Shoot (3 page)

“That’s funny?”

“I shouldn’t laugh but I can’t help it,” she giggled. “This married couple brought the dog in because he was… Here, I’ll show you.”

Jane opened up the EyeBall security program on her laptop and started scrolling around. After Jane and I were almost killed, she sprung for an expensive, wall-to-wall video surveillance system with sound that covered every inch of her office and home 24–7 and was accessible from anywhere, with automatic intruder alerts and security monitoring.

“Here it is. This happened a few hours ago. Wait, it was later… there. Watch.”

The camera footage had a slight fish-eye distortion to it and showed a stainless steel examination table, cabinets, and four people moving around a reddish-brown dog on the table; Jane and an assistant as well as a middle-aged man and a younger woman, obviously the owners of the hacking hot dog on the table.

“Did you see what he ate, Mr. Corcoran?” Jane asked the husband. “You have to watch them—they’ll gobble up anything off the street.”

“My wife was home alone but Timmy only goes out in his dog walk in our back yard,” the husband said. “We don’t take him onto the street.”

“I have no idea what happened,” his pretty blonde wife whimpered. “One second he was fine, and the next he was choking. Please help him!”

“I got home and my wife was hysterical,” the guy explained. “I put ’em both in the car and rushed over.”

“This is where I injected Apomorphine to induce vomiting,” Jane explained to me, as I saw her give the dog a shot, while her assistant held the animal still, a basin at the ready.

The dog puked violently. The wife began crying, as her husband held her. Jane used a pair of forceps to remove an object from the basin. It was what New Yorkers called a Coney Island whitefish. A rubber.

“What the hell?” the husband asked.

“A condom,” Jane explained. “That was the problem. It was blocking Timmy’s airway. He’s breathing fine now.”

The grateful dachshund tried to lick Jane, who backed off.

“Oh, my God,” said the wife, grabbing her husband’s elbow and shoving him toward the door. “Michael. I’ll take care of this.”

“Wait… what?” the husband sputtered, looking at his wife, the dog, the condom.

“Mr. Corcoran, you have to dispose of these… items properly, so Timmy doesn’t get hold of them.”

“I… I don’t use them,” he said, vaguely. “I don’t need ’em. I got a vasectomy. We…”

“Michael…” his wife pleaded, running out of words.

“
I
don’t use ’em.” He glared at her. “Somebody else musta left it there! Tell it to the guy who used it! Ask my wife!”

Jane and her assistant looked at each other.

“Who is he? You did this in front of Timmy?” he demanded.

“I’ll give you folks a few minutes alone,” Jane said diplomatically, beating a hasty retreat.

The video continued, with yelling and tears and the husband storming out. Jane stopped the recording.

“Why am I laughing? This is sad,” Jane said. “I’m a terrible person.”

“So am I,” I told her. “Totally twisted.”

We both broke down; two terrible people, laughing.

“I had no idea,” Jane insisted, her laughter fading. “I feel terrible. How was I to know?”

“You couldn’t,” I said. “You were trying to save a dog, not end a marriage. I wonder who’ll get custody of Timmy?”

We laughed some more, setting Skippy barking. It took me a few seconds to realize Skippy was barking at the front door. Someone was knocking.

“Be cool, Skippy,” I told him, patting his head.

He obeyed, but his snowy seventy-pound body tensed, eyes on the door, his blue eyes cold, ready. I opened the door and found a chubby housewife with stringy brown hair, dressed in a loose yellow sundress and red Crocs, waving some papers and babbling breathlessly in a tearful, semi-hysterical voice about how Dr. Strangelove was missing. Her eyes were red. She lifted a shopping bag and wiped one eye with an elbow.

“I beg your pardon?” Jane said. “Who is missing?”

“My little baby, Dr. Strangelove. There’s a reward. Here’s his picture,” she managed.

She handed us each a Xerox copy of a cute little blonde dog with a wavy coat, some of which was blue, and a pink tongue. One eye was blue, the other white. It looked like a pooch assembled by Dr. Frankenstein. M
ISSING
, $50
REWARD
.

“He’s a cockapoo-shih-tzu-pug mix?” Jane asked.

“Yes,” the woman answered, surprised. “You know dogs?”

