I didn’t know much about my client, just that her husband was missing and instead of calling the police she had called Jimmy Gerrard. Perhaps her husband had run off with another woman, and she didn’t want to expose herself to the public scrutiny a police investigation would involve.
As we pulled up in front of the Tyler residence, Pepe, who had been talking non-stop the whole way there, said, “Are we here? Is this the place?”
“I think so.” I took out my notes to double-check the address.
Pepe stood, putting his forelegs on the armrest so he could see out the window. “The house number—what is it?”
“It’s 640,” I told him. The house sat behind a wrought-iron fence with pointed barbs. Huge stone pillars flanked the driveway with the house number displayed in tile on either side.
“Sí,” Pepe told me. “Seis cuatro cero. This is the correct casa.”
Casa seemed a misnomer, I thought. It wasn’t just the biggest home on the block, it was a gigantic white wedding cake of a mansion. Four huge white Corinthian columns on either side of the entryway supported a gracefully curved upper deck. Gold-painted lion statues guarded the wide stairs leading up to the front door.
“I do not like those big lions,” said Pepe.
“They’re not real.”
“Still, they give me a sense of unease.”
“Fine. Just be quiet for a minute,” I told him. “I want to make sure I’m prepared.” I grabbed my big brown leather purse and rooted around to find my pen.
“You tell me to be silent? I am insulted.”
“Look, Pepe, your mouth hasn’t stopped during this whole trip. You talk more than any dog I ever knew.” I stopped, realizing how absurd that sounded.
He hung his head. “Perhaps it is because you are the only person who has ever listened to me in my whole life.”
That stung me—I certainly knew what it was like when nobody would listen to you. I gave him a gentle pat on the head.
“I apologize,” I told my tough little hombre with the delicate feelings.
He perked right up, his tail wagging. “Then I can talk?”
“Yes, you can talk.”
“Look there, Geri,” he said, looking out at the house again. “The front door—it is ajar. Is that not strange?”
“Yes, it is,” I said. I watched the door for a minute, but saw no sign of activity. “You stay here.” I opened the car door. “I’m going to check it out.”
“Me, too.” Before I knew it, Pepe had scrambled across my lap and out of the car. He ran up the stairs and into the house in a flash.
“Pepe!”
Chapter 3
How could such a tiny dog run so fast? And how would I explain his presence to the client? I scrambled to catch up with him.
I paused at the open front door and caught my breath, hoping Pepe would appear in the entryway. The foyer was all white marble and crystal chandeliers, with a huge semicircular staircase as the centerpiece. I rang the doorbell, which produced a mournful series of chimes but no human response. I didn’t know if I could just walk in. What were the rules about that?
I rang the doorbell again. Still no answer. But this time I did hear a faint and distant yip coming from somewhere to the right. It was the first time I’d ever heard Pepe bark. Although it didn’t really sound like a bark. More like the sound a tiny Chihuahua might make right before being gobbled up by a tough pit bull.
That thought got me moving. I dashed through the foyer and headed right, finding myself in an all-white living room, one of the largest I had ever seen. The carpet was a snowy white, the walls were papered in white damask, the curtains were clouds of white satin. Even the grand piano in the corner was white. It desperately needed a spot of color, something like the bright red throw rug under the glass coffee table.
It took a second before it sank in. That wasn’t a rug, but a pool of blood. As I got closer, I saw that it surrounded the body of a man who lay face down on the white carpet. Pepe was sniffing the bottoms of his shoes. The man wore Birkenstocks, those clunky sandals so popular in Seattle, over green socks.
Pepe lifted his head. “You should not be here,” he said. “We must leave right now.” He headed toward me, leaving a trail of tiny red footprints behind him.
“No, we can’t leave!” I said darting toward the prone figure. I bent over and put my fingers against his neck. “What if he’s still alive?”
“Believe me, he is muy muerto!” Pepe said. He was right. The man’s skin was gray and felt cool beneath my fingertips.
