Dog On It (17 page)

“Damon Keefer’s the dad. He’s a developer in the North Valley, looks rich to me.”

“What developments has he done?”

“In the past? I don’t know, but right now he’s finishing something called Pinnacle Peak Homes at Puma Wells. He’s fussy about getting the name right.”

“They’re all like that,” Suzie said. “I’ve done hundreds of developer stories.” She shifted her feet under the table, came within a hair of brushing against one of Bernie’s. “Maybe I could help in some way.”

“Oh, no,” Bernie said, “I’d never . . .” And then he paused.

“What?” said Suzie.

Bernie shook his head.

“I have this rule,” Suzie said. “Once you start saying something, you have to finish.”

Bernie laughed. His foot shot out and banged one of hers pretty hard. “Oh, sorry.” He jerked his foot back.

“No problem,” she said, rubbing her hurt foot with the other one. “Out with it, Bernie.”

Bernie went still. This stillness—was it because she’d called him by name? Bernie is a very nice name, my second favorite. “Fair enough,” he said. “It’s probably nothing. Almost certainly. But in this business, you get into the habit of checking up.”

“In mine, too,” Suzie said. “Checking up on what?”

“Keefer took a phone call. I couldn’t really hear, but it sounded unpleasant. He said it was his irrigation supplier, whatever that is.”

“But you didn’t believe him?”

“I wasn’t sure.”

“Who did you think it was?”

“No idea.”

“Something to do with Madison?”

Bernie didn’t answer.

“You don’t want to say it out loud?” she said.

He grinned, for a moment looked like a kid—in fact, a lot like Charlie.

“Tell you what,” Suzie said. “Why don’t I do the checking up on the irrigation supplier?”

“Tell
you
what,” Bernie said. “Why don’t we do it together?”

“Deal,” Suzie said.

“Great,” said Bernie, making some gesture with his hand that ended up knocking over Suzie’s glass, spilling wine all over her. I closed my eyes.

Sometimes Bernie sang in the shower. Bernie singing in the shower meant things were going good. He had three shower songs, “Your Cheatin’ Heart,” “Born in the U.S.A.,” and “Bompity Bompity Bompity Bomp Blue Moon Blue Blue Blue Blue Moon,” my favorite, which was what he was singing now. The problem was things weren’t going good, not with the Madison Chambliss case. That was our job, the Madison Chambliss case, finding her and bringing her back safe—so why was Bernie singing? I nosed the bathroom door open and went in.

Love bathrooms. I’ll say that straight out. I’ve had a lot of fun in bathrooms. We’ve got two, one without a shower, by the front door, and the other in the hall between the two bedrooms. Water puddled the floor here and there, as always after Bernie’s showers. I lapped some up and noticed that Bernie was standing in a strange way in front of the mirror, twisted around and peering over his shoulder.

“Christ,” he said. “I’m getting back hair.”

So? What was wrong with that? I’ve got back hair, lots of it, thick and glossy, and no one’s ever done anything but praise it.

“Why now, out of the blue?” he said, reaching for a razor. “Women hate back hair.”

They did? Females of my kind—well, let’s just leave it this way—had no problems with my physical appearance. My mind wandered to the unknown she-barker somewhere across the canyon. Bernie, in an awkward position, reached down his back with the razor. I couldn’t watch.

“Let’s go in your car,” Suzie said. “It’s so cool.”

“This old thing?” said Bernie, but I could tell he was pleased from the way his shoulders rose a little. We got in—Bernie behind the wheel, and then there was an odd moment when Suzie and I both went for the shotgun seat.

Suzie laughed and said, “I’ll get in the back.”

Not much of a backseat, really, in the old Porsche, impossible to get comfortable. Maybe I even felt the tiniest bit guilty, but bottom line—who always rode shotgun?

Bernie touched her arm. “No, no,” he said. “C’mon, Chet, squeeze in back.”

Squeeze in back? He was talking to me? I didn’t move. In fact, a little more than that: I did this making-myself-immovable thing I can do, tensing all my muscles.

“Haven’t seen that in a while,” Bernie said. “When he goes all mulish.”

Mulish? What a thing to say, a new low, no doubt about it. But in a standoff like this, didn’t someone have to take the high road? I squeezed into the tiny space—me, a hundred-plus-pounder—and turned my attention to whatever was going on outside the back window, which was nothing.

Suzie got in front. Bernie turned the key.