Jane told her she was a vet. By this time the woman was inside and Skippy was sniffing her shoes with interest. She began petting Skippy and baby-talking him. Skippy loved it, a new pal.

“You live nearby?” I asked her.

“Yes, we’ve only been here a month. That’s why I’m so worried. Doc doesn’t know the neighborhood yet. I’m afraid he’ll try to go back to Queens.”

“Why Dr. Strangelove?” Jane asked.

“It’s a funny character in an old movie.” That didn’t really answer the question.

“You moved into this block?” I pressed.

“No, around the corner. Have you seen him? I’m terrified he’ll get hit by a car.” She turned to Jane. “Where’s your office?”

Jane told her and was about to continue when I interrupted.

“If we see him, where would we bring him?” I asked. “I don’t see your address on the sheet, just your cell number.”

“That’s the best way to get me. I’m never home,” she said. Then she pointed at me, her mouth open. “Wait a second. I know you, your face. You’re famous, aren’t you? You’re that newspaper guy. The one who caught the serial killer!”

“Yes, he is,” Jane chuckled.

“I knew you looked familiar,” she gushed, shaking my hand with a firm grip. “Wow. That is amazing. I am talking to a celebrity. Oh! Wait!”

She produced a cellphone and hugged me around the shoulders with the other arm in a selfie grip. The flash blinded me. Skippy jumped and yipped. She thanked me and asked me my name.

“Shepherd,” Jane told her. “F.X. Shepherd. I’m Jane Arthur.”

She thanked us, petted her new friend Skippy, shook our hands and left to knock on other doors down the block. I watched her for a while. After I shut the door, I followed Jane to the kitchen table, inside a semi-greenhouse that overlooked her enclosed garden.

“Did you find anything weird about all that?” I asked Jane.

“All what?”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “I just got strange vibes from her.”

“Skippy seemed to like her,” Jane pointed out.

I went back to the door, opened it and looked down the block. She was gone.

“What was weird?” Jane asked.

“She gave us no name, no address. Just the name of the dog. She has been in your home, knows our names, what kind of alarm system you have and has my picture.”

“There’s a phone number on the sheet,” Jane pointed out.

I suggested she call it. She dialed and listened, before smiling and hanging up.

“It’s the Manhattan Humane Society. You think she’s the one following you?”

“That thought occurred to me. What else did she touch?” I asked.

“Just Skippy. And you.”

I crouched down and felt Skippy’s collar. Then I felt in between his collar and his neck. There was a lump. I scraped it off. It was a small, flat black plastic disc, sticky on one side. I checked my pockets. In my left pants pocket was a thin plastic rectangle. I pulled it out. It was clear, with only one word, AMI, followed by a phone number and an email. I showed it to Jane, and dialed the number. It rang once.

“Hello, AMI. How may I help you?”

It was a different voice.

“Dr. Strangelove, please,” I asked, as Jane made a funny face.

“I’m sorry, the doctor is not in. How may we serve you?”

“If you work for the government, I’m hanging up,” I told her.

There was a pause.

“We are a private firm. We never work for government.”

“You’re the one who’s been following me? You’re a private detective?”

“I prefer the term confidential investigator. May we do this in person, please?”

“Why didn’t you do it when you were here? Why all the bullshit of planting an RFID chip inside Skippy’s collar and slipping your card into my pocket?”

“You were not alone, so I couldn’t talk. I like to stay in practice, so I couldn’t resist the plant. I wanted to see if
you
would notice. And you did.”

“Just come back and I’ll listen, if you promise no more bullshit.”

“The proposal is for you alone. This is a highly confidential position.”

“Nope. No deal. I tell Jane everything. Also, Skippy.”

More silence. I waited.

“I’m hanging up now,” I said.

“Ten minutes.”

I opened the door to a svelte, fifty-ish blonde in a slinky black pants suit, high heels and dark shades, an expensive black leather Coach bag hanging from her shoulder.

“Yeah?” I asked her.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, not sounding sorry at all.

She brushed by me, past Jane—whose mouth was hanging open—straight to the kitchen table. I followed her. I was sure it couldn’t be the same person but when she took off the shades and spoke, her eyes and voice settled the issue. As the chubby housewife, she had a higher, fluttery voice, seemed fifty pounds heavier and even walked differently.

“I can’t believe it,” Jane said. “That was you?”

