“We started in the wrong place,” Bernie said as we walked into the building. “My fault, big guy.”
Wrong place? Bernie’s fault? That all zipped by like buzzing insects, and then we were at the counter. We know lots of folks at Valley PD, but not the uniformed counter guy. Some humans have helpful faces and some do not. This guy was the second kind.
“Here to see Sergeant Wauneka,” Bernie said.
“Yeah?” Then came one of those long quiet spells, maybe called awkward pauses. We always win when it comes to pauses of any kind. Bernie’s a master. “Got an appointment?” the guy said at last.
“Would we be here otherwise?” said Bernie.
Sometimes—although not often—you get to see an unhelpful face turn purple. How come that’s such a fun sight? I have no idea, but I was having a good time and I knew that Bernie was, too. Don’t forget we’re a lot alike in some ways. As for exactly how the situation was going to … what’s the word? Escalate? Something like that, and it reminds me of a scary story or two I could pass on regarding me and escalators—even worse than elevators—but we’ll have to let that slide on account of a new development, the arrival of Captain Stine.
He came walking into the lobby, not a big guy, but strong and lean, wearing his perfectly fitting uniform with all the gold, a tall, silver-haired dude beside him, the two of them trailed by a well-dressed little group of what Bernie calls flunkies. You can tell flunkies from their eager faces. As for Captain Stine, Bernie once told me he was an homme sérieux, one of the strangest things he’d ever said. Was he talking about how Stine has a sharp-shaped kind of face and all his looks were dark? I had no idea, so never mind all that. The important thing was that he wouldn’t have made captain if it hadn’t been for us—us and possibly a cat named Brando, that whole case now very dim in my mind. My mind is on my side, maybe why I’ve been so lucky in life.
Stine saw us and came to a halt, the silver-haired dude and the flunkies all halting, too.
“Here’s a nice surprise,” he said. Stine has a harsh, hoarse sort of voice, like he partied every night, but in fact he and his wife—somewhat younger than him—had a new baby at home who wasn’t sleeping much. That new baby’s middle name was Bernard, by the way, sort of another name for Bernie, a somewhat confusing detail I’d learned around the time the baby was born. Life is full of little details. They’ll get away with murder if you let them. Whoa! What was that? Little details getting away with murder? I’d just surprised myself, and not in a good way.
“Senator,” Stine was saying, “I’d like you to meet the best crime fighter in the Valley.”
“Well, I wouldn’t—” Bernie began and then noticed that Stine seemed to be gesturing in my direction.
The silver-haired guy’s eyebrows rose. “The dog?” he said. His voice was much more pleasant than Stine’s—possibly the kind of voice known as folksy—and the lines on his face curved up, like a smile was coming any second. His eyes—the color of the ice cubes floating in a blue drink that Bernie’s mom likes maybe too many of—were watchful and showed no signs of a smile in the works.
“His name’s Chet,” Stine said. “But forgive my little joke, Senator.”
“A real thigh-slapper,” said Bernie, quite softly, although Stine caught it and frowned just the slightest bit.
But he recovered real quick, smiled, and said, “I’m giving the senator a tour of the new building, only fair since he got the funding.”
“I’ve been a big believer in law enforcement my whole career,” the senator said.
“Much appreciated, Senator,” Stine said. “Say hi to one of our leading private investigators, Bernie Little. Bernie, Senator Wray.”
Did those ice-blue eyes shift? Not that I could tell. But they did something, a sort of flicker perhaps, here and gone. Then Senator Wray and Bernie shook hands. The senator turned out to be one of those two-handed hand shakers, grabbing Bernie’s in both of his. He gave Bernie a big grin. “Pleasure to meet you, sir,” he said. “And this handsome pooch of yours. I’d appreciate both your votes in the upcoming election, but I’ll forgive Chet here if he can’t manage the lever.”
“He probably could,” Bernie said. “But to be safe, I’ll just vote twice.”
