Dog On It (14 page)

“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.

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.

Keefer’s voice was low and buzzing, the way human voices get under pressure. “I need more time.” Then, after a silence: “Don’t even say that—where are you? I’ll . . . Hello? Hello?” We heard him coming back and moved deeper into the room, Bernie on tiptoes, me on those old reliables, silent padded paws.

“What was that about?” Bernie said.

“Business,” said Keefer. “And none of yours.”

“Did it have anything to do with Madison?”

“Of course not.” Keefer’s tongue flicked out again. “I just told you. We’re in a little dispute with some suppliers.”

“Which ones?”

Keefer’s nostrils widened. What was that about? I had no idea, just felt uneasy. “Irrigation,” he said. “But what’s it to you?”

“I need you to be forthcoming.”

“And I have been.”

“Not entirely. Before that call, you were about to tell me something.”

Keefer paused, his eyes on Bernie. “You seem pretty smart,” he said. “How did you end up in law enforcement?”

“I wasn’t actually smart enough for law enforcement,” Bernie said. “That’s why I’m a private eye.”

Keefer blinked. Some kind of struggle was going on, but about what and who was winning: anybody’s guess. And how was all this back-and-forth going to lead to me grabbing the perp by the pant leg? All I knew was that when Keefer spoke again, his voice was different, less unpleasant.

“You said there were two types of kidnapping, for ransom and . . .”

“And not,” Bernie said.

“Meaning what?”

“Do I have to spell that out for you?”

Keefer shook his head. “I’m just wondering why your focus is on the ransom kind.”

“You’ve got some other idea?”

“I hesitate to say.”

“There’s no time for hesitation.”

Keefer nodded. “This is pure speculation.”

“But you have a name for me.”

Keefer blinked again. “Not based on any facts, you understand, just the odd . . . feeling or two.”

“And the name is?”

“First off, you didn’t hear it from me.”

Bernie tilted his head to one side. Did Keefer take that for agreement? I knew it was one of Bernie’s head tilts, not necessarily meaning anything, simply moving things along the way he wanted.

“And don’t hold me to it,” Keefer went on. “Pure speculation, as I said, and I would never—”

“The name.” Bernie’s voice rang through the empty house. That was thrilling.

Keefer licked his lips one more time. His tongue was stubby and stiff, pointed and pale, next to useless, in my opinion. “Simon Berg.”

“Who’s he?”

“I thought you might have run across him by now.”

“Why?”

“Simon Berg is Cynthia’s boyfriend.”

“Ah,” said Bernie.

“What does that mean—‘ah’?” Keefer said.

I had no clue myself.

“Have you ever seen him around Madison?” Bernie said.

“Once or twice.”

“And?”

Keefer shrugged—that raising and lowering of the shoulders, one of those human expressions I’d never liked. “I just got a feeling, that’s all. Probably nothing.”

“Did you ever mention this feeling to Madison?”

“No. Maybe I should have.”

“Or Cynthia?”

“Think I’m nuts? I have enough trouble with Cynthia.” He wrote on a piece of paper, gave it to Bernie. “Here’s the address—he owns a business in Pedroia.”

* * *

“Think he’s nuts?” Bernie said when we were back in the car.

That was a tough one. Sometimes—like now, on the freeway, stuck in traffic stretching as far as I could see, everybody going slower than walking speed—I thought just about all humans were nuts.