Mackenzie August Boxset 2

by Alan Lee

  “Consolidating power and whatnot. I’m a business man first. What I think we should do? Meet with a guy. Guy on the King’s board of directors, so to speak. Get his permission and have him set the price. Since we’re friends and all, let a third party handle the shit.”

  “Get his permission?” I said. “We just shot our way out of Italy and burned the place down. Permission? I scoff at permission.”

  “We bad asses,” he said.

  “Heavens yes.”

  “But still. Easier this way. Fewer complications, no potential backlash.”

  “And hopefully,” said Ronnie and she paused. Poured a little more cream into her tea and stirred it with the spoon, making soft clinking noises. She was deep in thought during the interlude and I enjoyed watching it. She made a tsk’ing noise with her teeth and continued, “No, not hopefully. I’ll force them to see reason. I want out of the game, entirely. This could be the final point of separation.”

  “Thought you wanted to revamp the way Kings treat the whores,” said Marcus.

  “I do.” She shrugged, a motion I always found charming. “Prostitution isn’t going away. In fact it’s becoming more prevalent, I read, with our society thumbing its nose at marriage. And no one takes care of the girls. But it’s a problem bigger than me and so I’ll start simple. Here in Roanoke. And then perhaps enlarge my territory.”

  “You know the Kings consider Roanoke their territory.”

  She said, “We can coexist.”

  “Kings don’t like coexisting.”

  “I’ll make them. In fact, I’m looking forward to the meeting. A few things I need to get straight with your bosses.”

  “Egads,” I said.

  Chapter 12

  I met with Courtney Farmer at Scrambled, my favorite breakfast eatery. Courtney was a local veterinarian, recommended by Stackhouse. She was tall and trim, straight shoulder-length brown hair dyed blonde. The elegant structure of her face was prominent, indicating she was a jogger, and her eyes were wide, as though in constant astonishment. She had the posture of a cotillion patron. Underneath her jacket she wore a white shirt monogrammed with Roanoke Animal Hospital.

  She held up her mimosa and said, “I like to let the day know who’s boss, right from the start.”

  I lofted my coffee in return, ashamed at having no didactic reason for it.

  Our breakfast came—we both got their famous scrambled eggs.

  I said, “I hear you’re an expert on dogs.”

  “Expert is pushing it. I like them, obviously. I own two. What kind do you have?”

  “I don’t.”

  Her eyes widened farther and her posture, which was good, became even more erect. “You lie.”

  “Never had one.”

  “What a monster. You must not have a soul.”

  “You dog owners feel strongly about this.”

  “But you’re in the market to adopt one?”

  “Adopt? What fascinating jargon. One adopts a dog? Does one adopt a couch? Or pillow? Or pair of sneakers?”

  She drank some mimosa and watched me without comment. She looked playful, but she also looked as though wondering if I was a serial killer. With good cheekbones.

  I cleared my throat. “Let me start over and try to be less heinous. I’ve been hired to find a dog and I’m chasing a lead.”

  “The dog ran away?”

  “No, I found it, actually. It’s a tangential lead.”

  She ate some eggs. Said, “I didn’t know private detectives did things like this. You’re a professional mystery solver?”

  “I like that. Might get it on my card.”

  “What tangential lead about a dog you already found can I help with? You’re paying for breakfast, after all.”

  “The dog is important to my client. But he has amnesia and he can’t remember why.”

  Courtney gave a half snort, which sounded both derisive and ladylike. “You don’t need a reason for a dog to be important. A dog is important, end of story.”

  “This one more so.”

  “In what way?”

  “That’s what I’m chasing down.”

  “Is your client Doctor Ulysses Steinbeck?” she asked with a suspicious squint and half smile.

  “That’s confidential.”

  “He is.”

  “That’s confidential and yes he is. You know him?”

  “Of course I know him. We go back fifteen years. But Ulysses would never have a dog. He’s soulless, like you.”

  “In fact he did. For a week or two, before the crash.”