There was a pause. The flunkies all watched Senator Wray. Stine gave Bernie a sharp look. Then the senator started laughing. He laughed and laughed and patted Bernie on the back. The flunkies all laughed, too. “Hear that?” the senator said. “Just vote twice!” And he laughed all over again. The flunkies laughed harder. What was funny? I didn’t know, but one thing for sure—Bernie had made a great impression. That didn’t always happen, for reasons I’d never understood. The tour moved on, a female flunky at the end of the line giving me a nice pat without breaking stride.
Bernie turned back to the counter.
“Sergeant Wauneka, was it?” said the unhelpful uniformed dude, all of a sudden getting helpful. “Right this way. My name’s Ernie, at your service.”
Six
Could I manage a lever? First I’d have to find out what a lever was, but after that it would be a snap. As we went down a long hall at the new Valley PD HQ, I thought, Lever? And then again: Lever? And once more: Lever? Soon the answer would come to me! I started feeling pretty good about myself, so good I almost didn’t notice a red-haired guy sitting at a desk in his office as we passed by the open doorway, red hair of the curly type and also receding. There was lots of gold decoration on his uniform, and he had his feet up on the desk. He wore cowboy boots—snakeskin in his case—which you sometimes saw on cops, but only on their days off. The red-haired cop glanced at us and then looked a lot more carefully. We passed by.
Farther down the hall, we came to another office, this one small and tidy with a window, filing cabinet, and a desk. Behind the desk sat a uniformed woman with glossy black hair tied up in a bun—always a good look, in my opinion, reminding me of poodles in a way—and very smooth skin.
“Sergeant?” said Ernie. “This here’s, uh…”
“Bernie Little,” said Bernie. “And Chet.”
“Captain Stine said to show ’em up.”
“Thanks, Ernie.”
Ernie nodded, backed out, and went away.
The sergeant turned to us and smiled. “I’ve wondered whether this would happen.”
“Oh?” said Bernie.
“Chet being pretty well known in this building,” she said.
“Ah,” said Bernie. “So you wondered if you would ever meet him?”
“For a special reason.” The sergeant rose, took a framed photo off a shelf and brought it over. “Here’s Trixie.”
We all gazed at Trixie, a member of the nation within—and a particularly good-looking one. She was sitting up nice and tall, her mouth a bit open, revealing the tip of a fine pink tongue. The rest of her was jet-black, except … except for one white ear. All black but one white ear? That reminded me of … of something. And then it came to me. Me! It reminded me of me. This may surprise you, but sometimes humans discuss my appearance in my presence, and when they do, they always mention what they call the mismatched ears. Seeing those so-called mismatched ears now on someone else—namely, this Trixie character—I couldn’t help but think, hey, not too shabby! Not too shabby at all! One more thing: I found myself wishing I could smell her, in fact wishing that quite strongly.
Bernie’s eyes went to me, then back to the photo. Sergeant Wauneka watched him the whole time, so when he looked up at the sergeant, her eyes were waiting, if that makes any sense.
“This is kind of amazing,” Bernie said.
“Agreed,” said the sergeant.
“My god,” Bernie said.
“Yes,” said the sergeant.
“Is it possible they were littermates?” Bernie said. “Whoa! Did you actually see the litter, Sergeant?”
“I wish,” said the sergeant. “Trixie was a rescue I got two years ago. So we’d need a DNA test to make sure. And call me Weatherly.”
“Weatherly,” said Bernie, kind of carefully, like he was trying something new.
“My father was in the merchant marine,” said Weatherly, possibly a bit irritated.
“For the umpteenth time,” Bernie said.
“Ha!” said Weatherly.
Bernie checked the photo again. “Might be fun to get the two of them together.”
Weatherly got an odd look in her eyes, almost as though she’d had a sudden pain inside. “That would have been nice.”
“I don’t understand,” Bernie said.
Weatherly shook her head. “Trixie disappeared June 28.”
