Bernie unzipped a plastic bag. “Remember this?” he said, removing a folded-up pillowcase and holding it out.
I took a quick sniff: young human female, hints of honey, cherry, and that roadside sun-colored flower. Of course I remembered; actually felt a little insulted he’d even ask.
“What’s that look for?” Bernie said.
Look? What look? I strolled out onto the back patio with my tail high and stiff and had a cooling drink from the little fountain Leda had put in. Water flowed from the mouth of a stone swan. I’d never seen a real swan and was wondering how catchable they might be when I heard Iggy’s bark. Iggy had a high-pitched bark, an irritated-sounding yip-yip-yip. I barked back. There was a brief silence, and then he barked again. I barked back. He barked. I barked. He barked. I barked. He barked. We got a good rhythm going, faster and faster. I barked. He barked. I—
A woman cried, “Iggy, for God’s sake, what the hell’s wrong with you?” A door slammed. Iggy was silent. I barked anyway. And what was that? From somewhere far in the distance came an answering bark, a bark I’d never heard before. It sounded female, although I couldn’t be sure. A silence. And then—yes: She barked. A bark that sent a message, a she-message of the most exciting kind. I barked back. She barked. I barked. She barked. And then: yip yip yip. Iggy was back. He barked. She barked. I barked. He barked. She—
“Chet. What’s all the racket? Let’s get going.”
Bernie had the gate open. I tore past him and hopped into the Porsche, riding shotgun.
***
Cap’n Crunch stood on his perch and watched us, but he didn’t say a thing. We were back in Madison’s bedroom. Bernie asked questions. Cynthia answered them, but not in a way that helped. I could see that from Bernie’s face, how his eyebrows were pinching closer together. I sniffed around. Madison’s room didn’t smell quite the same as before. I looked under the TV table. The bag of marijuana was gone.
“Have you called the police?” Bernie said.
“Not yet. I was waiting to talk to you.”
“Call them,” Bernie said. He wrote something on his card. “Ask for this guy.”
“Does that mean you’re not going to help me?”
“May I speak frankly?”
“Of course.” Cynthia’s hands were shaking, only the tiniest bit, but for a moment or two that was all I could see.
“Why don’t we sit down?” Bernie said.
Cynthia sat on Madison’s bed. Bernie sat at the desk. I sat where I was, on a soft rug with a floral pattern.
“Your daughter seems very bright,” Bernie said, “and I’m sure she’s basically a good kid. But at some point they all start developing independent lives, lives they don’t necessarily share with their parents.”
“What are you saying?”
“The other night, when Madison came home late with the story about Dr. Zhivago?” Bernie said. “It was just that, a story.”
Cynthia’s face got pale. That meant the opposite of a blush, blood draining out. You can tell a lot from blood flow to the human face. “How do you know?” she said.
Bernie explained how he knew, something about tennis courts that I might have heard once but had forgotten. I tilted my head sideways a little and scratched behind my ear. Ah. That felt good. I gave my coat a lick or two, for no reason.
“Bottom line,” said Bernie, “I think she’ll show up soon, with another story.”
Cynthia shook her head. “But she’d never stay out all night, no matter what. And if she did, it would be with a friend, and none of them have seen her—I called every single one.”
“Including Tim?” Bernie said.
“Who’s Tim?”
“The senior who supposedly drove her home from the North Canyon Mall.”
Cynthia opened her mouth, closed it. I always liked seeing that one, no idea why.
“And what about Damon?” Bernie said. “Your ex.”
“The bastard hasn’t seen her.”
Bernie scratched behind his own ear. “You, uh, seem a little annoyed with him.”
“He disparaged my parenting skills,” said Cynthia. “What right has he to do that?”
Bernie spread his hands, then brought them back together. It was one of his ways of saying nothing. Cynthia gazed at him and then burst into tears. Bernie’s eyebrows rose. I got up and pawed at a dust ball.
“For God’s sake,” Cynthia sobbed, “just say you’ll find her for me. Money’s no object.”
“But I’m trying to tell you she’s really not missing,” Bernie said. “She could walk in any moment, like the last time. And when she does, my advice would be that the three of you—you, Damon, and Madison—sit down together and—”
Cynthia only cried harder. “Do I have to get down on my knees and beg?”
