Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

by Suzann Ledbetter

  "C'mon," he said, lurching to his feet, then pulling her up. With her arm clamped in a "don't mess with me" grip, he grabbed the stocking cap, then ran for the side gate.

  Struggling to keep up, she cried, "Where are you taking me?"

  "My car." He shot the gate latch with a fist, then kicked it shut behind them. "Then as far away from here as we can get."

  Floodlights above the garage and entry door blazed like a locomotive's headlamps. He steered Dina into the remaining shadows, the siren they'd heard was louder and closing in fast.

  Then it stopped. Silence didn't exactly descend. Not with Jack's pulse hammering in his ears and his undertall captive huffing, "The cops must've gotten another call."

  "Uh-uh, kid. This is high-roller holler. Siren en route, only."

  The one thing he'd done right all night was leave the driver's door unlocked. Jack pushed Dina inside, crammed in behind her and slammed the door. The childproof locks clicked a nanosecond before she jerked the passenger's door handle.

  A jittery red halo rose above yonder hill. Jack keyed the ignition, shifted into Reverse and floored it. A hard crank to the right and a sharp left whipped the sedan into an adjacent Tudor's circle driveway. Jamming the car into Park and killing the engine sufficed as brakes without any taillight flash.

  "Hit the deck," he said. "And stay there."

  To his astonishment, Dina slid off the seat and crouched on the floorboard. Not so surprising was a surly "You said we were getting out of here."

  "If we're lucky, we will." Jack curled sideways, his cheek resting on the window ledge and head obscured by the side mirror's housing. "If we're not, the people who live here are, at this very moment, speed-dialing 911."

  "But—"

  "Look, Ms. whatever your last name is, it's your fault we didn't make it to the car fast enough to drive off into the sunset."

  "I was scared to death. I didn't know who'd grabbed me."

  "You did before you damn near gelded me."

  After a pause that may or may not have contained a stifled chuckle, came a righteous "If you're not a cop and you're definitely not a jewelry salesman, who are you?"

  "Private investigator." Jack shrank down as the patrol unit approached the deHavens' address. "Don't make a sound," he whispered. "Boy in blue at eleven o'clock."

  A fender-mounted spotlight swept the property from lot line to lot line, then zeroed in on the gate. The cruiser backed up to blockade the driveway. The uniform stepped out of the patrol unit, gandering around as he slipped a nightstick into the loop on his utility belt. Twice, he eyeballed the Taurus parked in the driveway across the street.

  It's the housekeeper's car, Jack telegraphed in a convincing, mental tone of voice. Or maybe good ol' Aunt Agnes is visiting from Des Moines.

  Another unit arrived from the opposite direction. A consultation ensued, punctuated by gestures and finger-pointing. Armed with Maglites, the officers rang the deHavens' doorbell, checked each garage door, then split up to circle around back.

  Cop One disappeared around the far corner of the house. Cop Two slipped through the side gate. Jack started the Taurus, forcing himself not to burn rubber getting the hell outa there.

  He waited until a turn onto a curving side street to exhale, switch on the headlights and the windshield wipers. "Ooookay. You can get up now."

  Dina took a precautionary peek over the dashboard, then wriggled onto the seat. "That was close."

  It still was. Whether the cops heard the engine noise or not, that first responder would notice the Taurus was gone. ASAP wasn't fast enough for Jack to put high-dollar holler behind them.

  "You can drop me off anywhere," Dina said as casually as a friend of a friend who'd accepted a lift home from a party.

  "My office or the PD." Jack glanced at her. "Take your pick."

  "You won't turn me in."

  "Care to bet on that?"

  "Then why'd you ditch the police?"

  "Temporary insanity." God knew, that was true. Jack had never knowingly aided and abetted a criminal in his life. Well, not since he qualified for a P.I. license, anyway. Or during his brief law-enforcement career. And from birth to approximately fourteen years of age.

  "I owe you big-time," Dina said, "but I have to go home. Tomorrow I'll meet you at your office and explain everything, but my mother's seriously ill, and I can't leave her alone for very long."

  She'd never burgle again, she wasn't really a thief and she had a sick mother. All that song needed was Daddy on death row, a lonesome train whistle and a pickup truck.

  Jack groaned and shook his head. And he'd probably believe that, too.

  8

  Jack McPhee had dropped Dina at the street behind the deHaven house where she parked her VW. From there, she hadn't even tried to outrun his headlights etching her rearview mirrors.

  Before he unlocked the Taurus's door he'd dictated her name, address, driver's license, tag and phone numbers into a minicassette recorder, then copied them in a notebook. Then again, the impossibility of an escape seldom deterred an attempt.

  The thought never entered Dina's mind. The elsewhere it had been all the way across town centered on the fact a stranger was about to see her naked. The raw kind, with all her clothes on.

  A relief, she admitted, but not in the manner of confessions being good for the soul. McPhee wasn't a priest, and Dina was too pragmatic to believe admitting a sin out loud wiped it and the guilt off the slate, like a divine chalkboard eraser. Especially if you'd committed the same one, over and over again.

