The Wrong Dog

by Carol Lea Benjamin

  “Still deciding?” I asked. “Well, one way or the other, I wish you’d get on with it. I don’t have time to waste with you. I have work to do here.”

  I could hear his breathing now, a familiar sound, one I’d heard on my answering machine a few days ago when he’d hit redial to find out who Sophie had called last, waiting a moment to see if I’d pick up.

  Beyond the glass, Dashiell was hopping mad. At last there was work with his name on it, important work, and through no fault of his own, he couldn’t do the only thing he knew he should. It was what I wanted, too, to dispatch this asshole so that I could get some rest.

  “Get him,” I shouted, lifting my aching arm and pointing toward Sophie’s bedroom.

  I saw Joe turn his head, confused. Then I saw his hand begin to rise.

  I was already turning when I heard it, a metallic ripping sound, nails scrabbling across wood, the answering machine hitting the floor, and then Joe moved faster than I’d ever seen a human being go. He wheeled around and opened the apartment door, slamming it behind him. Dashiell hit the door a moment after that and when I opened it for him, both of us mad enough to kill, the hallway was empty. Except for a wrench lying at the side of the stairs. Clearly, the man had no scruples. He was not only a murderer, he was a liar, too.

  I had to pull Dashiell back into the apartment. His back was up, his hackles electrified from his thick neck to the base of his tail. The bullies were barking now, too. Before opening the door to the garden for them, I looked into Sophie’s room to check the damage. The answering machine was upside down on the floor, the receiver as far away as the cord had let it go, the screen was torn, the hole about the size of a leaping, angry pit bull, and there were deep scratches on the desk where Dashiell had kicked off after landing.

  I let Blanche and Bianca in, and went into the kitchen to make that cup of tea, but I’d apparently forgotten to light the burner. Or had I? When I touched the kettle, it was hot. Then another strange thing happened. I could hear someone playing the piano. I looked around, but there weren’t any lights on in the windows I could see. No surprise. It was five to four. I walked out and sat on the bench in the dark, listening carefully, trying to locate the source. But the way sound bounces off buildings in the city, it could have been coming from anywhere, even the other side of Third Street, in one of the apartments between the pizza place and the garage.

  Sitting there in the dark, my feet pulled up onto the bench, Bianca up there next to me while Blanche slept at my feet and Dashiell, still hyper-alert, patrolled, I remembered that the first time Sophie had called me, I’d heard music. At the time, I’d thought she had her radio playing. But it wasn’t that. She’d been out in her garden, talking about hiring a PI.

  A chill went up my back and down my aching right arm.

  Could someone have overheard her? Of course. That made lots of what had happened make sense.

  Someone had been watching her all along.

  And now that someone was watching me.

  I got up and went inside, calling the dogs to follow, locking the door behind me. Then I shut off the living room lights. I walked down the little hall to Sophie’s front door and slipped the chain lock on. Then, followed by all three dogs, I went into Sophie’s room and closed the window over the desk, turning the lock and checking to make sure it held. I thought we’d all had quite enough activity for one night.

  But I couldn’t sleep. Nor did I want to. With all the lights off, I got dressed, and, leaving the bullies at home, Dashiell and I left the apartment, locked the door, and headed not out, but up the stairs.

  CHAPTER 23

  Someone Had Insomnia

  Dashiell ran ahead, turning to wait for me at each landing. Normally, he would have thought this was a game. He might have run down to the landing below, then bumped me in the leg on his way past me, just to show me he was the faster animal, and the one with the wittier sense of humor. But after Joe’s visit, Dash was all business, running ahead to make sure the way was safe for me, looking back to assure himself that I was on my way to join him, that nothing had stopped me or slowed me down.

  All the way up, I prayed I’d find an unlocked door. When I finally got to six, my breath ragged but not enough to stop me, I looked for the door to the roof. Opening it and looking up the stairs, I could see the panic bar on the door and knew I could get out. It was a fire exit and had to be open.

  We ran up the last flight and I hit the bar and let Dashiell out first. Then I slipped off my shoes, propping the door open with them. A door with panic hardware would definitely be locked from the outside and I didn’t want to be locked out on the roof of Sophie’s building with no way to get back in.

  I walked to the back edge of the roof and knelt so that I could look over and still feel relatively safe. The parapet was only three feet high and had I stood there looking down, my stomach would have done the loop de loop until ten minutes after I was back downstairs at Sophie’s.

  It was nearly dawn and all the windows but one were dark. Someone had insomnia. Or a baby who’d cried for attention. No matter. I could still see what I wanted to—which windows overlooked Sophie’s garden.

  Someone could see her. Someone could listen to her phone calls when she took the cordless phone out into the garden and called a private investigator. Someone had seen something, or heard something, that made them want Sophie dead.

  Looking over the edge I could see into the next garden, the one behind the brick wall, and the back of the town house to which it belonged, a house on West Fourth Street. All the tall windows were dark. Except one. Perhaps someone was reading late into the night. Or had eaten something that didn’t sit well.

  From the roof, I could see the entrance to the back cottage that abutted Sophie’s yard. It was on the side of the building, at the end of a flagstone path from the back door of the main house. Perhaps a guest house. Or an office. But dark now. No one in it. Or no one awake.

