A cold place, with lights that were much too bright shining on machines I didn’t understand. Don’t get me started on machines. The lawn mower is one of the worst, and these, not much like lawn mowers, somehow looked as bad. I turned back toward the metal door: closed.
“Here you go, big fella,” said the man. “Hop right up.”
Up there? On the metal table? Why would I want to do that? I stayed where I was, four paws planted on the floor. The woman reached out, patted me. Like the other woman, the one at the front desk, she was an expert patter.
“Everything’s all right,” she said. Pat pat.
“Just need to take a quick look at you,” said the man. “Then we’ll be all done.”
Their voices were gentle. And their hands, too: They lifted me up onto the table. It was cold, that metal table.
“Lie down, there’s a good fella.”
I stayed where I was, standing up, panting a little despite the cold.
“Lie down, you’ll feel much better,” the woman said.
“Have you out of here in no time,” said the man.
The woman glared at him again. I didn’t know why, didn’t care. My mind was on something else: Did he mean have me out of this room or out of the whole place, the shelter? Getting out of the shelter: That was what I wanted. I was so busy thinking about getting out of the shelter that I didn’t pay much attention to them nudging me over onto my side, oh so gently. Every move was gentle. They knew how to handle my sort of guy.
Then came more patting, and I was hardly aware of some kind of clamps, maybe made of rubber, swinging down over me and locking me into place on the tabletop; hardly aware until it was too late. I tried to struggle, get up, thrash around, just move my body somewhere, somehow, but I couldn’t. I barked. All I could do, so I did it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the man wheeling a machine closer, a machine with a long tube that ended in a sharp needle. I barked with all my might, so loud I missed the sound of the door opening, almost missed the voice of the shelter woman.
“…and this is where we—Oh, sorry, didn’t know you were busy.”
“No problem,” said the man.
“We could come back later,” the shelter woman said.
“No,” said another woman. I went silent. “I really should witness this,” she added. Suzie! Suzie Sanchez, and I couldn’t see her, clamped down the way I was, back to the door.
“We use the most humane methods possible,” said the shelter woman.
“State of the art,” the man said. “And put that away, if you don’t mind—no pictures.”
“How long does it take?” said Suzie.
“From when we get the IV in?” the man said. “Thirty seconds, tops.”
“Not even,” said the shelter woman.
Then a new sound started up, low and wild. That was me, growling. The woman in the white coat patted me with her gentle hand. I growled some more.
“Is that normal?” Suzie said. “That resistance?”
“Wouldn’t call it resistance,” said the shelter woman. “It’s just so unfamiliar in here, that’s all.” At that moment I felt a sharp jab high up on one of my back legs.
“Now we just turn this little valve over here and—”
“Hey,” said Suzie. “He looks kind of familiar.”
“The dog?” the man said.
“Yes, the dog,” Suzie said. “Where did he come from?”
“Out in the desert somewhere, maybe as far as New Mexico,” said the shelter woman. “A biker brought him in—no collar, no tags.”
I heard footsteps, moving fast, and then Suzie came in sight. Suzie! She looked down at me, eyes narrowed, face worried. “Chet? Is that you?” What a question! Did I need a tag dangling from Suzie’s neck to identify her?
I was all clamped in place, couldn’t move a thing. Yes, yes, it’s me, Chet, pure and simple. How was I going to—and then I realized: couldn’t move a thing except my tail. I raised that tail of mine and thumped it down with the loudest thump I could make. It shook that cold metal table, shook that whole cold room from wall to wall.
“Don’t touch that valve,” Suzie said.
***
I rode shotgun in Suzie’s car, a box of dog biscuits between us. Sometimes she reached in and gave me a biscuit; sometimes I leaned over and gave her a lick on the face.
“What were you doing way out here, Chet?” she said. And: “Where’s Bernie?”
