Three More Dogs in a Row

by Neil Plakcy

  I began a steady chatter to Rochester. “Come on, boy, time to go pee-pee,” I said. “Doesn’t this place smell good? Please? Go peepee for Papa?”

  As we got closer, I noticed that the guy standing by the garage had an artificial leg. Well, that meant he wasn’t Owen.

  Rochester strained to go over to him, but I pulled him back. A light popped on in an upstairs room, and I wondered if that was Owen, looking for something. If so, then was this guy in the yard Striker?

  A couple of things came together all at once. When I was at the Brotherhood Center, I’d been introduced to a guy with tattoo-filled arms and an artificial leg who said he knew DeAndre, though only to say hello to. His name was Jimmy, I remembered. Jimmy, short for James. And James was Striker’s first name.

  I stole another glance at the guy by the garage. He wore a T-shirt, but I could see lots of tattoos on his arms. I knew it was an assumption, but my brain was telling me that this had to be the elusive Striker. I’d never gotten a look at him when he was helping Owen move furniture, or I could have been sure.

  So where was the uniform Rick had promised to send? Where was he?

  I checked the display on my cell phone. I’d only called him seven minutes before, though it seemed a lot longer. I took a deep breath and moved a few feet farther down the street with Rochester.

  We were directly across from the townhouse by then, in front of one on my side of the street that was currently unoccupied. I nudged Rochester into the driveway and he took the hint, tugging me up toward the gate that led into the house’s courtyard. My heart began hammering as I walked up and opened the gate, trying to appear nonchalant.

  I didn’t look back until I was already inside the darkened courtyard. Striker was still standing by the house, though as I watched he dropped his cigarette butt to the ground and crushed it under the heel of his good leg.

  Rochester sat on his butt next to me as I pulled my cell phone out again and called Rick. “I’m in the courtyard of the townhouse across from the Keelys,” I said, keeping my voice low. “It looks like Owen’s in the house, upstairs. I think maybe the guy outside is Striker.”

  “I couldn’t get a uniform to respond,” Rick said. “There’s a problem at the Drunken Hessian and the two guys on patrol in this area are both there. The other two are out in the country somewhere on a DUI.”

  “Where are you?”

  “On my way. Should be at Quarry Road in about five.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on them.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid, Steve,” Rick said.

  “The name’s Joe Hardy, remember?”

  He snorted and hung up. When I looked at the house again, the light in the upstairs window winked out.

  Rochester sprawled on the ground next to me. I stood just behind the courtyard gate in the shadows. It seemed like every second took at least a minute to pass. The front door across the street opened, and in the glow of the motion-sensored outside light, I recognized Owen Keely. He had an Army-style duffle bag over his shoulder.

  He walked quickly across the lawn and out of range of the light. It shut off as Striker joined him at the curbside. The two of them began walking up Sarajevo Court toward my house.

  As quietly as I could, I opened the courtyard gate of the empty house. Rochester scrambled up to his feet and joined me as we walked back toward home.

  “We ought to go out and party,” Owen said. “After all the shit we’ve been through.”

  “No party,” Striker said. “We’re just going to lie low until we sell that shit from the church. Then we’ll celebrate.”

  “You are such a pussy,” Owen said, and he punched Striker in the arm. Striker just kept walking.

  The mailboxes for our chunk of River Bend were located at the far end of the street, and there were a half-dozen guest parking spaces there. I assumed that’s where Striker had left his car. If I could stay behind him and Owen until they reached there, at least I could give Rick the license plate and a description of the car.

  All the townhouses along Sarajevo Court have outside lights, though many homeowners keep them off to save on electricity. Some, like the Keelys, have motion detectors so the lights wink on when a person or a car passes. Staying in the shadows myself, I was able to keep an eye on Owen and Striker as they moved quickly down the street.

  I couldn’t hear what Owen said, but he punched Striker in the arm again. This time, Striker whirled on him and I heard him say, “Did you do a bump while you were in the house?”

  “Just to take the edge off,” Owen whined.

