Paw and Order

by Spencer Quinn

  “Retired to Florida,” Nevins said. “Husband number four.”

  Bernie gazed out the window a little longer, then turned to Nevins. “Anything else you remember?”

  Nevins shook his head.

  Bernie came over, handed him our card, the one with the flower we weren’t too happy about, designed by Suzie. “If you think of anything else, let me know.”

  “What about Soares?” Nevins said.

  Bernie looked down at him. “We don’t work for Soares. Let’s go, Chet.”

  “Thanks, man,” Nevins said.

  We headed for the door. Bernie opened it, paused, turned back. “How come the woman had her back turned?”

  “Hell if I know,” Nevins said.

  “If she was standing behind the desk, there wouldn’t have been much room between her and the wall.”

  Nevins nodded, went on nodding for what seemed like too long, the nodding slowing down at the end. “Come to think of it, she might have been hanging a painting on the wall.”

  “Isn’t there already a painting on that wall?” Bernie said. “A clipper ship at sea?”

  “Couldn’t tell you,” Nevins said.

  • • •

  Not long after that, we were back at the brassy-colored office building. It felt kind of late at night, but I wasn’t tired, not a bit.

  “Want to stay in the car?” Bernie said. “Looks like you’re having trouble keeping your eyes open.”

  What a suggestion! Weren’t we on the job? I hopped right out, gave myself a real good shake, the kind that gets the inside of my head all unfuzzed. Late, but there were a few cars in the lot, and lights shone in some of the building windows. We went up to the doors—the revolving kind that you’ll never get me into, and a normal one on either side. Bernie tried them, all locked. He took out his credit card, one of his best moves, not the paying part, where once or twice bartenders had taken out scissors and . . . I refused to remember. No, this was all about using credit cards to unlock doors, and Bernie was one of the best, the very best being Fingertips Gertler, the dude who’d taught Bernie and was now breaking rocks in the hot sun. No pockets in the orange jumpsuits at Northern State Correctional, so maybe Fingertips didn’t even have a credit card anymore. I felt bad for him, although I could never forget the feeling of his surprisingly plump calf between my teeth, a memory that brought me back to tip-top right away, so there you go. It’s nice to feel tip-top after you’ve been feeling bad, and the quicker the better, in my opinion.

  Bernie moved toward the door, credit card extended, but at that moment, a UPS dude appeared in the lobby, coming our way. I know UPS dudes from their brown uniforms, uniforms that sometimes have a baggy side pants pocket full of biscuits. As in this particular case, which I knew before the UPS dude had even opened the door, biscuit smell easily penetrating glass, a fact you may not know. The door opened—Bernie’s credit card no longer in sight—and the UPS dude walked out. I sidled over in front of him, just to make sure he hadn’t missed seeing me.

  “Nice-looking pooch,” he said.

  “Thanks,” said Bernie, catching the door before it closed.

  “Can he have a treat?”

  I sat, and pronto.

  “Hey,” the UPS dude said, “it’s like he understands.”

  “A lot like that,” Bernie said. “He’d buy stock in your company if he could.”

  And soon after we were in the lobby, me making all-too-quick work of a biscuit that was on the smallish side, and Bernie smiling to himself. Uh-oh. Was he thinking about some sort of stock buy? We’d had problems with that in the past. A company that made a hat that turned into a pillow? Just one example.

  We rode the elevator up to Eben’s floor, walked to his office. No one around, no crime scene tape, no light shining under the door. Bernie took out his credit card and presto we were in. There’s no one like Bernie.

  He closed the door, switched on the lights. Nice and tidy inside, reminding me for some reason of a model home we’d been in once, something about shady developers. Bernie went right to the back office. The painting of the ship at sea—we’d gone through a pirate movie stage shortly after the divorce, so I was totally up to speed on ships at sea—hung on the wall behind the desk. A pretty big painting: Bernie grunted as he lifted it off the hook and leaned it against the desk.

  “Chet?”