She went silent, then slowly sat down in her chair. Bernie sat in the chair on our side. I stood beside him. Bernie said nothing. Sometimes we just wait, me and Bernie. That’s something I learned from him. He learned from me, too, by the way. He’d even told me so. This was one time out in the desert when he’d had to pee very badly—I know that one!—and he’d hit the brakes, hopped out, and peed and peed and peed against a big red rock, looking over his shoulder at me for a moment or two and saying, “Learned this from you, big guy!” We’re a team, don’t forget, me and Bernie.
Weatherly took a deep breath. “I blame myself,” she said. “This was after Bob—this was after there was no one home to watch her while I was at work. I kept her inside, of course, windows closed and AC on, but when I came home from the night shift that morning, she was gone. I did all the usual things—posted flyers, searched the neighborhood, checked the shelters—but…” Weatherly raised her hands and let them slowly fall on the desk.
“Sorry to hear that,” Bernie said. “We’ll keep an eye out.” He thought for a moment. “Have you got anything with her scent on it?”
“Not here, but I could get you something.”
“Here’s the address.” Bernie handed her our business card, the business card with the flowers on it, designed by Suzie, which I know I’ve already mentioned but want to mention again, especially the Suzie part, for some reason.
Weatherly glanced at the card, then took a closer look. How often had I seen that, usually followed by a smirk or snicker? But not from Weatherly. Instead, for an instant, she seemed about to smile. Then she tucked our card in the chest pocket of her uniform shirt. “Much appreciated, Bernie,” she said. “Now what can I do for you?”
“On June 15, a woman named Johnnie Lee Goetz got a restraining order on Mickey Rottoni of South Pedroia. Our information has you as the serving officer, but his address is a PO box, so we wondered if—”
Weatherly interrupted. “If I actually bothered to stick the papers in his lousy hand?”
Hey! All at once she looked angry, the bones of her face somehow more prominent. What was that about?
“Something like that,” Bernie said.
Weatherly came pretty close to glaring at him. And we’d been getting along so well! Human behavior had its ups and downs. I prefer the ups, which is maybe why I like to turn the downs into them. Whoa! Had I just realized something about myself? I got a very good feeling about this case, and it didn’t go away even though all I understood about it was that no one was paying.
“I always stick the paper in their lousy hands,” Weatherly said.
“Glad to hear it,” Bernie said. “What can you tell us about Mickey?”
“Why do you want to know?”
Bernie got going on a long story that started with Mavis in the maroon Kia, parts of which seemed very familiar to me. Don’t forget I’m a pro. And it’s always nice to listen to Bernie tell a story. I could see from the way the anger faded from her face that Weatherly was feeling the very same thing.
Bernie wrapped it up. I’m afraid that toward the end—or maybe the slightest bit earlier—my mind had let me down a little and wandered off to think of other things, one of which was Trixie. Were there actually any others? Maybe not.
Meanwhile, there was silence. “Well?” Bernie said at last.
Weatherly put her fingertips together. “You had an inconclusive conversation with a woman driving a maroon Kia. Now you’re looking for her. You had another inconclusive conversation with Johnnie Lee Goetz, owner of the Kia, who told you the car had been stolen. If so, she didn’t report it. You found out about the restraining order and now you’re looking to have what’ll probably be another inconclusive conversation with Mickey Rottoni, if you find him.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Bernie said. “If you’ve got a better idea, let’s hear it.”
Weatherly leaned back in her chair in a way I’d seen men—especially of the boss type—lean back, but never a woman. “Who’s the client?” she said.
“Prospectively,” Bernie began, losing me right off the jump and on a very important point, “Mavis, the driver of the Kia.”
“Your business plan allows for prospective clients?” said Weatherly.
Ah. Our business plan. Ms. Pernick, our accountant, had raised that subject on several occasions, with Bernie always saying he’d “clean it up a little” and “shoot it over,” but while I’d witnessed him cleaning from time to time, no shooting involving Ms. Pernick ever happened.
