Paw and Order

by Spencer Quinn

  “I can take him,” Bernie said, removing his hand, now gunless, from his pocket.

  The vet hesitated, her mouth open and ready for speech but none coming out. Her gaze fell on me. And it was a sight she liked! I could see it in her eyes.

  “Say hi to Chet,” Bernie said.

  The vet smiled. “He’s quite the looker.”

  And so was she, despite those extra chins!

  “Lizette did mention something, come to think of it,” Bernie said. “I’m an old friend.”

  “Oh?”

  “Of both of them, actually—Lizette and Jean-Luc.”

  The vet stopped smiling. Her face darkened and her eyes narrowed, plus her neck went red.

  “Is there a problem?” Bernie said.

  “Tell him to keep his goddamn hands off her,” the vet said.

  “I’m sorry?” Bernie said.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t be saying it, but somebody has to,” the vet said. “The bastard gave her a black eye last month.”

  “She told you that?”

  “I saw it,” the vet said, “the first time she brought Barnum in with his problem. She wouldn’t admit it, of course—that’s how these things work. I volunteer at a shelter for abused women.”

  “All right,” Bernie said. “I’ll tell him.”

  “You will?”

  He nodded.

  “Thanks,” said the vet. “Men have to get involved.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  There was a pause, and then she handed over the cage. “Barnum’s been fed for today,” she said. “Just make sure he’s got water.”

  “Okay,” said Bernie. Barnum looked up at Bernie, made some squeaky sounds. “What was his problem?”

  “Running lice,” said the vet.

  Bernie put the cage on the floor—quickly, but nothing you could call simply letting go.

  “A stubborn case, which was why I kept him three days,” the vet said, “but I won’t charge for the last one.” She headed for her van, got in. We watched her drive away.

  “Not what I expected, big guy,” Bernie said.

  I was with him on that. No way I’d expected Barnum. He made some more squeaky sounds, squeakier than before, his alert, stupid gaze glued to me, as though . . . as though I might be fixing to pounce on the cage, possibly upending it and pawing the door open and after that the way would be clear for anything I wanted to—

  “What I’d expected was whoever’s on the end of Lizette’s security system,” he went on, losing me immediately. “Instead—”

  A car—and not just any car, but a Porsche, and although maybe not as old as ours, it was still nice enough: you can’t have everything, as humans often say, actually a bit of a puzzler to me—came down the street, slowed, and started turning into Lizette’s driveway. At that moment, the driver saw us, meaning me, Bernie, and Barnum—in the doorway. What was this? She was having a bad reaction, mouth opening wide, like we weren’t a pleasant sight? My first guess: it was somehow on account of Barnum. Then I noticed those strange glasses she was wearing—cat’s-eye, not a look that appeals to me, but not the point. The point was I’d seen this woman—an older woman of a certain type—hey! Bernie’s mom was that same certain type—with swept-back wings of white-and-black hair, a very nice color combo, in my opinion, and not just on account of it being mine, too, although mostly. But forget all that, forget the whole thing going back to the cat’s-eye woman and the fact that I’d seen her before. I was trying to remember when and where, or at least one of them, when she swerved out of the driveway entrance and shot off, maybe even heavier on the pedal than Lanny Sands, but there was not even a hint of fishtailing in her case.

  “C’mon, big guy,” Bernie said. “This is starting to make sense.”

  What great news! We hopped into the car—me behind the wheel, kind of crazy, how had that even happened?—got everything sorted out, wheeled around and—

  And a patrol car came roaring up the street. It braked to a shrieking stop, blocking the driveway. Lieutenant Soares jumped out of the passenger side door. Bernie turned the wheel hard, cut across the grass, passed Soares and his ride, and we were almost on the street when another cruiser blew in, blocking us again. Bernie pulled over. Cops swarmed toward us, guns drawn. Bernie didn’t even look at them: his gaze was distant, up the street in the direction the cat’s-eye woman had gone. He leaned forward, squinting at her car. “HNX four nine one?” he said. The cat’s-eye woman rounded a corner and vanished from sight. “Or was that a seven?”

