Dog Dish of Doom, page 10
“I have a few leads,” the detective said, reminding me that she was part of the conversation. “Now, get out of here. I’m conducting some interviews with a few of the theater people, and it won’t do to have them see you here talking to me if you’re going to be my CI.”
Um … okay. “What’s a CI?”
She actually rolled her eyes, which I think took a considerable amount of nerve. If she hadn’t understood a term I used, like “callback,” for example, would I have made a show of how uninformed she was? (Yeah, I probably would.) “Confidential informant,” she said slowly, as if I might not understand the words because they weren’t being spoken in my native Latvian.
“Swell. I’ll add that to my CV,” I said, hoping she would ask what those initials meant. She didn’t. I stood up, took Bruno’s leash from the floor, and led him out of the room and the precinct house.
“Frankly, I don’t think she’s giving this the attention it deserves,” I told Bruno once we hit Christopher Street. I hailed a cab at the corner—the MTA isn’t crazy about dogs in the subway if you don’t have a carrier, and I didn’t, especially not one that would fit Bruno—and headed to my office because it was a few hours early for Bruno’s rehearsal.
Bruno did not answer, perhaps pondering whether he believed Rodriguez was as concerned with his welfare as she should be. He was a very sensitive dog and might have taken some offense at her callous treatment. Or perhaps I was projecting.
Consuelo was already at the office—naturally—when we got there, and Maisie, upon seeing Bruno enter, squawked up a storm to the point that we put the cover over her cage to get her to shut up. You’d think the bird would have gotten used to having other animals in the room, but she was a diva and, Consuelo would say, a brat.
“I’m taking on the Siamese today,” Consuelo told me. “It’s not a real audition, just posing for head shots, so I figured it would be okay with you. You did ask to clear off time so you could take Bruno to rehearsals.”
“You know I’m fine with it.” Consuelo truly believes I see her as competition. I’d love for her to be an agent in my agency. I’d get part of her commissions. Oh, and she’s great and I love her.
She set up in front of my desk. “Let’s get the picture.” She got her phone out of her purse and aimed it at my desk.
We take a picture whenever a client visits our office, which we then post (okay, Consuelo posts) on the company’s website, in the somewhat silly hope that someone with the next Grumpy Cat will see it, think we’re nice people because we’re smiling with the nice kitty (or in this case, dog), and immediately call up demanding our services. It hasn’t actually translated into any clients yet, but as Consuelo says, it’s free and you never know. Consuelo should have worked for the New York State Gaming Commission.
I couldn’t lift Bruno up onto the desk as I had with some feline clients and Maisie, but he was happy to jump up on my office chair and I threw a convivial arm around him to show how friendly I am. Consuelo demanded we smile and I did my part. Bruno was on his own.
“Got it!” she said. “The first one worked like crazy this time.” She showed me the picture on her phone as if the tiny image was in fact visible and I nodded my approval. Consuelo seemed pleased and put her phone away.
I sat down behind my desk and let Bruno reacquaint himself with the room. He’d done what he had to do before we left Scarborough and then again on the way back from the cab, so I wasn’t worried about my office. “If it works out with the Siamese and the owner likes you, maybe you’d like to see if you can find another cat you can represent yourself,” I told Consuelo.
She smiled. Consuelo has not been shy about her desire to be an agent, and I have tried not to pigeonhole her into the role of assistant with no chance of advancement. A second agent in the business would be much more valuable than an office manager, even one as efficient as Consuelo. “Thanks,” she said, looking determined.
“Anything going on I need to know about?”
Consuelo looked over her clipboard, where she kept most of the paper messages. She’s okay with the computer, but doesn’t trust servers or the cloud. If you can’t see it, she believes, there’s no way of knowing it exists.
“Just one thing,” she said. “There was a message left with the service before I got here.” I’m the last business in New York City to keep an account with an answering service. Most people rely on voicemail and cell phones, but I still get enough calls during off-hours to merit the expense, and it looks good on my taxes.
Besides, it keeps me from having to talk to certifiably crazy client owners at ridiculous hours of the night if I choose not to.
“What’s the message?” I asked. I looked through the few pieces of actual physical mail that Consuelo had put on my desk. Three were for credit card applications I didn’t want (one for a client, a chimp who probably didn’t need a Visa card); one was the office’s utility bill (despite the fact that I’d signed up for e-billing); and one was a manila envelope with an eight-by-ten picture of a goat in it. I put that one in the “Follow Up” file on my desk, which I almost never look at.
“Well, it was weird,” Consuelo answered. “Whoever it was didn’t leave a name or contact information, but said that they were glad to see you last night and to remember to take care of Bruno. That was it.” She spread her hands in a gesture of puzzlement.
Uh-oh. So the mysterious texter knew my office phone number too. Why did that somehow seem more imposing than the fact that he could find me on my cell phone at any moment?
I must have registered the concern on my face because Consuelo’s eyes narrowed. “What is it?” she said. Consuelo thinks she’s my surrogate mom when my actual mom isn’t around. The fact that she’s probably fifteen years younger than my mother didn’t really seem to factor into the calculation here.
