Tattoo Thief (BOOK 1)

by Heidi Joy Tretheway

  I panic. What’s wrong with this dog? What did I do?

  I race to the foyer and hit a button for the intercom. “Charles! It’s Beryl! You’ve got to come help me! Jasper ate something and now I think he can’t breathe!”

  “He’s choking?”

  “No, his face is puffing up.”

  “Allergic reaction,” Charles diagnoses. “Keep him breathing. Give him mouth to mouth if you have to. I’ll be up in thirty seconds.”

  I rush back to Jasper, who is lying on his side, wheezing. I pry open his jaws and he whimpers. I spot a dumpling-bit in the back of his throat and swipe it out with my finger. Those Red Cross Infant CPR classes I took for babysitting a decade ago are coming in handy.

  Charles barrels through the front door with a bottle of translucent liquid. He pulls back Jasper’s head and pours a dose down his throat. I freeze, watching to see if it works.

  Jasper’s breathing slows, no longer the frantic panting. As I see his body relax, mine does too, melting into a puddle on the terrace floor next to this weird little dog.

  “What did you give him?” I ask Charles.

  “Benadryl,” he says. “Poor little Jasper. Did he get into something he shouldn’t?”

  I gulp, trying to decide whether to lie. But since Charles is my only friend in New York besides Jasper, I tell the truth.

  “I gave him part of my dumpling.”

  Charles walks over to my sad little wine-and-dumpling dinner. “Pork and shrimp, right? From the place on Seventy-Fifth? These are really good. But Jasper’s allergic to shrimp.”

  Oh.

  I am so not cut out for this.

  In what crazy parallel universe did I think I could just take over Gavin Slater’s dog and his apartment and everything would be OK? I’m deliberate. Prudent. Careful. Safe.

  I’m blowing it.

  “I didn’t know,” I admit in a tiny voice.

  “Don’t worry,” Charles reassures me. “You were just trying to be nice to him. He’s a basenji—an African dog. Their breed is finicky and about as obedient as cats, but basenjis were originally bred to hunt lions.”

  “Lions?” I can’t hide the skepticism in my voice. Jasper is barely a step up from a purse-dog. “What were they—bait?”

  “They’re tougher than they look.” Charles strokes Jasper’s side as he recovers. “These dogs are from Kenya, same place my parents are from, and they can’t handle shrimp or most seafood.”

  “Now you tell me,” I mutter.

  Charles doesn’t hear me. “But cheese is another matter. This dog is so cheese-obsessed, he will do anything for cheese, even high-five me. I keep dog biscuits for most residents’ dogs, but I keep cheese in that little fridge under my desk for Jasper.”

  “How old is he?” I ask.

  “Gavin got him maybe three months ago, and he was still a little puppyish then,” Charles says thoughtfully. “So I guess something less than a year? It’s a real shame Gavin had to travel so suddenly. Jasper’s a nice dog.”

  Ah, yes, the sudden travel. Strike three hundred and forty nine against Gavin Slater, Rock Star and Dog-Neglecter.

  A much-recovered Jasper and I say goodbye to Charles, but I feel anger blooming in my gut along with the wine. Who the hell does he think he is? I decide to send him a message.

  Dear Mr. Slater,

  You’ll be pleased to know your apartment is being cleaned and we have sorted, paid, and filed all of your bills. You will see each bill itemized on your client account statement, with charges against the credit card you have on file with us.

  Additionally, we learned that Barks in the Park will no longer board Jasper, so we have arranged for a house sitter to care for the dog at your apartment until you return. Please advise us of your return date so we can make arrangements.

  Sincerely,

  B. Sutton

  Keystone Property Management

  “You’re welcome.” I scowl and hit SEND to dispatch the email even though it sounds snotty. After all, he’s paying Keystone a ton of money to deal with the details of life that most humans handle as a matter of course.

  I imagine he takes our service, and most other things in his life, for granted.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It’s late when I take Jasper downstairs for a quick pee. Charles trades him a bite of cheese for a hand-to-paw high five.

