“Yeah,” Nevins said. “That’s all.”
“You were standing outside the door, as per your orders,” Soares said. “You thought you heard a sound coming from one end of the hall—”
“I heard it.”
“—turned and took a step or two that way, and got clocked from behind by an unseen attacker.”
Nevins stuck his chin out and made a quick nod, kind of chopping and aggressive. It made me want to aggress him right back, but this wasn’t my play. I’d seen way too much cop back-and-forth in my time to make a mistake like that.
“And after that you remember nothing until these nice folks came to the rescue?” Soares said.
Nevins’s glance went to Bernie and Suzie, skipping over me. If folks come to your rescue, you tend to be fond of them, maybe want to give them a nice big lick. Nevins didn’t have anything like that in mind, not even close.
“Yeah,” he said.
Soares gazed down at Nevins. “Anything to add?”
Nevins shook his head.
“Go to the ER,” Soares told him. “Get yourself checked out. Then take the day.”
Nevins pushed himself off the couch and walked out with no backward look. Soares watched him go, kept looking in that direction even after Nevins was out of sight. I heard the elevator’s ping.
“You’re wondering how to handle the union,” Bernie said.
Soares turned to him. “Not worth it,” he said.
“But potential evidence in a murder case has disappeared before it could be evaluated.”
“You can drive a truck through potential,” Soares said, losing me completely. Even Bernie looked a bit confused—you could tell from his eyebrows, so beautiful and thick, with a language all their own. “The takeaway will be officer harmed in the performance of his duty.”
Bernie nodded.
“I suppose I owe you,” Soares said.
“Nope.”
“Mind telling my why you came here this morning?” Soares said. “I’m asking real nicely.”
“Someone tried to hang a murder on me,” Bernie said.
“And you’re not the type to let that slide.”
“How about you?”
“What about me?” Soares said.
“They used you as their tool.”
Soares’s eyes turned colder. “You don’t even want to get along, do you?”
Bernie didn’t answer.
Soares turned to Suzie. “Plan on writing about this case?”
“Of course,” Suzie said. “Where are you in the investigation?”
“Off the record, nowhere.”
“And on the record?”
“It’s an active investigation. We’re pursuing a number of leads.”
“Such as?”
“Wish I could share that information.”
“For example,” Bernie said, “you must have searched Eben’s house, apartment, wherever he lived.”
“He had a studio off Dupont Circle,” Soares said.
“And?” said Bernie.
Soares looked down, like he’d suddenly gotten interested in his shoes. I didn’t see it, myself. They were just your everyday cop shoes, scuffed black lace-ups in need of polishing and pronto, shoe polish being one of those smells that adds a little zest to life.
“It was empty.”
“Empty?”
“Like he’d moved,” Soares said. “Which was what we assumed at first.”
“But now you know someone cleaned it out?” Bernie said. When Soares didn’t answer, Bernie turned to Suzie. “We’re out of here.”
Soares looked up. “And headed where?”
“Wish I could share that information,” Bernie said.
Soares raised his voice. “Think you’re the first hard-ass I’ve dealt with?”
“I’m done thinking about you in any context,” Bernie said.
Then came a silence I knew well, a silence that swells up until there’s a sort of explosion and dudes start throwing punches. But that didn’t happen this time. Soares held up both hands in the stop sign and said, “No way to fix the past. As for the future, I understand Ms. Sanchez is based here, but is there any reason for you and this champion dog of yours to stick around?”
“Where I’m going is none of your business,” Bernie said, real unfriendly. As for me, this particular champ was starting to see Soares in a whole new light.
“Suit yourself,” Soares said. Then, as we started to go, he added, “One more thing.” He took an envelope from his jacket pocket, handed it to Bernie.
“What’s this?” Bernie said.
“A District of Columbia private investigator’s license,” said Soares. “Good for one year, with certain provisions you’ll see in paragraph four, and signed by a duly authorized officer of the department.”
• • •
“Is that Soares’s signature?” Suzie said, reading over Bernie’s shoulder. We were standing by the Porsche outside the brassy-colored building. “He’s the duly authorized officer of the department?”
Bernie nodded, folded the sheet of paper and put it in his pocket.
“Why would he do this?” Suzie said.
“You tell me,” said Bernie.
Instead, Suzie tilted up her head and gave Bernie’s earlobe a quick little kiss. That caught my attention big time and I missed some back-and-forth. When I tuned back in, Bernie was saying, “. . . all we need now to make it totally normal is a client.”
We started getting into the car. There was a moment or two of confusion and then Bernie said, “Chet?”
In the back? Again? I stepped up to the plate, came up big, took one for the team. In short, I squeezed myself onto that horrible little shelf.
“Do you think Chet resents me?” Suzie said.
“No way,” Bernie said. “He loves you.”
“Maybe he loves me and resents me at the same time.”
“Nah,” Bernie said. He glanced my way. “You love Suzie plain and simple, right, big guy?”
What was going on? All so complicated. Sometimes I simply turn my face to the sky and howl. This turned out to be one of those times.