  Oops. Was I getting a bit excited? But only because I knew where this was headed. What did you sometimes find behind pictures? Safes! We had the same setup back in our office on Mesquite Road. We were going to blow a safe! A first for us, although I’d seen it done. I was loving the thought of a new adventure and at the same time trying to keep all paws still and on the floor—which they did not want to do—when I noticed that there was no safe. What we had instead was a sort of cupboard door, only bigger. Bernie grasped the knob and pulled the door open, revealing a dark, empty space. Round about now would be when he’d take out the .38 Special, but we no longer had the .38 Special; we didn’t even have that measly pink popgun. This was going to be a tough case. But not our toughest, which was the only missing persons case we hadn’t solved, although we sort of had, only too late. A strange thought popped up into my head: we’d had the .38 Special that night, but it hadn’t helped, not until later, when we’d taken care of justice on our own, me and Bernie. So therefore, maybe guns didn’t always . . . Whoa! I’d come very close to a so therefore, Bernie’s department. I bring other things to the table.

  Bernie leaned into the opening, peered down, and then up.

  “Chet!” he said, his voice low but kind of—urgent, maybe?—at the same time. “A little space, big guy.”

  I did my best, but what I saw in that opening was just too interesting, namely a ladder leading up into blackness.

  “Well, well, well,” said Bernie. Bernie’s well well wells were a real good sign: they meant the case was just about cracked. And after, we always had a nice celebration. The nicest celebrations included steak tips.

  “Remember how we climb ladders?” Bernie said.

  What a question! We’d worked so hard at it, Bernie’d had to clean out the complete Slim Jim supply from the convenience store at the far end of Mesquite Road. Now I could climb ladders like you wouldn’t believe—except maybe if you’d met me—and come down even faster, especially by jumping the whole way.

  Bernie swung one leg into the opening, then paused, reached back and put his hand on my head, strong and gentle at the same time. “Me first, Chet,” he said.

  Him first? Meaning . . . whoa! Not me? How could that possibly make sense? Going first was part of my job.

  “Chet?”

  Panting started up, big-time. Meanwhile, Bernie grabbed the ladder and began climbing. The next thing I knew, I was right behind him, every bit as fast, or maybe even faster. It’s a lot like scrambling up the steepest kind of hill: you get a good grip with your back paws and then comes a kind of surging push. Love that feeling! I surged on up the ladder, getting my nose brushed once or twice by the sole of Bernie’s sneaker. I had the craziest thought: why not nip him on the ankle? Just the lightest possible nip, as a way of continuing our conversation about who goes first, if you see what I mean. But at the last moment, I changed my mind, not my usual MO at all, and left his ankle unnipped. I’m pretty sure of that, although betting the ranch might not be a good idea on your part.

  We came to the top of the ladder, just about side by side, for some reason. A narrow shaft of light appeared, shining not far above our heads. Bernie reached out, gave a little push above that shaft of light. A door opened. On the other side was a small bathroom, not much of a surprise to me, since I’d been smelling bathroom smells all the way up the ladder. The tile floor was at eye level. We climbed onto it and Bernie shut the door. On the inside, the door had no handle of any sort and bore a full-length mirror so you couldn’t even tell it was a door.
Bernie gave it a poke and it sprung back open. He nodded to himself, don’t ask me why, and looked around. A single towel hung on a rail. Bernie—sniffed at it? Yes! Had to love Bernie! I wondered what he smelled. A woman’s scent rose from the towel, very faint, but I was pretty sure I knew it.

  Bernie took a quick scan inside the medicine cabinet: empty shelves. Then he turned to a normal sort of door, the kind with a handle, and opened it. On the other side was an office. A woman, sitting at a desk, looked up, her face going through lots of emotions, like shock and fear and surprise. I was a bit surprised myself, since this was not the woman who’d left her scent on the bathroom towel. Instead, it was Suzie.