  The cops surrounded us. Bernie touched the back of my neck.

  “Easy, big guy.”

  Soares stepped forward, his raisin eyes like two dark specks of rage. Whoa! What a horrible thought! I wanted to look away but couldn’t.

  “What the hell are you trying to pull?” Soares said.

  “Who writes your dialogue?” Bernie said, losing me completely, but maybe not Soares. His arm came up like he was going to give Bernie a backhander across the face. I’d once seen a dude actually do that to Bernie; he’d regretted it the very next thing, and maybe Soares knew that, because he lowered his hand. He also lowered his voice, but the anger still came out, if that makes any sense, in the form of flying spit spray, always an interesting sight.

  “Any idea who you abandoned on the road up in Ivy City?”

  “I abandoned a dead body,” Bernie said. “And I called it in.”

  “Like that’s good enough?” Soares said. “Hand over that goddamn license.”

  Bernie gave him a folded-up sheet of paper. Soares ripped it to shreds. Everyone was ripping things to shreds on us these days. Was there any way that could be a good sign?

  “You don’t need me to tell you he was speeding and didn’t see the train until it was too late,” Bernie said.

  “True,” Soares said. “I need you to tell me why he was speeding.”

  “You haven’t figured that out?” Bernie said.

  “You were chasing him.”

  Bernie nodded.

  “Why?” Soares said.

  “Because I suspected he had information regarding the murder of Eben St. John. The fact that he ran confirms it.”

  Soares leaned in a little closer, lowered his voice some more. “Why would someone like him know anything about this case?”

  “That’s the question,” Bernie said.

  Soares leaned in even more. From that distance, they could have almost . . . kissed each other, a thought that made no sense at all. Then Soares said, “You know your problem? You’re too cute.” And for a crazy moment, the kissing idea did sort of make sense. But then no kiss happened, and also the truth was that although Bernie was pretty much the best-looking human on the planet, you really couldn’t call him cute. “Get out of town,” Soares said. “Don’t come back.”

  He and the rest of the cops got into their cruisers and drove off. The kissing thing hadn’t made sense after all, although I wasn’t sure why. Given enough time, I might have figured it out, but there’s never enough time, so I didn’t even try.

  • • •

  Were we getting out of town? I wasn’t sure about that either. For a while, we just sat there at the end of Lizette’s driveway, me and Bernie alone with his thoughts, all of them dark and anxious. After a while, he got on the phone.

  “William,” he said. “Bernie here. I’m going to push our friendship a bit.”

  William’s deep and booming oil-drum voice came through the speakers. “Don’t see how that could be possible,” he said. “But try me.”

  “I want to run another plate.”

  “Nothing easier. Putting you on hold.”

  We waited. Bernie stopped thinking, leaving just the two of us, me and him. What a peaceful moment! Would I have minded if it had gone on forever? Actually, yes. Wouldn’t we get hungry eventually? There was no food
in the car. I went back to enjoying the peaceful moment, but it was gone.

  William came back on. “That’s a diplomatic plate, Bernie. Registered to one Ludmilla Lysenko, employed at the Russian-American Investment Advisory Council. That’s on A Street. Here’s the number.”

  “Thanks,” Bernie said, writing it on the palm of his hand. “And I’m happy to pay your contact at the DMV whatever you think is right.”

  “Not necessary,” said William. “But I’ll pass on your thanks when I see her.”

  “You see her?”

  “Possibly tonight.”

  “Ah.”

  • • •

  “Russian-American Investment Advisory Council,” Bernie said, parking in front of a nice-looking brick row house on a shady block of nice-looking brick row houses. “Could it sound more innocuous?”

  I had no idea. I did hear plenty of sounds, but they were the normal street sounds you pick up in a big city, none of them coming specifically from the Russian-American Investment Advisory Council row house. We got out of the car, went up to the front door. Bernie pressed the buzzer. I heard it buzz inside the house, but no one came. Bernie tried the knob. The door was unlocked, kind of a surprise. We went inside.

