Paw and Order

by Spencer Quinn

  “Not happening.”

  She glanced sideways, toward her door.

  “And that would be pointless,” Bernie said. “No one outruns Chet.”

  You won’t hear anything truer than that, amigo! I was considering unwedging myself from my perch and giving the back of Bernie’s neck a quick lick, when Sonia looked my way.

  “I always wanted a dog.”

  “Breeders contact me about Chet from time to time.”

  Breeders? About me? I wondered what that was about. It sounded extremely interesting, definitely something to sort out, nail down, get my mind around. While I got going on that, a back-and-forth started up between Bernie and Sonia.

  “. . . and I could have one of the puppies?” she was saying when I tuned back in.

  “Pick of the litter,” Bernie said.

  Then came a long silence. A strange feeling came over me, a feeling of being very small and cuddled up in a sort of ball with others of my closest kind, also very small. Not sure what that was about, but I could just about smell it; in fact, I could.

  Sonia took a deep breath. Was this an interview? Was Sonia a perp? I watch for deep perp breaths when Bernie’s doing one of his interviews: it means we’re winning. We like winning, me and Bernie.

  “I never knew anything about Lizette and Jean-Luc, other than rumors of their existence,” she said. “None of us did, except for Ludmilla.”

  “That’s what you called them? Not the Urmanovs?”

  Sonia nodded. “By the time they surfaced, they’d been in so deep and so long they weren’t really the Urmanovs anymore.”

  Bernie turned the key. “Where to?” he said.

  “It’s only a guess,” Sonia said.

  “I bet you’re a good guesser.”

  “That makes you one of a kind,” said Sonia. “But there’s a place they use, Ludmilla and Lizette.”

  Bernie put us in gear and we were on the move, the seating arrangement still messed up. But at least Sonia was sharp enough to realize that Bernie’s one of a kind. Me, too. We’re one of the same kind, if I haven’t mentioned that already.

  • • •

  Chesapeake Bay? Was that it? I tried to keep track of what Sonia was saying, not easy with so much to look at now that we were out in dark country, water over on Bernie’s side, darker than the land except when the clouds moved away to let the moon shine down, and then countless tiny watery moons appeared. All that, and I haven’t even gotten to the smells, many of them salty, and probably won’t have time. But here’s something interesting: when the moon went back behind the clouds, the smells got stronger. What’s that all about? The moon sniffs up lots of smells so there’s less for everybody else? That was as far as I could take it.

  “. . . sleepers,” Sonia was saying. “It was an operation that dates back several administrations in our bureau. They lived completely normal American lives, had no contact at all with any kind of control. And then Lizette finally found something useful to do.”

  “Who knew about it?” Bernie said.

  “What Lizette was up to? Only Ludmilla at first, then the rest of us.”

  “Meaning at your cute little setup on A Street.”

  Sonia nodded.

  “What about on our side?” Bernie said.

  “Our side?”

  “The American side. Did anyone on this end know about Lizette and Jean-Luc?”

  Sonia was silent.

  “Eben St. John, for example,” Bernie said.

  Sonia turned to him. “I knew nothing. Not until after the fact.”

  “You’re protesting your innocence too much,” Bernie said. “It arouses doubts.”

  “I’m telling you the truth,” she said, her eyes tearing up. The moon came out and shone on a tendril of hair that wound around her ear, a very nice sight.

  “It’s your only hope,” Bernie said.

  She pulled back, as though trying to increase the space between her and Bernie. Who would want to do that?

  “How did Eben find out?”

  “I don’t know,” Sonia said. “Please believe me.”

  We entered a small town—gas station, motel, a few stores and houses, nothing lit up except the motel.

  “Slow down,” Sonia said. “It’s the next left.”

  “And then?”

  “First gravel driveway after you reach the bay. The house is on a bluff.”

  Bernie stopped the car. “Any chance Ludmilla’s gone back to Russia?”

  “Only if she’s found Jean-Luc. She’s been looking for him twenty-four seven.”

  Bernie backed up, into the motel lot, empty except for us. “Rent a room. Don’t leave. We’ll come back for you.”