“Oh no. No, no, no,” said Bernie. “God no.” I could tell he wanted to be out of there. Me, too. “I’ll need those same things we talked about before—names and numbers of all her friends, anyone else important in her life. Does she play a sport?”
“Archery.” Cynthia dabbed at her eyes. “She came third in the Upper Valley meet.”
“Where’s her bow?”
Cynthia’s own eyebrows—two thin arcs darker than the hair on her head—rose in surprise. I’d seen Bernie’s questions do that to people before. She opened the closet. The bow, long and black, hung from a hook, a quiver of white-feathered arrows beside it.
“Include her coach and any teammates she was close to,” Bernie said.
Cynthia moved to the desk, wrote a list.
Bernie looked it over. “I don’t see Damon here.”
She snatched up the pen, wrote fast, pressing hard. “There.”
Bernie folded the paper, stuck it in his pocket, got up to leave.
“Don’t you want money?” Makeup was smeared in tracks down Cynthia’s face, black and green, like a scary mask on Halloween, the very worst of all human holidays. For some reason, I started to like her.
“We’re still on the five hundred,” said Bernie. “I’ll let you know if I need more.”
Oh, Bernie.
***
We drove to the North Canyon Mall. Bernie circled round and round a huge lot, finally found a spot. He was muttering to himself. Bernie hated malls, hated shopping of any kind. We got out, walked toward the entrance. Bernie stopped in front of a sign. I couldn’t read the words, but there was also a picture of one of my guys with a thick line drawn through him.
“Uh-oh,” said Bernie.
We went back to the car. Bernie drove around again until he found just about the only space in the whole lot that lay in the shade of a tree.
“Stay here,” he said, giving me a pat. “Be back as soon as I can.”
I was steaming, but what could I do? It wasn’t Bernie’s fault. I growled a bit, then leaned down and gnawed at my paw for a while, felt a little better. Outside, people went back and forth.
“Hey, Mom. Look at the cute dog.”
“Don’t go too close.”
“But can’t I pat him?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m allergic.”
A word I hated.
“And see the way he yawned like that? Means he’s aggressive. Hurry up.”
First of all, I wasn’t yawning, only stretching my mouth, always nice and relaxing. Second, I wasn’t feeling aggressive: She must have been confusing me with hippos, ugly brutes I’d seen on the Discovery Channel and wanted no part of. I watched the distant doors of the mall. Bernie didn’t come out. I lay down. A nap? Why not? I closed my eyes.
***
I had some kind of good dream that all of a sudden went bad. It startled me. I opened my eyes and there, standing right by the car, stood a very big guy, taller and broader than Bernie. He had light hair, maybe even white, but he wasn’t old, had no lines on his face. I didn’t like that face at all, something about the massive cheekbones and the tiny ears. Then I was up on the seat and barking, my loudest bark, probably on account of being startled.
That made the man jump and step back, no surprise. But now, when most people would have kept backing away, he did not. Instead, his face got distorted and angry, teeth bared, and he said something I didn’t understand—maybe in a language I didn’t know—but I knew it was nasty. And then, from inside his shirt, he pulled a knife, a long one with a gleaming blade. Very quick, he bent down and stabbed at one of our tires. The air hissed out, and before I could move, he stepped forward and stabbed another.
Then I was airborne, my own teeth bared, you’d better believe it. One of my paws caught him on the shoulder. It spun him a little, and he kept spinning all the way around and slashed at me with the knife. I felt the blade skim my coat, but I got past it and sank my teeth into his leg. He grunted and lost the knife. It clattered to the pavement, bounced, and fell through one of those storm grates. I twisted around, tried to bring him down. He reached into his pocket, and when his hand came out, it wore something metal. The metal flashed down at me. Then everything got wobbly.
The next thing I knew he was running, farther down the row of cars. He jumped into one. I raced after it. The car rolled forward. I sprinted alongside, barking and barking, in a hot rage. He glanced out the window, turned the wheel sharply. I felt a tremendous blow and went flying.
***
"Chet? Chet?”
“Are you calling your dog, mister? I think this is him over here.”
I was lying on the pavement, feeling not too good. A kid was gazing down at me. Bernie came running into view. I started to get up—no way I wanted him seeing me like this. It took some effort. One of my front legs was letting me down. I limped toward Bernie.
“Oh my God.” Bernie knelt, took my head in his hands. “What happened to you?”
The kid came closer. “I think he got hit by a car.”