“I just love the rumble of your engine,” Suzie said. “The way it—”

I loved that, too, but engine rumble was not what we were hearing. Instead came a high-pitched whir-whir-whir, a noise that gave me this weird writhing feeling from deep inside my ears all down my neck, a noise we were hearing a bit too much lately in the Porsche, me and Bernie.

Bernie tried again and again, cranking that key harder and harder. Nothing happened except the whir-whir-whir got weaker and weaker. Machines and what went on inside them: a complete mystery to me—and to a lot of humans, too, a fact that kind of surprised me at first. Soon Bernie said, “Damn,” which was not what he usually said at times like this, flung open his door, and popped the hood. From there, everything played out in the usual way—clanging, muttering, swearing, metal parts falling free and rolling under the car, wisps of rising smoke, hood slamming shut, smudge of grease on Bernie’s face, call to AAA. We piled into Suzie’s car, Suzie behind the wheel, me riding shotgun, Bernie steaming in the back, arms folded across his chest. Things have a way of turning out for the best: That’s my core belief.

“That must be it,” Suzie said. “Just past Home Depot.” She pointed up ahead. Hey! I’d seen this place before—a huge waterfall in front of a low building—and always wanted to pay a visit. All of a sudden I was thirsty, needed to stick my tongue in that waterfall right away. Suzie read the sign: “‘Water Water Everywhere, One-Stop Shopping for All Your Irrigation Needs.’ Cute name.”

“Huh?” said Bernie.

“From the poem,” Suzie said, losing me fast.

And maybe Bernie, too. “This is a goddamn desert,” he said. “There’s no water water everywhere, and there never was. Why is that so hard to remember?”

Suzie glanced at him in her mirror, a glance that made me uneasy, as though she thought there might be something a little not right with Bernie. But how could that be possible? I worried for a moment or two—I wanted Bernie to be happy, went without saying—but then we were parked and out of the car, all of this—poems, rearview glances—forgotten, and me on a fast trot to the base of the waterfall. Ah. Cold and frothy, simply delicious.

A man with a clipboard came out of the building, gave me a funny look—like what? he was afraid I was going to drink up his whole waterfall?—then turned to Bernie. “I’m Myron King, owner,” he said. “Help you with something?”

“Ever sold one of these waterfalls, Myron?” Bernie said.

Bernie was a great interviewer. One of his best skills, a skill that had cracked a lot of cases for us—will I ever forget “then how do you explain that safe on your back?”—but I could tell from the expression on Myron’s face that this interview was off to a bad start.

“You offering to buy?” Myron said.

Bernie blew air through his closed lips, making them flap in a way I always enjoyed, but it was never a good sign. I sensed things about to go off the rails, had a sudden urge to go off the rails, too, perhaps by lifting my leg right over Myron’s tassel loafer—crazy, I know. At that moment Suzie stepped in.

“We’re still in the research stage,” she said.

“Researching what?”

“Irrigation requirements for a housing development centered around a golf course.”

Bernie gave her a quick look, eyebrows rising.

“Whereabouts?” said Myron.

“Not at liberty to say just yet,” Suzie told him.

Myron nodded, one of those nods that said: You’re dealing
with a shrewd character. My guys were never shrewd, but I knew shrewdness: plenty of shrewdness out in the wild—take foxes, for example. According to Bernie, shrewd was smart’s screwed-up brother, whatever that meant. “Haven’t closed on the land yet?” Myron said.

“Something like that,” said Suzie.

“Meaning you’re looking at water supply from scratch, surveys, design, installation?”

“That’s right.”

“How many units?” Myron said.

Suzie hesitated. Bernie said, “We’re thinking along the lines of this place we saw the other day.”

Now it was Suzie giving Bernie a quick look—as though . . . as though they were getting their timing right, teaming up. Impossible, of course. The team was me and Bernie.

“What place was that?” Myron said.

“Remember the name?” said Bernie.

“Who could forget?” Suzie said. That made Bernie smile. “Pinnacle Peak Homes at Puma Wells,” she said.

Myron’s expression changed; he looked like he’d chewed on a lemon. I’d tried that
once
. “Good luck to you,” he said.

“Oh?” said Bernie.

“You’ll need it, if that’s your model.”

“Something wrong with Pinnacle Peak Homes at Puma Wells?” Suzie said.