“God almighty,” Bernie said.
“He hates me,” Suzie said.
Hate Suzie? Impossible. Why would she say that? All I could think to do was: amp it up! So I did. Bernie burned rubber out of the parking lot. Were we making noise or what? Heads turned, count on it. But we’re used to that at the Little Detective Agency.
• • •
Things had quieted down by the time we got back to the city, that strange stone tower straight ahead.
“First in the hearts of his countrymen,” Suzie said.
“Not me,” said Bernie. “Lincoln’s the one.”
“That’s the sentimental choice.”
“Me? Sentimental? That’s a first. Should I take it as a—”
Suzie’s phone rang, a good thing since it interrupted all that incomprehensible chatter. Suzie said, “This is Suzie,” and then listened for what seemed like a long time, sitting completely still. When she finally clicked off, she turned to Bernie and said, “That was Eben’s dad,” she said. “He’s flying back to London with the body.”
“Where is he?”
“Dulles.”
Bernie pulled a tight U-ee and stepped on it.
• • •
We drove up to an airline terminal and pulled over to the curb. The terminal doors slid open, and a small old man came out. He looked around, blinking in the sun. Suzie got out of the car and went over to him. They talked for a little while and then she brought him to the car.
“Bernie,” she said, “this is Maurice St. John, Eben’s father. Maurice, meet Bernie Little, the private investigator I was telling you about.”
Bernie got out
of the car, shook hands with Maurice, who looked even smaller next to Bernie. But I liked the way he stood, very straight, bony little shoulders back, head up.
“My flight’s in less than an hour, so I don’t have much time,” Maurice said. “Will you take pounds?”
Whoa. Something about pounds? I knew pounds, never wanted to see the inside of one again. Biting an old man? Not the Chet that I know, but I was prepared to do almost anything to be free.
THIRTEEN
* * *
No biting necessary? Good news, all in all, although just between you and me there’s something about sinking your teeth into human flesh that . . . better leave this for now, or possibly forever. The point is that the next thing I knew, Maurice was counting out what looked like money, only way more colorful. It made a nice little wad, nice little wads being just what we always need if we’re talking cash money. And we must have been talking cash money, because Bernie took it and tucked it in his wallet, which was where cash money always went. Checks were another matter, getting stuffed way too often in the chest pocket of Hawaiian shirts, a place that’s real easy for checks to fall out of, as we’d proved many times at the Little Detective Agency.
“I trust that’s enough to get started,” Maurice said. He had grayish skin and reddish eyes and gave off a smell that reminded me a bit of Mrs. Parsons, our neighbor back home on Mesquite Road, now pretty much living in the hospital. Whatever she had, Maurice had it, too.
“More than enough, if I’m not messing up on the exchange rate,” Bernie said. “This’ll take care of the retainer and at least a week’s work. If I get results before that, there’ll be a refund.”
“Results are what I want,” Maurice said. His voice rose slightly. “My son, Eben . . .” All at once his throat clogged up, which happens sometimes to humans, and then they can’t speak. He teared up, too, often the case during a throat-clogging episode. When humans are sailing along nicely, they’ve got all their bodily moistures under control, and when they start to go off the rails, the moistures rise up. Just a thought, but it’s the kind of thing you watch for in this business.
A tear slid down Maurice’s face and dropped to the pavement. I licked it up: a strangely unsalty tear. I felt bad for Maurice.
He took a deep breath. “Thank God, my wife is dead,” he said. “This would have broken her heart.”
Now a tear or two appeared in Suzie’s eyes. As for Bernie, I couldn’t tell because he’d sort of bowed his head in a way that made him look even nicer than usual. Maurice dabbed at his eyes. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I don’t mean to make a spectacle.” He checked his watch. “Is there anything else you need from me?”
Bernie, his head back up, said, “Did your son have any enemies?”
“Personally or professionally?” said Maurice.
“Either,” Bernie said.
“I can’t imagine him having any personal enemies. Not that Eben was popular in a conventional sense. He didn’t push himself forward in the way you so often see nowadays. But no one ever disliked him.”
“Was he married?” Bernie said.
Suzie gave Bernie a sharp look, not particularly friendly. What was that about? I had no idea. A big plane flew low overhead, hurting my ears, and then another. Was this conversation going anywhere? Didn’t we already have the green, even if it didn’t look green? Why not split?
“Eben never married.” Maurice turned to Suzie and gave her what you’d have to call a stare. “He had very high standards, was waiting for the right woman to come along.”
Bernie caught that stare, gave Suzie a quick stare of his own. Then his gaze went to Maurice and he said, “What about professional enemies?”
“On that I have no information.”
“What did Eben do, exactly?” Bernie said.
“He was an international relations consultant.”
“Working for an outfit called World Wide Solutions?”
“Correct.”
“What can you tell us about them?”
“Nothing.”
There was a pause. “You never discussed Eben’s work with him?” Bernie said.
“No more than to say, how is work.”
“And what would he say in reply?”