  NINETEEN

  * * *

  Suzie rose in a shaky kind of way, leaning on the desk for support. Only one light shone in the room, a desk lamp that lit the lower part or her face but kept the rest of it in shadow. That made Suzie look scary, something I’d never thought I’d see, but of course there are many things I’d never thought I’d see—maybe even more than the other way, meaning things I’d never thought I wouldn’t see, or possibly . . . How about we forget this part?

  “Bernie?” Suzie said. “What are you doing here?” She glanced beyond us, toward the bathroom. Her voice rose, got screechier than I’d ever imagine hearing from Suzie, like she was afraid of us, which made no sense. “How did you get in? Have you been here the whole time?”

  “I’ll show you,” Bernie said, “if you really don’t know.”

  Suzie’s face twisted up in a way that made her look almost ugly, although I’m the type of dude who can always find some little thing to like in just about every human face.

  “Are you stalking me?” she said. Her voice stopped being screechy, went cold instead. “This is turning into a cliché.”

  “That could never happen,” Bernie said.

  “Which part?”

  “The stalking. That other bit was actually over my head.”

  Suzie’s face untwisted, now looked normal, although in an unfriendly way. “Talk,” she said. “Explain what you’re doing in a way that makes you look not like a complete jerk.”

  “How about I just explain the way it is?” Bernie said. “I’m doing the same thing you are.”

  “What would that be?”

  “Have I ever told you about the two miners?”

  “Miners with an e?” Suzie said.

  Bernie smiled. “That’s what I like about you—a journalist to the end.”

  “That’s what you like about me?”

  “Uh,” he said, looking down at his feet, as though . . . as though he could maybe get some help from them? Wow! I understood Bernie like never before. “That’s not, um, all, not even the most . . .”

  “Go on with the miners,” Suzie said. And what was this? She was drumming her fingers on the desk? Always a bad sign, not just with Suzie, but humans in general.

  “It was this book I had as a kid,” Bernie said. “Two miners who don’t know each other start digging into a mountain from opposite sides and they meet in the middle.”

  Oh. Those two miners. I’d heard this one many times. But here’s the thing with me and Bernie: every time is like the first time!

  “A metaphor for you and me?” Suzie said.

  Metaphor? That came up in my life with Bernie, kind of like one of those soap bubbles that go pop and then you’re back in business.

  “Just the part about you and me happening to be here right now.”

  “I know what brought me,” Suzie said. She reached into her pocket, took out an envelope, tossed it in Bernie’s direction.

  “Chet! What the hell?”

  Oops. This is—I wouldn’t call it a problem, exactly—a sort of thing I have involving objects that get tossed or thrown or flung or winged or hurled—all great methods, never ask me to pick a favorite!—and how I just have to snatch them out of the air, simple as that. I dropped the envelope—hardly damp at all, tooth marks barely noticeable—at Bernie’s feet, the way we’d practiced with tennis balls out the yingyang. Next comes Good boy, Chet, and a treat.

  But . . . but no? No Good boy, Chet, no treat, instead Bernie picking up the envelope, smoothing it out, reaching inside, in short, carrying on like we hadn’t hit a bump in the road? There are disappointments in life, and my way of dealing with them is to . . . to . . . I promise to get back to that later. At the moment, I’d gotten totally interested in what Bernie was taking out of the envelope, which turned out to be two keys with a little paper tag attached.

  “The key to this office?” Bernie said.

  “And the main entrance,” said Suzie. “It was shoved under my door.”

  “At home or at work?”

  “I don’t have a door at work, Bernie. It’s a newsroom.”

  Bernie, the keys held loose in his hand, gave Suzie a look. “Am I too dumb for you?” he said. “Is that the issue?”

  “No.”

  “But you’re not saying there are no issues.”

  “Can we go into that some other time?” Suzie said. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  “About how Chet and I got in here?” Bernie made a little come-with-me motion, and Suzie followed us into the bathroom, me actually entering first, which is our MO at the Little Detective Agency. He poked the mirror door. It sprang open. Suzie gazed down the dark shaft.

  “It goes to Eben’s office?” she said.