I gave her another lick, all I could think of doing. She laughed. “Stop it—you’ll cause an accident.” I stopped, sort of. Suzie smelled of fruit—apples and strawberries. I wasn’t a big fruit eater, but I liked fruit smells. Suzie smelled very good for a human, among the best I’d ever come across. There were flower smells mixed in, too, those little yellow flowers that bees—don’t get me started on bees, I’ve had more than enough—
And all of a sudden I thought of Madison, looking down at me from that building at the mine, and all those bad people. I turned my head, glanced out the rear window. Suzie checked the mirror.
“What’s back there, Chet?” she said.
All I saw was traffic, moving along in the usual way.
“I could have sworn you had a thought just now,” she said. “Give a lot to know what it was.”
My ears went up all by themselves, no idea why. Suzie handed me another biscuit. Where did she get biscuits this good, so crunchy? I tried to take my time with it and couldn’t, gobbling it right up. Then I stuck my nose out the side window. Great smells, zipping by so fast I could hardly keep up. A bird glided by, low to the ground. Didn’t like birds, had never managed to catch a single one, although I’d seen cats do it, even make it look easy. I barked at this bird, but it didn’t seem to hear, so I barked some more. Great to be right here, up and doing! Was there a better life than mine? You tell me.
“Chet! What’s gotten into you?”
I pawed at the dashboard for no reason at all; oops, maybe ripping it the littlest bit.
“That’s leather.”
I knew that, of course, knew the feel, smell, taste of leather very well. I felt bad, but not for long. The feel, smell, taste of leather—all just great—took over my whole mind. I came very close to scratching the dashboard again. What a world!
***
The road curved back and forth up a mountainside. From the top, we looked down over flatland, built up as far as the eye could see—to more mountains, far away and hazy—with human stuff.
“The pollution’s not too bad today,” Suzie said. “You can actually see why they call it the Valley.”
Because why? I didn’t get it. But I knew the Valley was home, and sat forward a little bit. We drove down, turned onto a freeway, hit stop-and-go traffic. Bernie grew very frustrated in stop-and-go traffic, muttering to himself and sometimes pounding on the wheel, but Suzie didn’t seem to mind at all. She whistled a soft little tune—I’d heard lots of men whistle, but never a woman before this—and sometimes flashed me a smile. Suzie and I got along great.
We were down to the last biscuit when I spotted a familiar sight: the big wooden cowboy statue outside the Dry Gulch Steak House and Saloon, one of Bernie’s favorites. I liked it, too. They had a patio out back where my guys were welcome. The scraps on that patio—don’t get me started.
At that moment I heard a funny swishing sound.
Suzie glanced over. “Getting close to home, huh?”
I realized the funny swishing sound came from my own tail, whipping back and forth against the seat.
“Don’t worry,” Suzie said, taking out her camera and snapping a photo of the wooden cowboy through her open window. “Won’t be long now.”
I knew worry, usually did my worrying sitting up, head tilted to one side, but I had no worries now. We got off the freeway, made a few turns, and then we were driving up Mesquite Road. There was Iggy’s place, with Iggy in the window! He spotted me and started jumping up and down in that weird way of his, his fat jowls wobbling in the opposite direction of every leap. No room in the car for me to jump up and down, too, which was what I wanted to do, so I just pawed at the dashboard.
“Chet!”
We rolled up to our place, mine and Bernie’s. Everything looked the same—the three trees in the front yard, the rock at the end of the driveway, the fence separating us from old man Heydrich. The only difference was a huge sign standing by the street with a picture of one of my guys on it, wearing a collar that looked a lot like mine, the one I’d lost. Hey, in fact, it was mine, the brown leather collar with the silver tags—meaning what? I couldn’t quite figure it out.
Suzie read the sign. “‘Have you seen Chet? Big reward. No questions asked.’” She parked in the driveway, opened her door. I flew out, right over her, raced around the yard, making hard cuts this way and that, earth clods flying, took brief stops to mark the big rock, all three trees, the fence, and what was this? The front door, too? Uh-oh. And then: It opened.
Bernie! But he looked terrible, face thinner and deep dark patches under his eyes.
“What’s going—” he began. “Chet!” His whole face changed. In a flash, he looked his very best. Bernie reached out for me.
