Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

by Suzann Ledbetter

  Inside, an infomercial hawked its wares to an unoccupied glider rocker. The habit of leaving on the TV "for company" impelled silent prayers that her mother hadn't toddled off hours ago to the bathroom and collapsed in a heap on the floor.

  Dina left her purse and bag on the table and tiptoed down the hall. Whuffly snores met her midway. In the master bedroom, clear plastic tubing tethered Harriet to the oxygen machine at the end of the bed. Yards of extra hose lassoed the cannonball footpost.

  In the light slanting from the open bathroom door, she resembled a child actor made up and bewigged to play her future self. Fingers curled over the bedcovers pulled up to her chin suggested a foil for pixies and their nightly tug-of-war with the blanket.

  Dina eyed the machine's distilled-water level, then blew her mother a kiss. "Sweet dreams, Mom."

  Naturally, Harriet continued to insist she didn't need oxygen, though her color and energy had improved in the past four days. Dina worried about her tripping over the tubing, but fear of breaking a hip made Harriet extracautious. All in all, the two Bobs' no-fuss, no-muss solution deserved a Nobel peace prize.

  In the hall bathroom, Dina ran water in the sink and pretended the mirror above it didn't exist. Off with the black cargo pants, her sour-sweaty top and bra; on went the giant Mizzou T-shirt she'd slept in the night before. Soaping and rinsing her face felt wonderful. A hot shower would be ecstasy, but water tattooing the plastic tub surround sounded like marbles in a cocktail shaker.

  Her face buried in a hand towel, she yelped when a voice said, "Where the devil have you been, young lady?"

  Dina's head whiplashed toward the door, her pulse spiking a zillion beats a minute. Clutching the towel to her chest, she shrieked, "Jesus Chr-ist, Mom. You scared the livin' hell out of me."

  By Harriet's expression, she was gratified to know she hadn't lost the ability to strike terror in the heart of her kid from ambush. "That pizza joint closes at eleven on weeknights." She sniffed several times, then puckered her lips. "This is Thursday, you look like you've been dragged through a knothole backward and what I smell ain't pepperoni."

  "Oh, yeah?" Dina flinched. Sure, her defense strategies were years out of practice, but they hadn't been that lame since fourth grade. What popped out was a snotty, even lamer, "Technically, it's been Friday for almost two hours."

  "You said you'd be home before midnight."

  "I said I'd probably be home by midnight." Dina hung the damp towel on the bar behind her, smoothing the wrinkles and leveling the hems. "If you needed me, all you had to do was hit the panic button."

  An emergency alert device hanging like a pendant around Harriet's neck was programmed to automatically dial Dina's cell phone. An autodial to 911 would be faster, but a city ordinance prohibited a direct connection to an emergency dispatcher. It was up to Dina to contact emergency services.

  "Too many false alarms for a direct call," a city official told Dina. "An average of sixteen a day when the city council passed the ordinance. And that was twenty years ago."

  A subscription service would relay confirmed panic-button emergencies, but it cost forty dollars a month. Dina couldn't afford it and a cell phone, too.

  "I'm sorry, if I—" The doorway was empty. Peering out, Dina glimpsed the tail of a seersucker housecoat rounding the corner into the dining room. When Dina caught up with her mother, she was fumbling with the tote bag's zipper.

  "What do you think you're doing?" coincided with the TV announcer's "Only thirty seconds left. Act now, before it's too late ."

  "Since you won't tell me what you're up to," Harriet said, "I have to find out my own self."

  Paper crackled as she jerked out three white pharmacy sacks, their tops stapled shut. Her righteous scowl deflating, she delved for paydirt at the bottom of the bag.

  "What's this?" she inquired, an "Aha!" implicit in her tone. The alleged contraband emerged, cocooned in a plain plastic bag.

  "Okay, you got me," Dina said. "You'd think I'd learn it's impossible to put anything over on you for long." She pulled out a chair and sat down hard. "Go ahead. Open it."