Now Bernie sat back, too. “Sometimes we go on instinct.”
Weatherly’s gaze went to me, then to Bernie. “When you say ‘we,’ you refer to you and Chet?”
“Correct.”
Weatherly rubbed her hands slowly together and then nodded. “Fair enough,” she said. “In a PO box situation, I do some digging.”
Aha! There comes a special moment when you make up your mind about someone, now and forever, and never have to think about it again. This was one of those special moments. Weatherly Wauneka did some digging, and so did I. There was nothing more to say.
That didn’t mean things stopped getting said. Another long conversation started up between Bernie and Weatherly, possibly about how she’d tracked down Mickey Rottoni. An interesting story, even exciting in parts, with lots of twists and turns, although don’t count on me for the details, since my mind was mostly occupied with organizing a digging expedition for me and Weatherly. I’d noticed a giant flower pot outside the entrance of the new Valley PD HQ. Always nice to know where to start. Now all I needed was when. Hey! Where and when! Was this how Bernie thought, 24-7? He really is beyond belief when it comes to brainpower. And everything else, of course. Goes without mentioning.
“Sylvia Rottoni?” Weatherly was saying. “Any luck with that?”
Bernie shook his head.
“The Rottonis are hard people,” Weatherly said, “and look out for themselves first, last, and always, but they’re not criminals. Mickey’s the criminal, and they cut him out of the business. Doesn’t mean they don’t support him. Also doesn’t mean they don’t protect him from the law. I tried her anyway, of course. I’m a plodder.”
Bernie’s eyebrows, with a language all their own, have a way of showing that he’s not buying it. Just one eyebrow does the actual talking, rising up quite sharply, although never too sharply. Meanwhile, the other eyebrow stays put. What amazing body control! But that’s Bernie, world class all the way.
Weatherly seemed to give his eyebrows a quick, odd sort of glance, and went on. “Next, I tried Johnnie Lee, although I don’t like involving the complainant.”
“Why not?” said Bernie.
“Because,” Weatherly said, “it takes a lot of strength to get that restraining order in the first place. Sometimes they’re clean out of strength after that, and start having doubts, especially if their particular Mickey Rottoni is making nice.”
“You’re handling the decision for them?” Bernie said.
Weatherly’s chin jutted out a bit. That was a look Bernie had, too. It means he’s digging in his heels. So Weatherly was digging in her heels, although about what I didn’t know. I happen to be an expert at digging in heels—I can make myself completely immovable, a fun thing to do from time to time, even for no reason—but I leave out the chin-jutting part. Bottom line: there was a lot to like about Weat
herly.
“I would never do that,” she said. “I help them keep the faith.”
“Did Johnnie Lee need help with that?”
“I wouldn’t have thought so, but when I drove out to her place on Aztec Creek Road, Johnnie Lee claimed to have no idea where Rottoni lived, where he worked—no leads at all. I didn’t believe her. Some folks are adept liars and others not, as I’m sure you know. Johnnie Lee’s in the second group. I didn’t press her.” Weatherly gave Bernie a sharp look. “Pressing’s what you do to bad guys.”
This is where Bernie would usually nod one of his nods, but instead, he simply watched her.
“I just left,” Weatherly went on. “But as I got into my car, a woman ran out the side door of Johnnie Lee’s place. She didn’t say a word, just handed me a piece of paper and ran back into the house.” Weatherly opened a desk drawer, took out a sheet of paper, and paused. “A noticeably good-looking woman, by the way. Is Mavis, this prospective client of yours, noticeably good looking?”
“Well, I’m not one to—”
“Bernie? Are we going to play games?”
Bernie went the slightest bit pink, not an everyday sight. I was paying close attention. What sort of games was Weatherly talking about? We could play pretty much anything, me and Bernie.
“Yes,” he said. “Mavis was noticeably good looking.”
Weatherly grinned like some fun game was already happening. I wondered what it could be.
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