  I realize that I’ve got to figure out where I’m sleeping and if any of the bathrooms are sanitary enough for a shower tomorrow morning. I don’t want a repeat of the frigid, dripping shower from this morning’s hotel room.

  Back in the apartment, I explore beyond the living room and Jasper follows me, his toenails clicking on the hardwood. A massive granite island lit by pendant lights strung from the ceiling divides the living room and kitchen.

  Under the grime, the kitchen is beautiful—it has a huge, glass-door Subzero fridge, a deep double sink facing the terrace and view, and a six-burner stove with a grill top.

  But the abundance of takeout cartons, which I still haven’t eliminated entirely from the apartment, suggests that not much cooking is done here.

  I turn a corner and discover an office dominated by an old wooden desk with papers strewn everywhere, so thick I can’t see the floor. I leave the glass French doors to that room closed and move on.

  I find a small powder room next, with some kind of sludge filling part of the sink bowl. I’m getting good at suppressing my gag reflex, so I hit the drain lever and as it glug-glug-glugs down the sink I note that the toilet paper roll has just a scrap clinging to it. Mental note to buy more.

  Jasper runs ahead of me as we climb a steep, spiral metal staircase to the upper loft of the apartment, which is open to the living room below. Through floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights are breathtaking—New York shimmers like a jewel with a million facets.

  I catch my breath and stare, feeling for the first time like I’m really part of New York. I’m doing this!

  But my sense of elation is extinguished when I turn my back on the lights and focus on Gavin’s master suite, which is worse than the living room was. Here’s where much of the stink starts, and I get wafts of mildew and sweaty laundry and I really don’t want to know what that yellowish-brown stain is on the rug next to his bed.

  Now I’m doubly thankful I booked the carpet- and upholstery-cleaning package.

  Jasper, on the other hand, is unperturbed by the mess and settles into his familiar bagel shape in the middle of Gavin’s gray striped comforter. I right one bedside lamp that’s tipped over and leave the other broken one on the floor.

  I take a peek in the master bathroom—beautiful and filthy, as expected—and walk to the opposite end of the loft and down the other spiral staircase.

  I work my way through the rest of the apartment, finding a dining room, two more bedrooms with their own bathrooms, a room covered in acoustic foam with instruments and some sound equipment, and a dark theater room. I marvel at how one person can live so large, yet with so little regard for all of it. Either that, or Gavin Slater went on a serious bender.

  I choose the cleaner of the two bedrooms; it’s tucked on the opposite side of the loft from Gavin’s bedroom, away from the worst of his destruction. I haul That Bitch into the room, hesitate, and then decide to unpack. I’m house sitting, after all—I should make myself comfortable.

  Jasper perches on my bed, undeterred by my disapproving look, and watches me unpack. I yank open a mahogany dresser’s drawer and my brows lift with surprise: it’s full of clothes.

  I pull open the rest of the drawers and every one is filled with women’s clothes, some of them dusty with disuse. I find beautiful cashmere, custom-cut denim and frilly lingerie. I feel envy stab my gut; the only time I could afford cashmere and designer jeans was when my mom and I found them on our frequent scavenger hunts at Goodwill.

  Don’t get me wrong. I’d much rather pay seven bucks than three hundred for a sweater, but when I see price tags on a good chunk of the clothing,
it feels like that much more of a waste.

  Why is Gavin Slater wasting his life?

  I pile the mystery woman’s clothes on the bed in the other bedroom, then fill the drawers in my room with my stuff.

  The wine and last night’s fitful sleep finally hit me and I dump myself into the bed. Jasper curls his little dog-bagel body behind my knees and we sleep.

  ***

  My phone chirps me awake the next morning and I’m thoroughly disoriented—never have I slept better, sinking deep into a plush mattress, wrapped in silky sheets and a lighter-than-air down comforter. I may never leave this bed.

  I put it off a few minutes by scrolling through my phone’s alerts.

  Shit. I forgot to call Stella. She sent me two more messages last night after I fell asleep—more apologies, and she begged for a chance to see me tonight. I text her back and tell her to name the place.