“It’s nothing. I just don’t understand it.” I tried to sound nonchalant, but my tone was as chalant as they come, and I could tell I wasn’t fooling Consuelo.
“You’re lying,” she said. “Your nose has that look.”
My nose? My nose looked like it was lying? “Okay, I’m lying,” I answered her. “It’s bothering me, but I really don’t want to have to tell you about it right now. Okay?” With Consuelo, honesty is always the best approach. Because she’ll find out what she wants to know anyway, so I might just as well streamline the process.
“Okay,” she answered, and went back to her desk. She sat down, very proper, and pretended to be completely engrossed in her computer screen. She didn’t so much as steal a glance in my direction.
It was excruciating. Could I somehow make an excuse to go to Bruno’s rehearsal two and a half hours early?
I decided that two could play at this game. I went through my emails—which had no threatening messages, thank goodness—and checked on a couple of sites I always scan in the morning. Then I read the headlines from the newspaper I’d brought with me (my eyes had been too bleary to read when I’d not awakened from not sleeping), considered and decided against the crossword puzzle in this condition, and checked my calendar despite knowing that there was nothing pressing on it.
Phone calls! That was it! I could make some follow-up phone calls on clients who had been on auditions in the past week or so. That would kill some time. I opened the address book application on my computer. All I had to do was not look in the direction of the other desk …
“Fine!” I shouted at Consuelo, who didn’t even have the decency to look surprised. “I got a threatening text and now I’m getting vaguely threatening phone messages and I didn’t want to tell you because I don’t want you hovering over me like a mother bear worried about her cub. Okay?”
Consuelo smiled pleasantly and looked over at me. “Now, was that so hard?” she asked.
She made me tell her everything about the evening and night before, leading up to the text threatening either my life or Bruno’s and how I hadn’t slept at all because it had unnerved me. She didn’t lord it over me that her sheer force of will had forced me to tell her what she wanted to know, and I in turn didn’t mention that she would make an excellent interrogator for any shady intelligence organization that might care to recruit her. It’s a mutual admiration thing.
But Consuelo couldn’t offer much more than sympathy after I’d told her the story; she didn’t know who had left the message, although she said she would immediately check with the answering service to see if the number could be traced. She didn’t know how to track down a text that the police wouldn’t bother tracing back to its sender (assuming it was sent from a burner phone anyway), and she couldn’t decipher the rather cryptic language being used especially in the telephone message. It was all just a little eerie, and a knot was starting to form in my stomach that I knew would only be relieved by significant quantities of ice cream.
“The only thing to do is go through your day like it’s normal,” she said finally. “I mean, it was already not normal because Trent is dead and you seem to have inherited Bruno. But don’t let the messages get you crazy. They’re out of your control, and the detective is probably right—they’re just supposed to scare you.”
“You don’t think they’re going to come after me?” I don’t know why Consuelo’s tone was more comforting than Rodriguez’s, but I wanted to snuggle up next to her and let her pat me on the head. It was like being Bruno.
“If they were going to hurt you, you’d be hurt already,” she answered. “That’s the way it works in my neighborhood.”
In the end, there was nothing left to do but go to Bruno’s rehearsal, but by the time we’d cleared the air and Consuelo had helped me with advice and Dunkin Donuts coffee, it was actually the right time to leave for that anyway.
I arrived at the theater twenty minutes early, which is when I’d usually arrive even if nobody was sending me messages designed to scare me to death, if the senders didn’t take care of that detail first. I brought Bruno inside and he, having been backstage twice before today, knew the routine. He was such a pro that I expected him to call the stagehand at the door “Pops” just out of nostalgia.
Les, of course, wasn’t in the house yet, which was just as well since I wanted to do some snooping for Rodriguez before Bruno had to get to work. Oddly, though, the first person I ran into backstage was Akra, who was usually attached at the hip to the director.
“I’m paving the way for Les this morning,” she said before I could ask her why she was soloing for the first time in my presence. “He’s in talks for a straight play, at the meeting right now, and he says there’s no time to waste once he gets here. So I have to make sure everything is lined up for him.”
I normally open with “How are you?” but everyone has a unique style. “What are you lining up?” I asked. Icebreaker. Don’t ever say I’m not subtle. Bruno and I had to keep up at Akra’s pace, which was quick, as we made our way around the back to the dressing rooms, where there should not have been anyone at this time of day. There was no matinée scheduled; the evening performance didn’t begin until seven; and only Bruno and Annie’s stand-in, Olive Ramson, would be working the rehearsal. The current Sandy, a Labradoodle called Horatio (I’m not making a word of this up), would be at the rehearsal too, presumably with his trainer, to show Bruno—literally—how it was done.
“The two dogs should be acquainted with each other before Les arrives,” Akra said. “He doesn’t want there to be a delay as they decide which one is the alpha animal.”
