The Deadly Dog Show (Roger and Suzanne South American Mystery Series Book 6)

by Jerold Last

  She paced back and forth, slowly and deliberately. "Another thing is that all dog handlers are not created equal, some are better than others. Those top handlers tend to get the best dogs to handle. The wrong handlers are winning too often as well. If I were going to cheat at a dog show, I'd bribe the judge to select my dog to get the points. The AKC is especially concerned there's never any reason for a rumor to start about a judge being corrupted, or the integrity of any AKC dog show being to compromised on that basis."

  We talked for another 30 minutes about timing, logistics, and the whole dog show lifestyle. The more Sherry told me, the more I liked the whole idea. Suzanne would be easy to sell on it; she wanted our son Robert to grow up with a pet dog in the house, the sooner the better. The problem for me would be finding time to go to a dozen or more shows, and for our busy family to find time to go to any dog shows together. I also wasn't so sure about Robert's nanny, Bruce, who would have to do most of the training, dog walking, and poop scooping. That might turn out to be a hard sell.

  Sherry gave me a business card with her personal cell phone number written by hand on the back, shook hands good-bye, and told me she would be in touch with details of when and where my meeting with the AKC management would be held.

  I called my top detective and good friend Vincent Romero into the office. Vincent was an ex-CIA agent. I first met him when my wife and I were chasing the serial killer we called the Surreal Killer through Peru and Chile. Vincent subsequently moved from his job as a university professor in Iquique, Chile to Los Angeles and took a job with me. Although he is about 50 years old, he is in excellent shape for his age. He's got a permanent tan from his many years in the Atacama Desert of Chile, and is very, very good looking according to Suzanne. At almost 6 feet tall and wide across the shoulders he looks the part of a bodyguard, and in Hollywood where image is often more important than substance he brings both image and substance to his job as a P.I. Vincent handles all of our bodyguard work, and manages the agency in my absence.

  Vincent hit the proper keys to save the report he was writing on his computer, came into my office, and sat in the client's chair while I filled him in on the possibilities of the job Sherry's bosses might be offering.

  "What do you think, Vincent? It would be a big change from what we usually do and we'd have a large and very wealthy corporate client who might continue to throw business at us for the rest of our careers. But, I might need your help at some of the dog shows and you'd have to handle most of the routine stuff here at the office on your own for as long as a year. Are you up for that level of responsibility?"

  Vincent looked thoughtful. He cleared his throat and fidgeted a bit. He had an odd conversational quirk. Like most South Americans, he more or less randomly sprinkled his speech with the word “claro”, which means “sure” or “OK” in South American Spanish. In the context he used it, it was the classic parsley word, which looked good when added to the mixture but had no meaning and just lay there like a garnish. "Claro. It sounds good to me, especially if we can renegotiate my salary and job description a bit to recognize the increased responsibilities I'd have. That would seem to be fair to me."

  I tried to look stern and act like a boss. It was hard; I like Vincent as a friend as well as a colleague and that was the answer I wanted to hear. "I suspect they'll have me out to New York City early next week and they'll dither around for the rest of the week before they make any offer. Why don't you come up with a detailed proposal by the end of the week, outlining what it would take for you to say yes to backing me up up on this case while we wait to see if all of this is real?

  "By the way, Sherry Wyne gave me a few suggestions on how best to negotiate with her bosses, particularly about the dollar amount I think would be fair if they offered me the job. I think I'll do the same here. While you're thinking about what's fair if you take on more responsibility with the agency, you might want to think about what the agency would look like if we were partners rather than an employer and employee."

  Vincent looked stunned. With a shocked expression he mumbled something I didn’t understand completely about not expecting this, stood up, and walked over to his office to get back to work.

