The Wrong Dog Page 4

  “That was the big topic at the convention, at least at the dinner it was, arguments about cloning—could they, would they, should they? And a surprising amount of nervous joking to go along with the serious issues.”

  “It makes a lot of people nervous. You know something, Chip, it makes me nervous.”

  “Oh, come on, Rach. You don’t believe that, do you, that the younger dog is a clone? It’s so impractical. Can you imagine what it would cost to do that?”

  “They look exactly alike.” Lame, I told myself, not waiting for Chip to say it to me. “Well, they’re both white bull terriers, so I know what you’re thinking—why wouldn’t they look alike? But they have identical black markings.” I pointed to the outside corner of my right eye. “Here.”

  He sighed. “Rach. That’s fairly common in bullies. You know that.”

  I decided not to mention the little Hitler mustaches, or the strip of pink running up their snouts. Those things were far more common than the black smudge under an eye, looking like the remnants of a healing shiner.

  “You don’t think it’s possible?” I asked.

  “It’s preposterous,” he said. “The work that’s been done in Scotland and Japan, there’s big money behind it because it’s about making money, not about doing good. Rachel, Mother Teresa’s dead. There’s no one doing good anymore.”

  “Then someone’s gone pretty far out of their way to pull this woman’s leg, wouldn’t you say?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “What if what Sophie was told was a lie, Chip? What if this is about money?”

  “How so?”

  “Well, once they have the technology, couldn’t they clone, say, animals that do commercials?”

  “So that Morris the cat could go on forever?”

  “Precisely. There’s a lot of money tied up in those images.”

  “Why not the top-winning show dogs?”

  “Right.”

  “But then why not just do that? Why the whole seizure-alert business?”

  “Because even though they’d be able to prove they’re producing clones with impartial DNA testing, if they can also show that a particular talent translates, then they’d be able to say, ‘Okay, the clone will not only look like a winner, he’ll act like a winner.’ Now you’re talking big money.”

  “Except…”

  “Except what?”

  “When you add up travel, handlers’ fees, advertising, entry fees, and incidentals, it costs one hundred fifty to two hundred thousand a year to get a dog to Westminster. Then add the cost of the cloning. Even if the clone did look and act like a winner, you’d never make money. No way.”

  “Okay, suppose the rich guy’s an epileptic himself. Or he has a close relative who is, his wife or his kid maybe.”

  “Could be. Still, he’d have to be stinking rich to try something like this.”

  I nodded. “Probably is.”

  “Rach?”

  “What?”

  “About the seizure alert. I wouldn’t think you’d have to go through all this. You get a bright dog with a willingness to take on responsibility, it could be taught. I’m sure of it.”

  “Me, too. But that doesn’t mean the stinking-rich guy would know that. No one’s saying it’s so, that it’s just an issue of focus and training. Sophie says the medical profession doesn’t even recognize that there is such a thing as a seizure-alert dog. They say the evidence is anecdotal.”

  “That’s exactly the sort of stuff I heard at the convention. And the sensible rejoinder—how could anyone run a study to test seizure-alert dogs when it would mean preventing the epileptic subject from taking the appropriate medication after the dog had alerted? To know if it was legit, you’d have to do just that, and watch to see if the person had a seizure.”

  “No one could be that cruel.”

  “Hence the notion that since it can’t be proved, it’s not real. So you end up with an underground of people who, despite what the doctors say, claim their dogs do indeed alert them prior to the onset of a seizure.”

  “Hence Bianca.”

  He leaned back against the door. I did, too. The sky was blue-black, the air crisp. As if he knew that I’d gotten cold, wearing just an oversize T-shirt and sweat socks, Chip put his arm around me and drew me close.

  I was tired, but I had no desire to go to sleep. Even with Chip at my side and our protection-trained dogs just yards away, I had a sense of foreboding, a feeling there was something treacherous in the night, something that required vigilance to keep it at bay. I had told Chip that my new job would just be a matter of research. But I wasn’t convinced of that myself. I was sure he wasn’t either.

  Over dinner, I’d even asked Sophie why she didn’t do the work herself instead of spending a small fortune to have me do it. It was a logical question in this case. At first, she’d said she was too busy, and too tired after work to do much else. “The medication makes me sleepy,” she’d told me. “I’m lucky to get through the day.”

  When I didn’t respond, she’d gone on, telling me how stressful the whole idea was to her, that millions of dollars were being wasted on this project, money that could be used, one way or another, to really help people who needed help. She’d taken my hand then and told me that stress and exhaustion were the two major factors that triggered her seizures. She’d said she hoped I wouldn’t change my mind. That’s when she’d reached into the inside pocket of her coat and counted out my advance, in cash, thinking if all else failed, money might do the trick and persuade me to stay on the case.

  “Would you do it?” Chip asked.

  “What?”

  He didn’t elaborate.

  “Oh, you mean, would I clone Dashiell?”

  He nodded.

  I shook my head. “It wouldn’t be him. It would only look like him,” I said. “What about you?”

  “It sounds like an expensive way to get your heart broken.”

  “I’ve had it done for very little.”