  The houses to the left and right of Sophie’s building had oblique visual access to the garden, too, and anyone who cared to could have heard any or all of Sophie’s conversations. But they wouldn’t be able to see her when she was inside. Only the houses on Fourth Street had that view, the one directly behind this one, and the ones to the left and right of it. From the upper floors, you’d be able to see most of the garden and all of the apartment.

  The house on the right was dark. As I watched, a light came on in one of the upper rooms in the house on the left.

  Kneeling on the roof, Dashiell pressing against my side, I remembered an incident that had happened right after I’d split up with Jack. I’d just moved into the cottage, thinking I was the luckiest person in the world, the way Sophie felt when she finally got her garden. The Siegals were leaving for France and I had the whole place to myself, no one looking into my garden from the main house. Then the calls started, always late at night, always after I’d turned off the light and gone to sleep.

  When I finally walked over to the precinct, the cops confirmed what I’d been thinking, that whoever was calling hadn’t picked my name at random from the telephone book. Whoever it was could see into the garden. Whoever it was, the detective told me, could see me and liked what he saw.

  But for what purpose? I’d asked.

  Ma’am? he’d said.

  You said he liked what he saw. But for what? He’s not asking me on a date. He’s trying to scare the hell out of me. And you know something, he’s succeeding.

  He’d nodded.

  I’d waited.

  That’s correct, he’d told me. What he’s after is to scare you, to dominate you in this way so that he can feel in control, because this person, in his day-to-day life, he’s a loser, he’s impotent, he can’t control a thing. But when he hears fear in your voice, it makes him feel like a man. And he likes that feeling.

  And you can do what about this? I’d asked.

  You can make a date with him. We can try to be there.

  Only try, Detective?
I’d asked. I’d told him no thanks, I’d take care of it myself.

  That night, I’d lay awake in the dark, waiting. I wanted to be alert when the call came, not sleepy and vulnerable.

  Do you know who this is? he’d asked. After the first time, he’d always started out that way.

  Yeah, asshole, I’d said, I do. And hung up on him.

  He’d never called back, but I’d never found out where he was that he could see into my garden, where he could see the windows of the cottage and know when I’d shut off the lights. I never found out where he was, waiting an hour after the lights were off, until he was sure I was asleep, making sure that the jarring sound of the telephone would begin the work his voice would continue.

  After a few weeks, I was able to stop leaving the light on in my office when I went to bed, end of story.

  Whoever was watching Sophie had been far more persistent. And continued to be so. More important, he wasn’t just a pathetic creep trying to feel like a big man by scaring strange women in the middle of the night from the safety of his own home and his anonymity. He was a murderer. And he was still out there stalking.

  I waited until all the lights were out, all the windows dark, then duck-walked back a foot before standing up. Sitting on the top step, my back against the door, I put on my shoes and followed Dashiell back down to Sophie’s.

  CHAPTER 24

  I Bent My Head to Listen

  Dashiell knew something needed his attention before I did. When we got to the third-floor landing, he stopped, sneezed, and tested the air. Then he ran on ahead, not stopping and turning to see if I was following.

  I ran, too. Going down the last flight, I could see the light spilling into the hallway. Sophie’s door was wide open and Dashiell was nowhere in sight.

  Was it Joe, back with a more effective weapon? Why had I thought he’d just go home and go to bed? Why had I been so careless?

  Holding my breath, I listened for a moment, but it was another voice I heard.

  I walked into Sophie’s apartment and found him standing in the middle of the living room, all three dogs vying for his attention.

  “What are you doing here at this hour?”

  “I couldn’t reach you. I tried you at the cottage, then here. I got so worried I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking maybe something terrible had happened to you, too.”

  “But it’s four-thirty in the morning.” I checked my watch. “No, it’s five-ten. Why were you trying to call me in the middle of the night? What on earth is wrong?”

  “That’s what I wanted to know. I didn’t start calling you now. I’ve been calling since last evening. I got so scared, I couldn’t stand it anymore.”

  “I don’t understand. I was here.”

  We both turned to look at the telephone at the same time.

  I picked up the wire and gave it a tug.

  “Did it come out of the wall?”

  “Not exactly.”

  I held up the end of the wire so that he could see it had been cut.

  “The bedroom, too?”

  “I’ll go check,” I said, knowing what I would find. Had the bedroom phone been functioning, I would have heard it ring when Mel called.

  I took off my jacket and tossed it onto the bed, right next to where Mel had left his, then pulled out the desk and saw the phone wire dangling behind it, no big surprise there.

  “Is that one cut, too?”

  I nodded. “Time to blow this joint.”

  “Do you want me to take Bianca again?”

  I stood there looking at them, all three dogs sitting and looking from Mel to me and back again, as if they were watching a tennis match.

  “No,” I said. “I want to keep the dogs together.”

  He screwed up his face, then surprised me by nodding.

  “If that’s what you want,” he said. “But Judy wouldn’t mind. She likes Bianca.”

  He must have realized his mistake instantly, at the same moment I did. His pale face turned red and when he opened his mouth to speak, he began to sputter.