  Chapter2.At home

  I went home at the usual hour for quality family time with Suzanne and Robert while Robert's live-in nanny Bruce prepared dinner for all four of us. As it happened, we had a perfect living situation for becoming dog owners on short notice. When her father was killed in Salta, Argentina, Suzanne inherited a large house in Beverly Hills, which she owned free and clear. I guess we, or more correctly our family trust, owned it now under California's community property laws. The two-story house had probably been built in the 1920s. It was large, gorgeous, and being on the end of a block had only one immediate neighbor. There were plenty of shrubs and trees between the houses to prevent the noise from a few dog barks from becoming a problem. Most of our neighbors had their own dogs or cats and we got along well with them, and so I didn't anticipate any problems on that score either. The outside of the house was white stucco with lots of windows. It stood on a well-manicured lot with a broad front lawn, gardens, mature trees, a small fenced-in swimming pool in back, and privacy from the street ensured by high shrubs and six foot high stucco walls with a gate for entrance.

  Suzanne and I made a good team for solving the oddball murders we always seemed to get involved in when we visited South America. My strengths tend towards the deductive. I can analyze problems logically and do a pretty good imitation of Sherlock Holmes every now and then. Suzanne is also a strongly logical problem solver, but her strengths include a tilt towards the intuitive. She can look at the same facts as everyone else and make quantum leaps forward by some sort of internal logic that most of us don’t have. A few months ago, we finished one of our more complicated cases in Montevideo where we’d found a dead body in the bed in our hotel room. Now back at home, we settled down to our normal routines. We both worked out in our respective martial arts training a couple of nights a week at a local dojo. Suzanne was completely into karate while I preferred to mix Brazilian Jiu Jitsu with my karate. We were both pretty advanced in our respective forms and it kept us physically fit.

  My business had been quiet since our return from Montevideo, not enough clients to keep me as busy as I liked. On the other hand, Vincent Romero was very busy, making money for us hand over fist handling the bodyguard portion of our detective agency. I guarded bodies with him enough to feel I was doing my share, but was always looking forward to a new, big case or two. Suzanne was hard at work on research, teaching, and grant writing at the UCLA Medical School where she was a Professor of Biochemistry, but took pains to get home early enough to enjoy some time with our now 9-month-old son Robert.

  When I arrived home today, Suzanne and Robert were playing together on the floor of our open family room off the kitchen. They sat directly opposite each other in the middle of a large, old oriental carpet, completely surrounded by colorful wooden blocks Suzanne was using to build different shaped structures as fast as she could. Robert was knocking them down as fast as Suzanne could build them up, accompanied by much laughter from both of them.

  I walked over, careful to avoid stepping on any of the blocks. "Suzanne, how would you feel about getting a dog? I know we've talked about it lots of times, but I mean getting a dog now, while Robert is still an infant."

  Pausing in her block construction to look up at me, Suzanne let a big smile play over her face. "Good timing Roger. Bruce and I have been discussing how we feel about dogs a lot lately. We’ve even looked into what might be involved in buying a purebred hunting dog. It turns out that Bruce, our nanny of many talents, has another skill set we weren’t aware of, but is relevant here. Bruce, why don't you tell him how you feel about a new dog?"

  Bruce, who was enjoying a well-deserved break from the immediate responsibility of childcare, had been politely pretending not to be listening and smiled. “As you both know, I was a Navy SEAL before bec
oming a Nanny. One of the jobs I had in the Navy was to train and handle the dogs our squad used on our missions. I'm a very good dog handler and an excellent dog trainer. I love dogs!” he exclaimed with completely uncharacteristic enthusiasm.

  He walked closer to the pediatric construction site and continued. “It would be a lot of fun to train a hunting dog for you, and even to show the dog if its got the right bloodlines, temperament, and conformation to compete in dog shows. It should be pretty easy for me to make the jump over into training your dog for hunt tests, too. But, and it's a big but, Robert's still too young to start with a brand new puppy right now. A puppy would demand too much time and energy for me to be able to spend the necessary one-on-one time Robert should have at this age. Next year a puppy would be perfect, but if you want a dog right now, I'd recommend an adult that's already well trained and who has lived with a family. I believe an adult would fit right in here, if there was any way you could find such a dog."