  It turned out to be kind of homey. First came a softly lit hall with a thick rug, lovely-smelling flowers in a vase, pictures on the walls, most of them showing dressed-up people shaking hands. Then on one side, the space opened up into an office where a young gum-chewing woman sat at a desk, eyes on a screen, hands on a keyboard, ear buds in her ears, music leaking out in a tiny sort of way.

  “Hello?” Bernie said, as we approached her desk. She tapped away at the keyboard, eyes still on the screen, and popped her gum, a sound I happen to like very much. Pop it again, young lady! But she did not. Bernie rapped his knuckles on the desk.

  The young woman looked up gasping and putting a hand over her chest, the way humans do when you startle them. I’d once seen a dude swallow his gum in exactly this kind of situation, but the young woman, maybe a better gum chewer, had it under control. She whipped out the ear buds.

  “Oh, my God,” she said, taking us in, Bernie first, then me. “You scared me.”

  “We buzzed,” Bernie said.

  “Sorry,” the young woman said. She took a tissue from a box on the desk, brought it to her mouth, sort of tongued the gum into it, and tossed the balled-up tissue into a wastebasket. It took all my self-control not to go nosing over there. “Can I help you?” she said.

  “Your English is very good,” Bernie said.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I went to college here in America.”

  “Which one?”

  “Go Buckeyes.”

  Bernie laughed. “What’s your name? I’m Bernie and this is Chet.”

  “What a beautiful dog! My name’s Sonia.”

  Sonia? A very nice name, and she was clearly a very sharp young lady. Our friendship was off to a great start.

  “Ludmilla Lysenko’s English is good, too, but not like yours,” Bernie said. “Where did she go to school?”

  Or maybe we weren’t off to quite the start I’d thought. Sonia sat back in her chair, not so friendly anymore, also looking somewhat older. “I’m not sure I understand your question.”

  “Not a problem,” Bernie said. “I’ll ask her myself. Is she in?”

  “I—I’d have to check.”

  “Please do. Here’s our card.”

  Bernie handed it to her. Sonia spent what seemed like a long time reading it, then said, “If she’s in, can I tell her what this is in reference to?”

  “Sure,” said Bernie. He took out the two red passports we’d found in the float of Lizette’s basement toilet and opened them so Sonia could see. “It’s in reference to the Urmanovs.”

  Sonia opened her mouth, closed it, tried again. “Maybe I should take those with me, just in case she’s in her office?”

  Bernie shook his head.

  Sonia rose, left the room, went in the hall. I heard her climbing stairs, and then came the sound of low voices from the floor above. Bernie went around the desk, started going through the drawers. I took a step or two over to the wastebasket, took out the balled-up tissue with the gum inside, nudged it around for a bit, felt better about everything.

  Sonia returned, saw what Bernie was doing. “Excuse me?” she said.

  Bernie closed the drawer, in no hurry at all. He gave her his empty gaze, the scariest of all Bernie’s gazes. Sonia tried to meet it and failed, like so many others, no shame there. Bernie moved toward her. She backed away.

  “Ms. Lysenko is not in. Is it money you want?”

  “No,” Bernie said. How true that was! For the very first time I really understood why our finances were such a mess. And always would be! Whoa! “But I’ll trade the passports for Suzie Sanchez.”

  Sonia picked up the desk phone, spoke words I didn’t understand at all, except for “Suzie Sanchez.” She hung up, turned to Bernie. “We know no one of that name.”

  “Who’s we?” Bernie said.

  “The Russian-American Investment Advisory Council,” said Sonia.

  Bernie laughed. I wasn’t sure what he was laughing at—and Sonia looked pretty clueless on that score, too—but it was always nice to see him in a good mood.

  “Do svidaniya,” he said, a totally new one on me.