“Unobjectionable—work was always unobjectionable,” Maurice said.
“But what were the details of this unobjectionable work?” Bernie said. “What was his routine?”
“That was not discussed,” Maurice said, his voice maybe sharpening a bit. Was he starting not to like Bernie?
“I don’t get all this reticence,” Bernie said. “It’s like Monty Python without the jokes.”
Maurice didn’t like that. His eyes dried up completely. “Perhaps he was more forthcoming with Ms. Sanchez.”
“Why would that have been?” Bernie said.
Maurice’s eyes went to Suzie, back to Bernie. He said nothing. Another plane went roaring overhead. Was this an interview? I’ve sat through many interviews in my career, all of them more comfortable. The worst part was this new python involvement, totally unexpected. I knew pythons only from Animal Planet, but they were a kind of snake, and I’d had experience with snakes out in the desert, none good. If snakes were part of this case, we were in trouble. I took a few careful sniffs, caught not a single whiff of snake, meaning we were safe for now.
Suzie spoke up. “Eben was not more forthcoming. But I didn’t know him well, and you did. I was never clear on whether he had any associates—”
“Or if there’s a headquarters in London,” Bernie said.
“—or who his clients were.”
Maurice was silent for what seemed like a long time. Then he licked his lips—thin, colorless lips, just like Mrs. Parsons’s—and said, “My son was a good man trying to do good things in a disgusting world.”
“Are you suggesting he was some kind of whistle-blower?” Bernie said.
There was a look you saw occasionally when some human or other began to realize what I’d known from the get-go, namely that Bernie was always the smartest human in the room. I saw that look now on Maurice’s face.
“You might say that,” he said.
Whoa! Did this mean whistle-blowing was a possibility? Nothing hurts my ears like whistle-blowing. Snakes and whistle-blowing on the same case? We were in new territory. I was ready to go home. Hey! I missed Iggy, wouldn’t even have minded that annoying yip-yip-yip of his. In fact, I would have loved hearing his yips. How did he even make that sound?
“Chet?”
Uh-oh. All eyes were on me.
“Never heard him make a sound like that,” Bernie said.
“Is he sick?” said Suzie.
Sick? How ridiculous! I sat up tall and strong, mouth shut, just about. Chet the Jet, unsick to the max. Their gazes moved on, chitchat starting up again.
“. . . whistle-blowers work for someone,” Bernie was saying. “That’s who they blow the whistle on. So if Eben was a whistle-blower, he must have been working for someone.”
“My son took a broader view,” Maurice said.
“What does that mean?” Bernie said.
Maurice checked his watch again. “I really must be going.” He turned and walked toward the terminal. After a moment or two, Bernie went after him—and what was this? Took that fat wad of strange-colored cash money out of his wallet and started to . . . to give it back? I had two thoughts: Hawaiian pants and tin futures, big speed bumps in our financial past.
“What are you doing?” Maurice said, still walking away, the money sort of flapping in his face.
“Take it back,” Bernie said. “I can’t work for you.”
Then came a surprise. Maurice’s voice rose, kind of a shout except there was no strength behind it, just mostly air. “Why not? Don’t tell me you’ve got a conscience.”
“What does that mean?
”
“You got the girl, didn’t you?” Maurice looked past Bernie, right at Suzie. “His girl.”
Suzie’s voice rose back at him. “I’m nobody’s girl.”
The anger went out of Maurice, just like that. He actually looked kind of sheepish, as humans say, although sheep can be troublesome in my experience.
“I apologize.” Maurice turned to Bernie. He gave him a long look, then lowered his voice way down and said, “Aubrey Ross.”
“Huh?” said Bernie. “Aubrey Ross?”
“A sort of mentor,” Maurice said. “He brought Eben to America.”
“How do I find—” Bernie began, but Maurice was already on his way through the terminal doors. A bunch of bigger people wheeling lots of baggage moved in behind him, and he vanished from sight. Bernie jammed all that cash money back in his wallet and stuck it in his pocket, meaning the interview had gone well, in my opinion.
• • •
There was no talking for a long time after that, silence all the way to Suzie’s place. Little things about the way humans sit can tell you a lot about how they’re getting along, like the tilt of their heads, for example. Bernie’s and Suzie’s heads were tilted away from each other, just enough for me to notice. Tilt the other way! Tilt the other way! But no.
Back in Suzie’s kitchen, Suzie sat down at her laptop, Bernie gazed out the window, and I drank my water bowl dry, real thirsty for some reason. I licked the bottom of the bowl for a while, kind of crazy since that’s giving back the water I just took from it! Why would anyone do that? The truth is, I was having worries, but forget I mentioned it. My job is to be strong, end of story.
Part of being strong is about looking out for the team. My team was me and Bernie, although right now we were spending a lot of time with Suzie. Could that possibly mean Suzie had joined the team, maybe at some moment when I was napping? Napping was one of my best things, and I’d hate to give it up. I sat down by the empty water bowl and waited for . . . what? Good news, of course! Why bother waiting for anything else?
Paw and Order Page 10