  “And if you don’t?”

  “Then you’re screwed,” Bernie said.

  Sonia got out of the car and turned to Bernie. “I’ll—I’ll do anything you want,” she said.

  “You’re losing me,” he said, stepping on the gas. I wriggled through the small space and onto the shotgun seat before anybody could change their mind about anything.

  • • •

  We took the next turn. The road led down a gentle slope to the water—what had Sonia called it? The bay?—and then followed along beside it, and right away I saw a fish jump out of the water, all silvery in the moonlight—so close Bernie almost could have reached out and caught it—and plopped back in, leaving silvery ripples behind. When it comes to eating fish, they sometimes have very annoying bones inside, which I learned the hard way once, and after that the hard way again.

  “Is there a Sonia in Crime and Punishment?” Bernie said. “Had to write an essay on it at West Point. C minus, as I recall, but it might have been worse.”

  Missed all that, except for crime and punishment. No missing crime and punishment: it was our bread and butter. As for bread and butter, I prefer just the butter, right out of the package, or even in the package if pressed for time.

  “Here we go,” Bernie said, turning into a gravel driveway that appeared on my side. It took a long curve, headed back toward the sea, and there on a bluff overlooking the bay stood a small house, no lights showing. Bernie stopped the car and we walked the rest of the way, Bernie with the gun in his hand, me the way I am when the gun is in the picture, namely at my most alert. We reached the house, stopped, listened. I heard the lapping of little waves, an owl hooting far away, almost out of range, and nothing from inside the house. We started walking around it, passing a kayak leaning against the wall and a trash can smelling of sour milk, and came to the back.

  There was a lot to take in at the back of this house, and take in quickly. First, the view, a wide-open view of the bay, with a boat not far off, a boat with a big cabin and light glowing inside. I thought I remembered that boat: something about horses, wasn’t it? Also in the view was a little rowboat, on its way out to the cabin cruiser. Moonlight gleamed on the slicked-back hair of the rower, and the planes of his face were clear: Mr. York, a.k.a. Jean-Luc and maybe a.k.a. something else, a.k.a. being an annoyance that comes up in our business from time to time. A woman sat in the bow, facing toward the cabin cruiser and therefore away from us, but I knew it was Suzie, just from how she was sitting.

  Nothing more to take in on the water, but out on the deck behind the house we had something else going on, what Bernie would call a complication, namely the cat’s-eye woman, Ludmilla, standing by the railing that overlooked the bay, one of those cameras with a big long nose on a table beside her, the cat’s-eye glasses perched up on her head, and a rifle in her hands. At least we knew all of the people in the scene, but no other positives came to me.

  Steps led to the deck from the side. We went up them at our very quietest, losing sight of Ludmilla for a moment. When we got to the top, Ludmilla had the rifle in firing position, drawing a bead on the rowboat. Pop, before we could take another ste
p: the soft pop of gunfire when a silencer’s in play. A silencer takes away the sound, but not the power, a fact that surprised me in my rookie days. The power’s still there, take my word for it. Out on the water, Mr. York went still and then slid down out of sight, the oars slipping from his hands.

  Now we were on the move, big time. Ludmilla stuck another round—it looked like gold in the moonlight—into the chamber, and resighted very slightly, the muzzle now pointing right at Suzie. She was rising to her feet in the bow of the rowboat, eyes wide open, huge and dark. Ludmilla’s trigger finger started to tense just as we hit her and hit her hard. Another pop, but the rifle was pointing straight up by then, knocked loose from her hands. Before it even hit the ground, we had Ludmilla pinned nice and motionless under us, although it took her a while to accept the motionless part. She even spat at Bernie, something I hate to see in a perp.

  Bernie rose and jerked Ludmilla to her feet in his roughest way. We looked out toward the bay, but the moon was covered up again, and there was nothing to see except the glow of the cabin cruiser lights. Bernie put his free hand to his mouth like he was going to shout something, but then lowered it, staying silent.

  “Your fucking dog’s biting my ankle,” Ludmilla said.

