“Sure,” said Bernie. “We’ll take a look at them. But first I’d like to see Mr. Keefer.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“Not exactly, Ms. . ..“
“Larapova. Elena Larapova, VP marketing.”
“. . . Ms. Larapova, but I know he’ll see us.”
Ms. Larapova’s eyes went to me. She made a friendly clucking sound, a sound I liked. I wagged back. “Mr. Keefer is on site at the moment,” she said.
“Can you call him?”
“Perhaps. Who shall I say . . . ?”
Bernie handed her our card. She read it, then looked at me again, quickly, her eyes widening. “Something the matter?” said Bernie.
“Oh, no, no, Mr. Little. It’s just—I’ve never met a detective before.”
Bernie smiled. “We don’t bite,” he said.
Speak for yourself, was my thought.
Ms. Larapova took a phone off the desk. “Hello, Da—Mr. Keefer,” she said. “There’s a Bernie Little to see you.” She listened for a moment and hung up. “Come,” she said.
We went outside, climbed into a golf cart, Ms. Larapova behind the wheel, Bernie beside her, me in back. I’d ridden in golf carts before, loved them.
“Your dog is coming?” she said.
“You object?”
“No. Well-behaved pets are always welcome at Puma Wells.”
“Then please make an exception for Chet.”
“Excuse me?”
“On both counts—well behaved and pet.” Bernie laughed to himself. What the hell was he talking about?
“Explain, please?”
I was on her side, all the way.
“Sorry,” Bernie said. “Just a joke.”
Ms. Larapova gave him a quick glance, the corners of her mouth turned down, a look often appearing on women’s faces after one of Bernie’s jokes. She shifted away from him on the bench seat and drove onto a cart path.
We bumped up a fairway, headed toward a big building in the distance. I didn’t see anyone playing, but all of a sudden a golf ball came soaring over a hill, hit the ground right beside us, and bounced up. I snatched it right out of the air before I even knew what I’d done. Looking back, I saw another golf cart topping the crest of the hill far behind us. I lay down on the backseat, chewing quietly.
“So,” said Bernie, “what brings you here?”
The puzzled human face is one of my favorites. That was what Ms. Larapova showed Bernie now.
“Aren’t you from Russia?” he went on.
She nodded. “But I have been in this country for many years, am now a citizen like you.”
“Even better, I’m sure.”
Russian? Wait a minute. That triggered something in my mind, but what? I mulled it over, meanwhile working my way through the golf-ball covering. Underneath lay all kinds of interesting stuff; I knew from experience.
“. . . and I love the wide-open spaces,” Ms. Larapova was saying.
“Aren’t there wide-open spaces in Siberia?”
“You have such a sense of humor.” But not enough to make Ms. Larapova laugh. She drove up to the big building. “The clubhouse,” she said. “Gourmet restaurant and bar, indoor and outdoor pools with Jacuzzis, five-thousand-square-foot gym with personal-trainer service, Japanese steam and Finnish sauna, full-service spa.”
“What’s it cost?”
“Membership is restricted to residents only.”
“And then it’s free?”
For the first time, Ms. Larapova laughed. Human laughter: usually one of the best sounds there is, as I might have mentioned, but not Ms. Larapova’s, which was booming and strange, kind of like an explosion. “Free?” she said. “Introductory-rate initiation is one hundred fifty K, and that is for three-bedroom units and above.”
“Introductory-rate?” said Bernie.
“Until Labor Day. After that—two hundred. Plus greens fees, of course.”
“Goes without saying,” said Bernie.
We got off the cart, followed Ms. Larapova around the clubhouse. “What’s in your mouth, Chet?” Bernie said.
I swallowed what was left, looked innocent. Way back on the fairway, two golfers were walking in little circles, heads down. Golf was a game I didn’t get at all.