  She made a, “Huhm,” noise of surprise. Finished her mimosa. Set it down, picked up her water glass. “I’m shocked. The poor man. Now he wants the dog back?”

  “Yes. But he doesn’t know why.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “Isn’t it. Here’s my question. How much could it possibly be worth?”

  She arched an eyebrow. “It?”

  “Sorry. She. How much could she possibly be worth?”

  “Dogs are priceless.”

  I groaned. “Let me rephrase. Is it possible he spent a million dollars on the dog?”

  She sat up straighter, choking a little on the water. She set the glass down, wiped her mouth, and laughed. “Maybe. Can the dog fly?”

  “No. But I’m wondering if he bought the offspring of a Westminster winner, or something similar.”

  “Even then he’d only pay ten thousand, maybe. Why would you think he’d pay a million for a puppy?”

  “Because dogs are priceless, you succubus.”

  She laughed again. Dabbed at her eyes and picked up her fork. “Unless the dog came with a trust fund of $950,000, I cannot imagine anyone paying that much. Not even hoity-toity dog handlers.”

  “Rats.”

  “Clearly there’s more to your case than meets the eye.”

  “Clearly.”

  Courtney’s leg was crossed and she kicked it a little. “You’ll crack the case. Elementary, my dear Watson.”

  “Hey. I handle the cheesy quotes around here.”

  “Give me your card. I’m friends with oodles of lawyers and you look big and strong enough to do their dirty work.”

  I took out my card. “Strength is not the issue. It’s brainpower.”

  “Then you’re lucky you’re pretty.”

  “That’s just the mimosa talking,” I said.

  No it wasn’t; I’m pretty.

  Chapter 13

  Rose Bridges met me at the door. She was barefoot again, despite the chill, and wore a cabled wool pullover sweater. She waved me in and asked if I wanted tea.

  I declined.

  “Go on in, Mr. August. He’s having a good day.”

  “What are bad days like?”

  “Nothing terrible. He gets more frustrated than usual with his condition. More antsy.”

  “Thank you, Rose.”

  “Call if you need me.”

  Steinbeck sat at his desk, reading the newspaper. Another turtleneck. Corduroy pants and he wore leather loafers. He glanced at me over the bifocals.

  I knocked on the door frame. “Dr. Steinbeck.”

  He automatically glanced at the whiteboard over the bifocals—no, I wasn’t expected. He folded the newspaper crisply and set it aside. Capped the pen he’d been using to mark it. “Please. Come in.”

  “My name is—”

  He held up a finger. Smiled and thought a moment. “I remember your scent. We met before. The olfactory part of my brain was not damaged.”

  I nodded.

  “One moment.” He pulled his Who is Who journal close. Paused. Instead he opened What is Happening Now and flipped to today. Ran his fingertip down the edge, murmuring to himself. Turned back to yesterday. Repeated the process. Softly he said, “One moment, please.” He glanced at me, looking for clues, and took another breath through his nose. Flipped back another day. He made a “Hmmm,” noise and paused. Tapped the page with his finger. “You’re Mackenzie August.”

/>   “I am.”

  “You’re helping find the dog. This is our first meeting since the initial encounter.”

  “Powerful nose you have.”

  “Olfactory stimuli are handled in the parietal lobe, a part of my brain which functions fully. Anterograde amnesia is caused by trauma to the temporal cortex.”

  “Caused by trauma and sometimes by intoxication. I looked it up.”

  “Yes but I don’t drink. So.” He shrugged.

  Ah hah! A clue.

  His ex-wife Colleen Gibbs and his daughter Alex Steinbeck both agreed he didn’t drink. Yet Colleen said he was blind drunk the night of the crash. Rose said he drove his car straight off a cliff, no other vehicles involved.

  So someone was lying or someone forgot the facts. Or both. But why? Could the obvious answer be the truth, that he was merely lurching through emotional distress because of the divorce and his wife seeing a new man? That he’d adopted a wounded boxer puppy as a way of saving himself?