I willed myself to study the corpse. He had sandy-colored hair pulled back into a short ponytail at the base of his neck. He wore a pair of khaki pants and a yellow T-shirt with some sort of lettering on it, hard to read now because it was mottled with brown stains.
“Who is he?” I asked.
“I do not know,” said Pepe. “All I know is we must get out of here! Something stinks about this situation, and it is not just the smell of death.” He wrinkled his nose expressively.
A gun lay a few inches from the man’s right hand. “This must be the murder weapon,” I said, picking it up.
“Do not touch that!” said Pepe. “Do you not know anything about crime-scene investigation?”
Too late. It was already in my hand.
“How do you know about crime-scene investigation?” I asked, turning the gun over to examine it.
“I am a big fan of TV crime shows,” he said. “CSI. Forensic Files. I watch them all. CSI: Miami is the best. Now put that down!”
But before I could put it back, somebody behind me yelled, “Drop it, lady!”
“Set it down nice and slow,” another voice commanded.
I turned and saw two uniformed policemen. Both had pistols trained on me.
“I said drop it!”
Without even thinking, I did as they said. The gun slid from my grasp and fell onto the glass coffee table, which shattered into a million pieces.
“Policía . . .” I heard Pepe mutter as he slunk underneath the sofa.
In no time, the police had put me in handcuffs. They had taken a quick look at the corpse and then called for backup. Soon the room was full of policemen, four or five in blue uniforms, two in suits, and three or four in white jumpsuits and blue paper booties. A pair of detectives (the ones in suits) took me into the dining room, which was just as huge as the living room, but all done up in gold, from the gilded coffered ceiling to the bronze satin on the chair seats. I shuddered to think about the rest of the color scheme in the house. I was willing to bet there was a bathroom done all in shades of purple.
One of the men looked a bit like my father, with his wire rim glasses and thinning brown hair combed over a bald spot. He wore a rumpled navy suit. The other one was a handsome black man with a shiny, shaved head. His suit was gray, paired with a blue silk shirt and silver cufflinks. The older man said his name was Detective Earl Larson; the other guy was Detective Kevin Sanders.
“Did you find Mrs. Tyler?” I asked. It occurred to me that she might be somewhere in the house, perhaps in one of the upper rooms, as dead as her husband. (I had learned from overhearing snippets of conversation that the body in the living room belonged to David Tyler). But the police had fanned out and searched the house and grounds without finding any other bodies or any trace of Rebecca Tyler. “She was supposed to be here.”
“Why were you meeting her?” Larson wanted to know.
“I’m a private investigator,” I said. I didn’t want to say more. I knew from reading detective novels that PIs had the right to keep their conversations with their clients private, just like priests and lawyers.
Larson asked to see my license.
“I don’t have one yet,” I explained. “I was just hired. This is my first assignment.”
“Who’s your boss?”
“Jimmy Gerrard of the Gerrard Agency.”
“Why isn’t he here?”
“He’s in Portland right now, working on anot
her case.” I thought it sounded good that he had trusted me with such an important assignment. But Larson shook his head. I could tell he didn’t believe me.
“We’re going to have to take you down to the precinct for questioning,” he said. Sanders motioned for me to get up, and they walked me towards the front door, one on each side as if they were afraid I was going to make a dash for it.
“I’m not leaving without my dog,” I said. I hadn’t seen Pepe since the police had first burst into the room.
“What dog?” Sanders asked.
“He’s a little white Chihuahua,” I said. “He was in the living room with me. Maybe you missed him because he’s the same color as the room.” That was supposed to be a joke but apparently they didn’t think it was funny. It’s one of my faults, at least according to my ex, that I tend to make jokes when they’re not appropriate.
Sanders went into the living room and talked to some of the other men there. A man with a large camera was wandering around, taking photos of the shattered coffee table and the gun.
