both sides,” Bernie said.
“Telling me you’re a cop?” Soares said.
“I’m a private investigator.”
Soares’s lips turned down at the corners. Humans never look their best that way, in my opinion.
“But he was a cop,” Suzie said.
Hey! I’d heard about that, wanted to hear more. But no more came. Soares didn’t seem interested in Bernie’s cop days, maybe hadn’t been listening to Suzie at all. His eyes were fixed on Bernie. “Where you based out of?” he said.
“Arizona.”
Hey! I’d heard about that, too, and quite recently. I had an amazing thought, not me at all: Was the Valley somehow in Arizona? Or the other way around? The thought went away, and none too soon.
Soares held out his hand. “License?”
Bernie came closer, gave him our license. Soares squinted at it for what seemed like a long time. “You’re not authorized to work DC.”
“Correct.”
“Just noting the fact.”
Soares handed it back. For a moment, they were both holding onto it, it being our license. That stuck in my mind, no telling why. Bernie didn’t return to his spot by the counter, instead stood behind Suzie, his hands on the back of her chair.
“Ms. Sanchez,” Soares said, “I’m going to lay my cards on the table.”
I changed position to get a better view and watched closely, but no cards appeared, a good thing considering our luck with cards, a subject I may have already gone into and promise to leave alone from now on. Instead, Soares took a small leather-bound notebook from his pocket—a very nice-smelling leather that reminded me right away of that one quick lick I’d gotten of Eben’s briefcase—and paged through it.
“Did you know Mr. St. John kept a diary?” Soares said.
“Of course not,” Suzie said. “I told you—we weren’t close.”
“Yet,” Soares said.
“Yet?” said Suzie. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Soares reached across the table and handed her the leather-bound notebook. “Care to read the entry dated the sixteenth of last month, top of the left-hand page? Maybe aloud as a courtesy to your friend Bernie here.”
Suzie gazed at the notebook. Her eyes lost that dark countertop shine. Bernie, still standing behind her, could have looked down easily and read for himself, but he did not, instead kept his own eyes on Soares. Suzie closed the notebook and laid it on the table. “I know nothing about this,” she said.
Which made two of us. It suddenly struck me that I knew less and less all the time because there was more and more to . . . but the thought didn’t quite come. I’m a lucky dude in just about every way.
Soares picked up the notebook and slipped it back in his pocket. “Happened to memorize it,” he said. “Quote—Today I came so close to telling Suzie how I feel. Reticence will be the death of me. Unquote.”
Impossible to follow. All I knew was that Bernie’s hands no longer rested on Suzie’s chair, and he’d backed away a step or two.
“Anything to say to that, Ms. Sanchez?” Soares said, gazing right into her eyes.
She looked away. “It’s news to me,” she said.
Soares rose and laid a card on the table. Finally! But it was just one and no betting ensued, meaning we lost nothing. “Don’t be a stranger,” he said.
SEVEN
* * *
There’s silence, which I enjoy although it just about never happens, not completely. Then there’s human silence, which also can be enjoyable, but sometimes not. During those times of sometimes not, human silence feels like the ceiling’s coming slowly down on your head. That was the kind of silence we had in Suzie’s kitchen after Lieutenant Soares left.
“Let’s go for a walk,” Suzie said, her voice quieter than usual.
“Okay,” said Bernie, also on the quiet side.
Who was first to the door? You can bet the ranch.
• • •
There was a screened porch at the back of the big house and Lizette was sitting in it, a book on her lap. She raised a coffee cup as we went by.
“Lizette’s French Canadian,” Suzie said when we were on the street.
“I thought I heard an accent,” Bernie said. He glanced back. “How’d you find her?”
“Her?”
“Meaning the rental.”
“Through a friend,” Suzie said. “Do you like it?”
“Sure,” said Bernie. “This friend have a name?”
Suzie stopped dead. “Why are you doing this?”
“Eben St. John, right?”
“I’m not going to be interrogated,” Suzie said. “What’s wrong with you right now?”
Uh-oh. Angry at each other again? How was that possible with Bernie and Suzie? All of a sudden, I thought of Bernie and Leda. Oh, how I wished that hadn’t happened. I began to be unsure about this burg, wante
d to be back home in the Valley. I thought of my best pal, Iggy, who lives next door. Bowling him over would be fun, or making off with his treats.
“That’s what I’m asking you,” he said.
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you?” Bernie said. “For starters, did he ever work up the nerve to spill his quote inner feelings unquote? And—” And then came something or other I missed on account of that strange bird was back, now humming faintly over the crown of a large tree across the street. It just hung in the air in a bothersome sort of way. I crouched and started barking, didn’t know what else to do.
“CHET!”
Normally when Bernie speaks my name like that, I dial it down, at least a little, but at the moment I was too upset—yes, I admit it—upset about this strange bird, and this burg, and whatever was going on with Bernie and Suzie. So I kept barking and finally Bernie followed my gaze up to the top of the tree across the street and . . . and said, “Must be a squirrel up there. Take it easy, Chet.”
Squirrel? What squirrel? This wasn’t about a squirrel. It was about that strange bird—a bird without eyes, by the way, in case I’ve left that out—that strange bird that . . . that was no longer visible, in fact had somehow vanished. I went silent.
Bernie turned back to Suzie. “Well?” he said.
“This isn’t like you,” Suzie said, meeting his gaze and maybe even doing it one better, if that makes any sense. I was almost overcome by the weirdest urge of my whole life, namely a strong and sudden desire to bowl them both over! At the very last second, I went with a yawn instead, a huge one, and felt a bit better.
“What isn’t?” Bernie said.
“This cold relentlessness,” Suzie said. “Or maybe it is like you, but just being aimed my way for the first time.”
“Cold relent—?”
Suzie raised her voice over Bernie’s. “Yes, Eben did work up his nerve, as you so charmingly put it about a dead man. Happy now?”
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