Dog On It (18 page)

“Therefore,” Bernie said. “We look into it.”

“How?”

“One of two ways,” Bernie said. “We could—” His phone rang. The ring on Bernie’s cell phone sounded like those old phones in black-and-white movies we often watched. I liked watching them because black and white was so easy for me to see; as for why Bernie liked them, I wasn’t sure, just knew that if it came to a
choice between black and white and color, he always chose black and white. He listened to the phone for a while, and for no reason I could explain, I knew something was up. Bernie said, “Okay, thanks,” and clicked off. “That was Rick Torres in Missing Persons. Madison Chambliss has been spotted in Vegas. He’s on his way to our place.” Our place, meaning his and mine: home.

Suzie drove us there. They hardly talked the whole way. I was quiet, too. I’d never been to Vegas, only knew it was far away and hated by Bernie. Madison in a high-up window: That picture was very faint in my mind, almost gone. Was that old mine in Las Vegas? That didn’t make sense, but I couldn’t be sure.

We got off the freeway, drove up the canyon, turned onto Mesquite Road. Iggy wasn’t in his window, but a man stood in our front yard, not Rick Torres. This man was tall with shoulder-length hair. He reminded me of a movie star Bernie didn’t like, the name escaping me at the moment, but that wasn’t the important thing. The important thing was that a stranger stood on our property.

“Who’s the pretty boy?” Bernie said.

Suzie’s hands tightened on the wheel. “Oh my God.”

“You know him?” said Bernie.

Suzie nodded.

“Who is he?”

“Dylan McKnight,” Suzie said. “He’s my . . . my ex-boyfriend.”

“Oh,” said Bernie.

“But what’s he doing out?” Suzie said.

“Out of where?”

“Northern State Correctional,” said Suzie. “Eighteen months to two years on a drug violation.”

“Oh?” said Bernie.

Call off your goddamn dog,” said Dylan McKnight.

“He’s territorial,” Bernie said, running across the yard to where I had Dylan McKnight backed up against the tree, and making a grab for my collar. “It’s nothing personal.”

Territorial? Didn’t know that word, a new one on me. But there was nothing complicated about this situation, and it couldn’t have been more personal. Dylan McKnight, a stranger, uninvited—and if I hadn’t missed something, also a jailbird—was on our land! And now he turned out to be one of those humans with a deep fear of me and my kind; always fun to bump up against one of those. No hiding fear like that from me—I could smell it. I bumped up against him again, not too hard.

“I don’t give a shit whether it’s personal,” said Dylan McKnight, possibly trying to climb the tree backward, something I’d never seen.

“C’mon, now, Chet, take it easy,” Bernie said.

I barked one of my most deep-throated barks, fierce and savage, a wonderful sound, even scared me a little bit, which made me do it again, even wilder, like to frighten myself back for frightening
myself. From next door came Iggy’s yip-yip-yip. Were we cooking or what? Iggy was a great pal.

“Chet? For God’s sake! Chet! Sit.”

I sat, quiet and still.

“Everything’s all right,” Bernie said. He patted my head—still a lot of swirling going on in there—and pointed with his chin. “Go on up to the house.”

I went up to the house, watched from the front door. Bernie and Dylan McKnight were standing by the tree. Dylan was giving Bernie an unfriendly look; Bernie’s face was unreadable. That was good, a sign Bernie was in charge. Suzie came toward them from her car. Dylan stepped away from the tree, straightening his clothes.

“Hi, Suze,” he said. “How’re you doing?”

“Me?” she said. “I’m fine. How about you?”

Dylan smiled—he had nice teeth for a human, big and bright, had to give him that—and said, “No complaints.”

Suzie’s whole body stiffened; she didn’t look happy. “Dylan, this is Bernie. Bernie, Dylan.” A human introduction—ours involved sniffing and got to the point much quicker—usually involved handshaking, as maybe I already mentioned, but not this time. Dylan gave Bernie a little nod; Bernie did nothing. Suzie turned to Dylan. “This is a bit of a surprise.”

“Yeah, for me, too,” Dylan said.

“I don’t get you,” said Suzie.

“Nothing new there, babe,” Dylan said, giving her a smile, not big, but cool in the way movie actors smiled sometimes. I’d nailed this dude from the get-go.

Suzie blinked a few times, very fast, always a sign of confusion in humans. “What I was trying to say,” she said, “is aren’t you out a little early?”

“Don’t seem too happy to see me, Suze.”