Things happened quickly after that. Somehow Bernie got knocked down, and so did lots of stuff, maybe including a lamp and the old hat stand with Bernie’s baseball cap collection. We rolled around on the floor. Baseball caps rained down on us.
“Chet! Stop!”
***
A little later, we were relaxing in the TV room, Bernie and Suzie at opposite ends of the couch, me on the floor, front legs curled up under my chin, nice and comfortable. They were drinking wine and munching pretzels, the only snack available; as for me, I’d had all I could possibly consume and more.
“I’m serious about the reward,” Bernie was saying.
“Don’t be silly.”
“I’m not being silly. I really want you to—”
“Not another word on the subject. I’m just so happy I was there.”
“I insist.”
“All right—you can take me out to dinner sometime.”
“I can?”
They looked at each other, then away. Bernie’s gaze fell on me. The expression in his eyes changed, the way it did when he was on the job and getting one of his ideas. That’s how we divided the work: Bernie was the idea man, I did the digging. “Where was this again?” he said.
“Sierra Verde,” said Suzie.
“Sierra Verde, Chet? What were you doing way out there?”
I wasn’t saying. The details were fading fast. All I remembered clearly was the feel of the choke chain, Madison’s smell, and zooming down the road on the motorcycle. Oh, yeah: and Mr. Gulagov and his gang.
“…for this story on shelters,” Suzie was saying. “I needed a rural place like Sierra Verde for balance. Total luck.”
“Bikers?” Bernie said.
“That’s what they told me. And something about finding him in New Mexico.”
Bernie reached down, touched my back. “What happened here?”
“They didn’t say.” Suzie put on glasses. Always so strange to me, always a little scary, maybe because glasses made humans seem even more like machines than they already were. “Looks like it’s healing nicely,” she said.
Now I remembered that part, too.
“What’re you growling about, boy?”
I raised my head and barked, one short, loud bark.
“What’s bothering you?”
I gazed at Bernie. He was watching me closely. Mountain lions, Bernie. Ah, what the hell. I was home, safe and sound. I lowered my head, closed my eyes. Their talk flowed back and forth over me, very nice sounds. Suzie laughed. Whatever Bernie said next made her laugh some more. Bernie laughed, too—he had this quiet little laugh he did when he made someone laugh; I didn’t hear it often. Was the distance between them on the couch shrinking a bit? I kind of thought so but was suddenly much too tired to open my eyes. The rug, so soft, my belly so full, and here I was, home. A delicious sleep was on the way, would be on me real—
The phone rang, a sound I hated. Sleep got pushed away. I opened my eyes. Bernie was talking into the phone. “Nothing new,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He hung up, turned to Suzie; yes, they were a little closer together, and she wasn’t wearing her glasses. “A missing-persons case. We’re getting nowhere.”
“Who’s the person?”
“A teenager named Madison Chambliss.”
I got up, started barking.
“Chet?”
I hurried to the front door.
“Chet? What is it? Is something out there?”
Bernie got a flashlight and opened the door. I ran out, down the street. I remembered Mr. Gulagov’s ranch, with the mine and the old barn across from it, Madison in the window. But where was it? I trotted this way and that, sniffing for a scent trail to lead me back—Mr. Gulagov’s scent, Boris’s, Harold the driver’s, Madison’s, my own. Nothing. I slowed down, walked in a circle, came to a halt.
“What’s on your mind, boy?”
In the morning we got right to work on the Madison Chambliss case, me and Bernie. First off, we drove down to Donut Heaven, me riding shotgun, not a cloud in the sky, everything tip-top. A cruiser was waiting in the lot. Bernie parked beside it in typical cop style, driver’s-side doors facing each other. The cruiser window slid down, and there was Rick Torres, Bernie’s friend in Missing Persons. He handed Bernie coffee and a doughnut and said, “Hey, Chet, how ya doin’?”
No complaints.
“Got an extra cruller here,” Rick said, holding it up.
I wagged my tail.