  Hesitating, her eyes downcast and despair evident, Harriet unwrapped whatever Pandora's box she'd imagined and now wished she'd left alone.

  While she stared transfixed at the carton, Dina said, "The pharmacist on the graveyard shift had customers stacked up three deep when I walked in. That's why I was so late. I wanted to ask some questions, or better, get his recommendation, instead of buying just any ol' electronic glucose monitor off the shelf."

  Feeling guilty, among other things, for leading on her mother, letting her deliver her own comeuppance, Dina added, "The pharmacist showed me, it really is almost painless. No more finger-sticks to dread three or four times a day."

  Harriet ran a knuckle under one eye, then the other. "I shouldn't have—"

  "Oh, hush. It's as good a surprise now as it would've been in the morning."

  "Yes, and you're the sweetest daughter in the world for buying it, but—" She picked up the empty bag and started fitting the carton back into it. "These things aren't cheap. Why, a fancy gizmo like this—"

  "Is top-of-the-line and worth every penny." Dina snatched the receipt from her mother's hand and crumpled it. The shopping bag was taken away and wadded. "You'd buy one for me, if I was being poked and pinched bloody all the time, so end of discussion."

  Oops. She grinned, hoping to magically turn the last part, that teensy finis which might be interpreted as an order, into a joke. A witty rejoinder. A—

  Her mother bent down and kissed her cheek. "Thank you, baby. You shouldn't have spent the money, but it is a trial when my fingers are too sore to work a crochet hook."

  She was quick to grouse about everything from foods she craved that were on the restricted list to unwed celebrities who hatched their young like guppies. Aches, pains and physical discomforts were endured in silence.

  Bravery was admirable. Except it forced constant vigilance, attentiveness to every subtle twitch, grimace, blemish—any deviation from whatever constituted normal. Had Harriet hovered over Dina and Randy as diligently when they were children, they'd have whistled up the stork and demanded a change of address.

  The paper bags contained an anti-inflammatory prescribed for arthritis and two types of ophthalmic drops to control Harriet's glaucoma. One of the latter required refrigeration. As she moved to the kitchen, Dina cocked an eyebrow, angled sideways in the chair, then looked back toward the hall. No oxygen hose trailed along the carpet.

  "Something seems to be missing. But jeepers, I can't imagine what it is."

  Her mother shrugged and closed the fridge. "So I left my leash on the bed for a minute or two. What's the harm?"

  Dina dropped her head into her hands. Maybe it wasn't too late to whistle up that stork.

  * * *

  Jack raised his head from his hands and blew out a breath. It stank of beer, rancid onions from the chili dog and rings he'd gulped for dinner and the five pots of coffee he'd chased them with.

  A scrambled egg, dry toast and a glass of milk next door at Al's diner would absorb the acid gnawing craters in Jack's stomach. A glance at his watch, then at the parking lot visible out the office window nixed the idea. Neighborhood bars had poured their customers out on the street over an hour ago, but Thursday-night-into-Friday-morning crowds were different from weekenders.

  Rebels without a brain, in Jack's opinion. As if knocking back a sixer the night before the work week ended was a form of social commentary. Clock in Friday with a killer hangover and perfect impression of a toilet bowl's rim carved on your face and that'll by God show the boss who's boss.

  "Nice attitude, McPhee," he muttered. "Speaking from experience, I presume?"

  He was. His throbbing neck and shoulders brought back memories of regular worship services at the porcelain altar. Hunkering over a desk for hours on end exacted similar punishment with none of the fun of getting there.

  Sitting back in his chair, he surveyed the
ream of photocopies and newspaper stories separated into categorized stacks. A case beginning with little or nothing to go on was common. One with an old-growth forest in paper form splayed across his desk should solve itself. And might, if he could see the pattern for all the damn trees.

  It was there. He was just too bleary-eyed to find it. The usual remedy for mental fatigue was a good night's sleep. A fabulous idea, if he could unplug his overloaded brain and stuff it in his sock drawer. Otherwise, the yammering in his head would be like the New York Stock Exchange after the opening bell.