“Hit by a car?” Bernie sounded shocked. He glanced around. “What car?”
“A blue one,” said the kid. “Your dog was kind of chasing it.”
“Chasing the car?”
“Yeah. Then they collided. The guy maybe didn’t even seen him. I think it was a guy.”
“What did he look like?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Any idea of the make of the car?”
“Just that it was blue.”
Bernie stroked my coat, very gentle. “Christ, he’s bleeding.” I could see from his eyes how upset he was.
I licked the blood off my shoulder. Not much, no big deal. It got the metallic taste of the nasty guy’s blood out of my mouth.
“Did you see what happened to my car?” Bernie said.
“Your car?” said the kid.
“Over there.” Bernie got to his feet, started to pick me up. Getting carried? Out of the question. I backed away. “Come on, then,” he said.
We walked over to the Porsche, me, Bernie, the kid. I was hardly limping at all.
“Wow,” said the kid. “Somebody slashed your tires.” He glanced back toward the place where I got hit. “You think it’s the same guy?”
Bernie nodded. He handed the kid his card. “If you remember anything else, give me a call.”
“Hey,” said the kid. “Are you a real private eye?”
***
The kid went away. Bernie made some calls—tow truck, insurance, vet. Vet? Uh-oh. I moved over to the storm grate and started barking.
“Come on, Chet.”
I barked and barked.
“Knock that off. You’re going to the vet, and that’s that.”
Bernie! Look in the grate!
But he didn’t. When the tow truck came, Bernie held the cab door open for me. I climbed in, maybe not with my usual ease.
“You okay, boy?”
“Hey,” said the tow-truck guy. “Nice dog.”
“You bet,” said Bernie.
We got new tires—part of the deductible, whatever that meant, but it didn’t seem to make Bernie happy—and drove to the vet. Her name was Amy, a big round woman with a nice voice and careful hands, but I always start shaking the moment I enter the waiting room, and this time was no different.
“What happened to you, poor baby?” she said.
They laid me on a table. I felt a tiny jab and then not much. Amy worked away on me.
“Funny kind of cut for a car accident,” she said.
“Yeah?” said Bernie.
“More of a slashing type of wound,” Amy said. “Maybe some chrome got him.”
Chrome? Did I know that word? Didn’t think so. In fact, I was losing the thread. I just lay on the table, quiet. Their mouths moved, Bernie’s and Amy’s, and sound flowed back and forth over me. Soon the shaking went away. I felt not too bad.
We sat in the TV room, Bernie on the couch with his laptop, me in the La-Z-Boy, my bad leg resting on a pillow. The Hound of the Baskervilles was on the screen. I’d seen it more times than I could count—which was two in my case: me and Bernie, for example—but the way that hound’s howl kept scaring the pants off all those people never got old. If I could only howl like that…Hey! maybe I could.
“Chet. Please. You do that every time at the exact same scene.”
I do?
He tapped at the keyboard. “I’m trying to concentrate. Turns out there are three Tims or Timothys in the senior class at Heavenly Valley High.” Tap tap. “And one of them’s in the archery club. Tim Fletcher.” He glanced at me over the lid of the laptop. “See where we’re going with this?”
I had no clue.
Bernie picked up the phone. “Missing persons, please. Sergeant Torres.” He looked at me again, and in a whisper said, “How’re you doing?”
Me? Never better. The hound of the Baskervilles howled again and Sherlock Holmes made a thoughtful face. That howl!
“Chet, please, for God’s sake! Oh, hi, Rick, no, no, just talking to my—What I called about is this woman, Cynthia Chambliss. Did she get in touch with you about her daughter?” He listened. “Rick? I believe it’s Madison, not Meredith.” He listened some more. “That’s what I think, too—she’ll turn up. There’s just one little thing bothering me. Do you know about her first disappearance, the one that turned out not to be real?” More listening. Then Bernie started explaining about the first disappearance. On the screen, Sherlock Holmes smoked a pipe. What would that be like, pipe smoke? All of sudden I was in the mood for Bernie to light up a cigarette. Sure, that was bad of me, but the smell was so nice.