“Chet’s had his breakfast,” Bernie said. “And he’s never been big on sweets.”
Oh?
“Empty calories,” Bernie said.
“Huh?” said Rick.
“It’s true. I’ve been reading up on nutrition. Check out what’s happening to this country.”
Rick glanced around.
“I’m talking about the way we look now and the way we used to look,” Bernie said.
“I get you,” said Rick. “Like William Howard Taft.”
Bernie gave Rick a long stare. Then he took a big bite of his doughnut and with his mouth full, said, “Where are we?”
Rick bit into his cruller. I could smell it from where I was, easy. “Don’t know where you are,” he said, also talking with his mouth full. “But we’ve got nada.” He took out a notebook, flipped through the pages. “I interviewed the parents, Cynthia Chambliss and Damon…” Rick paused, squinted at the notebook. Squinting was one of those human expressions best kept to a minimum, in my opinion. “…can’t read my own writing—looks like Keller.”
“Keefer,” Bernie said.
“Yeah?” Rick found a pen behind the visor, made a mark on the page. “A fun pair, Cynthia and Damon. He thinks the kid’s run off to Vegas, and she thinks it’s a snatch.”
“Any evidence for either?”
“Nope. No ransom demand, no sightings. Checked the school, her teachers, friends—everybody says she was a normal kid, smarter than most.”
“Was?” said Bernie.
Rick turned the page. “Oh yeah—there’s just maybe one little thing here.”
“What’s that?”
“Some suggestion she was hanging out with a pothead or possibly pot dealer.”
“Ruben Ramirez?”
Rick looked up; his eyebrows rose, too.
“Forget him,” Bernie said. “He alibis out.”
“Okeydoke. So what we’ve done is put her on the wire, sent her picture and description to every department in the state, checked Valley hospitals, the usual.”
Bernie nodded. “One other thing,” he said, taking another bite. “We might be looking for a BMW, probably blue, with a blond male driver.”
I barked. They both turned to me. “He wants that cruller,” Rick said.
Bernie sighed. “All right.”
The cruller went from Rick to Bernie to me. I used my two-bite technique for managing big things, jerking my head back on the second. All gone. Delicious. Rick Torres was growing on me. But I hadn’t been barking about the cruller, had I? I’d barked about…What was it again?
“Year and model?” Rick said.
Bernie shook his head. “And even the BMW part isn’t completely reliable, but I think you should add it to what you’ve got.”
“Go public with the car stuff?”
Bernie thought. When he was thinking, really thinking hard like this, things always seemed to get quiet around him. “Not yet,” he said.
“But you’re betting it’s a snatch?”
“Yes.”
“A snatch and no ransom demand?” Rick said. “Bad news.” He ate the last of the cruller, then licked the tips of his fingers. I licked around my whole mouth, found a few sweet crumbs.
***
“He’s right about one thing,” Bernie said. We were gassing up at pumps across the street from Donut Heaven. I started zoning out on the smell of gas. “No ransom demand is bad news.” He screwed the gas cap back in place. I took one last big sniff, felt funny, in a good way. “You know what I’m wondering?”
Why we hadn’t picked up a bag of crullers to take home?
“I’m wondering why Damon Keefer keeps saying she’s run off to Vegas.” He got in the car, turned the key. “Let’s find out.”
Fine with me. I forgot all about the crullers. We drove up into some hills, housing developments on both sides, one after the other, and lots of construction going on.
“Guess how many people move to the Valley each and every day,” Bernie said. “And that’s only counting the legal ones.”
No clue. Plus who cared, anyway? Sometimes Bernie worried for no reason.
“For thousands of years, this was open country,” he said. “Rivers flowed. Where’s all that water now?”
I glanced to the side, spotted water right away, making beautiful rainbows over a putting green. What was the problem? Enjoy the day, Bernie. I gave him a nudge with the top of my head. He laughed and said, “Glad you’re back.”