One of the guys in the white jumpsuits pulled aside one of the white satin curtains and came up with a small white object. He held it in front of him with gloved hands, as if it were contaminated.
It was Pepe! I could tell he wasn’t happy. He pedaled his feet in the air, as if trying to find firm ground.
“That’s my dog!” I said, rushing towards him. But Larson blocked my way.
The photographer stepped forward and snapped a photo. The flash went off in Pepe’s face and he flinched.
“You can’t touch him, ma’am,” the technician said. “He’s evidence.” He pointed to Pepe’s paws, which were caked with blood. “We’re going to have to take him to the lab to be processed.”
“No way, José!” I heard Pepe mutter. He squirmed around and bit the technician on the wrist. The man dropped him with a cry of pain, and Pepe hit the floor, making his own little yelp as he landed. Then he dashed between Larson’s legs and darted out through the open front door.
Chapter 4
I dashed toward the door, but Larson and Sanders kept pace with me. Sanders grabbed me by the elbow just as I was about to plunge off the front porch.
“Catch that dog!” Larson shouted as Pepe scuttled through the high yew hedge that bordered the yard.
One of the policemen made an attempt to penetrate the hedge, but he couldn’t part the heavy branches. Another cop, noticing the delay, took off around the hedge, but he came back a few minutes later, shaking his head. “That pooch is gone,” he said.
“That’s my new dog,” I said. “I just got him today.” I turned to Sanders whose fingers were pinching my elbow. “I’ve got to go after him. He doesn’t know his way around Seattle. He’s from L.A.”
He rolled his eyes but called one of the uniform cops over. “Have your guys canvas the neighborhood. We need to know if any of the neighbors heard or saw anything out of the ordinary. And tell them to keep an eye out for the dog.”
“But warn them, he’s vicious,” said the technician, who had come out on the porch and was holding his wrist.
“Go and have that looked at,” said Larson.
“Probably need a rabies shot,” the technician muttered as he headed towards the red-and-white emergency vehicle that idled on the street. It was too late to be of any use to David Tyler.
“He’s current on his vaccinations,” I called out as he passed by. Just then, a sleek, black Lincoln Town Car drove up the street and coasted to a slow stop beside the cluster of blue and white squad cars in front of the house. A woman got out of the car and came rushing up to the yellow crime-scene tape that cordoned off the front yard.
“Who’s in charge here?” she asked. A tall, slender woman with long, dark hair, she wore a pale blue linen blouse, which beautifully set off her tan. Combined with her beige linen skirt and gold high heels, she looked dressed for Beverly Hills, not Seattle. Which turned out to be the case.
“I’m in charge,” said Larson, heading down the stairs to meet her. “Who are you?”
“I’m Rebecca Tyler,” she said impatiently. “I live here. What’s going on? Was there a burglary?”
Surely she knew the police didn’t use crime-scene tape for burglaries. Even I knew that, although I was only a private detective in training.
“You’re just the person we need to talk to,” said Larson. He motioned for Sanders to bring me over. “This woman claims she was supposed to meet you here.”
Rebecca looked me over. I could see the disdain in her startlingly blue eyes as she scanned me from the tips of my scuffed black cowboy boots peeking out from under my jeans to the hand-crocheted beret crammed over my unruly curls. A tall man in a dark suit had gotten out of the Town Car and was opening the trunk.
“I certainly didn’t have an appointment with this woman,” she said. “I don’t even know who she is.”
“I’m Geri Sullivan—” I started to say, but Sanders stopped me.
“Don’t say anything,” he said.
“Besides, I’ve been out of town,” said Rebecca. “I’ve been in L.A. meeting with studio executives. So I couldn’t possibly have made an appointment to meet her.”
As if to back up her claim, the driver approached with two large blue suitcases that matched the color of Rebecca’s blouse. I was impressed. I had never thought of coordinating my attire with my luggage.
“Where should I put these, ma’am?” he asked.