“The point is, Rick, Madison was seen at the mall that night, but she didn’t go to the movie, although she was in the ticket line. According to my witness—a cashier who ID’d her off a photo—a young male appeared, and after a brief talk, they went away together. That part—leaving the line—doesn’t sit right with me. I think we should find out who he was.” I could hear the voice on the other end of the phone, a tiny voice, not cooperating. “I’ll look into that part myself, then,” Bernie said. “In the meantime, I recommend putting her on the wire. Yeah, I know that contradicts what I…but—”
Bernie hung up. He rose, opened the slider, went out on the patio. Under one of the chairs, he found a twisted-up cigarette pack. He dug around in it, came up with a cigarette, shot me a guilty look. Poor Bernie. Smoking was bad for him, although I wasn’t sure why; at the same time, he enjoyed it. What was going on with that? He patted his pockets. I knew what that meant: matches. I spotted a book of them on the couch, jumped off the La-Z-Boy, and—
Oh. My leg. Forgot about it completely. But—not too terrible. I went over to the couch, snapped up the matches, brought them outside.
“Chet! You’re not supposed to be—Hey. What’ve you got there?” He took the matches. “Good boy.” He gave me a pat. We sat outside, Bernie smoking, me downwind with blue smoke winding its way to my nose, and night falling. He took a deep drag. “Want to know what I think?”
I did.
“We should reconstruct that first night, the nondisappearance, find out everything that happened, where she went, who with, why, the whole ball of wax.” That was hard to follow, and I kind of gave up, but then the ending grabbed my attention. I knew what a ball was, of course, one of my favorite things, and wax I also knew, on account of Leda being a candle lover, but putting them together? A wax ball: I could almost taste it. And was salivating a bit when I grew aware that Bernie was still talking.
“So what have we got, hard facts?”
A wax ball would probably be kind of soft, unlike our lacrosse ball, say, which made my teeth feel great every time I gave it a good hard squeeze. Other than that, I had nothing to offer.
Bernie took a deep drag, let smoke drift out through his nostrils. Ah. This was nice and relaxing, out on the patio. And what was that, lying under the barbecue, with a tiny end sticking out? Could it be? A possible bonus to this fine, fine evening? Yes, a forgotten hot dog, burned almost black, just the way I like it, although the name “hot dog” itself had never made sense to me. When was our last cookout? No idea. Was there a fly or two already at work on the thing? Maybe, but not for long. I gobbled it up. Mmmm. We were living the dream, me and Bernie.
“Two hard facts, as far as I can see,” said Bernie. “One—a young male appears at the line to the movie, and Madison leaves with him. Two—she tells her mother she got a ride home with Tim, a senior at her high school. Notice, Chet, I don’t state as a fact that was how she actually got home.”
I noticed. But what, if anything, he was driving at remained unclear, and besides, I was suddenly feeling a little pukey.
Bernie took another drag, tapped some ashes off his cigarette. They made a tiny whirlwind in the breeze. And what a breeze, coming off the canyon. So many smells, I’d never be able to separate them all, but one thing was sure: The fat javelina was close by. That brought bacon thoughts to my mind, and the next thing I knew, I was in the corner of the patio, coughing up the hot dog.
Bernie ran over. “Chet. You all right, boy?” He ran his hand lightly over my stitches. “Not hurting inside, are you? Maybe we should go to the vet.”
The vet? No way. Just look down, Bernie, you’ll see the hot dog, figure it out. But when I looked down myself, I realized there was nothing hot dog–like left to see, so I wagged my tail extra hard, out of ideas.
Bernie got the point, or sort of. “Good man.” He turned the tap on the garden hose, sprayed the corner of the patio. The garden hose always revved me up; Bernie sprayed me a bit, too, so refreshing. I shook off. He toweled me down. “What I’m trying to say,” he said, “is let’s start by testing the assumption that it was Tim the archer who approached Madison in the line at the movies.”
Fine by me. We went inside. Bernie brewed some tea. I had a chew strip. He found a home number for Tim the archer and called it. No answer. I heard a car drive slowly by.
***
No school, Bernie said—it was Saturday. Okeydoke. They were all the same to me. First thing in the morning, we got on the freeway, drove past the North Canyon Mall, took an exit that led to a development a lot like ours, except there was no canyon in back, just more and more houses. We stopped in front of one. It had a basketball hoop by the driveway and a grass lawn. A quick frown passed over Bernie’s face: He had a thing about grass lawns in the desert. We didn’t have even a shred of grass on our lawn. Everything was brown and spiky, except in spring.