  He also wasn't a therapist armed with a shovel and a ladder—one to dig for the root of her criminal behavior and the other to help her climb out of the hole. Priests and mental health professionals were godsends for millions, but Dina knew what she'd done was wrong, and why she'd gone ahead and piled on the sins anyway.

  Unloading on Jack McPhee had no strings or expectations attached at either end. She'd talk, he'd listen, then he'd take her to jail.

  Simple. And yes, a relief, as long as she didn't think beyond that.

  McPhee didn't park behind or beside the VW in the duplex's driveway, but at the curb. Supposing the police might impound the Beetle as evidence of something or other, Dina left it outside. The magnetic pizza restaurant signage was peeled off the driver's door, stowed in the trunk, and her purse and tote bag removed from it.

  Jack walked up as Dina reclosed the hood. "Did you steal that, too?" he asked, his tone curious rather than condemning.

  Realizing he meant the sign, not her ancient getaway clunker, she said, "Since it belongs to Luigi's, I guess I did. I just didn't mean to."

  She started for the front stoop. "I used to be a delivery driver—two bucks an hour, plus tips. Except the sleazeball night manager wouldn't give me anything but the college runs, babysitter call-ins and dive motels out on the interstate."

  "Two bucks an hour," Jack said, "and fifty-cent tips, if the customer felt generous."

  "Or too drunk to wait for his change."

  The front door was locked, as Dina left it when she sneaked out what seemed like a month ago. She fitted the key and turned the knob, queasy at the thought of her mother having wakened and now lying in wait.

  The living room was empty, apart from the Three Stooges assaulting each other on TV. Dina touched a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Short story shorter," she said, as though it might distract McPhee from the shabbiness and stale, musty air, "I complained to the manager. He grabbed my boob, offered me a raise if I'd give him one in the storeroom, and I walked out."

  "You should have reported him for sexual harassment."

  "I threatened to, along with a few other things I'd have enjoyed a lot more." Dina shrugged and laid her bags on the table. "Mostly I wanted a hot shower so much, I forgot about the sign stuck on my car. I intended to take it back when the manager wasn't there and Luigi was, but "

  She motioned at the hallway. "I need to look in on my mother. Don't worry, there's no back way o
ut of here."

  McPhee was seated at the table when she returned. He'd removed his windbreaker and folded it over a knee, as though hanging it on a chair back to dry might damage the finish.

  After a moment, he said, "Is everything okay?"

  Dina hesitated, then slowly shook her head. "You really are a nice guy."

  His mouth quirked at a corner. "Somewhat of a minority opinion, but I'd like to think so."

  "Well, knock it off." Dina balled her hands in her cargo pants pockets. "Stop acting like you just came in for coffee after a date."

  "I could use a cup," he said agreeably. "I could also treat you like public-enemy number one, but if you fit those specs, we'd be at the cop shop."

  "Specs?" Dina repeated, thoroughly confused. "What specs?"

  "Basic criminal mentality is remorse for getting caught in the act, not for the act itself. You, on the other hand, feel so lousy about it and yourself, I'll bet you had to force yourself inside every house you've robbed."

  She had. She'd clutched and run at the last minute more than a few times, too. But how could McPhee possibly know that? And why, coming from him, did it sound so insulting?

  Because you're insane was the obvious answer.

  "Coffee," she said. "I'll make some."

  She fished in the bottom of her hobo bag for one of the stove's burner knobs. To McPhee's askance look, she said, "Mom heated something yesterday and left the burner on, again. I don't know if she spilled a little and doused the flame, or it sputtered out by itself, but the house stank of natural gas when I came home."

  "Is she ?"

  "Senile" was the implied blank filler. That incomplete question was deemed kinder than outright asking if someone's belfry was missing a few bats.

  "Mom's scatterbrained. Always has been. It's funny and endearing when you're young. Pull the same boners when you're old and people who can't spell 'Alzheimer's' think you're the poster girl."

  True in general, and a whitish lie where Harriet Wexler was concerned. Her faculties were diminishing. Dina absconding with the stove knobs was a fait accompli that reduced the wear and tear on both their hearts.

  From McPhee's chair at the table to the kitchen was an unobstructed nine or ten feet, but he closed the gap. A hip leaned against a base cabinet, one foot crossed over the other.

  Self-conscious and resenting it, Dina's face burned as she placed the step stool at the far end of the kitchen. Harriet's decaf was in a canister on the counter. A small can of prohibited, high-octane regular was hoarded on a cupboard shelf behind a barrel of oats. To McPhee's credit, he didn't offer to reach up to get it for her.

  "Who's the guy in the photos on the bookshelf?" he asked.

  "My brother, Randy, the grunge rocker, punk rocker, white boy rapper, hip-hopper, blues, bluegrass drummer." Dina glanced up while the glass percolator filled under the tap. "Awfully fast search of the ol' premises, McPhee."

  "I thought we agreed on 'Jack.'"

  "That's when you were a jewelry salesman."

  "I'm not sure you ever believed I was a jewelry salesman."

