Suzann Ledbetter - Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

The police had likely alerted retailers who sold that type of electronics in the event of a no-receipt return. A full-price refund versus a fence’s standard dime on the dollar made wonderful economic sense. Stupid wasn’t part of this burglar’s M.O. to date, but neither was boosting high-tech toys.

Jack copied down the victim’s address—a mile from his stakeout last night on LakeShore Boulevard. He reminded himself that Gerry hadn’t hired him until Thursday afternoon. It still felt like a “Screw you, McPhee” to have been shuffling police reports and claim forms while the thief made another haul.

A whimper at floor level could be interpreted as “Can we go now?” The sheltie doing it was Sweetie Pie Snug ’Ems’s replacement. Ms. Pearl reneged on her weekend loan, saying she couldn’t bear another night in an empty apartment.

The sheltie’s owner, Angie Meadows, hadn’t been alone at hers, nor happy to be wakened at the crack of eleven by a P.I. needing a favor. The voluptuous server at Jack’s second-favorite bar was also a canine loan shark. They’d settled on a hundred dollars to rent a dog shedding enough hair on the carpet and Jack’s pants to cost three sheep their livelihoods.

“Your burglary victims,” he said into the phone. “You wouldn’t happen to know if they have a dog, would you?”

“A dog?” A pause, then, “Now that you mention it, yes. One of those huge, jowly things that slobbers all the time.” Another beat’s worth of dead air. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason in particular.” Jack feigned a chuckle. “Just be glad you pay me by the day, instead of by every weird question I come up with.”

“Answers,” Gerry shot back. “That’s what I’m paying you for.”

The click and a dial tone weren’t surprising, given the insurance agent’s frustration. No doubt Abramson was kicking himself for not bringing in outside help sooner. He hadn’t expected results in under seventy-two hours. It didn’t stop him from wanting them like yesterday.

So did Jack, though he wouldn’t have bet a plug nickel the trap would work on the first try. Common sense just never quite dashed the hope for a little dumb luck. If it did, the only snake eyes rolled in Vegas would be attached to actual snakes.

The sheltie barked. Jack yelped and jolted backward in his chair. Obviously pleased with itself, the dog twirled and bounced on its front paws, like a demented fox subjected to way too many Rogaine treatments. And not nearly enough Ritalin.

Jack’s heart gradually defibrillated. “Okay, all right already. One phone call, then we’re outa here.”

Skeptical it would keep its yap shut, he ripped a page from a legal pad, wadded it and threw it across the room. Forty-three fetches later, Abramson’s latest claimant haughtily affirmed the impossibility of a noise complaint the previous Thursday night at her address. As she put it, her English bull mastiff was “off premises.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I need specifics to quash this complaint. Was your dog staying with a relative, a friend…?”

“Certainly not. Winston was kenneled, until early this morning.”

Jack swallowed to drown any hint of elation. “And the name of the kennel, please?”

“Well, if you must know, it’s—” A brief silence segued to murky muffles, as though she’d dunked the receiver in a bucket of oil. Gibberish, then, “He says he’s—” A louder summons to “Officer Garble-garble” provided excellent cues for Jack to deep-six the call.

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