  “Dude, I told you you can’t do that shit. Not if you’re going to stay with me.”

  Rochester knows our house, and usually as we approach he pulls to turn in at the driveway, ready to get inside, drink some water, and sprawl on the tile floor with one of his toys. But that night he continued straight ahead, as if he knew we were following the two men, not just out for a late-night walk.

  “You better be good to me, dude,” Owen said, accenting the last word. “I know what you did to DeAndre.”

  Sarajevo Court makes a left turn just before the small grassy island that holds the mailboxes. The dogleg allows for the placement of one row of guest parking spots. But, as I’d noted many times when walking Rochester, the configuration of the houses, and the fact that there was no streetlight near the mailboxes, left a patch of darkness at the end of the street.

  I often pushed Rochester to walk quickly through that area. On nights like this one, when there was no moonlight, I couldn’t see whatever it was he stopped to sniff, and I didn’t want him to get hold of something not allowed, like a candy bar wrapper or a discarded paper towel. I worried myself about stepping in something.

  My cell phone buzzed. “I’m coming in the gate now,” Rick said. “Where are you?”

  “Following them toward guest parking at the end of Sarajevo Court.

  “I’m almost there.”

  Owen and Striker entered the dark space and I lost them. There’s a small park just behind the mailboxes, and a row of guest spots behind that. I worried that they might be able to get to a car, and get away, before I could cross the park.

  Rochester strained forward, and I let him have his head, hurrying behind with but still holding tight to his leash. He turned for the mailboxes but instead of stopping to sniff around the stanchions, as he usually did, he went right for the park area behind them.

  I heard them before I saw them. I reined Rochester in as the two men came in sight. They were both on the ground, and watching them was like seeing a mixed martial arts fight on a TV with bad reception. One got hold of the other around the neck; there was punching, kicking, and wriggling.

  I edged closer, trying to hear what the two men were saying to each other. What had provoked this fight when they were so close to escape? Was it the cocaine?

  “You’re not cutting me out of this, asshole,” Owen said, panting, as he squirmed around in Striker’s embrace. “This was my deal.”

  “Fuck that,” Striker said, his voice equally labored. “You just lucked into this from that dimwit DeAndre. And you didn’t give a damn when I knocked him out of the picture.”

  “He was my friend,” Owen said. “I couldn’t leave him there on the ground.”

  “So you buried him. Big fucking deal. You’re soft, Keely. Always have been. You’re just a damn junkie.”

  “And you’re not?” Owen said. “You turned me on to the shit in the first place.”

  “Yeah, but I kicked it.” Striker reared back and aimed a roundhouse kick at Owen’s midsection. Owen flew backwards and I heard his body hit the pavement with a sickening thud. Striker jumped onto him and grabbed his head.

  Headlights approached from behind us, illuminating Striker straddling Owen, banging his head against the pavement. Even though I thought Owen Keely was a colossal asshole, I couldn’t stand there and watch him get killed. “Get off him!” I yelled.

  Rochester and I began to run toward Owen and St
riker. Blood streamed from Owen’s head. Striker looked up at me and there was something in his eyes that reminded me of a wild animal.

  He leapt off Owen and took off toward the parked cars. Rick roared his truck to a stop and jumped out. “Police!” he yelled. “Hold it right there!”

  Striker ignored him. Rochester strained at his leash, trying to get away from me and take down the bad guy, but I held tight. I wasn’t letting him get anywhere near Striker, not with that crazy look in his eyes.

  Rochester tried to fake me out, darting to the right, but I held on tight. He was so strong, though, that he pulled me along behind him. I couldn’t plant my feet enough to stop him, and I didn’t want to try and grab more of the leash for fear I might lose my grip.

  Striker jumped into a beat-up old sedan and turned on the ignition. As it roared to life, Rick got close to him and pulled out his gun. Striker put the car in reverse and hit the gas, rocketing backwards from the parking space. I dove into the flowerbed on the other side of the street from the mailboxes, pulling Rochester with me, as the car roared toward us.