  “Shut up,” said Bernie. He looked at me. “Good job, Chet. That’s enough for now. C’mon, boy.”

  Meaning what?

  • • •

  Not long after that, I figured it out. Bernie was suggesting I let go of Ludmilla’s pant leg. Nothing I’d done to her could possibly qualify as biting, which was where the confusion came from. I let go, got rid of a few bits, or possibly swaths, of khaki material that had somehow gotten caught in my mouth, and then we took Ludmilla inside the house.

  Most houses have duct tape somewhere around the place. Ludmilla’s was under the kitchen sink. We duct-taped her to a chair, feet, hands, and chest, Bernie doing the actual work and doing it fast.

  “Why did he go rogue on you?” Bernie said, also talking fast. “Jealousy? He forgot the point of the exercise?”

  “Beyond reminding you of my diplomatic immunity, I’ve got nothing to say,” Ludmilla said.

  Bernie taped one last piece over her mouth. We’d duct-taped a perp name of Roly Polinski just like this some time back, and as we’d left Bernie had told him to sit tight, but he didn’t do that with Ludmilla.

  Out on the deck: no moon and nothing to see on the bay but the cabin cruiser’s glow. We went around to the side of the house, picked up the kayak, and carried it down to the water. I knew kayaks from our trip to San Diego—we’d surfed, me and Bernie!—although I’d never actually been in one. But boats in general were coming up a lot lately in my career, and one thing was clear: riding in the bow—which is boat lingo Bernie taught me—is a lot like riding shotgun in the Porsche. In short: heaven, even if I’m not sure what heaven is, except I seem to be in it a lot.

  There were two seats—like bucket seats only deeper—in the kayak, bow and stern, stern being more boat lingo in case you’re new to this. Bernie tapped the side of the bow seat. “In you go, Chet. And not a sound.”

  I hopped in, making no sound, and stood tall, facing the bay. Bernie got in the stern—far from silently, sorry to have to point that out—and pushed off. He got going with the paddle. It, too, made some sound, but lovely, all burbles and swishes.

  The cabin cruiser—Horsin’ Around, if I was getting this right—took shape despite the darkness, got bigger, and then we were right beside it. Bernie glided us around to the stern. A platform hung down, and the rowboat was tied to it. Bernie made a little clicking sound in his mouth meaning jump onto the platform, so I did. He jumped out, too—more like he wriggled out—and pulled himself onto the platform, then dragged the kayak up with him. We glanced down into the rowboat. Mr. York lay on the bottom, totally still, a small dark pool spreading beneath him. We climbed onto the deck of Horsin’ Around and approached the cabin door, the kind of door with slats. Light leaked out and so did sound. I heard General Galloway saying, “I’m completely baffled.” Bernie drew the gun, and we burst in, hard and heavy, the door flying off the hinges.

  “Hold it right there,” Lizette said, her voice rising, but not much—reminding me of how Bernie would be in her place. A weird thought, but there it was.

  The cabin was like a living room with a couch and two chairs. General Galloway sat on the couch, wearing tightie whiteys and nothing else. Suzie sat on one of the chairs, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Lizette stood at one side of the room, wearing a long man’s shirt and bare-legged. Not sure why I’m including all this clothing information: it seemed important at the time, no telling why, at least by me. Way more important was the gun in Lizette’s hand, pointed at Suzie, although Lizette’s eyes were on us.

  “Drop it or I kill her,” Lizette said. “It’s very simple.”

  “The Château Frontenac’s in Quebec City,” Bernie said. “Not Montreal.” He lowered the gun.

  “Don’t, Bernie,” Suzie said. “She’s going to kill us anyway.”

  “Not me, surely?” said the general, rising to his feet.

  Lizette laughed. “That’s the funniest thing you’ve ever said.”

  “What do you mean?” he said. “I don’t understand what’s going on. What’s happened to you?”

  “Try this,” said Lizette. “The orgasms, quote end quote? Faked, each and every one.” The general staggered, and his skin went white; he slumped back on the couch. Lizette gestured at Bernie with the gun. “I’ll count to one half.”