Myron turned away and made a spitting sound with his mouth, although no spit came out. Spitting was something I liked a lot, could have made good use of myself, but dry spitting made no sense to me.

“Care to expand on that?” Bernie said.

“Huh?” said Myron.

“My partner means,” said Suzie, “is the irrigation at Pinnacle Peak not up to your standards?”

“Hell, no,” Myron said. “State-of-the-art—one of my own jobs, designed it personally, even ran a tunnel clear under the sixteenth fairway to tap in to those original wells, what’s left of them. There’ll be nothing greener than that golf course in the whole state.”

Something I never want to see with Bernie is when this vein right in the middle of his forehead starts throbbing. The only times I’ve seen it, bad things happened soon after. And it was throbbing now. Suzie seemed to notice out of the corner of her eye. She said, “Sounds like a smart idea, Myron. So what was the problem?”

“The problem?” Bernie said, voice rising. “The problem with tunneling—” He cut himself off. I almost missed Suzie stepping on his foot, very quick.

“The problem?” Myron said. “My bills going unpaid—or isn’t that a problem where you come from?”

“The worst,” Bernie said, that blue vein settling down now, almost invisible.

Myron gazed at Bernie, gave another little nod, the kind indicating they were on the same page at last, could even become buddies. That meant he wasn’t really on top of the situation. Didn’t he know how close he’d come to ending up in that waterfall? I was still hoping.

“Damn straight,” Myron said. “The worst. What am I supposed to do—rip all my pipes up out of the ground?”

Bernie was about to answer, but before he could, Suzie said, “Of course not. But isn’t it like building a house—don’t you get an advance and then partial payments along the way?”

“Yeah,” said Myron. “Normally.”

“But in this case?” said Bernie.

“Oh, I got the advance all right. And a couple of partials after that. But little glitches kept happening.”

“Like?”

“Like with money quote due any day from a bank in Costa Rica. And the guy’s one of those smooth talkers, very believable.”

“The developer?” said Suzie.

“Name of Keefer,” Myron said. “A smooth talker, but now he won’t even take my calls. Never again, boys and girls.”

Bernie and Suzie exchanged a quick glance. “Wow,” said Suzie.

“Actually stopped taking your calls?” Bernie said.

“Haven’t spoken to the jerk in three weeks,” Myron said.

“Is that a fact?” Bernie said.

“Think I’d make this up?” said Myron. “My lawyer’s slapping liens upside his head and down. Thank Christ it all blew up before we installed Splashorama.”

“Splashorama?”

Myron pointed to the waterfall. “You’re looking at two hundred and fifty grand. Plus tax. Makes a statement, boys and girls. But I can show you a scaled-down version if this baby’s too rich for your blood.”

“Fuck you,” Bernie said when we were back in Suzie’s car, same sitting arrangement as before, maybe because I’d hopped in first.

“I’m sorry?” said Suzie.

“That’s the statement his waterfall makes,” Bernie said. “The aquifer’s almost dry. Rivers used to flow through the Valley, all the way to the Gulf. Now there’s not even a trickle. And why?”

Silence. Bernie was upset, the water thing again. I didn’t get it. We had waterfalls! “Too many goddamn people, that’s why,” he said. “And they keep coming, like . . . like a dry flood.”

Too many people? I didn’t get that, either. Except for perps,
gangbangers, and other bad dudes, I liked people, the more the merrier. And they liked me!

“Can I quote you?” Suzie said.

“Quote me?”

“That dry-flood idea—might be useful in a piece someday.”

“It’s all yours,” Bernie said.

Suzie gave Bernie a glance in the mirror. Human eyes had a way of looking foggy when thoughts were happening inside, complicated human thoughts that always seemed to stop the fun, in my opinion. “So where are we?” she said.

“We?” said Bernie.

“With the case.”

“Oh,” said Bernie. “The case.” He took a deep breath through his nose; I loved that sound. “One of those obvious discrepancies. Keefer says he had a phone conversation with his irrigation guy yesterday. The irrigation guy says Keefer stopped taking his calls three weeks ago.”

“And therefore, partner?”

Bernie laughed. Whoa. Partner? What was she talking about? I was the partner. I turned my head, nipped a little bit at the material on the inside of her door, stopped when I realized it was vinyl, not leather. How could that be? The dashboard was leather; I remembered from when I’d pawed at it before. I didn’t understand the car business at all. And the taste of vinyl? Don’t get me started.