  "Yeah, I did." Dina laughed. "A gay, not-quite-out-of-the-closet jewelry salesman." A finger dammed the percolator's stem, while she measured grounds into the basket. "For curiosity's sake, what is Fido's real name and where'd you get her?"

  "She belongs to a neighbor," he hedged.

  "An older female neighbor, I presume."

  "Presume? Oh. The pink collar and leash."

  "Nope. The cold cream and perfume. The Maltese smelled like both."

  "Huh. Ms. Pearl does, too, now that I think about it."

  "And she named her dog ?"

  A flinch, then a muttered, "Sweetie Pie Snug 'Ems."

  Dina had heard worse, just not lately. "Well, I knew somebody called her 'sweetie'a lot. Her ears perked when I did."

  "Pretty sharp, Sherlock. About dogs, anyway. Gay, I'm definitely not. How cold cream and perfume drew that conclusion, I'm not sure."

  Neither was Dina. An antidote to instant attraction, probably. She'd married the first guy who'd set butterflies aflutter in her belly—a prelude to emotional evisceration. Fool her twice? Not in this life.

  As McPhee inhaled the brewing coffee, his eyelids fluttered in pure bliss. "But if you bought my cover story, why didn't you hit the address I gave for Fido and Butch?"

  "Because a Maltese and a sheltie didn't fit the, uh, specs."

  He frowned, his gaze ticktocking the length of the kitchen. "Phil did, though," he said, as if thinking aloud. "Well, hell. I was right about the boarding kennels. It never occurred to me the size of the dog mattered."

  "Size always matters." Dina added hastily, "If you're female and four-ten, it's an automatic top-of-the-pyramid spot on the cheerleading squad. Great while it lasts, but it sucks pushing around a grocery cart with the handle under your chin forever."

  "I'm not exactly NBA material myself, kid."

  Dina bristled. "I've been a registered voter for fourteen years, McPhee."

  "Jack. And no offense. I call everybody kid. I probably called Phil kid when I gave him a shower."

  "He's yours?" She grabbed two mugs from the dish drainer. Taking the moral high ground was difficult when hers was a thousand feet below sea level, but she managed. "Then your last name is deHaven, not McPhee. You aren't gay, but you are married and you may or may not be a private detective."

  She shot him a dirty look. "A dick is what they used to be called, right? Gosh, I can't imagine why."

  The ID in his wallet confirmed the Irish surname and his occupation. "Belle deHaven is my ex-wife. Her husband's afghan hound is out of state and they're out of town. The animal shelter let me rent Phil overnight, and a friend registered him in Belle's name at Merry Hills."

  "Animal shelters don't rent dogs, McPhee."

  "It's 'Jack,' okay?" He hedged, "Phil's out on twenty-four-hour approval. He goes back to the shelter, first thing tomorrow." He glanced at his watch. "Make that today."

  Dina stifled an urge to pour his coffee in the sink and bop him with the mug. "Anything to make a buck, huh? Who cares what happens to the poor dog, who I basted in dermatitis cream—no charge—because he was scratching himself raw an hour after you had him dumped at the kennel."

  "He was?" At least McPhee appeared contrite. "The baby shampoo I bought was supposed to be gentle enough for—"

  "Babies, you idiot, not dogs. Specifically, babies' eyes. Manufacturers amp up the pH to tear level, so it won't sting. Except human skin is about three times thicker than a dog's, which means a high-pH shampoo is about three times too harsh for Phil."

  Dina handed him his coffee—grudgingly. "Do tell the shelter manager that he has contact dermatitis, not mange. It won't stay his execution, but they may let him say goodbye to his pals first."

  McPhee started as though she'd slapped him. "That's twice tonight you've hit me below the belt."

  "If I'd aimed better the first time, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

  They glared at each other over the rims of their mugs a while, then he said, "The dog-door modus operandi. That's always been your means of entry?"

  Dina nodded. "Some in garage doors, most at the back of the house. Dogs, especially older ones, can't always wait eight hours or longer for bathroom breaks. Leaving them out in the heat, or cold, even with doghouses to crawl into, seems like a crummy way to treat a member of the family."

  "Then you scratched up exterior door knobs and deadbolts with a screwdriver or something to make it look like the locks were picked."

  She removed a Swiss Army knife from a cargo pocket. "At some house last year—I don't remember which—the front door swung open while I was gouging it."

  McPhee chuffed and shook his head. "The surprise is that only one did. People spend serious cash on security systems, then go off and leave the doors unlocked."

  "Maybe, but hardly anyone barricades a dog door. They forget it's there, I guess."

  "Or think it's too small for a burglar
to crawl through."

  Seeing no tease or ridicule in his eyes, Dina went on, "Your ex-wife's afghan hound explains why the door I thought was Phil's was so big. If I'd had to squeeze through, I wouldn't have."

  "My client gave me copies of the priors' police reports. Those houses must have been scouted in advance. Nobody's that lucky, that consistently." He paused, a hand rising to massage the back of his neck. "Tonight, you chanced it. I figured a one-night trap was a pipe dream, but the rain was too sweet for you to pass up."