  I said, “I found Georgina Princess Steinbeck. It’s…excuse me, she’s in the care of a nice family living nearby.”

  He released a long breath of air like he’d been holding it. Leaned forward, retrieved the fountain pen, and wrote on the page. “Perfect. Have you seen the dog yet?”

  “No. Just verified through email.”

  “Okay. Good, good.” He finished writing, dropped the pen, and drummed his fingers on the table. Glanced at his journals out of habit. “We should buy it from them, I suppose.”

  “I already offered. They aren’t interested. For some people, dogs are priceless.”

  Crazy people, but people none the less.

  “Everyone has a price.”

  “How high are you willing to go?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll consult with Rose,” he said. “I wake up every day without a clue how much is in any bank account. To be honest, it’s a nice way to live. But I think I’d like to get the dog and money is no object.”

  “Spend and spare not?”

  “Something like that,” he said.

  “Have you decided what you’ll do once you have the dog?”

  “I…” He blinked. “No. I don’t want to own the dog.”

  “Then what happens when I drop her on your doorstep?”

  “No, no, don’t do that.”

  “I am bamboozled, Ulysses.”

  He scrubbed a hand through his perfect brown hair. For a flicker in time, my body registered the unimaginable frustration he must feel on a daily basis. He said, “Me too, I’m afraid. In my mind, the getting is more important than the having. I want to get the dog, but not possess it. Does that make sense? No, I know it doesn’t.”

  “Tell me about the car crash.”

  That surprised him. “Why? Is that germane?”

  “I don’t know. Before the divorce you did a series of uncharacteristic things. You got a dog. You gambled away your life savings. You got drunk.”

  “I did? I don’t remember gambling. Or getting drunk.”

  “That’s the rumor.”

  He shook his head. “I doubt it. You’ll need proof to convince me.”

  There was proof, apparently, somewhere, about the gambling trip. But that would serve no purpose.

  “You don’t remember the casino trip?”

  “The casino trip,” he said slowly. “The casino trip. I haven’t thought about that in…I remember it like an old old movie. There are no details but…when I focus on it, I lose it in the fog.”

  I said, “Could the dog be worth a fortune?”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “Were you dating anyone immediately before the divorce finalized?”

  “I was not,” he said. With a wince.

  “Are you positive?”

  “No romance, not that I remember.” He shifted in his chair, crossed his legs the other way, and fidgeted. As though suddenly anxious. There was another woman, according to my sources. Did his body remember but his brain forget?

  I said, “Trying to access these memories causes you distress.”

  “Yes, well phrased. I…” He closed his eyes and shifted again. “Sudden dread so powerful it hurts physically. But I cannot identify the source.”

  “If we knew what happened during that period of your life, we might discover the why. As in, why is the dog important.”

  “There was a car crash. That’s all I know. Perhaps the full story is somewhere in my notes. I’d rather not delve.”

  “You still want to buy the dog,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Because it’s the key to something.”

  He nodded. “Exactly.”

  “But you don’t know to what. And you don’t want to think about it too hard. And you don’t want to keep the animal. You’re like a dog chasing your tail except you don’t have one and you can’t stop.”

  “Right.” He took off the bifocals and dropped him onto the desk with a clatter. “Mr. August, this is ludicrous. I know it is. You don’t need to tell me. I am ashamed and frustrated with myself. Would you please find out why the dog is important? And please keep the dog at your home?”

  I sat up a little straighter, the way I’d seen Dr. Courtney Farmer do. “My home.”

  “Please.”

  “I can’t. I have a kid. And a Manny. And a father who doesn’t love dogs.”

  “Please, Mr. August. Name your price.”

  “It’s not about the money. It’s about the…”

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “My lackadaisicalness, primarily.”

  “Children love dogs, right?”

  “I wouldn’t know. They do in the movies. But let’s circle back to that in a minute. I can find out to what the dog is the key. Probably. Be easier with your notes.”