Back, and on the job. We went past the golf course and turned at the next road. A big sign stood on the corner. “‘Welcome to Pinnacle Peak Homes at Puma Wells,’” Bernie read. “‘The Number One Gated Prestige Luxury Development in the North Valley.’” The road led up a winding canyon. “I prefer my prestige ungated,” Bernie said, a remark that zipped by me in complete mystery. We followed a truck that was painting a yellow line down the middle. Was that fun to watch or what? I wanted to jump out and lick that glistening yellow line so bad I could hardly sit still.
“Chet, for God’s sake, sit still.”
Houses went by, not all of them finished, clustered together with tiny spaces in between. A big palm tree lay flat down beside a hole in someone’s yard. “Funny,” Bernie said. “Midmorning on a workday and no workers around.” We parked in front of one of the finished houses. It had a sign in the window. “‘Model home and office,’” Bernie read. We hopped out and went to the door. Bernie knocked.
“Come in,” called a woman.
We went in, found ourselves in a room with a cool tile floor and a fountain in the middle, water splashing in a small pool. What was Bernie talking about? There was water out the yingyang.
A woman sat at a desk by the fountain, tapping at a computer keyboard. “Dr. Avery?” she said, rising. She was tall, Bernie’s height, with long fair hair in a ponytail and tiny ears. And beautiful: I knew that from how Bernie stumbled the tiniest bit on his next step. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”
“Who’s Dr. Avery?” said Bernie.
The woman blinked. Bernie was good at causing those confused blinks in people, did I mention that already? “You are not here to see the Phase Two Red Rock Garden Casita designs?” she said.
“Sure,” said Bernie. “We’ll take a look at them. But first I’d like to see Mr. Keefer.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“Not exactly, Ms…. “
“Larapova. Elena Larapova, VP marketing.”
“…Ms. Larapova, but I know he’ll see us.”
Ms. Larapova’s eyes went to me. She made a friendly clucking sound, a sound I liked. I wagged back. “Mr. Keefer is on site at the moment,” she said.
“Can you call him?”
“Perhaps. Who shall I say…?”
Bernie handed her our card. She read it, then looked at me again, quickly, her eyes widening. “Something the matter?” said Bernie.
“Oh, no, no, Mr. Little. It’s just—I’ve never met a detective before.”
Bernie smiled. “We don’t bite,” he said.
Speak for yourself, was my thought.
Ms. Larapova took a phone off the desk. “Hello, Da—Mr. Keefer,” she said. “There’s a Bernie Little to see you.” She listened for a moment and hung up. “Come,” she said.
We went outside, climbed into a golf cart, Ms. Larapova behind the wheel, Bernie beside her, me in back. I’d ridden in golf carts before, loved them.
“Your dog is coming?” she said.
“You object?”
“No. Well-behaved pets are always welcome at Puma Wells.”
“Then please make an exception for Chet.”
“Excuse me?”
“On both counts—well behaved and pet.” Bernie laughed to himself. What the hell was he talking about?
“Explain, please?”
I was on her side, all the way.
“Sorry,” Bernie said. “Just a joke.”
Ms. Larapova gave him a quick glance, the corners of her mouth turned down, a look often appearing on women’s faces after one of Bernie’s jokes. She shifted away from him on the bench seat and drove onto a cart path.
We bumped up a fairway, headed toward a big building in the distance. I didn’t see anyone playing, but all of a sudden a golf ball came soaring over a hill, hit the ground right beside us, and bounced up. I snatched it right out of the air before I even knew what I’d done. Looking back, I saw another golf cart topping the crest of the hill far behind us. I lay down on the backseat, chewing quietly.
“So,” said Bernie, “what brings you here?”
The puzzled human face is one of my favorites. That was what Ms. Larapova showed Bernie now.
“Aren’t you from Russia?” he went on.
She nodded. “But I have been in this country for many years, am now a citizen like you.”
“Even better, I’m sure.”
Russian? Wait a minute. That triggered something in my mind, but what? I mulled it over, meanwhile working my way through the golf-ball covering. Underneath lay all kinds of interesting stuff; I knew from experience.
“…and I love the wide-open spaces,” Ms. Larapova was saying.
