Thereby Hangs a Tail (29 page)

“Which was?” said Bernie.

“Hey,” said Les. “We’ll do the asking.”

“Now, Les,” the sheriff said. “Gotta be more flexible. And Bernie here has a rep, as I mentioned.”

Me, too: I had a rep. My tail did some sweeping of the floor.

Bernie hadn’t seemed to pay attention to any of the back-and-forth between Les and the sheriff; he watched Disco. “Which was?” he said again.

“Ransom,” said Disco. “Kidnap for ransom.”

“How much?” Bernie said.

“Like two or three mil.”

Bernie leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. He did that sometimes; nothing good for perps ever happened after. Meanwhile, Lieutenant Stine leaned forward, also interesting, what with Bernie leaning back.

“But there was no ransom demand,” the lieutenant said.

Disco glanced at the sheriff. “Yeah,” he said. “It all got messed up.”

“How?” Lieutenant Stine said.

“Like, uh . . .” Disco took a deep breath.

Lieutenant Stine turned to the sheriff. “You honestly see this asshole in front of a jury?”

“Won’t never get that far,” the sheriff said. “He’s nervous, that’s all. Don’t be nervous, Disco.”

“All buddies here,” said Les.

“Won’t get that far means, uh?” Disco said.

“Everybody pleads,” said the sheriff, “like I explained. But the lead singer does short time, maybe no time, depending on performance.”

Disco’s voice got a little stronger. “Things were goin’ good, the snatch and all that, but—”

“Who was the target?” the lieutenant said. “The woman or the dog?”

“The both of them. Thurman said the dog was valuable, so we took her, too.”

“Who drove?” the lieutenant said.

“Thurman. We headed right to Clauson’s Wells—there’s this cabin Thurman knew about. Took turns guarding her, the three of us, and on Thurman’s shift—me and Crash were zonked in the RV—she got aholt of his gun and—”

“Which gun?” said the sheriff.

Disco nodded. “Yeah, sorry. The .44. The woman gets aholt of the .44, pistol-whips Thurman, and takes off with the keys to the truck. Thurman comes out of a daze—got a bad temper, Thurman—and pops her with the rifle.” Disco shrugged. “Pretty much it.”

“Shrug like that again,” Bernie said, still sitting back with crossed arms, “and I’ll beat your head in.”

Disco’s eyes opened wide. Everyone else whipped around quickly to Bernie.

“Don’t know about down in the Valley,” the sheriff said, “but hereabouts we don’t treat prisoners like that.”

“I’m sure Bernie was just speaking metaphorically,” the lieutenant said.

“Huh?” said Les.

“And maybe was a little pissed off at the notion of the story ending how it did,” the lieutenant went on. “Leaving out any remorse concerning the victim or any details of what happened after. Such as—”

“Suzie Sanchez,” Bernie said. His voice got low and harsh, his real dangerous voice which I’d hardly ever heard. “Did she get popped, too, you son of a bitch?”

Disco shrank back in his chair. “Don’t know nothin’ about her, like I told the sheriff.”

“Explain about the car, Disco,” the sheriff said.

“Car?”

“Beetle,” said the sheriff. “The yellow beetle.”

Disco nodded. “I didn’t know nothin’ about it and I didn’t ask. Thurman drove up in it and put her, you know, inside. Then we went over to Red Butte and me and Crash dug the hole and Thurman pushed the car in and we covered it up.” Disco started to shrug again, glanced in alarm at Bernie, stopped himself.

“Why Red Butte?” the lieutenant said.

“Thurman’s idea—far from Clauson’s Wells and nobody was gonna look there.”

“You ever have any ideas of your own?” the lieutenant said.

“It was all about the money, man,” Disco said. “No one was sposta get hurt. Would never have gone through with it if we’d knowed Thurman could wig out the way he did.”

“Here’s what I don’t get,” Lieutenant Stine said. “You kept her little dog, Princess. Why? Might as well hang a guilty sign around your neck.”

Disco glanced at the sheriff. “Yeah, we knew. The pooch kind of followed us, me and Crash. We told Thurman we’d get rid of her, but the thing is, we just couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t kill the dog—is that what you’re saying?” the lieutenant said. “But you can kill a human being?”