There was a big swimming pool behind the clubhouse. I trotted over to the edge. Hey. No water. Not that I’d have jumped in—almost certainly not—but I liked gazing at water. A man in a dark suit sat under an umbrella at a poolside table spread with a white cloth; I’d pulled on an overhanging end of one of those once, with bad results; but for some reason, my mouth suddenly wanted to get hold of this one. The man was talking on a phone. I smelled cat on him, saw his goatee, and recognized him: Damon Keefer. “It’ll clear, for Christ’s sake,” he was saying. One of his feet was tapping under the table, very fast, out of sight, although not out of my sight, down here. “Don’t be such a—” He saw us, said, “Gotta go,” and clicked off.
Bernie and Ms. Larapova approached the table. I stayed where I was, poolside, hit by a surprising attack of indigestion. Keefer motioned with his hand, and Bernie and Ms. Larapova started to sit down.
“I’ll take it from here, Elena,” Keefer said.
Ms. Larapova, in the act of pulling out her chair, went still. “As you wish, Mr. Keefer,” she said. She gave me a quick glance, then turned and walked away. I turned, too, and gagged what was left of the golf ball into the empty pool. Ah, much better: at the top of my game once more, and the slightest bit hungry, believe it or not. I sniffed the air in hope of scraps; poolsides were usually good for a potato chip or two, or even one of those mini hot dogs—had to be careful about the toothpicks they came on, I’d learned that the hard way—but I smelled nothing except cat, the odor coming from Keefer. I thought of mountain lions right away, and then a faint memory of Madison in the window came and went.
Bernie sat opposite Keefer, hands folded on the table. I always got a good feeling when Bernie’s hands were folded like that, couldn’t say why.
“Any news?” Keefer said. Under the table, his foot was tapping away—in fact, his whole lower body was jittery, although the top part of him was still.
“I’m afraid not,” Bernie said. “We followed up on one or two leads, but they ended nowhere.”
“So what are you saying? Your involvement in this is over?”
“Far from it.”
“Don’t tell me you want more money.”
“Money’s not the issue now, Mr. Keefer. The retainer will take us through to the end, and we’ll send you a bill then. But the point, what we’ve got to focus on, is making sure that end’s a good end.”
Keefer took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. “Think I don’t know that?” He blew smoke through his nostrils, something Bernie liked doing. In fact, Bernie’s gaze was locked on those smoke trails. Keefer noticed. “Smoke?”
“No, thanks,” Bernie said, even though I could tell he wanted one bad. “I’ve been in touch with Rick Torres over at Missing Persons. He says you told him you think Madison’s run off to Las Vegas.”
Keefer shrugged.
“You told me the same thing.”
Keefer took a deep drag. All that lower-body twitchiness lessened a bit. “Vegas is just an example.”
“Of what?”
“The kind of place she might have taken off for.”
“But Cynthia says she’s never taken off before.”
“Cynthia. Christ.”
“Do you have any reason to believe she’s not telling the truth?”
“A dozen.”
“A dozen?”
“That’s how many years I put up with her.” Keefer’s lower body was back at full speed.
“In your experience, then,” Bernie said. “Has Madison ever disappeared like this?”
“My experience with Madison is getting her every second weekend and alternating Christmases and Thanksgivings. Any idea what that’s like?”
Bernie didn’t
answer, just gazed at Keefer. Keefer took one last drag, then spun the cigarette into the empty pool. “No,” he said. “The answer’s no. She’s never done this before.”
“That’s helpful,” Bernie said. “Because you wouldn’t want us going off to Vegas on a wild-goose chase.”
A wild-goose chase! I’d heard that expression so many times but never been on one. It sounded like the most exciting thing in the whole world. Yes, I wanted to go on a wild-goose chase, and if that meant Vegas, so be it.
Keefer gave Bernie a strange look, any meaning it might have had completely missing me. “No,” he said, “we wouldn’t want that.”
“Ruling out the runaway scenario,” Bernie said, “at least for now, that leaves us with accidents—”
“What kind of accidents?”
“All kinds—traffic, recreational, domestic—but Rick Torres has checked all the hospitals in the Valley and come up empty. That means we’re most probably dealing with kidnapping, of which there are two types: for ransom and not.”
“I told you the other day—there’s been no ransom demand.”