Bernie opened the door for me. I got out, felt only the slightest twinge in my shoulder, almost nothing. I was all better! We walked to the front door, me actually trotting a bit. Bernie knocked.
The door opened. A little girl in pajamas looked out. “I’m up,” she said. She was holding a stuffed animal of some kind; in fact, could it possibly be a…? Yes. This was something I never understood. I had no desire at all to pal around with a stuffed human.
“Is Tim at home?” Bernie said.
“Timmy sleeps till all hours,” the girl said. “Your doggie’s big.” She stuck her thumb in her mouth. If I’d had one, I’d have done the same every chance I got.
“His name’s Chet,” Bernie said. “He likes kids.”
“Can I pat him?”
“Sure.”
She reached out, touched my nose, so lightly I could hardly feel it. “His nose is cold.”
From inside the house came a woman’s voice. “Kayleigh? What are you—” The woman appeared. She wore a robe and had curlers in her hair and some green stuff smeared all over her face.
“Chet!”
Oops. I caught myself growling. Very bad, but she was scary.
The woman grabbed Kayleigh, pulled her back. “What’s going on?” she said.
“The name’s Bernie Little.” He handed her his card. “I’m a licensed private investigator, and I’d like to speak to Tim.”
“A licensed private investigator? My son, Tim?”
“Yes, ma’am. Tim Fletcher, if I’ve got the right address. There’s a little problem at Heavenly Valley High, and your son may have useful information.”
“Problem? Tim hasn’t mentioned any problems.”
“He sleeps till all hours,” said Kayleigh.
“Kayleigh,” said her mother, “please go to your room for a few minutes.”
“Don’t wanna.”
“I’m not suggesting this problem has any direct connection to Tim,” Bernie said. “It relates to the archery club.”
“Did someone get shot?” the woman said. “With an arrow?”
Kayleigh’s eyes opened wide.
“Not to my knowledge,” Bernie said. “Not yet. But we wouldn’t want anything like that to happen, would we? Think of the liability.”
The woman bit her lip. Bernie was great at making people do that, women especially. It always meant we were about to get somewhere. “I’ll wake him,” she said. “You can wait…” She glanced around, maybe about to tell us to wait outside, but at that moment a landscaper’s truck parked across the street. “…in the kitchen.” We started inside. “Just a minute. The dog’s coming inside?”
“He’s a trained police dog,” Bernie said.
“Chet,” said Kayleigh. “His nose is cold.”
We waited in the kitchen, Bernie at the table, me by the window. I heard voices upstairs. Bernie rose, opened the fridge, took a quick peek inside. That was Bernie, filling in the blanks. He was back in his place when the woman returned, trailed by a tall kid wearing boxers and a T-shirt; he had rumpled hair and puffy eyes.
“My son, Tim,” the woman said.
“Hi, Tim,” said Bernie. “Take a seat.”
Tim took a seat. We’d gone through a stage, me and Bernie, of watching zombie movies. Tim moved like that. He noticed me and looked puzzled.
“Mrs. Fletcher?” said Bernie. “It would be helpful if we could talk to Tim alone. It’ll only be a few minutes.”
“Alone? Why?”
“Standard procedure.” As he said that, he made a helpless shrug, like: Stupid, I know, but what can I do? We’re stuck in this together. Bernie could have been a great actor; at least his mother thought so. I’ll get to her later if I have a chance.
The woman blinked, started backing out of the room. “Call if you need me, Tim.”
Tim grunted something. He gave off strong smells. I kept my distance.
Bernie gave Tim a smile, the kind that looked friendly if you didn’t know him. “I see your mom brewed coffee. Want some?”
Tim shook his head.
“That your Mustang in the driveway?”
Tim grunted.
“Cool car. I had one of those when I was about your age. What are you—a senior?”
Tim nodded.
“At Heavenly Valley High?”
Another nod.
“Got plans for next year?”
Tim shrugged.
“You must be sick of hearing that question.”
Tim gazed at Bernie, then spoke his first words. “I got accepted early at U of A.”
“Congratulations,” Bernie said. “Fine school. You’re looking at four of the best years of your life, I guarantee it—as long as you stay out of jail.”
Tim’s eyes, suddenly less sleepy, opened wide, just like his little sister’s, and out came another word. “Huh?”
“And the only way you can get in trouble on that account would be by holding back now.”
“Holding back, like…?”
“Let’s start with last Wednesday night, when you drove Madison Chambliss home.”