“Not me. Not a human being.”

The lieutenant pointed his finger at Disco. “You,” he said.

“In the eyes of the law, you, just as much as if you’d pulled the trigger.”

“Disco understands that,” the sheriff said, “which is why he’s cooperatin’. Correct?”

“Yeah,” said Disco. “Cooperatin’ to the fullest.”

Silence. I heard some small creature scratching inside the walls.

“There you have it,” said the sheriff. “Any questions, gentlemen?” “What’s the point?” Bernie said.

“Excuse me?” said the sheriff. He gave Bernie a hard look. Bernie gave it right back.

“Okay,” Bernie said, “here’s a question for our dog lover.”

“Always had a soft spot for ’em,” said Disco.

“Then,” said Bernie, “knowing Thurman’s true character— this is after the murder of Adelina Borghese—how come you sold Chet to him?”

Disco looked at me. I looked back at him. “Sorry, fella,” he said. Hey! He was saying sorry to me? Didn’t that make him a good guy? Why was he in cuffs? Disco turned to Bernie. “The money.”

“There’s a surprise,” said Bernie, rising. I rose, too. “That’s it for us. Lieutenant?”

“I’m done.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” said the sheriff. “Any follow-up questions, don’t you hesitate.”

We went outside. The air felt great.

“Well?” said the lieutenant.

“You tell me,” Bernie said.

“I’ll go back, bounce this off Thurman and Crash.”

“They won’t say a thing,” Bernie said. “Disco got there first.”

“Then we’re still left with a case that looks pretty makeable to me,” the lieutenant said.

“Yeah?” said Bernie. I glanced at the station, saw Les watching from a window.

We hopped in the car, took off. “Here’s all we’ve got,” Bernie said, “one little thing. Suzie was alive when her car got buried. Otherwise she’d have been in it. And if she was alive then, why wouldn’t she be alive now?”

I didn’t know, was still trying to figure out if Disco was a good guy or a bad guy. After a while I remembered something about the munchies and how he hadn’t shared that last Slim Jim. So didn’t the answer have to be: bad guy?

TWENTY-SEVEN

O
nce in a while, we got together with the Valley DA, Cedric Booker. Not sure what a DA is, but something important, so I was always on my best behavior, easy to do with Cedric, because he liked me and I liked him. We met Cedric in a little park downtown, not far from the courthouse, the same one where I’d made my only court appearance. Cedric was an interesting guy, the tallest human I’d ever seen up close. A long time ago, he’d starred on the Valley College basketball team, might have gone pro, Bernie said, except he couldn’t play with his back to the basket, whatever that meant. The truth is, I’ve never had much interest in basketball, on account of the ball being impossible for me, as I may have mentioned already. Did I also get into the story about the Police Athletic League game and how I softened up that ball a little? If not, some other time.

Cedric and Bernie shook hands. Cedric towered over Bernie and Bernie’s hand practically disappeared in his. Seeing Bernie looking up at someone hardly ever happened, was kind of fun.

“How’s Exhibit A?” Cedric said, reaching way down to give me a pat. “Got something for you.”

Something for me?

“Always amazes me how high he can jump,” Cedric said, brushing something, possibly a tiny clump of dirt, off the shoulder of his suit jacket. Uh-oh. And was that a small tear in the fabric?

“Christ,” said Bernie.

Cedric laughed and produced a tennis ball, hidden until then in his other hand. A real fresh one: I could smell it. Then he reared back and threw—very far, but not quite as far as Bernie. Bernie had a great arm, had pitched for Army, which if I haven’t mentioned already I should have.

I took off. Is there anything better than chasing tennis balls? Grabbing perps by the pant leg, maybe, but that was it. Some days I’m faster than others, no idea why—always fast, you understand— and today was one of those fast days. Was I zooming or what? I caught up to that ball on its last low bounce, just before it was about to start rolling, scooped it up and whirled around in one motion, and flew back across the park, ears flat back, skidded to a stop, the turf rippling up in green waves and making a lovely ripping sound, and dropped the ball at Cedric’s feet.