  A legal pad lay on the floor a few yards from his desk. Handwritten notes and jagged scratch-outs covered the fanned yellow sheets. A few minutes ago, the pages rattled merrily when Jack threw the pad in frustration. Tantrums were juvenile and counterproductive. That's why they felt so good.

  His bowlegged, knee-bent scuttle to fetch the tablet was peculiar to the elderly, toddlers and those whose spines had conformed to nonergonomic chairs. Jack plopped the pad on the desk, then stretched for the ceiling's acoustic tiles. Crackles and pops sounded like chicken bones in a garbage disposal. He yawned so hard that black specks jittered behind his eyelids.

  "Think," he said, still standing, his hands thrust in his trouser pockets. "Gerry Abramson isn't paying you to be dense."

  Centered amid the paper rampart he'd dutifully studied was a street map photocopied and pieced together from the Park City phone directory. A colorful four-by-six-foot Chamber of Commerce version was framed on the wall, but the compact tape-job better suited the purpose.

  Besides, he'd have to switch on the overhead to see the big one. An island of light shed by the desk lamp was cozy and less conspicuous to fat, unemployed freaks cruising Danbury Street.

  Dotting the miniaturized map were color-coded flags snipped from sticky notes. Each bore the date of the previous year's and current burglaries. A pattern should have emerged. Burglars, particularly pros, as the success rate confirmed, didn't act on impulse or at random.

  Eight months of inactivity presumed advance planning for this year's take, hence a corresponding level of preparation the year before. Inherent in both should be a sort of grid effect designed to throw off the cops: hit a couple of north-side homes, then south, then the eastern burbs, etc. The property-crimes unit would chase their tails all over town, unable to anticipate the thief's next move.

  In hindsight, that strategy should be obvious. Jack stared at the map. Uh-huh. Sure. He might as well have thrown his ticky-tacky little flags like darts. Blindfolded.

  "Gerry's wrong about every victim being out of town when the thefts occurred," he said. "Two hits were in gated communities with manned guard posts. Was it luck, happy accident or genius to hit during a whoop-de-do celebrity golf tournament and the debutante cotillion?"

  No answers, including what the debs were coming out from, and how three days of brunches, lunches, teas and dinners culminating in a formal ball enabled it.

  Talking to himself didn't always rouse any synapses from their stupor, either, but there was something about thinking aloud that worked better than brooding in silence.

  His finger tapped each of three widely separated flags. The first marked the Calendar Burglar's alleged debut. The other pair, this year's second and fifth B & Es. "What frosts the cupcake is how he knew to rob these folks."

  The majority of the robberies occurred in affluent, newer housing developments with names like Grande Vista Estates and Devonshire Downs. These particular three occurred in less target-rich environments: modest homes in older middle-class neighborhoods. The victims' net worth exceeded that of many of the McMansion dwellers, but apparently they subscribed to the antiquated notion that flaunting it was déclassé.

  "A lot of Park City natives wouldn't recognize these people's names," Jack said. "They donate a lug of money to charity, but pretty much on the q.t."

  Charity was big business—nonprofit status aside. The larger the organization, the larger the administrative staff. Volunteers donated time to causes they deemed worthy, and while that might apply to some on the payroll, logic asserted that for others, it was just a job. And not one that'd earn a down payment on a house in Grande Vista Estates.

  Donor anonymity didn't apply to recordkeeping. Federal and state forms must be filed, specifying who gave how much to what and when. A financially strapped employee might shy from out-and-out embezzlement, but initiating a personal collection drive could be irresistible.

  Jack tuned out the annoying little bastards in his head questioning how said office worker would know when to strike. He flipped through the police reports for the umpteenth time, scanning one complainant's statement after another.

  The remembered reference to charity elicited a gleeful "Bingo!" It was closely followed by a glum "Excellent work, dumbass."