“Let me get this straightened out,” said Rebecca. She turned to Larson. “Who is she? And what’s going on here?”
I tried again. “Geri Sullivan,” I said. Perhaps Jimmy Gerrard hadn’t passed along my name. “I work for the Gerrard Detective Agency.”
She looked like she was trying to frown but couldn’t manage it. “Never heard of them,” she said. She turned back to Larson. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“Ma’am, I have some bad news for you,” he said, his voice soft. “I think we should talk about this in private.”
Her smooth composure cracked. “Oh, no!” she cried out. “He can’t do this to me! Not now!”
Larson put his arm around her shoulders and steered her towards the house. The guy with the suitcases followed. Sanders delivered me to one of the uniformed policemen and told him to take me to the East Precinct station. I tried to object, but they told me they could hold me as a material witness at the very least. It was raining as we drove away. I began crying as I thought of Pepe out there alone, cold and lost.
They put me in a little interview room with several orange plastic chairs and a linoleum-covered table bolted to the wall. They removed the cuffs and brought me a cup of bad coffee.
I used my cell phone to call Jimmy Gerrard, but his voice mail picked up. “You’ve got to get me out of here,” I said. “I’m about to be arrested.” I thought about calling someone else, but who? My sister would just sniff at me and tell me it was probably my fault. My ex would laugh. Anyway, his fiancée would probably answer the phone. Amber had an annoying habit of forgetting to tell him I had called.
Every once in a while one of the detectives would come in and pepper me with questions. They asked me what I was doing at the Tyler residence. They asked about the location of the gun. They asked about my affiliation with the Gerrard Agency. I kept asking them if they had found my dog.
They seemed really puzzled by Pepe.
“Tell me again why you brought your dog with you,” Sanders was saying, when the door flew open and a tall, imposing man entered the room. He had broad shoulders and a pale, round face, with a hint of five o’clock shadow around his jowls. He wore a black hat and a long, black wool coat.
“I’m Sherman Foot,” he said, holding out his hand to Sanders. “I’ve been hired to represent Miss Sullivan.”
“Don’t say another word,” he said to me.
Then he turned back to Sanders and asked, “Are you charging my client?”
Sanders shook his head. “She’s free to go.�
��
“Fine. We’re leaving,” Foot said to me.
“Just don’t leave town,” Sanders said.
Foot offered me a ride back to my car, which was still at the Tyler residence. He had a very nice black Lexus.
“How did I become your client?” I asked as I slid into the front passenger seat.
“Mr. Gerrard called me and told me of your plight,” he said. “I’m his personal lawyer.”
“Thank God,” I said. “They didn’t seem to believe me when I said I worked for the Gerrard Agency.”
“Well, that is a problem,” he said, as we took off into the night. The car practically purred. The rain had stopped but the streets still glistened. He drove slowly as if he had all the time in the world.
“Why is it a problem?” I asked.
“Well, technically you don’t work for the Gerrard Agency.”
“That’s not true. Jimmy hired me!”
“I don’t work for James. I work for Stewart Gerrard.”
“Who’s that?”
“Stewart actually owns the agency. James is his employee. So if Stewart says you don’t work for the Gerrard Agency, well then, you don’t work for the Gerrard Agency.”
I pondered that as the big, black car nosed up the hill.
“James should not have sent you out without proper training. So Stewart will have to deny that you have any connection with the agency.”
“He can’t do that!”
“You’ve got to understand. Stewart must protect his business investments.”
“But what about me?”
“Stewart will take care of you. That’s why I’m here.”
I didn’t like the sound of that at all.
“So what’s my defense?”
“You don’t need a defense,” Foot said. “You didn’t commit any crime. Did you?”
I was about to reply, when he cut me off. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. We’ll come up with a plausible story that fits the facts.”
“I don’t want to come up with a plausible story,” I said. “I want to tell the truth.”
Dial C for Chihuahua Page 2