Tim’s mouth opened, stayed that way for a moment.
“That was in the Mustang, I assume.”
Tim shook his head. He had sleepy seeds in the corners of his eyes. I get them, too.
“Some other car?” Bernie said.
“No,” said Tim. “No car.”
“You’re losing me.”
“Like, I didn’t drive her home.”
Bernie sighed. He was a great sigher, had different sighs for different occasions. “The problem is, she said you did.”
“I didn’t. What’s going on? I thought this was about the archery club.”
Bernie sat back in his chair. It creaked under him. “Early acceptance is the way to go with college these days, no question,” he said. “The only drawback is that it’s conditional, as you probably know, on keeping up your grades. And other things, too, such as good behavior. A letter to the admissions department about noncooperation in a missing-persons case might make them rethink.”
“Missing-persons case?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Who’s missing?”
“You tell me.”
“I don’t know.”
“See if you can figure it out.”
Tim’s eyes moved sideways. Thoughts pulled at human eyes like that. Bernie waited. Me, too.
“Maddy?” Tim said.
“Got it in one,” Bernie said. “She hasn’t been home in almost two days now. Know anything about that?”
“No. I swear.”
“Tell me about your relationship with her.”
“We don’t have a relationship. We’re friends.”
“Friends? What about the age difference?”
“She’s a cool kid.”
“In what way?”
“You know, different.”
“Different how?”
“Smart. Funny.”
His mother poked her head in the doorway. No more curlers, no more green stuff on her face, but there was still something scary about her. “Everything all right, Timmy?”
She didn’t scare Tim. “Go away, Mom.”
She shrank back, out of sight.
“And close the door.”
The door closed.
Tim gazed at Bernie. Bernie tilted his head up and raised one eyebrow. That was his encouraging face. It meant: Go! Tim lowered his voice. “Maddy told me not to say anything. But if she’s really missing…”
“Not to say anything about what?”
“Driving her home.”
“So you did?”
Tim nodded.
“From the movies?”
Tim shook his head. “She didn’t go to the movies—which was, you know, why her mom couldn’t find out.”
“Where did she go?”
Tim rubbed his face, started looking less like a zombie. “She ran into somebody, I think at the mall. Maybe she was planning to go to the movies, something like that.”
“Who did she run into?”
Tim looked down at the floor. I did, too, and noticed a few Cheerios under the table.
“Tim?” said Bernie. “Look at me.”
Tim looked at him.
“When people go missing, they usually get found quickly, or not at all.”
Tim bit his lip, actually chewed on it.
“We’re already getting past the quickly stage.”
Tim took a deep breath. “Ruben Ramirez,” he said.
“Who’s he?”
“This kid.”
“A student at Heavenly Valley?”
“Used to be. He dropped out. Has his own place.”
“What does he do?”
Tim looked down again. “Not sure.”
“But if you had to guess.”
Tim didn’t answer.
“How about I take a swing at it?” Bernie said. “He deals pot.”
Tim looked up, surprise all over his face.
“Did he bring her to his place?”
“Yeah.”
“Where is it?”
“Not sure. Over in Modena, past that racetrack.”
“Not sure?” said Bernie. “Didn’t you pick her up from there?”
“No. She called me, asked me to come get her at this convenience store on Almonte.”
“Next to a Getty station?”
“That’s the one.”
“Was she alone?”
“Yeah.”
“So you picked her up and drove her home?”
“Yeah.”
“What did she say?”
“Not much.”
“Did she explain why she left Ruben’s?”
Tim took another deep breath. “He came on to her.”
“And then?”
Tim shrugged. “She left. Went to the convenience store.”
“On foot?”
“Must’ve been.”
“That’s a bad area.”
“Yeah.”
“What was her mood like?”
“Hard to tell.”
“What else did she tell you?”
“Just not to say anything.”
“How upset was she?”
“Not too much.”
“Was she stoned?”
“Maybe a bit.”
Bernie rose. Me, too. Enough of this chitchat. It was time to crack this case the way we usually do, with me sniffing out the perp. Bernie handed Tim his card. “Anything new comes up, anything you forgot, call me right away.”
Tim nodded. “You think Ruben’s like, um…”
“We’re going to find out.”
We left. On the way, I made a quick detour under the kitchen table, scarfed up the Cheerios. The honey-coated kind: my favorite.