  On Facebook, I feel a stab of envy—Jeff hasn’t bothered to de-friend me since our breakup, and one of his roommates tagged him in a picture from their weekend at the lake, hot girls in tow.

  I’d like to post a comment that I am currently sleeping in a sexy rock star’s bed, but I take the high road and resist. Instead, I change my profile picture to a shot of Jasper, curled up and sleeping.

  My heart beats faster when I see an email from gavslater@gmail.com.

  Photos weren’t necessary. I knew the place was a shit pile when I left. Do me a favor and delete the pix. I don’t need more negative press right now.

  Not sure when I’ll be back in New York. Is Jasper OK? He’s a good dog. Neurotic, but good. It was a mistake to get him. I thought it would help.

  Heading to Nairobi. Internet service is spotty. Have Barry get rid of all of the clothes in the guest room and don’t let the cleaners touch my office. I’ll send more instructions to him later.

  —Gav

  I harrumph, annoyed Gavin thinks I’m a dude. Jasper perks up his ears. Gavin’s letter is full of little short sentences but it doesn’t appease me. If anything, it makes what’s going on even more of a mystery.

  Why would he trash his own place? And why would he tell me (or at least my male alter-ego, Barry) to get rid of all of the beautiful clothes? They must be worth thousands.

  I pull on yoga pants, a jog bra, and a T-shirt, then grab Jasper’s leash. We descend the elevator and cross Central Park West to lose ourselves inside the park.

  After seeing practically every other dog off-leash, I let Jasper go, too. I alternately walk and jog while Jasper trots beside me, occasionally veering off the gravelly bridle trail to inspect the bushes. We cross under arched stone tunnels and then turn at the northwestern tip of the lake into a lumpy, verdant spiderweb of pathways called The Ramble.

  Even though I can still hear the traffic from Seventy-Second and Central Park West, and even though I can hear a traffic helicopter circle overhead, I still feel like I’ve slipped out of New York City for a slice of life back home.

  The greenest thing on Seventy-Second is Gavin’s building’s awning—there’s not a tree in sight. I can’t imagine how barren New York would be without Central Park.

  My hometown is insanely green—trees everywhere you look. When I tell people I’m from Oregon, they immediately think of rain, but that’s what makes it lush almost year-round. Trees in my neighborhood are a lot taller than The Ramble and tend to be evergreens, but I breathe in the fragrance of earth and leaves anyway.

  Do your worst, Gavin Slater, I think. You can dish it out and I can take it.

  If I can just harden up my gag reflex.

  Then it hits me—this could actually be a great gig! I was skeptical at first, but Dan’s idea to expand his business makes sense. I can take care of short-term vacationers while Dan handles long-term folks who only live in New York seasonally.

  There’s no way every rich person in New York City is as gross as Gavin.

  I can walk dogs, do errands, take deliveries and get owners organized. I can be the ghost, the house-elf, the helper who makes everything just so, welcoming the very wealthy back to homes in perfect order.

  I round the southeast corner of the lake, accelerating my pace to jog Jasper back to the west side of the park. I hitch him to his leash before we cross Central Park West that’s swelling with cars in the morning rush.

  I shower, change and let in the cleaning crew, right on time at 9 a.m. I show the three uniformed women around and feel like a jerk as I point and nod—I should have taken Spanish as my language elective, not German.

  Satisfied that they get the gist of what I need, I make a move to leave and the eldest woman comes at me, gesturing wildly.

  “No se puede dejar al perro aquí mientras limpiamos! Hará más trabajo! Más lío!” The leader of the cleaning crew is pointing to Jasper.

  “I’m sorry. Yo no habla Español,” I confess, feeling stupid.

  “You can’t have dog here,” the woman repeats. “No dog. Or no clean.”

  Jasper looks and me and yodels. “Baroo!”

  I sigh. “I guess it’s take-your-puppy-to-work day, Jas. Just don’t get me in trouble.” I hitch him back up and throw my heels in my purse; even in flats, the twenty-block walk to Midtown is going to take quite a while. I didn’t need a jog this morning after all.