  Rick fired his gun in what sounded like a series of small explosions. When I looked up I saw the Chevy veering crazily as the two driver’s side tires went flat. I sat up, still holding tight to Rochester’s leash. Striker leapt out of the car and took off at a run away from Rick.

  He was going to run right past me. I didn’t think; I just ran on instinct, and I hoped that Rochester would, too. I pulled the tennis ball from my pocket, and threw it directly in Striker’s path.

  As it bounced once, Rochester took off. I jumped up, holding tight to his leash, and the ball flew across Striker’s path. Rochester had forgotten about the bad guy in his eagerness to get the ball, and he raced right past.

  Striker saw the taut leash blocking his path, but it was too late for him to stop. He tripped over it and went flying to the pavement.

  Rochester’s leash flew out of my hand as he rushed ahead and retrieved the tennis ball. Rick ran up to Striker and slapped a pair of handcuffs on him as he was still on the ground. I caught up to Rochester and scratched below his chin. “Good doggie,” I said.

  32 – Hardly Boys

  I dialed 911 and requested an ambulance for Owen as Rick called in for backup. I told Rochester to sit, and knelt beside Owen, who was moaning in pain. “Ambulance is on its way,” I said. “Just hold on for a few minutes.” The blood was pouring out of his head, and I took off my shirt and created a makeshift bandage, applying pressure to the wound.

  A couple of neighbors came out to see what was going on, including a slim blonde named Kelly Vincent who had a schnauzer Rochester liked to play with. She was some kind of doctor, and as soon as she saw Owen she ran back into her house and returned a moment later with a medical kit. She took over from me, and I stood up, feeling dizzy.

  Rochester came over to me, sniffing at my blood-covered hands. A state police car arrived a few minutes later in response to Rick’s call for backup, and then the two cops who’d been busy at The Drunken Hessian showed up, along with an ambulance for Owen.

  Striker had hit his head on the pavement too, which I thought was a kind of poetic justice, though his wound wasn’t nearly as severe as Owen’s. Once the uniforms had taken Striker into custody, Rick came over to me. “You look like shit,” he said.

  I was shirtless, and there was blood on my hands and my chest—either Owen’s, or my own, from a multitude of cuts and scrapes.

  “Another triumph for the Hardy Boys, huh?” I said, as we watched the patrol car drive away, its lights strobing the darkness.

  “We’re hardly boys,” he said. “And you’re not even a cop. How do you keep getting yourself into these situations?”

  “Blame it on the dog,” I said. “He’s the one who found DeAndre’s body in the first place.”

  I related to Rick the conversation I’d overheard between Owen and Striker. “If Owen hadn’t done that bump of cocaine, he probably wouldn’t have lashed out at Striker, and they could have made a clean getaway.”

  “I have to track down the Keelys and tell them about Owen,” Rick said.

  “I hope this is the wakeup call he needs to turn his life around,” I said.

  “Awake or asleep, he’s going to prison.”

  I wondered how long that word, prison, would create such a visceral reaction for me. “I ought to get cleaned up,” I said. “Come on, Rochester. You deserve a treat.”

  Back home, I took a long hot shower, dressed my cuts and scrapes. After a couple of pain pills I was able to get to sleep.

  It was about noon on Saturday when Rick called me. “Turned Striker over to the Feds as part of their investigation into the thefts of those religious objects,” he said. “Tony Rinaldi will have to work out with them how to charge him for DeAndre’s murder. I have a few charges to place against him myself, but they’ll have to wait.” He paused. “I’m at The Chocolate Ear. You want to come down here?”

  “I can be there in ten.” I took Rochester out for a quick pee, then loaded him in the car for the trip downtown.

  Rick was sitting at a square table on the sidewalk when Rochester and I walked up. He looked like he hadn’t been to bed yet—his brown hair was tousled, and there were puffy places under his eyes. I felt guilty for getting a good night’s sleep—but then, as he had pointed out, he was the cop, not me.

