Michael Baden - Skeleton justice

"And there are still perpetrators who've never been brought to justice," Manny said. "I sympathize, but I don't want to be part of the Vampire's vigilante scheme. I won't allow myself to be used this way!"

"We may not have a choice," Jake said. "There's no doubt in my mind that Travis plays into their plan for a grand finale. I'd like nothing better than to deprive the Vampire of his big bang, but we can't endanger Travis. If we can't anticipate the Vampire's next move, we may have to play out the game according to his rules."

Manny rolled over in her bed and squinted across the room. The numbers 5:09 glowed greenly from her programmable coffeemaker. Given how exhausted she'd been the night before after coming home from Jake's, she was surprised to find herself awake before the deafening sound of the built-in grinder pulverizing French-roast beans was due to kick in at 6:00 a.m.

She'd been tempted to spend the night at Jake's. The growing suspicion that she was just a pawn in some unpredictable scheme of the Vampire's had made her jumpy and grateful for company. But she had an eight-thirty deposition in the Greenfield case and she didn't intend to arrive for it wearing yesterday's clothes. When she stayed at Jake's, she lived out of her handbag, slept in his WELCOME TO THE BOWELS OF FORENSIC PATHOLOGY T-shirt, and returned to her apartment in the morning to change. She had no intention of moving parts of her wardrobe into his house. She didn't want her cashmere and silk absorbing the smell of formaldehyde, and besides, it wasn't that kind of relationship. She'd gone so far as to buy some French hand-milled rose petal and jasmine soap for his bathroom, strictly as a defense against the red bumps she'd developed from showering with his ghastly little bars of hotel-room freebies, but that was as domestic as she intended to get.

Manny stretched out and closed her eyes. She wouldn't fall back asleep, but she could rest in bed for a while until the coffeepot started its routine. The light lavender scent of her bedding lulled her, and she drifted, blissfully unconnected to the problems of the day to come.

Somewhere in the apartment, a sound.

Manny bolted straight up. There it was again: the unmistakable sound of a poodle retching. She realized that must have been what had awakened her early.

She clicked on the light. No Mycroft at the foot of the bed. A bad sign. Whenever he was sick, he slunk off to the corner of her closet. The last time he'd had an upset stomach, a six-hundred-dollar pair of Jimmy Choos had taken a one-way ride on a Department of Sanitation truck.

"Mycroft, sweetie, what's wrong?" Manny opened the closet door and peered under the racks of neatly hanging suits and blouses. Sure enough, she spied a little mound of red fur in the far corner, behind last year's handbags and her Uggs. Falling to her knees, Manny crawled forward and extended her hand. "C'mere, baby. Let Mom take a look."

Mycroft yelped as she slipped one hand under his trembling body and slid him toward her. When she got him into the light, Manny's heart constricted. This was no "I shouldn't have eaten all that mozzarella." Mycroft's eyes were glazed, his belly was distended, and he was breathing in short, sharp pants.

My God, what had he eaten yesterday? Had he stumbled into rat poison in the park when she had tossed those gourmet treats to waylay Paco? Or was it that spring roll he'd devoured at Jake's? Was there some herb in Vietnamese food fatal to dogs? Lemon-grass? Cilantro?

Whatever the cause, Mycroft was in a serious crisis. As her panic rose, Manny's mind went blank. What should she do, call 911? Pound on the door of her neighbor, the cardiologist?

She took a deep breath. Getting hysterical wasn't going to help Mycroft. Dr. Costello was on her speed dial. The vet could tell her what immediate action to take until she could get My croft over to him.

She lunged for her BlackBerry, then waited impatiently as the vet's office voice-mail system droned through its options. "Our office is closed now. To schedule an appointment, press one. To leave a message…" Manny's heart was pounding so hard, she could barely hear. Hurry, hurry. Finally, "… If this is a true medical emergency, please dial 212-555-3680. The doctor will respond to your page within ten minutes."

Manny dialed the pager number with trembling fingers. Ten minutes! Mycroft could be dead by then. She felt as if she were having an out-of-body experience, listening to a voice describing Mycroft's symptoms, begging for help, a voice much higher-pitched and rapid than her own.

Ending the call, she sat next to Mycroft to wait, stroking his silky head. The little dog's trusting brown eyes gazed up at her, begging silently for her to ease his pain. Why had she used him as a decoy? Why had she let him eat all that people food? Please, God, let him live and I promise I'll give him nothing but Science Diet for the rest of his days.

The phone rang. Manny snatched it up eagerly. "Dr. Costello? That was quick! Thank you so much for calling." Manny described Mycroft's symptoms and answered the doctor's questions.

"It sounds like he's gotten everything out of his system," Dr. Costello said. "But I'm concerned about the labored breathing. Keep him warm and get him over to my office." Then he gave a little grunt of displeasure. "No, that won't work."

"Yes! Yes it will!" Manny's voice was shrill and insistent.

"It's on the other side of town. If he is in true respiratory distress, time is of the essence," Dr. Costello explained. "My wife says you better bring him here, to our home. I have everything I'll need here."

"Oh thank God! I'll leave right away. What's the address?"

Manny scribbled on the only piece of paper she could find-page two of her Saks bill. She had no idea Dr. Costello lived so close to her. She could walk to his apartment; it would be faster than trying to find a cab before dawn. She threw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and clipped on Mycroft's leash. The poor dog was too sick to walk. She'd have to carry him, but she preferred to have him in her arms, where she could see how he was doing, rather than in his carrier.

In the elevator, she pressed the B button. If she went down to the building's basement and exited out the rear service door, she could cut one block off her walk.

As she walked out into the gray dawn, the scents and sounds of the city greeted her, but the street and sidewalks were empty. At the end of the block, a trash truck beeped insistently as it backed toward a Dumpster. The smell of urine drifted up from the gutter. Tucking Mycroft under her arm, Manny trotted across the street in mid-block. A drunk sprawled on a sheet of cardboard, his dirty fingers still clutching a bottle of cheap wine, even in sleep. Manny averted her eyes as she passed him.

Something caught at her ankle. Manny looked down in surprise and saw the drunk's grinning face. She tried to shake him off, more in annoyance than fear. She had no time to be mugged this morning. She could hear other footsteps approaching from behind, and she took a deep breath to scream for help.

An unwise choice. As her lungs expanded, they filled with the cloying scent of ether. The buildings dipped and spun. The sidewalk came up to meet her. Mycroft fell from her arms.

"My dog! My dog!" Maybe Manny only thought those words, or maybe she spoke them aloud.

Either way, no one heard.

Jake extended his right arm, groping for Manny in the darkness of his bed. Pillows, blankets, sheets, but no soft curves, no tumble of hair. Then he remembered: Manny hadn't stayed last night, something about an early-morning deposition. He was surprised by the depth of his disappointment.

Oh well, I might as well get out of bed and catch up on a few things before going to the office. Jake headed downstairs for coffee and his laptop, nearly pitching headfirst off the second landing when he stumbled over a banker's box containing the evidence in a police-restraint death that had arrived two days ago from Los Angeles. Manny was right: This place really was careening toward Health Department condemnation.