  We went outside, got in the car, drove down the block, did a U-ee, and parked in a shady spot with a not-too-distant view the Russian-American Investment Advisory Council town house.

  Day started to fade. Bernie and I sat side by side, just enjoying darkness taking over. After a while, a big black car double-parked by the town house, had barely stopped before the town house door opened and two men hurried out, both carrying roller bags. They jumped in the black car and it took off.

  “Next stop, Moscow,” Bernie said. We stayed where we were. I went over the Moscow thing in my mind, and was still going over it when the town house door opened again and Sonia came out, wearing a backpack. She crossed the street and walked our way real fast, eyes straight ahead, everything about her intense. Bernie got out of the car and stepped onto the sidewalk. Sonia almost bumped into him. He grabbed her wrist, held it in a way I could tell was not particularly forceful for Bernie, but her struggles got her nowhere.

  “Let me go,” she said.

  “Scream for help,” said Bernie.

  But Sonia did not.

  “You should have gone with the others,” Bernie told her.

  “The goddamn flight was full,” Sonia said. “I’m on the next one.”

  “Nope,” said Bernie. “And your life as you knew it is over.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  * * *

  This is how we like to roll, and almost always do: Bernie behind the wheel and me, Chet the Jet, in the shotgun seat. Sometimes—not very often, you might say, but way too often, in my opinion—we need room for one more. That means somebody—Bernie, this extra and somewhat troublesome person, or me—has to ride on the little shelf in the back, which is where I now was, Sonia having taken my place in the shotgun seat. Bear in mind that I’m a hundred-plus pounder, and Sonia was one of those slender young ladies who’d topple right over if just bumped lightly. The problem of how to administer that light bump from where I was occupied all my thoughts.

  Meanwhile, we hadn’t actually moved, were still parked on this nice shady street, like we had nowhere to go and nothing to do. I knew that wasn’t right. First of all, where was Suzie? Second of all, there were lots of other problems, too many to sort out.

  “Ever killed anyone?” Bernie said, eyes straight ahead.

  Sonia, who’d been staring straight ahead as well, turned quickly in his direction. Was that a tear track on her face? I hadn’t heard her crying; maybe she was one of those silent criers, a mysterious kind of subgroup. All I knew
for sure was that tears taste salty. “Of course not,” she said. “What do you take me for?”

  Bernie turned to her, but slowly. “That’s what we’re determining,” he said. “Ever cause anyone to be killed?”

  “No.”

  “Ever fail to prevent someone getting killed?”

  Sonia’s gaze, still aimed in Bernie’s direction, took on a faraway look. Bernie’s gaze did the reverse, if that makes any sense, closing in.

  “No,” Sonia said, at last and very softly.

  “Close call, huh?” Bernie said. Sonia’s neck turned red, something you see in women but never men. What was it about? You tell me. “Don’t worry about it,” Bernie said. “If people could just get the easy calls right, we’d be fine.”

  Sonia nodded, very slightly. “What are you going to do with me?”

  “That’s what we’re determining.” Hadn’t Bernie just said that? Once I had a dream where a bowl of steak tips appeared and I scarfed them all up and then—presto! The bowl was somehow full again. This was like that, except not so tasty.

  “I don’t understand,” Sonia said. “I don’t even know who you are.”

  “I’m the loose cannon,” Bernie said.

  How great did that sound! But why just him? I wanted to be a loose cannon, too. I thumped my tail on the horrible shelf where I was marooned, just once, but heavy enough to send a message.

  Bernie’s eyes flickered my way, and he went on. “What’s going to happen to your two buddies from the office when they get back to Moscow?”

  Sonia shrugged.

  “I’m guessing their careers are over,” Bernie said.

  She nodded, just a little nod, hardly noticeable.

  “Do you have family back there?”

  “Not close.”

  “You like it here?”

  Another very slight nod.

  “Here’s the deal,” Bernie said. “Help us find Suzie Sanchez, and I’ll do what I can for you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Not much. But what’s your alternative?”

  “You could let me go.”