She looked at Jane like she was kidding. I pretended I wasn’t gut-punched by how different she looked. I remembered that this sexy chameleon also looked like a third person, and maybe a fourth, while she was following me on the street.

“People talk to The Housewife, especially if she’s looking for her puppy,” she said.

“From the top,” I said. “Who the hell are you, lady?”

“First, you have to agree to keep anything I say completely confidential.”

“Not until you tell me your name and what this is about,” I insisted.

“I’m Amy Massi. A.M.I. Amy Massi Investigations. I’m a licensed private detective and I work for well-known people who expect me to keep their secrets.”

“Like who?” Jane asked.

“Movie stars, musicians, rich people who can afford me. One thing I can guarantee, if you work for me, you won’t be bored,” she said.

When I first came to New York, I thought I wanted a good writing job and peace and quiet. But during the Hacker case, I realized a decade of war had twisted me for life. I didn’t ever want to be bored. That was enough for me.

“So the missing dog was just a scam?” Jane asked.

“You bet,” Amy admitted. “But Dr. Strangelove really is my dog. He’s at home with the housekeeper right now.”

“What kind of cases do you do?” I asked.

“I work for defense lawyers to prove people didn’t kill somebody. I used to do verification and divorce work but not anymore. Right now, I have a priority security investigation, credible death threats.”

“Why did you follow me?” I asked her.

“I read about you and the whole Hacker thing and decided you would be perfect for my new case. I have a changing roster of people I use and I like to check people out, test them, kick the tires first. You knew I was on your tail, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“How? I couldn’t figure out how I screwed up.”

“I don’t know,” I told her truthfully. “Why do people get that feeling that someone is watching them?”

“But I saw you checking window reflections, backtracking,” she protested. “That’s not just a feeling.”

“So I act on the feeling, what of it?”

“I can follow most people for weeks. They’re clueless.”

“So am I. Enlighten me. Who is your client?” I asked.

“Not until you agree to keep it secret.”

“It’s not government?” I asked.

“I told you, we’re private, non-governmental.”

“Yeah, well, so is Blackwater and hundreds of other scumbags who do bad things,” I told her. “All of them hand puppets for Uncle Sam.”

“We are a private civilian firm and don’t accept government contract work. We’re actually quite small, a boutique. A non-traditional P.I. agency licensed in New York. We’d like to make you an offer of employment.”

“To do what?”

“Investigate these death threats, what you’re good at. As a no-strings freelance investigator. Starting now. At this salary.”

She took out a notebook and silver pen and wrote numbers down, sliding it toward me. It was bigger than my reporter salary. A lot bigger. Jane peeked at the number.

“Perhaps it could be fun?” Jane said.

Amy turned to Jane. “And I’m happy for you to help him out, if you keep your mouth shut. It goes without saying I’m not paying you, Doc. One more thing, Shepherd. I always win. I expect the same thing from you.”

“Sounds like I’m going to be busy. Can I keep my current boss happy by filing stories?”

“Yes. If we agree that it will help the case,” Amy said. “Your press contacts are part of why I want you. ‘The pen is mightier than the sword’ and all that.”

“As if,” I laughed.

“You’re a reporter and you don’t think the pen is mightier than the sword?”

“Nope. I had an instructor who gave a whole lesson on that. He said, ‘Even if it’s mightier than the sword, it don’t do shit against an AK-47.’ We had to show him how a pen could beat a gas-powered fully-auto assault rifle. A couple of us came close, but in combat, we would have died. He always said anyone might be a threat, anyone might be a target, and everything is a weapon.”

I didn’t mention that a few weeks earlier I had successfully used a fax machine as a defensive weapon.

“Okay,” I asked. “Who’s getting death threats?”

“Are you in?” Amy asked.

“Who is it?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes. I’m not helping to get any killers, drug dealers or child molesters off.”

“Worse. A member of Congress.”

“I’m in.”

“Wait, that’s government,” Jane said.

“No. Private,” Amy answered. “I’ve been hired by the Republican National Committee to find out who is threatening to kill Speaker of the House, Congressman Percy Chesterfield, the guy they are about to give their presidential nomination to.”

“Isn’t that the creep who tried to shut down the government last year and almost destroyed the economy?” Jane asked.