  Suzanne jumped back into the conversation with both feet. "I feel exactly the same way as Bruce," she added enthusiastically. "As a matter of fact I've actually contacted a few breeders and have a pretty good idea about the specific breeders and bloodlines I'd like you to look at when we start dog hunting."

  I turned back to look directly at her. "I spoke to a potential new client today that had a case that ought to interest both of you. Can we talk about it now?"

  Suzanne looked disappointed. "Are we changing the subject from dogs on purpose, Roger?"

  I bent over to pick up a block that looked like it would fit into the top floor of the house she was building with Robert and handed it to her. "No, we're not. The case is related to the subject. Does the name Sherry Wyne ring any bells with you?"

  Suzanne took the block and tested it out. It fit perfectly. "Sherry Wyne. Isn't she the GSP breeder from Sacramento who owns and shows my favorite dog of all I've seen so far, Juliet?"

  “Yeah, that’s exactly who she is.” I went on to tell Suzanne and Bruce all about our potential new clients, Sherry and the AKC, and the possibility of getting Juliet as a family member for a year or more, plus one of her puppies after that.

  Both loved the idea, as well as the idea of my working for the AKC as a dog show detective, and possibly Bruce volunteering his services both as an assistant detective and a professional handler. As long as the AKC decided it wanted to hire me, the family could make this work.

  With a big smile, Suzanne made me an offer I couldn't refuse. "If I volunteer to pack your suitcase and keep our luggage fitting into just one carry-on bag each, can I accompany you on the trip to New York? A short getaway together would be lots of fun and I have someone there I need to visit."

  “Is that OK with you, Bruce? Suzanne and I promised each other (omit) some quality time for (just) the two of us to spend together, and this could be a good start.”

  “I’ll be glad to look after Robert for a couple of days. You two guys deserve to have a couple of days of vacation. Glad I can help.”

  It seemed clear to me that if the AKC folks wanted me for this job I'd be an extremely enthusiastic employee, even if I was an expensive one, especially if they were willing to meet all of the conditions Sherry had suggested. All of the adults were up for expanding the family by one dog, and I suspected that if Robert had a vote, he would make it unanimous.

  Chapter3.New York, New York

  The lyrics to a popular old show tune go something like "New York, New York, It's a wonderful town. The Bronx is up and the Battery's down".

  A more modern version might go something like "New York, New York, It's not really a wonderful town. The cost of just about everything is up and the service is way, way down!" New York City emulated this modern version from the moment we got off the plane.

  We arrived on our direct flight from LAX to JFK Airport about an hour late. Fortunately all of our baggage was carry-on, as we heard numerous complaints about lost and stolen suitcases from fellow passengers waiting in line for a taxi into the City. We finally got to the front of the line and into a taxi, which ever so slowly fought its way through traffic on the Long Island Expressway, through the Queens-Midtown Tunnel, and into Manhattan to our hotel. The flat fare was supposed to be $52. The cab driver asked for $100 with a perfectly straight face. Through the years I've learned not to put up with crap like this. I responded by pulling out my wallet, flashing my badge and credentials, handing him two $20, one $10, and two $1 bills, and telling him I was letting him go this time for his tip. However, if it ever happened again he’d be going to jail and losing his taxi medallion. The cabbie didn't like it, but knew better than to argue as we walked into the hotel. The doorman and two bellhops witnessed the entire exchange and smiled at me with their approval.

  Our airplane tickets and hotel reservations, and my itinerary for tomorrow from 9 AM until after dinner, had all been arranged for me. The only thing not scheduled in advance down to the nearest minute was a bathroom break, or perhaps I wasn't going to be allowed any. Suzanne would be on her own until dinner, when she would join us at a trendy and very expensive French restaurant a block or two from the building that housed the AKC offices.