  There was Charity all right. Plain as day. Except it was a damn dog's name. A poor widdle pooch whose diamond-studded, five-thousand-dollar, sterling-silver-tagged collar got ripped off.

  Muttering f-worded nouns, verbs, adjectives and not a few common compounds, he threw the reports skyward. Jerked his suit coat off the back of the chair. Switched off the desk lamp. Stomped to the door. Stabbed the key in the lock then turned, leaving the ring dangling.

  Dog. Neither Charity nor charity had tripped an almost imperceptible trigger, much less Jack's temper. And not dog, either. Dogs.

  A report on one of National Federated's insureds noted the homeowner's opinion that not photographing what might be a partial shoe impression on the dog's bed was shoddy police work. Lifting a print off velvet flocked with dog hair was impossible, let alone idiotic. So was arguing with a know-it-all taxpayer.

  Jack flipped on the overhead lights. The suit coat was lobbed at a couch clients rarely used and wasn't all that great for naps. Crouched on the floor, he scooped up the mess he'd made and carried it to the desk. Sorting the papers, restacking them neatly, he speed-read each one, looking for another remembered reference to a dog. Maybe a doghouse. A toy. It was there—he was certain of it—imbedded in blocks of cramped cop handwriting he was too weary to decipher.

  Provided that pet ownership connected the Calendar Burglar's targets, Jack didn't flatter himself thinking the police missed it. Time was the mitigating factor. Some had slid by before specific thefts pegged a single perpetrator. Determining a link existed and the follow-up ate time off a clock they didn't know was ticking. Then it stopped cold for nine months. When the Calendar Burglar resurfaced, the investigative juice wasn't stagnant, it was freeze-dried.

  "They may have already smoked the dog angle, but it's worth a shot. If I can figure out how this scumbag operates, the who will drop in my lap."

  Every burglary victim would receive a call tomorrow to confirm a dog's presence in the home and its whereabouts when the theft occurred. Not from Jack McPhee, of course. Identifying himself as a P.I. guaranteed the person at the other end would hang up or clam up.

  Several pretexts suggested themselves on the drive home. A marketing surveyor for a pet-products retailer? Not bad. How about a radio station manager random-dialing for a dog-of-the-week contest? "Decent," Jack allowed, "but start fishing for a specific time frame and the callee might get hinky."

  The office's safe line ensured the calls couldn't trace back to him, yet the perfect approach must be slick and instantly forgettable. He'd think of something. He always did. There'd still be hang-ups and nobody-homes in the mix, but pretexts were as available as the number of otherwise intelligent, cautious people willing to chat up a total stranger on the phone.

  "Stranger, my ass." Alone in his car and seemingly the world, aside from a motorcyclist in the opposite lane, Jack tipped back his head and laughed. "McPhee, you're a genius, if you don't say so yourself."

  He lowered his voice an octave. "Good morning, Mrs. Victim. This is, uh, John Q. Clerk with the Park City PD. Sorry to bother you, ma'am, but I'm following up on a barking-dog complaint filed on XYZ date at your address "

  5


  "Oh, this is so exciting," chirped Ms. Pearl. The confirmed spinster—her word, not Jack's—foisted a pink, doll-sized overnight case on him. "My little girl is going to be a spy."

  Actually her loaner Maltese was a four-legged shill. It wasn't Jack's fault that his across-the-breezeway neighbor heard "undercover sting operation" and thought James Bond with fur.

  Four hours' sleep had converted last night's genius pretext into a blue-ribbon stupid idea. It would have worked, sure. Then the minute the connection was broken, pissed-off burglary victims would confront the neighbors, demanding to know which one initiated the barking-dog complaint.

  And who wanted to waste a day chained to a desk making phone calls? Especially a private investigator who spends more time on the phone than a phone-sex operator.

  Jack forced a smile. Not easy with a yappy eight-pound dog in the crook of his arm, two fingers hooked on the handle of its luggage and a leash dervishing at his crotch like a noose in need of exorcism.