John Katzenbach - The Analyst

He stepped inside the office and saw a middle-aged man sitting behind an old steel desk. The air was stale with the scent of urine. The man was lean, bald, rangy, with thick forearms, which Ricky figured were muscled by handling large animals.

“Be with you in a sec,” the man said. He was punching numbers onto a calculator.

“Take your time,” Ricky replied. He watched a few more keystrokes, then saw the man grimace at the total. The man rose and came toward him.

“How can I help you,” he said. “Jeez, fella, looks like you were in some kind of fight.”

Ricky nodded. “I’m supposed to say, ‘You ought to see the other guy…’ ”

The dog breeder laughed. “And I’m supposed to believe it. So, what can I do for you? But, I would point out, that if you’d had Brutus at your side, there wouldn’t have been a fight. No way.”

“Brutus is the dog in the pen by the door?”

“You guessed it. He discourages debate through loyalty. And he’s sired some pups that will be ready for training in another couple of weeks.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

The dog breeder looked confused.

Ricky pulled out the fake private investigator’s identification card that he’d acquired from the novelty outlet over the Internet. The man stared at it for a minute, then said, “So, Mr. Lazarus, I guess you’re not here looking for a puppy?”

“No.”

“Well, what can I help you with?”

“Some years ago a couple lived here. A Howard and Martha Jackson…”

When he spoke the names, the man stiffened. The welcoming appearance disappeared instantly, replaced by an abrupt suspiciousness, that was underscored by the step back the man took, almost as if the names being spoken out loud had pushed him in the chest. His voice took on a flat, wary tone.

“What makes you interested in them?”

“Were they related to you?”

“I bought the place from their estate. This is a long time ago.”

“Their estate?”

“They died.”

“Died?”

“That’s right. Why are you interested in them?”

“I’m interested in their three children…”

Again the man hesitated, as if considering what Ricky had asked.

“They didn’t have no children. Died childless. Just a brother lived some ways away. He’s the one sold me the place. I fixed it up real good. Made their business into something. But no kids. Never.”

“No, you’re mistaken,” Ricky said. “They did. They adopted three orphans from New York City through the Episcopal Diocese of New York…”

“Mister, I don’t know where you got your information, but you’re wrong. Dead wrong,” the breeder said, voice abruptly filling with barely concealed anger. “The Jacksons didn’t have no immediate family ’cept that brother who sold me this place. It was just the old couple and they passed away together. I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I think maybe you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Together? How?”

“That wasn’t any of my business. And I don’t know that it’s any of your business, either.”

“But you know the answer, right?”

“Everyone lived around here knew the answer. You can check the newspaper. Or maybe go to the cemetery. They’re buried right up the road.”

“But you’re not going to help me?”

“You got that right. What sort of private detective are you?”

“I told you,” Ricky responded swiftly. “One that’s interested in the three children that the Jacksons together adopted in May of 1980.”

“And I told you, there weren’t any children. Adopted or otherwise. So what’s your real interest?”

“I have a client. He’s got some questions. The rest is confidential,” Ricky said.

The man’s eyes had narrowed, and his shoulders straightened, as if his initial shock had worn off, replaced by an aggressiveness that spoke loudly. “A client? Somebody paying you to come around here and ask questions? Well, you got a card? A number where I can reach you, if maybe I remember something…”

“I’m from out of town,” Ricky lied quickly.

The breeder continued to eye Ricky. “Telephone lines go state to state, fella. How can I reach you? Where do I get hold of you, if I need to?”

Now it was Ricky’s turn to step back. “What is it that you think you can remember later that you can’t remember now?” he demanded.

The man’s voice had finally cooled completely. Now he was measuring, assessing, as if trying to imprint every detail of Ricky’s face and physique. “Let me see that identification again,” he said. “You got a badge?”

Everything about the man’s sudden change screamed warnings to Ricky. He realized in that second that he was suddenly close to something dangerous, like walking in the dark and abruptly realizing he was at the edge of some steep embankment.

Ricky took a step back toward the door. “Tell you what, I’ll give you a couple of hours to think this over, then I’ll call you back. You want to talk, you remember something, we can get together then.”

Ricky quickly maneuvered out of the office and took several strides toward the rental car. The breeder was a few steps behind him, but turned to the side, and within a second had reached the kennel containing Brutus. The man unlatched the gate and the dog, mouth agape, but still silent, sprang immediately to his side. The breeder gave a small, open palm signal, and the dog instantly froze, eyes locked directly on Ricky, waiting for the next command.

Ricky turned around to face the dog and owner, and took the last few steps to the car door backing up slowly. He reached into his pants pocket and removed the car keys. The dog finally emitted a single, low growl, just as menacing as the coiled muscles in its shoulders and the ears perked, awaiting the release from the breeder.

“I don’t think I’m going to see you again, mister,” the breeder said. “And I don’t think coming around here and asking any more questions is a real good idea.”

Ricky moved the keys to his left hand and opened his door. At the same time, his right hand crept into the suit coat pocket, gripping the semiautomatic pistol. He kept his eyes on the dog, and he concentrated hard on what he might have to do. Flick off the safety latch. Pull the pistol free. Chamber a round. Assume a firing position and take aim. When he did this on the range, he was never rushed, never hurried, and it still took several seconds. He had no idea whether he could get a shot off in time, and whether he could hit the dog. It occurred to him, as well, that it might take several rounds to stop the animal.

The Rottweiler would probably cross the space between them in two, three seconds at most. It crept forward, eager, inching a little closer to Ricky. No, Ricky thought, less than that. A single second.

The breeder looked at Ricky, and saw his hand creeping toward the pocket. He smiled. “Mister private detective, even if that is a weapon you have in your pocket, trust me, it isn’t going to do the trick. Not with this dog, right here. No chance.”

Ricky closed his hand around the grip of the pistol, sliding his index finger onto the trigger. His own eyes were narrow and he barely recognized the even tones of his own voice. “Maybe,” he said very slowly and carefully, “just maybe I know that. And I won’t even bother to try to put a round into your dog there. Instead, I’ll just nail one right in the center of your chest. You’re a nice big target, and trust me, I won’t have any trouble hitting you. And you’ll be dead before you hit the ground, and you won’t even have the satisfaction of seeing your mutt there chew me up.”

This reply made the breeder hesitate. He put his hand on the dog’s collar, restraining it. “New Hampshire plates,” he said after a moment. “With the motto Live Free or Die. Very memorable. Now get out of here.”