  Tonight, Suzanne and I were free to have dinner alone. This was an opportunity to introduce Suzanne to what I considered one of life’s greatest pleasures, something exotic and only available in New York. Not trendy, not as expensive as standard yuppie fare in The Big Apple, but a neighborhood hole-in-the-wall Kosher-style delicatessen serving hot pastrami and corned beef sandwiches on fresh deli rye bread with half-sour pickles as well as other local ethnic odds and ends. These could all be found in Los Angeles, but just didn't taste the same as the authentic versions in New York City. I’d done this previously in my earlier life, and had been dreaming of sharing the experience for her first time with Suzanne.

  We entered the crowded restaurant to a sensory assault of sights, smells, and sounds. The air was hot and steamy, the steam originating from huge chunks of meat, cooked to perfection and being sliced behind a glass counter by busy chefs with large knives and electric slicing machines. The smells were a symphony of spiced meat, sharp pickles, and spicy mustard. The sounds originated from smiling customers stuffing their mouths with overstuffed sandwiches, shouting meat slicers calling frantic waiters to pick up each of the sandwich plates as it was prepared, and surly waiters snarling at impatient customers who ate too slowly for a new group to be seated promptly.

  “Take dat table,” snarled a gnome dressed like a waiter. The gnome was in his 70s, had sparse patches of gray hair scattered at random over his pink scalp, was barely 5 feet tall, and skinny enough to look like he hated food, or maybe he just couldn’t afford to eat here and was surviving on the rich smells. The old gnome’s face had a perpetually sour expression, to make sure we understood that like all native New Yorkers he hated tourists, especially customers.

  “Fasta lady, I ain’t got all day,” he exhorted Suzanne as he scooted through nooks and crannies between the tightly clustered tables and chairs. Normal sized people like us had to bump and push our way through the aisles that the old waiter navigated quickly and efficiently.

  We looked at other diners’ plates on tables as we alternately scampered and sidled through the crowded dining room to the far wall. The overwhelming majority of diners sat in front of large plates containing sandwiches heaped with layers of pink meat, pastrami or corned beef. The overstuffed sandwiches were held together with toothpicks, one in each half sandwich, topped with a variety of colorful, fancy ribbons of plastic. Sliced dill pickles and pickled green tomatoes filled whatever space remained on the plates. The occasional nonconformist had blintzes, potato pancakes, or kreplach decorated with sour cream on their scrupulously meatless platters. Carnivores and herbivores alike both drank glasses of cream soda to avoid mixing meat and dairy products.

  “Siddown,” he said rudely when we got to our little micro-table, barely large enough to hold two dinner plates, slamming a couple of menus down to emphasi
ze we had reached our destination. The tiny table held a dispenser with slots for the salt and pepper, napkins, and the menus. We were against a wall on one side, had chairs across from each other, back-to-back with other diners sitting at similar micro-tables, and a third, empty chair on the fourth side creating an aisle so narrow we had to enter and leave our chairs by sliding sideways.

  We scrunched into our seats at the closely packed table. I quickly coached Suzanne on survival skills in the deli. "You get two choices here, Suzanne, and only two choices. You can have authentic deli Kosher pastrami or authentic deli Kosher corned beef. I'm having the hot pastrami sandwich on Kosher rye bread, and recommend it highly. If you opt for the corned beef, you can just have it on rye or as a Reuben sandwich with cheese, sauerkraut, and Russian dressing.”

  I carefully closed our menus and stacked them to signal the waiter that we were ready to order. "In the old days all of the side dishes were on the table and you could just pig out on pickles and good stuff. Nowadays they serve controlled portions with your order, so you have to ask for what you want and pay extra for a la carte side dishes. The authentic experience includes cole slaw, a half-sour Kosher dill pickle, pickled green tomatoes, and even pickled red bell peppers that aren't spicy, just vinegary. The half-sour dill pickle is the key; that's the kind I like the best. Any real foodie will tell you the full sour pickles just aren't as good.