“You’re not answering the question,” she said.

The smile left his face, but not quickly. Very interesting to watch—had I ever seen that before, a slow fading smile? Not that I remembered. For some reason, it made me want to bite him, bite him good. I glanced over at Bernie and stayed where I was.

“Yeah, I’m out early,” Dylan said. He turned to Bernie. “Been a guest of this great state for a stretch, in case you’re wondering.”

“I’m not.”

“Suze filled you in, huh?” said Dylan. “She’s a sharp girl—or maybe you’re hip to that already?” He paused, giving Bernie a sideways look; Bernie was silent. “The solution to the mystery,” Dylan went on, “is that this great state ran into an overcrowding situation, and a judge had to let a couple hundred of us go before we all got asphyxiated.”

I had trouble understanding that, gave up somewhere in the middle, just knew I wanted to bite him more than ever.

“Your lucky day,” Suze said.

“You know me,” said Dylan. He paused, maybe to let her say something, but she didn’t. “Hope I’m not being nosy,” he said, “but are you and, uh, Bernie here, an item?”

“None of your business,” Suze said. “But the answer’s no.”

I checked on Bernie; he was looking at the ground.

Dylan smiled his big bright smile. “A thousand apologies,” he said. “Any chance you could do me a little favor?”

“How did you even know I’d be here?” Suze said.

“Called the paper.”

“And?”

“And they said you were working on a story about some private eye, gave me this address.”

Bernie’s head turned sharply toward Suze, something I didn’t
see often, a sign of surprise. I spotted a tennis ball near the tree and picked it up.

“Just like that?” Suze was saying. “They gave you the address?”

“Nice gal on the phone,” Dylan said. “And maybe I let the situation seem a tad more urgent than it is, not on purpose, of course.”

“What is the situation?” Suze said.

“I’m relocating,” Dylan said.

“Where to?”

“L.A.,” Dylan said. “Got a job waiting.”

“Doing what?”

“Interesting stuff,” Dylan said. “Flying out today. Thing is, I could use a ride to the airport.”

Suzie glanced around. “How did you get here?”

“Buddy dropped me off.”

Suzie opened her mouth to say something. I can tell when a human is about to say no, had plenty of experience with that, and “no” was coming. But at that moment a police cruiser appeared on our street, slowing down and parking in front of the house. Rick Torres, wearing his uniform, gun on his hip, stepped out.

“All right,” Suzie said to Dylan. “Get in the car.”

“You’re a peach,” he said.

The lemon-eating expression that I’d seen on Myron King’s face now appeared on Suzie’s. What with peaches and lemons, I got confused. “See you, Bernie,” Suzie said.

“Yup,” said Bernie.

They drove off. We all watched them—me, Bernie, Rick Torres.

“Who was that?” Rick said.

“Suzie Sanchez. She’s a reporter for the
Tribune
.”

“The one who did that piece on you?”

“Yeah.”

“We all got a charge out of it, down at the station.”

Bernie said nothing.

“But all the boys agreed she got one thing wrong—Robert Mitchum couldn’t hold a candle to you.”

“Knock it off.”

Rick laughed. “Hey, Chet.” He came over, patted my head. “Don’t care for reporters,” he said.

“No?” said Bernie.

“Always got some secret agenda—can’t trust them, in my experience.”

What was he saying? I trusted Suzie, for sure, one of the most reliable treat sources I’d ever met. I started to back away from Rick, but then he scratched at the base of one of my ears, a perfect spot. That planted me right where I was. Ah, this was the life, although maybe not for Bernie, who was gazing down the empty street, his face not happy. How come? My chances of getting to the bottom of that weren’t good, not with this lovely scratching going on. Rick stopped—too soon, always too soon—and pulled an envelope from his pocket. I gave myself a good shake, unscrambled my head, leaving it all peaceful and quiet inside, actually kind of empty.

Rick handed the envelope to Bernie. Bernie took out a photo from inside and examined it.

“That’s her,” he said. “Madison Chambliss.”

“Taken last night with a cell phone outside a movie theater in North Vegas, the Golden Palm Movie Palace. You can see the ticket window there in the background. Guy who snapped it—projectionist on his way to work—turns out to be a crime buff, saw the photo on some site, maybe ours, and recognized her. Didn’t speak to her, evidently, but he did call the LVPD. They checked out the cell phone—time code’s legit.”

“She was by herself?”