  “Through a door hidden behind the clipper ship painting,” Bernie said. “When Mr. York and the middle-aged woman—plus a younger woman who seems to have been on the scene as well—cleaned out Eben’s desk, they got there from here.”

  Suzie leaned a little farther into the shaft. Bernie reached out to put a hand on her shoulder, but paused at the last second, almost but not quite touching her. I wondered about grabbing her by the pant leg—she was wearing jeans—not because Suzie was a perp, no way that could ever happen—but just to keep her safe. Then I thought of grabbing Bernie by the pant leg for the same reason, or maybe no reason at all! This was a very confusing moment in my career.

  “So,” Suzie said, her voice strange and echoey in the shaft, “anyone in this office had constant access to Eben’s?”

  “Yup.”

  “Was it some sort of setup from the beginning? Or more of an ad hoc thing?”

  “You ask all the right questions,” Bernie said.

  Suzie straightened, turned. “And someone wanted me to find out? Is that another right question?”

  “Can’t think how they’d expect you to find the back passage,” Bernie said. “This office itself? Yes.”

  Suzie glanced around. “But there’s nothing here,” she said. “It’s totally empty.”

  “Looks that way,” Bernie said. “But let’s take it apart.”

  We were going to take this office apart? Of all the things we do at the Little Detective Agency, taking places apart is just about the best, maybe second only to collaring perps.

  “Chet! Down!”

  We took the office apart. That meant yanking out all the drawers, tearing up the carpets, punching holes in the walls, and a whole bunch of other fun things that I never wanted to end. And even if we found nothing, so what? This was living. I was hit by one of the biggest thoughts of my whole life: why not take apart the whole building? We’d be rich! Hard to explain that last part, maybe, but some things you just know are true.

  After that, it got quiet except for our breathing, kind of on the heavy side—mine, Bernie’s, Suzie’s. Sometimes during a heavy-breathing episode, you pick up a faint scent you might have otherwise missed. And that was just what happened now, the faint scent being that of guinea pig food pellets, tasteless and unsatisfying, as I’d proved to myself more than once. I followed the scent back into the bathroom.

  A small bathroom, as I may have pointed out already, with sink, medi
cine cabinet, toilet. The guinea pig food pellet smell—now with the faint addition of actual guinea pig scent—was coming from behind the toilet. I squeezed my way around the toilet and sure enough, in the little space between the base of the toilet and the wall: some food pellets. There was also a partly rolled-up magazine or something like that. I was licking up a pellet or two just to remind myself of how much I didn’t like them, when I heard Bernie in the doorway.

  “Chet? What’s back there?”

  Bernie reached in beside me and picked up the magazine-like thing.

  “What is it?” Suzie said.

  Bernie held it up.

  “A calendar?” she said.

  “This year’s.” Bernie flipped through it. “Nice photos, all snowy winter scenes.”

  Suzie came closer, looked over Bernie’s shoulder. “The writing’s Cyrillic?”

  “Couldn’t think of the word.”

  “Meaning it’s a Russian calendar.”

  “Must have fallen off the wall, gone unnoticed,” Bernie said. “Good boy, Chet.”

  I’d been waiting for that, and there it was! As for the accompanying treat, a few pellets were still left. I licked them up and felt my very best. Everything comes out right eventually. It’s always nicer if eventually turns out to be real soon, of course, goes without mentioning.

  • • •

  “Should we make a list?” Suzie said. We were back at her place, in the living room, Suzie sitting up tall on a bar stool, Bernie slumped on the couch, me curled up at his feet, which always smelled good at the end of a long day and didn’t disappoint me now.

  “Might help,” Bernie said.

  “Don’t you always work things out on that whiteboard in your office?” Suzie said.

  “Yeah,” said Bernie. “But I’m flexible.”

  “Are you?”

  They exchanged a look. Friendly? No. Unfriendly? Not that either. Too complicated for me, whatever it was. It made me uneasy, let’s leave it at that. I considered a quick chew of the end of my tail, something I hardly ever do, but that was one of Bernie’s no-nos, so I put a lid on it.