  Bernie dropped his gun. Nobody did anything, but wasn’t it a time for doing something? I was gathering my strength beneath me, when a terrifying kind of human figure appeared in the doorway, stepping between me and Bernie. Something real bad had happened to his nose, and his hair, not gelled now, was still slicked back, although with blood. A moment passed before I realized it was Mr. York, a shoeless Mr. York, leaving red footprints on the deck. He picked up Bernie’s gun, gazed at it like he didn’t know what it was.

  “Look at you,” Lizette said.

  Mr. York turned that same unknowing gaze on her.

  “You’ve fucked up everything,” she said. “And for what? You couldn’t be more Russian. Didn’t you just hear what I told him? He’s a toad. The orgasms were faked, each and every—”

  Mr. York shot her right in the middle of her forehead, the sound so loud I thought the boat would break up around us. Lizette fell to the floor and lay still. I considered taking the gun from Mr. York, the right move for sure, but instead found ­myself moving away from him. Bernie was doing the same thing.

  “Russian?” said the general. He covered his mouth with both hands, the first time I’d seen a man do that.

  Mr. York shifted his gun toward him in a slow and wobbly way. “Is there any point . . .” He paused there, tried to breathe, had trouble.

  “In shooting me?” said the general. “No, none at all. Didn’t you hear her? There’s no cause for jealousy. I didn’t even know she was married until—”

  Mr. York’s voice rose. “Speak of her with respect!”

  “Of course! I was. Please don’t misconstrue—”

  Mr. York waved the gun at the general, like a man shooing flies. Somehow, the action took him with it. He lost his balance, toppled over, landed hard, and lay motionless on the floor, blood and more blood everywhere. I could smell nothing else.

  Silence. Bernie knelt and put his finger on Mr. York’s neck. Then he went over to Suzie and held her close. Engine sounds rose up on the bay.

  “What’s that?” said the general, moving toward a window.

  “Trouble for you,” Bernie said. He stroked Suzie’s hair.

  “I thought you were on my side.”

  “That would be a lonely place,” said Bernie. “You’re not even there yourself.”

  • • •

  Not long after
that, we were in Ludmilla’s house, although some of Mr. Ferretti’s guys had taken already her away. Others were out working on the boat. A car came and drove the general home. That left us—meaning me, Bernie, Suzie, and Ferretti—alone in Ludmilla’s kitchen.

  “He didn’t actually abduct you?” Ferretti said.

  “I went willingly,” said Suzie. “He promised the story of my life.”

  “But he made you hand over your cell phone?” Ferretti said. “That sounds coercive.”

  “Only in the sense that I wanted that story.”

  “Suppose I asked you not to print it.”

  “That’s for you to take up with the paper,” Suzie said. “But I’m writing it tonight.”

  “Starting with the affair?” Bernie said.

  Suzie nodded. “Isobel Galloway got Eben going on that, when they met at the stable. That led to Eben contacting Jean-Luc, far gone with jealousy.”

  “And the carriage house?” Bernie said. “Why did Eben want you there?”

  “He must have been using me to keep an eye on Lizette,” Suzie said. “But Lizette already had a close eye on him, complete with access to his office. Jean-Luc sent me the keys, of course.” She shook her head. “I made so many mistakes, Bernie.”

  “Not that I can see,” Bernie said.

  “Telling Lizette about you, for example. You, and Chet, and the Porsche, and your adventures—all that.”

  “So?”

  “Including the glove box.”

  Bernie shrugged. “You didn’t know what she was.” He turned to Ferretti. “I get that Lanny Sands was waiting to see if Galloway won the nomination, with the idea of blowing him out of the water deep in the campaign, but how did he find out in the first place?”

  “No idea,” said Ferretti.

  “From you?”

  “We stay out of politics—I told you that.”

  “Maybe not everyone on your team. Maybe Sands had a buddy in one of your cubicles, tapping away at a keyboard.”

  Ferretti’s eyes shifted.

  “Maybe there are all sorts of unimagined ramifications to what you do,” Bernie said.

  “Easy to say from a seat in the audience,” Ferretti said. “But suppose Galloway had gotten himself into the White House.”