  For a few moments, neither of us spoke.

  “I’ll have him as long as I can,” I said into the night yard. “When he’s gone, I’ll cry my heart out and get another dog.”

  Chip nodded and tightened his arm around me.

  The dogs were lying down together, chewing on each other’s faces.

  We sat there for a long time with nothing else to say. We both knew what was inevitable. For people like us, the life span of dogs is the world’s dirtiest trick. When we finally went upstairs to bed, we called the dogs to join us and held the blanket up so that they could come underneath, Betty burrowing way down to the foot of the bed and Dashiell laying his head on my pillow, stretching out along my side, sighing as he did so.

  “You’ll be careful,” Chip said right before we fell asleep, a statement rather than a question.

  “It’s just a missing-person case,” I told him. “Well, a missing organization, actually.” I snuggled closer. “Yeah, yeah,” I said, “I’ll be careful.”

  He left early to see a client with a destructive golden retriever. I showered and dressed, then turned the phones back on and went to check the blinking answering machine.

  There were no messages, only hang-ups. Eleven of them, all from the same number. It looked familiar. Then I realized why. It was Sophie’s, the one she’d written down on a napkin, along with her work number, at the end of dinner, the one that had appeared on the caller ID box the morning before, when she’d first called.

  What was so urgent that she had to keep trying to reach me all through the night?

  I picked up the phone and dialed her number, but all I got was her answering machine. Odd, I thought. It was too early for her to leave for work. But then I remembered she’d said, whenever possible, she took Bianca to the run before work in the hope that she’d use up enough energy so that she’d just sleep until the walker came at two.

  I left a message saying that I’d wait for her call, but it never came.

  CHAPTER 4

&
nbsp; I Handed Dashiell’s Leash to Mel

  After looking up Lorna West, the Horatio Street Veterinary Practice, and Side by Side in the phone books and finding nothing, I spent the morning making notes from the tapes I’d made talking to Sophie. At one, the phone finally rang. I figured Sophie must have been late for work and would call me during her lunch break, but caller ID told me that this call, like all the others, was coming from her home phone.

  “Sophie?”

  I waited, then asked again. The line was open, but whoever was there never said a word.

  I pressed reset and called Sophie’s work number, which was at the top of the first page of the notes I’d just made. The woman who answered told me Sophie hadn’t come in.

  “Did she say why?” I asked.

  There was a pause.

  “I can’t—”

  “Ruth?”

  Another pause.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “Sophie told me about you last night, about her friendship with you.”

  “She did?”

  “Yes. And, Ruth, I wouldn’t ask this of you if it wasn’t urgent. I’m working for her now and it’s imperative that I reach her.”

  She was quiet again. Thinking it over.

  “You’re working for her? I don’t understand. Are you the new cleaning lady?”

  “No. Sophie hired me yesterday to check into some things for her.”

  “To check into some things for her?”

  “That’s right. So, can you help me out here?”

  I waited.

  “Ruth?”

  “You’re the detective? She actually did it?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “She never called in,” she whispered. “Look, when you talk to her, please ask her to let us know about tomorrow. This isn’t like her. She’s always so responsible. She’s never—”

  “I’ll be sure to tell her.”

  I grabbed my jacket and Dash’s leash and headed for West Third Street, that feeling of foreboding I’d had the night before tagging along.

  When we crossed Sixth Avenue, Dashiell pulled toward the park.

  “Not now,” I told him. “We have to go to Sophie’s.”

  An old woman with a shopping cart full of used-up-looking clothes and deposit bottles turned toward me and stared. Great, the homeless were gawking at me.

  Dashiell was gaping, too. He couldn’t believe I had something more important to do than take him to the run.

  The address I’d been given was a modest, six-story, redbrick building with a leather-goods store ground-floor front. I ran my finger down the list of names until I found Sophie’s and rang the bell. No one asked my name or buzzed me in. I tried again, also to no avail.

  First I heard him, the jingle of all those keys. Then I saw him, heading my way, the key ring looped over his belt, bouncing against his hip as he bounced along the sidewalk. His hair was standing up as if he’d stuck a fork into a live outlet. Perhaps he’d been out in the wind a long time—too long, if you asked me.

  But there was no wind. It was one of those perfect fall days we have too few of in New York, ideal for sitting at the dog run and letting your thoughts roam while your dog reenacted the ancient rituals of his forebears, even better if, like the guy approaching, that’s how you made your living.

  He was oafish looking, tall and thin with the kind of posture that makes you wonder if there are any bones inside his insubstantial-looking body, all arms and legs flipping around like overcooked spaghetti with each step he took in my direction. But then he stopped and just stood where he was, at the far side of the leather-goods store.

  “Are you Sophie’s walker?”

  He nodded, but he wasn’t looking at me. His eyes were on Dashiell. I ignored his unsaid question. I had other things on my mind.

  “She didn’t go to work today and she never called in sick,” I said. “I’ve been unable to reach her here.”

  That’s when he looked up. “And your point is?”

  “Are you here to pick up Bianca?”

  “I am.”

  “I’d like to go with you.”

  “Into the apartment?”