  I text Dan that I’m on my way and jump on the elevator.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I’m a sweaty mess by the time I reach the office, even though it’s only 10 o’clock. I drag Jasper into the ladies’ room and try to repair the damage by washing my face in ice-cold water and re-applying mascara around my hazel eyes. I use the Tic-Tac container full of bobby pins that I keep in my purse to engineer an up-do since my curls are shot to frizz.

  Yes, I keep bobby pins in my purse at all times. And band-aids, breath mints, a nail file, cuticle trimmers, toothpicks, a USB drive … well, you get the idea.

  I’m a Girl Scout. Deal.

  I finally settle at my desk and open my email again, debating how to respond to Gavin’s note. I check with Dan, who walks by my cubicle on his way back from a meeting.

  “So this is the rascal?” Dan asks, and puts out his hand to pet Jasper. The dog gives him several dry licks. “What kind of dog is it?”

  “He’s a basenji.” I give him the CliffsNotes version of the mighty African lion hunter that Charles described. I still don’t believe it.

  “And I almost poisoned him last night,” I add, hoping Dan will ignore it. But of course he gapes and waits for an explanation.

  “I was trying to being nice,” I say. “I shared my dumplings with him. Turns out, he’s allergic to shrimp. I didn’t know.”

  “Well, take good care of this dog,” Dan says. “He’s your ticket to a place to live, and Gavin’s a major client, considering what we’re billing him for cleanup and management.”

  “You didn’t tell me he’s a rock star.” It’s a non sequitur but I can’t help myself.

  “I didn’t think it mattered. Here’s the thing, Berry: our clients aren’t just rich. They’re private-jet rich. British-trained butler rich. And they all have this complex about wanting to be treated just like everyone else, but also wanting to be special.”

  “You mean, don’t make a big deal that he’s a rock star?”

  “Exactly. You make it a big deal, you go all fangirl on him, and he’ll freak. It’s like you’re invading his space. But you treat him like you don’t know who he is, like this is just a professional relationship, and he’ll be OK letting you into his life so that we can do what we need to do.”

  I roll that around in my head. “But you said clients want to be treated special, too.”

  Dan nods and pulls a chair from the cubicle next to me to sit. “I mean special, as in, special requests. Special treatment. Extra mile stuff. We want clients to know they can ask for the moon and we’ll deliver.”

  “So if he asks me to—?”

  “You’ll do it,” Dan cuts me off. “Clients pay enough that you have pretty much unli
mited license to do what’s needed, so long as it makes them happy. Just do it.”

  “I’ve been thinking. Your idea of house sitting in addition to the property billing and management we do already? I’d like to try that.”

  “You’re talking my language,” Dan says, grinning. “I’ve already sent feelers out to several clients. Assuming you can handle the billing stuff as fast as you handled Gavin’s, I’d say you’ve got the capacity to take on a half-dozen house-sitting clients at any one time.”

  My eyebrows shoot up—this is starting to sound like a real job, not just an assistant’s post.

  “If your question is the money, don’t worry. I’ll pay you a percentage of their fee on top of your salary, so you can earn a pretty decent living.”

  I throw my arms around Uncle Dan, right there in the office, and thoroughly embarrass him. And then I get to work.

  ***

  I return to Gavin’s apartment after work, giving Charles a broad smile and a small box I picked up on my way home.

  “Cookies!” he exclaims. “You didn’t have to do that, Ms. Sutton.”

  “Yes, I did, Charles. And my name’s Beryl. After what we went through last night, it’s the least I could do to thank you for rescuing Jasper. I got black-and-whites in case you’re allergic to nuts.”

  Charles chuckles and tucks them behind the desk. “I know I’ll enjoy them. Thank you. So what are your plans this evening? Your cleaning crew left about an hour ago.”

  I shudder. It took three people the entire business day to put Gavin’s house back in order—and that’s just the scrubbing. I don’t relish my organizational responsibilities, afraid of what I’ll find. And yet, curiosity is driving me to do it.

  “Out for drinks,” I tell him and double-check directions to the bar where I’m meeting Stella. She texted me the address, more apologies, and some really creative expletives about Blayde. But I’m not about to offer to be her roommate again.