“You’ve checked?”
“Checked what, for God’s sake?”
“Your mail, e-mail, fax machines, voice mail.”
“They’re checked all the time. I’m running a business here.”
Bernie glanced around. “It’s impressive. One of the nicest I’ve seen.”
Nicest what? Bernie could be hard to follow. But Keefer seemed to understand. He gave a slight nod.
“I asked you before about competitors.”
“And I told you we don’t kidnap each other’s kids.”
“I remember,” Bernie said. “But how can you be sure all your competitors are legit?”
“What does that mean?”
“Some businesses act as fronts or are financed by criminal organizations.”
“Not in real estate development, not in the Valley.”
“How can you be sure?”
“The same way you’d be sure about key facts in your business, assuming you’re any good.”
Was that an insult? I didn’t know and couldn’t tell from Bernie’s face, which didn’t change a bit. “What about your suppliers?”
“What about them?”
“Or your contractors, your labor—do you ever have trouble with them?”
“I have nothing but trouble with them. That’s what this business is about.”
“How bad does it get?”
“Not kidnapping bad, if that’s where you’re going with this. We negotiate, we work things out, we keep building.”
Bernie looked around again. “What about today?”
“Today?”
“I don’t see anybody—is it a normal workday?”
Keefer didn’t answer right away. He lit up another cigarette, breathed out more smoke. Poor Bernie got that craving look in his eye again. “Yeah, a normal workday, just an extended break, that’s all.”
“And how’s the development going as a whole, Pinnacle Wells?”
Keefer’s voice, already sharp, sharpened some more. “Pinnacle Peak Homes at Puma Wells,” he said, “is going just fine.”
“Are you the one hundred percent owner?”
“I am.”
“Where do you get your financing?”
Below the table: lots of twitching.
“Various reputable Valley banks. They don’t resort to kidnapping for outstanding accounts even if there were any, and there are not.”
“I don’t suppose Madison has any connection to the business.”
“Correct.”
“Any of these people—competitors, suppliers, bankers, workers—drive a BMW, possibly blue?”
“Dozens, probably. What kind of a question is that?” Under the table: still twitching, maybe even more.
“Not a good one,” Bernie said. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. That meant soon we’d be doing something different. “I’d like to see Madison’s room as soon as possible.”
“What room are you talking about?”
“Where she stays when she’s with you.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s basic casework.”
Under the table, Keefer’s legs went still. “I’ll take you there myself,” he said. “Meet me at the office in fifteen minutes.”
Bernie and I went back down the fairway on foot. Walks with Bernie were the best. I ran a few circles around him just for fun, hoping for a little chase, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“Keefer’s smart,” he said. “Very.”
He was? I’d missed that.
Some workers appeared, pushing wheelbarrows and carrying shovels, rakes, hoes, and other equipment I didn’t know. When they got close, Bernie waved hello and said, “Coming off your break?”
One of the men laughed. “Sí, three days break.”
“How come so long?”
The man made a gesture with his hand, rubbing finger and thumb together. What did that mean? A golf ball thwacked off a tree, bounded nearby. I sidled over toward it.
fifteen
The dog’s coming in?”
We were outside Damon Keefer’s house, a real big one with walls around it and a metal sculpture out front, a strange sculpture, huge and gleaming, but the shape reminded me of a fire hydrant. I felt eyes on me; otherwise, I’d have gone right over and put my mark on it.
“Chet’s his name,” Bernie said. “He specializes in missing-persons cases.”
Keefer looked down his nose at me; I’ve got a look like that, even better because of my longer nose. “You’re referring to his sense of smell?”
“Among other things,” Bernie said.
Keefer gazed at me. Did he realize what a leaper I am, that I could be right up there at face level with him in a flash, teeth bared? “All right,” he said.
We went inside. Surprise: a big house with big open spaces and glowing tile floors, but only one piece of furniture, a leather couch. And perched on that couch, as I could have told you with my eyes closed: a cat. A cat who smelled like Keefer but way more so. The cat saw me at once, of course, and every hair on his body stood straight up, and he made a sound like the mountain lion’s roar but much tinier. That’s all cats are—midget lions. I’m nobody’s midget, baby.