“Aren’t there wide-open spaces in Siberia?”
“You have such a sense of humor.” But not enough to make Ms. Larapova laugh. She drove up to the big building. “The clubhouse,” she said. “Gourmet restaurant and bar, indoor and outdoor pools with Jacuzzis, five-thousand-square-foot gym with personal-trainer service, Japanese steam and Finnish sauna, full-service spa.”
“What’s it cost?”
“Membership is restricted to residents only.”
“And then it’s free?”
For the first time, Ms. Larapova laughed. Human laughter: usually one of the best sounds there is, as I might have mentioned, but not Ms. Larapova’s, which was booming and strange, kind of like an explosion. “Free?” she said. “Introductory-rate initiation is one hundred fifty K, and that is for three-bedroom units and above.”
“Introductory-rate?” said Bernie.
“Until Labor Day. After that—two hundred. Plus greens fees, of course.”
“Goes without saying,” said Bernie.
We got off the cart, followed Ms. Larapova around the clubhouse. “What’s in your mouth, Chet?” Bernie said.
I swallowed what was left, looked innocent. Way back on the fairway, two golfers were walking in little circles, heads down. Golf was a game I didn’t get at all.
There was a big swimming pool behind the clubhouse. I trotted over to the edge. Hey. No water. Not that I’d have jumped in—almost certainly not—but I liked gazing at water. A man in a dark suit sat under an umbrella at a poolside table spread with a white cloth; I’d pulled on an overhanging end of one of those once, with bad results; but for some reason, my mouth suddenly wanted to get hold of this one. The man was talking on a phone. I smelled cat on him, saw his goatee, and recognized him: Damon Keefer. “It’ll clear, for Christ’s sake,” he was saying. One of his feet was tapping under the table, very fast, out of sight, although not out of my sight, down here. “Don’t be such a—” He saw us, said, “Gotta go,” and clicked off.
Bernie and Ms. Larapova approached the table. I stayed where I was, poolside, hit by a surprising attack of indigestion. Keefer motioned with his hand, and Bernie and Ms. Larapova started to sit down.
“I’ll take it from here, Elena,” Keefer said.
Ms. Larapova, in the act of pulling out her chair, went still. “As you wish, Mr. Keefer,” she said. She gave me a quick glance, then turned and walked away. I turned, too, and gagged what was left of the golf ball into the empty pool. Ah, much better: at the top of my game once more, and the slightest bit hungry, believe it or not. I sniffed the air in hope of scraps; poolsides were usually good for a potato chip or two, or even one of those mini hot dogs—had to be careful about the toothpicks they came on, I’d learned that the hard way—but I smelled nothing except cat, the odor coming from Keefer. I thought of mountain lions right away, and then a faint memory of Madison in the window came and went.
Bernie sat opposite Keefer, hands folded on the table. I always got a good feeling when Bernie’s hands were folded like that, couldn’t say why.
“Any news?” Keefer said. Under the table, his foot was tapping away—in fact, his whole lower body was jittery, although the top part of him was still.
“I’m afraid not,” Bernie said. “We followed up on one or two leads, but they ended nowhere.”
“So what are you saying? Your involvement in this is over?”
“Far from it.”
“Don’t tell me you want more money.”
“Money’s not the issue now, Mr. Keefer. The retainer will take us through to the end, and we’ll send you a bill then. But the point, what we’ve got to focus on, is making sure that end’s a good end.”
Keefer took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. “Think I don’t know that?” He blew smoke through his nostrils, something Bernie liked doing. In fact, Bernie’s gaze was locked on those smoke trails. Keefer noticed. “Smoke?”
“No, thanks,” Bernie said, even though I could tell he wanted one bad. “I’ve been in touch with Rick Torres over at Missing Persons. He says you told him you think Madison’s run off to Las Vegas.”
Keefer shrugged.
“You told me the same thing.”
Keefer took a deep drag. All that lower-body twitchiness lessened a bit. “Vegas is just an example.”
“Of what?”
“The kind of place she might have taken off for.”
“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.