“Ballistics report came in,” Cedric said, bending to pick up the ball. I heard a crack that seemed to come from his knees, had heard it before when humans bent down. Forced to get around day after day on only two legs: spare me.

“And?” Bernie said.

“Thirty-ought-six,” said Cedric.

“Got the weapon?”

“Hasn’t turned up yet. Stine’s looking. So’s the Rio Loco sheriff.” He hurled the ball again, maybe farther than before. Far as you like, Cedric! Zoom. I was off. But what was this? One of my guys, member of the nation within, bounding in out of nowhere, making tracks for my tennis ball? Just like the Porsche, I’ve got an overdrive—that’s what Bernie says. I shifted into overdrive—my paws hardly touching down at all, a hard-to-describe feeling— tore across the park, sprang at the ball, now rolling, at the exact same instant this other dude—kind of big and ugly, with long long legs and lots of drool—was leaping, too. Then came some confusion and clouds of dust, and when that was pretty much over, I trotted on back to Cedric with the ball and dropped it at his feet.

Cedric looked down at it and said, “Should have brought another ball.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” Bernie said.

“Which one, Bernie? I count half a dozen so far.”

“What if no weapon turns up?”

Cedric sighed. “Sometimes it is what it is,” he said.

“What’s that?” said Bernie. “A koan?”

Koan. Rang a bell. We’d worked on the Bert and Stacie Cohen divorce a while back, one of our very worst jobs—would I ever forget what happened after that diamond ring got flushed down the toilet?—and if they were involved in this—especially Bert—I wanted no part of it.

“What’s your IQ?” Cedric said.

“No idea,” said Bernie.

“The army must have tested it.”

“Then maybe you can find out through the Freedom of Information Act,” Bernie said. “What’s your point?”

“There’s such a thing as being too smart,” Cedric said. “That’s my point.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we’ve got a confession, we’ve got Princess, found in possession of the suspects, thanks to you, we’ve got the body, also thanks to you, dug up at one of their known hangouts, and we’ve got the vehicle used in the kidnapping, the green one-fifty. No case is perfect—whether you believe that or not—but the decent ones all get to some tipping point and it’s my judgment that we’re there. In short, Bernie, don’t overthink. The case is solid.” Cedric picked up what was left of the ball and threw it once more, not very far this time, and it didn’t bounce at all, just landed with a soft thud. I ambled over to get it.

Not far at all, so I could hear their conversation quite easily. “No VIN, no plates, no registration,” Bernie said.

“Brought the Borghese’s driver—” Cedric flipped open some device, pressed buttons. “—Rui Santos over for a look. He ID’d it, also had no memory of plates on the kidnap vehicle.”

“How come he didn’t ID it before?”

“That happens.”

“What about Nancy Malone, the trainer?”

“Thought the color was right, otherwise couldn’t say. Still seemed a bit traumatized, in my opinion.”

“In what way?”

“A lot of crying, that kind of thing.”

“Nance?”

“Anything surprising about that?”

“Doesn’t strike me as the type.”

“The type who gets upset by a violent crime happening right in front of their eyes? What’s the other type?” Cedric gazed down at Bernie. Bernie gazed up at him. “Not everybody’s as hard as you,” Cedric said.

“If you think I’m hard, you’re in the wrong job.”

“Don’t push me.”

“I’m not pushing you, Cedric. I’m trying to hold you back.”

“From what?”

I didn’t like the sound of their conversation, hard to say why, soon found I’d chewed up the remains of the tennis ball and maybe swallowed them. Right away I didn’t feel too good.

“From making a big mistake,” Bernie said. “Suzie Sanchez is missing, remember? That means mistakes, real big ones, are still possible.”

“I don’t need you looking out for me,” Cedric said. “And I don’t need reminding about Suzie. We offered Crash a deal this morning—reducing the charge down to involuntary manslaughter for any information.”

“And?”

“His PD was in the room, of course—Crash and Thurman lawyered up right away—and practically told him flat out to take the deal, but Crash said he knows nothing, never heard of Suzie. Then he went into a rant about what he’d do to Disco if he ever got his hands on him.”

“Maybe he’s telling the truth,” Bernie said.

“You’re saying whatever happened up in Clauson’s Wells Thurman did on his own?”