  He laid his hand protectively across the leather journals. His memories. To my surprise, the handsome man issued a tear. Spilled down under his chin, as it ought. “I understand. But only as a last resort. It will be laying my life open to an unbearable extent.”

  “I understand. I’ll try without.”

  He pressed a button on the underside of his desk and within the house a chime sounded. He wiped his eyes and soon Rose came.

  Ulysses smiled at her appearance. As do daffodils in Spring. “Rose, we need to write this man a check. How much can I afford?”

  “That’s a good question, Dr. Steinbeck.” She tapped the white board against the wall, the one placed where he could see it always. She spoke like a nurse who had to be firm with her patient. But a kind nurse. “Three hospitals sent pictures for your opinion. Are you going to keep working?”

  “Ah. Yes. I must’ve forgot. I’ll do that immediately. But we’re not broke?”

  She smiled. “No, we’re getting by. Read those pictures and you’ll have enough to send a little to Alex.”

  “Excellent. Pay Mr. August for another week of work, please, and make it out extra for…” He looked at me for clues. “How much will it take to buy the dog from…from…whoever has it? Ten thousand?”

  “Plenty. I’ll bring you change.”

  “Who has it? I forgot.”

  “Nice couple on Craigslist.” I did not mention her name was Ramona Cohen and that Ramona used far too many exclamation points in her emails.

  He picked up his pen and began scratching.

  I said, “About Georgina—”

  “You’ll keep it at your place?” he said.

  I made a deeply puerile and lugubrious noise.

  “Did you hear that?” I said. “That was a deeply puerile and lugubrious sigh.”

  “You don’t want for vocabulary, Mr. August. But I am desperate.”

  I made the noise again. “I’m willing to either keep it at my place or find a secondary location just as good and just as accessible and just as safe. That’s the only deal I’ll make.”

  He looked up. Smiled with relief. “I accept.”

  Chapter 14

  Ramona Cohen, the nice lady from Craigsli
st, and Ronald, her nice husband, lived in Botetourt on five acres of land. Their home was a cheap imitation of a ranch farmhouse, sided with yellow vinyl, trimmed with white vinyl, built to code and not a nail farther. But one did not purchase this property for the house; one purchased it for the vista. Built on a hill looking west, the acre below their front porch was cleared of trees. I came up the long gravel drive, parked, and admired the view of Mill Mountain, maybe ten miles distant. Roanoke Valley—such a beautiful place no wonder Lewis and Clark named it the Star City of the South

  They did not name it that. Someone else did. But they should’ve.

  Ramona opened her front door and three large dogs spewed forth, howling. To my untrained eye, these were the largest dogs ever spawned. I coolly got back into my car and closed the door.

  I didn’t know a lot about dogs but I knew these weren’t boxers. More like a wolf mated with a bear. And then a horse.

  Ramona, the rascal, laughed and shouted. Her voice sounded muffled. “Don’t worry, they don’t bite! Just being friendly!”

  I did not budge. I didn’t get this handsome by wrestling with hounds from hell.

  “Rex! Comet! Zeus! Get back here!” she shouted.

  After a moment of delirious slobbering on my driver side window, the wild and rabid curs retreated to the house.

  “Well, come on!” called Ramona, waving at me. “It’s cold!”

  Rather not, Ramona.

  But I did, issuing a series of puerile and lugubrious noises. With infinite regret I followed her inside and she closed the door behind me.

  That. That right there was why my father didn’t let me have a dog as a child—dog hair everywhere, thick nests of it in the corners. And the heavy animal musk.

  Thankfully no massive animal bit off my foot. The barking sounds came from the back of the house now, behind a closed door. Ramona watched me, chuckling at my fear and stupidity. Her husband came down the hall. Said, “God almighty, what a racket. Never need an alarm system, though.”

  By his side, eager and alert and handsome, walked a boxer. Had to be Georgina Princess. She came up to his knees. Big dark eyes, light brown coat, a powerful white chest, ears tuned forward. This animal, unlike the others, maintained some self respect. She inspected me with interest, like, So you’re the wimp.