  Gail came outside and I ordered a café mocha and a Napoleon. I thought the pastry was particularly appropriate given the case’s connections to Bonaparte.

  “Put it on my tab, Gail,” Rick said.

  She agreed and said she’d bring the pastry out with the coffee when it was ready.

  I sat down across from Rick. “In all the confusion yesterday, I didn’t tell you. The project at Friar Lake is a go, and I still have a job.”

  “That’s good news,” he said. He raised his hand to wave, and when I turned around I saw Lili approaching us. She looked New York-chic in her black capri pants and black tank top. The only bright spot in her outfit came from her hot pink ballet flats, with a matching pink ribbon pulling her hair back into a curly ponytail.

  I got back up and kissed her hello. “What brings you down here?” I asked.

  “Rick called me.”

  I looked over at him, but he was ignoring me, focusing on some paperwork in front of him.

  Gail came out with my coffee and pastry, and Lili ordered an iced tea and a croissant. As Gail walked back inside, I expected to hear more from Lili, but she just sat down and put her hand on Rochester’s head. “How’s my good boy?” she asked him and I felt a momentary pang of jealousy.

  He looked up and snuffled her hand. I looked from Lili to Rick, but neither of them said anything. “What’s going on?” I asked.

  The café door opened, and Gail returned with Lili’s order. When she had gone back inside, Rick said, “It’s called an intervention.” His face was grim, his lips tight.

  I looked from him to Lili. She looked more sad than anything else. “Rick and I have been talking,” she said. “You’ve got to stop the computer hacking, Steve. It’s too dangerous, and I want to be sure you’re going to be around for a long time.”

  “But,” I began.

  “Save it,” Rick said. “I’ve heard it all before. It’s not a problem. You can control it. And you’re not hurting anybody.”

  I took a deep breath, and let it out. Rick was right; those were the things I would have said. I figured I had two choices at that point. I could listen to that little devil perched on my shoulder who kept telling me that I could control my computer use. That would mean getting up and walking away from The Chocolate Ear, sacrificing my friendship with Rick and my budding relationship with Lili.

  Or I could listen to these two people, who had cared enough about me to take drastic measures.

  They both were quiet. The only noise was the low hum of some French pop music from inside the café, and the traffic along Main Street.

  I broke off a piece of Lili
’s croissant and handed it to Rochester. Then I looked up at my two friends. “How do I get started?” I asked.

  Reviews for the Golden Retriever Mysteries:

  Mr. Plakcy did a terrific job in this cozy mystery. He had a smooth writing style that kept the story flowing evenly. The dialogue and descriptions were right on target.

  --Red Adept

  Steve and Rochester become quite a team and Neil Plakcy is the kind of writer that I want to tell me this story. It's a fun read which will keep you turning pages very quickly.

  Amos Lassen – Amazon top 100 reviewer

  We who love our dogs know that they are wiser than we are, and Plakcy captures that feeling perfectly with the relationship between Steve and Rochester.

  -- Christine Kling, author of Circle of Bones

  In Dog We Trust is a very well-crafted mystery that kept me guessing up until Steve figured out where things were going. --E-book addict reviews

  Reformed computer hacker Steve Levitan still gets a thrill from snooping into places online where he shouldn’t be. When his golden retriever Rochester discovers a human bone at the Friends Meeting during the Harvest Days festival, these two unlikely sleuths are plunged into another investigation.

  They will uncover uncomfortable secrets about their small town’s past as they dig deep into the Vietnam War era, when local Quakers helped draft resisters move through Stewart’s Crossing on their way to Canada. Does that bone Rochester found belong to one of those young men fleeing conscription? Or to someone who knew the secrets that lurked behind those whitewashed walls?

  Steve’s got other problems, too. His girlfriend Lili wants to move in with him, and his matchmaking efforts among his friends all seem to be going haywire.

  Whether the death was due to natural causes, or murder, someone in the present wants to keep those secrets hidden. And Steve and Rochester may end up in the crosshairs of a very antique rifle if they can’t dig up the clues quickly enough.