“Looked that way, according to the projectionist. She came walking out of a showing as he was going in.”

Bernie bit his lip. That was something I didn’t see often. Good or bad? I couldn’t tell. “Do her parents know?”

“Yup. I think the mom’s already on her way up there.”

“And the LVPD?”

“They put her on their runaway list.” Rick shook his head, not the headshake meaning “no,” but the one for “not much hope,” a feeling I didn’t understand. “That’s a long one, up in Vegas,” Rick said.

Rick dropped us off at the garage. The Porsche was in the lot, all washed and shiny. Bernie paid the bill, and then we were off to Vegas!

“Starter coil,” Bernie said after a while, possibly not in a mood like mine. “Guess what that costs.”

I had no idea, only knew it wasn’t good or Bernie wouldn’t be worrying. Our finances were a mess. Maybe I’d find a wallet somewhere. That had happened more than once, but they’d always been empty, although wallet leather tasted great. No other moneymaking ideas came to mind. And why was it so important? We ate like kings, had a roof over our heads and the coolest car in the whole Valley. Fresh breeze, warm sun, riding shotgun: My mood brightened again, although a treat would have been nice. I sniffed the air, smelled no treats, not even old moldy ones under the seat. We passed a horse trailer, and I caught a glimpse of a big horse eye through the side slats, got off a quick bark-bark-bark, machine-gun style. Did I spot a flicker of fear in that eye as we zoomed away? Horses were jumpy—what a fun fact!

After that I got sleepy and lay down. Just as I was nodding off,
Bernie muttered, “And we’re not an item, that’s for sure.” Uh-oh: He was worried about all sorts of things. I slipped into dreamland, found myself chasing rabbits right away.

When I woke up, the sun hung low in the sky, and we were driving down a broad avenue lined with weird buildings, weird lights, weird people, weird everything.

“Vegas,” Bernie said. “Welcome to the ninth circle.”

Ninth circle? A new one on me. Back in the Charlie and Leda days, we’d been to a ranch called the Circle-Z. Talk about chasing rabbits! Although that rabbit episode hadn’t turned out so well, led to a disagreement between Leda and Bernie and Bernie sleeping on the living-room couch for a long time, maybe even till she and Charlie moved away. Thoughts of the Circle-Z turned my mind in the direction of another ranch, but what one? A ranch . . . a ranch with a mine on the property, yes, and Madison’s face high up in the barn window. Had to remember that: very important.

“What’re you barking about, boy?”

I looked Bernie in the eye, barked and barked.

“C’mon, Chet, ease up.”

I eased up.

Not long after that, we parked in front of a building with a marquee out front and a brightly lit golden palm tree on the roof. Marquees meant movie theaters, not welcoming places in my experience—had never been inside one, even though I’m a big movie buff.

“Better stay put, Chet,” Bernie said, getting out.

Did I know that was coming? Sure, but it didn’t help. I opened my mouth very wide, stretching it to the max, no idea why.

“Be right back.” But Bernie had only taken a step or two when Damon Keefer got out of the car parked behind us; I knew it was
him partly from the goatee but more from the sudden strong odor of Prince the cat. At the same time, Cynthia Chambliss, smelling of flowers, lemons, and a hint of human sweat, got out of another car, parked a few spaces ahead. They approached Bernie. He turned so he could face them both.

“Have you got her?” he said.

“No,” said Keefer.

“Not yet,” Cynthia said. “But soon—I’m so hopeful, now that we know what’s going on.”

“Which is?” said Bernie.

“Cynthia refers to the fact that this is clearly a runaway situation,” Keefer said, “and not something worse.”

“That’s not clear to us,” Bernie said.

“Us?” said Keefer. “Who is ‘us’?”

“I told you before,” Bernie said. “The Little Detective Agency.”

“Why isn’t it clear?” said Cynthia, her eyebrows pinching in together, sure sign of human anxiety. “Sergeant Torres said he spoke to you. Didn’t he explain about the photograph?”

“It’s suggestive,” Bernie said, “but I’m still not satisfied.”

“Doesn’t matter whether you are or not,” Keefer said. “Cynthia and I are in agreement that your services are no longer needed.”

“Why is that?”

“I just told you,” Keefer said. “She’s a runaway.”

“That was possible from the start,” Bernie said. “Nothing’s changed.”

“Except the venue,” Keefer said. “We’ve decided, Cynthia and myself, that if we choose to proceed with a private detective, we’ll hire one from the Vegas area.”