“Uh,” said Keefer, “is your dog all right?”
“In what way?” said Bernie.
“In what way? Look at him—he’s about to attack Prince.”
“Prince?” Bernie said. He hadn’t even noticed the cat? How was that possible? Keefer pointed Prince out. “Oh, Chet wouldn’t do anything like that,” Bernie said. He glanced at me. Something in that glance made me realize I had one of my front paws up in the air and was leaning forward, maybe in a way someone who didn’t know me might interpret as aggressive. I lowered my paw to the floor, looked peaceful. Prince’s coat went back to normal, and he regarded me in the usual snooty cat manner that always makes my blood boil, before rolling over on the couch and turning his back to the room. Cat moves like that get under my skin like you can’t imagine. I wanted to take him and—But not now, not while we were on the job. Some other time, though, supposing ol’ Prince and I happened to run into each other in a dark alley, say, or maybe—
“Nice place you’ve got here,” Bernie said. “Just moving in?”
“Out, actually,” said Keefer.
“Oh?”
“Correct,” said Keefer. “Madison’s room is this way.”
He led us down a long hall, past some closed doors and into a room at the end. I smelled her right away—honey, cherry, sun-colored flowers—but faint. The room itself had a bed, desk, bureau, stuff like that: Bernie walked around, seeing the kinds of things he knew how to see. A framed photograph stood on the desk. Photographs often gave me trouble. Watching TV, that was more like it, the Discovery Channel and lots of movies, too—check out White Fang’s fight with Cherokee! and once we caught this show called When Good Animals Go Bad—wow! that
elephant scene!—but this one, this photo, I got with no problem: Keefer and Madison standing in front of a birdcage, his arm over her shoulder, both of them laughing.
“When was this taken?” Bernie said.
“Couple of years ago,” said Keefer, not really looking at it.
“And that’s Cap’n Crunch in the cage?”
Keefer nodded. “Stupid bird,” he said, and I couldn’t have agreed more. Then came another surprise, at least for me: Keefer’s eyes filled with tears. Uh-oh, the crying thing. Water came out of human eyes sometimes—usually women, but not always, usually because of sadness, but not always—and whenever it happened, I got confused. And now Keefer, this dude I didn’t much like, this dude with Prince’s stink all over him, was having one of these floods inside. I knew men could cry—had seen Bernie tear up that time Leda came and packed up Charlie’s stuff; did I mention that already? At that moment I came close to making—What would you call it? A connection, maybe, a connection between Bernie’s situation and—
But it didn’t happen. I spotted a Cheeto under the bed. Munch munch and it was gone. Not bad at all, if you didn’t mind a little dust, and I’m not fussy about things like that. When I turned back to the room, Bernie was watching Keefer, a new look on his face.
“How would you describe your relationship with Madison?” Bernie said.
“What the hell kind of question is that?” Keefer said, his eyes drying up fast. “No way you have kids yourself, or you wouldn’t ask it. She’s the best thing in my life.”
The expression on Bernie’s face changed again, went cold for a moment, and then just nothing. I hated seeing that just-nothing look on Bernie’s face. I went over and sat at his feet. He didn’t seem to notice.
“I’m doing my best to get her back for you,” Bernie said. “But I need the facts. If you’re holding anything back, now is the time.”
Their gazes met. There was a silence, at least for them. Myself, I heard distant barking, she-barking most likely, and possibly of the most interesting kind.
“The chance won’t come again,” Bernie said.
Keefer licked his lips. The human tongue doesn’t appear that often, and when it does, I always notice. This time, in combination with that goatee, it didn’t sit right with me, no idea why. At that moment a phone went off in Keefer’s pocket. He checked the tiny screen, said, “Got to take this,” and moved out of the room and into the hall. Bernie followed, soft on his feet, and stood behind the door, where Keefer couldn’t see him. I followed Bernie, even quieter. We cocked our ears and listened in.
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