  “Take a deep breath,” I told him. He did. “Good boy,” I said. “Now, you want to explain that?”

  He nodded.

  “When I play with Bianca,” he said, “like, when I throw a ball for her to catch, you know?”

  Why was he telling me this stupid story? I headed for the kitchen and began to pack up food and supplements while he was talking. If he wasn’t going to address the fact that he’d just called his dog by a different name, the hell with him. I was taking the dogs and going home.

  Mel began to follow me, tripping on the edge of the carpet. He stopped and stood there, long skinny arms at his side, his face a tangle of concern.

  “When she catches it,” he continued from where he stood, “you know, in her mouth?” He nodded. “I always tell her, ‘Good hands.’ I don’t want her thinking she has two left feet.”

  I stopped what I was doing and stared. Mel just smiled his lopsided smile and continued. “I do,” he said. “And two left hands. I’ve never done anything right in my whole life. Including this.”

  “And what’s this?” I walked back to where he was standing, close enough to make him back up. He looked around Sophie’s apartment and made a choking sound in his throat. Then he lifted his hands and reached for me. This time I took a step back and he nearly fell, grabbing for me, then draping his long skinny arms around my shoulders and dipping his funny-looking face into the crook of my neck.

  “You can tell me everything when we’re on safer ground,” I said, trying to pull away. “Let’s just get out of here.”

  He nodded, but he didn’t let go. He only held on tighter. “You’re right. Let’s get out of here. Forget about the food,” he said into my neck. “It’s just fruit and vegetables. We can buy more as soon as it’s light out.”

  But we were already too late. When he stepped back, I saw Dashiell and Blanche heading for the open door, I saw the reflection in the garden window, one arm raised, and this time Joe wasn’t packing a wrench. Mel screamed, “No, don’t hurt her.”

  The hand with the gun swung down and hit Blanche, who was trying to block the way into the apartment not only with her own girth, but with her considerable grit as well, and who, in doing so, had so far kept Dashiell from the object of his disaffection. There was a dull thud and the sound of nails scrabbling as Blanche slid to the floor. Then time seemed to slow down as it does in a dream, and to my astonishment, I began to move without any effort on my part. Mel changed places with me, whipping me around behind his back, and immediately afterward, though it all seemed to happen at once, there was the shot, and a sound from Mel like air escaping from a tire. Joe screamed, Dashiell yelped, I heard the apartment door slam, and Mel slumped against me as if someone had suddenly removed the bones from his body. I held on while he, too, slid to the floor. Dashiell was in the hallway shaking his head. Behind him, Blanche made an amazingly small heap just inside the door to Sophie’s apartment. When I looked back at Mel’s face, which was already as gray as the sky above the garden just behind me, his blood spilling down his chest, hot and sticky on my hand, there was Bianca, licking his hands and whining.

  “Phone, Dashiell,” I told him, forgetting the wires had been cut.

  I bunched up Mel’s shirt and pressed it against the wound, watching helplessly as the blood continued to ooze out around it.

  Bianca was in near hysterics, licking Mel’s face now, but it wasn’t until after Dash came with my cell phone in his mouth and I had dialed nine-one-one that I realized what she was doing.

  Mel opened his eyes and looked at me. “I told him he’d already gone too far,” he said, barely audible. Then his eyes rolled up and he began to shake, legs kicking, arms jerking, saliva coming out of one side of his mouth, in the middle of it all making a honking noise, like a goose. I held on tight, keeping his head on my lap, trying to prevent further injury, thinking all along that if he didn’t get emergency care soon, if he didn’t get a transfusio
n, he’d be gone no matter what I did.

  When Mel stopped shaking, I saw that Bianca was lying pressed against his side. I looked down the hall at Blanche and could see her torso moving up and down, her breathing as shallow as Mel’s was now, both of them slipping away as I sat there waiting for help.

  Mel opened his eyes once more, looking confused for a moment. When he opened his mouth, I bent my head to listen.

  “I’m sorry,” was all he said.

  “Help is on the way,” I whispered.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I feel better now.”

  I held him tight, one arm under his neck and around his shoulder, one hand still pressed against the wound, rocking him back and forth in my arms as if he were my baby, feeling his life running out between my fingers.

  CHAPTER 25

  Someone Has to Get the Dog

  “There’s a dog at his house,” I’d told one of the officers who responded to the 911 call. “Someone will have to get her.”

  He nodded and wrote it down.

  “Do you want me to…?”

  “No, ma’am. Thank you. We’ll take care of checking out the victim’s residence.”

  I winced.

  “Sorry, ma’am. Were you close?”

  I didn’t know how to answer him. I hardly knew Mel Sugarman, but less than an hour earlier, he’d saved my life and lost his own in the process.

  “We’ll take care of the dog. It looks like you got enough on your hands as it is.”

  I looked down at my hands, soaked in blood, and for an odd moment thought that’s what he meant.

  But he must have meant the animals that were already in my care, because he was looking at Dashiell, who was sitting next to the couch, pressed against my leg.

  “Maybe Marty would take care of her for now,” I said.

  His eyebrows went up. “Ma’am?”