  I nodded.

  “I can’t do that.”

  I would have liked to have taken a step forward, to be, literally, in his face. But Dashiell was between us and I thought that would do.

  “You can. And you will,” I told him. “I’m really worried about Sophie and I’m not going to stand out here arguing with you about this.”

  He stood there staring, those skinny arms flapping at his sides as if he were trying to get airborne, probably trying to figure out who the hell I was to give him so much attitude.

  “Rachel Alexander,” I told him. “And Dashiell. Now open the fucking door.”

  “Mel Sugarman,” he said, the key already in the lock.

  He turned around twice to see what Dashiell was doing, then held the door so that we could go first. I don’t think it was chivalry, which, as far as I can tell, is resting in peace back in the Middle Ages. He probably thought he’d be in a better position if Dash and I were ahead of him, if he could keep an eye on my pit bull. Sometimes I don’t mind the fact that my dog’s breed has the worst PR of any breed in history. Sometimes it’s expedient to let people think what they will.

  I stepped aside at the back of the long hall and watched as he unlocked both of Sophie’s locks, then knocked. He tried a second time before pushing the door open.

  He stepped inside and said her name with so much alarm that I pushed past him until I could see what it was that he had seen.

  She was lying on her side on the far side of the couch. From the doorway, we could see only her legs, the knees pulled up as if she was in pain. But when we walked into the apartment, slowly, and very close to each other, as if we were attached at the hip, we could both see that Sophie Gordon was no longer feeling anything.

  I couldn’t see if her eyes were open or closed because her glasses were all smudged and covered with dust and dog hair. Her mouth was open, as if in a scream. The carpet looked wet near her mouth, as if she’d been drooling. One arm was over her head, the other out in front of her, the knees drawn tight to her stomach, as if she’d been thrashing around before she’d died and had then just frozen in that position. Lying against her back was the bigger of the bullies, Blanche, who had never lifted her head to see who was there. Lying near her face was Bianca, the baby, looking at us, then licking her dead mistress, still trying to wake her up.

  I handed Dashiell’s leash to Mel and felt around for a pulse in her neck, though it hardly seemed necessary. She was ice-cold.

  Even then, when I was kneeling next to her, Blanche’s head stayed down, her chin on the floor, her cheek pressed tight against Sophie’s back.

  I stood up and looked at Mel. “You better call nine-one-one.” He pulled out a cell phone and punched in the number, giving the information in a voice so dry I thought he would choke.

  Afraid to touch anything that would compromise the information available, we stood exactly where we were without moving, waiting for the police to arrive. Dashiell waited, too, standing at the side of the couch, his muzzle high, testing and retesting the air. And Bianca, though she whined from time to time, stayed right where she was, with Sophie. It was Blanche who broke my heart. In all the time we were there, she never once picked up her head to look at us. It was almost as if, with Sophie gone, she’d died, too.

  I did talk to Mel. I knew there wouldn’t be much time, that the cops would be there in minutes.

  “Did Sophie explain about Bianca’s relationship to Blanche?” I asked, cutting right to the chase.

  “Well, she told me a pretty weird story one day, after I’d been walking Bianca for quite a few months. She was home because she wasn’t feeling well. But she hadn’t canceled the walk. She said Bianca still needed her time in the run and that she wouldn’t be able to take her. She had to stay in bed. But she wasn’t in bed. She was on the couc
h. Same difference, I guess.”

  This was one weird guy. “Right. So, what did she tell you?”

  “It had started raining. She asked if I’d wait, to see if it would let up, even though Bianca didn’t mind the rain and Sophie never cared if Bianca got dirty at the run. She said that’s how she knew Bianca had had a good time.”

  “What did she tell you about the dogs, how they’re related to each other?”

  He was looking at his feet now, trying to think up something he could tell me other than the truth.

  “The cops will be here in about two minutes. Listen to me, Mel. Sophie hired me to check into this.”

  “She told you?”

  “Uh-huh. She did.”

  “Do you believe it’s true?”

  “I don’t think that’s the point now. Sophie hired me to do a job, and I’m going to do what she asked me to.”

  “Still?”

  “Still. But she can’t help me anymore, so I’m going to need your help.”

  “But—”

  “I can’t do this without you, Mel. For one thing, these dogs are going to need care. For another, I’m going to need access to this apartment and you’ve got the keys.”

  “What are you, like, a private eye?”

  “Mel?”

  “I thought it was all guys that did that. I didn’t know that women—”

  “Will you help me?”

  “Oh, I don’t know—”

  “Take your time. Think it over. You’ve got about a minute.”

  His too long arms moved without any purpose I could detect, as if he were a marionette and someone was untangling the strings. He bit his lip, stretched his neck from side to side, switched Dashiell’s leash from hand to hand, and rolled his strange hazel eyes.

  His skin was pale, which was odd, I thought, since he was out-of-doors all day long. But I noticed a baseball cap sticking out of his pocket. Maybe that did the trick. His hair was still sticking up, and it added to the frightened look in his eyes.

  “I know this isn’t easy,” I told him. “But we can’t just walk away from it, can we?”