I figured Bruno could get along with pretty much anybody, but Les’s provision did make a certain amount of sense. Of course, it was designed specifically to be convenient to Les and no one else, but that was to be expected.
Akra was hurtling around the dressing-room corridor like she had to evacuate before a grenade went off in the building, which after all that had gone on didn’t seem all that implausible today. Bruno did not pant—he loved the quick movement—but my exercise regimen had been somewhat lax (or nonexistent) for a while, and I was breathing harder than I normally would. Note to self: Look into the possibility of an elliptical trainer to put in the basement, if Bruno’s employment lasted longer than just today.
“So when does Horatio get here?” I asked between gulps of air.
“That’s the thing,” Akra answered. “He should be here already. I’m checking to make sure they didn’t come in through the wrong door.” That seemed unlikely, as Horatio had been working in this theater for months and must have known the routine. His trainer, whom I assumed was human, probably knew it even better.
“Why is Horatio leaving the show?” I asked.
Akra didn’t break stride. “Les fired him,” she said. “He’s been forgetting his lines.”
Uh-huh. “I’ve read the script,” I said gently, respectful of those with mental illness. “Sandy doesn’t have any lines.”
“He has to bark on cue,” Akra said, a slight edge of impatience in her otherwise professional voice. “Horatio has missed his signal four times in the past two weeks.”
She opened each dressing-room door as we passed without regard for anyone who might have been, you know, dressing in there, but there really were no actors present in the theater yet.
“He just forgot when to bark all of a sudden?” I said. Bruno, unworried by the talk of consequences, trotted happily along at my side.
“He’s thirteen years old,” Akra said. “It happens.”
“How’s he taking the news?” I asked, just to see how far this could go.
“Horatio is fine with it, but his trainer, Gwen Harper, is not being totally professional about the severance.” Akra was about as funny as a Clint Eastwood film festival.
We reached the last door, which Akra opened. Again the room was empty, so she shut the door. I breathed a sigh of actual physical relief, but my respite was brief. Akra was off like a shot again, so Bruno and I had little choice but to keep up her racing pace.
I was just hoping this was a sprint, and not a marathon. My lungs weren’t built for this sort of casual stroll.
“Is anybody else in the house?” I asked. Maybe I could find someone to gossip with who was standing still or, better, sitting. Maybe lying down.
“Some technical staff,” she said. “A publicist. Probably someone in the box office.” It was her warm and personal approach that endeared Akra to all of us. Whoever we were.
We made our way out to the stage, which Bruno crossed like the pro that he was, not caring about all those empty seats in front of him. Akra was headed to the other side of the wings, presumably in pursuit of Gwen Harper and Horatio, whom she no doubt believed were avoiding her on purpose. My guess was they were stuck in Midtown traffic.
But a voice from behind me demanded my attention before we got there. A familiar voice. One that had an angry tone I’d heard only yesterday.
Louise Barclay’s voice. I turned toward her even as Akra’s mission went on its course at warp speed. Louise was wearing a black suit, very tasteful but not exactly as mournful as you might think, as the skirt ended an inch or so above the knee. It was like she was ready to go speed dating straight from the cemetery.
“So there you are,” she said, voice dripping malice. “You and the dog you abducted.”
I stopped. So, I was amazed to see, did Akra. I didn’t think anything smaller than a Humvee could have interrupted her mission. “Abducted?” she said. It was Akra’s job to smooth things out for Les before he got here, and now she was hearing that I’d dognapped Bruno, which was about as bumpy an allegation as could have been dropped.
“I didn’t abduct Bruno,” I said so both women could hear me. Maybe this was good—if Akra had been Trent’s classmate, maybe she knew Louise just a little better than she’d been letting on. This would be good information to pass on to Rodriguez. “You asked me to take care of him and bring him to the callback. I did. Then you didn’t answer my calls to return him. Then you came to my home and left without him.”
She tried to answer, but I cut her off, mostly for Akra’s benefit. “I understand you’re emotionally wrecked with your husband murdered, but there is no reason to accuse me of something you know didn’t happen. Why aren’t you at Trent’s funeral anyway?”
Then I got what I thought I’d been seeking: I saw Louise and Akra share a look with each other. But it confused me.
Louise’s eyes registered confusion, even worry. She appeared to be looking to Akra for guidance.
Akra, however, was looking at Louise with something that very clearly approached hate.
Whatever they were communicating to each other, I clearly wasn’t on the same frequency, because I didn’t expect that Louise would suddenly turn to me and smile.
“You’re right,” she said. “I’m emotionally shattered by what happened to Trent. I’m so sorry that I said those things just now.”
“How about yesterday in front of the police?” I suggested.
She went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “I’m glad you brought Bruno here for rehearsal. And I do have to attend Trent’s service in two hours. If I give you a key to my apartment, would you bring him back there after his work is done?” She started fishing around in her black purse.
“I can certainly do that,” I said, oozing professionalism. “But will you be back in time to take care of him later?” This was my real concern about my client, not so much what was convenient for Louise.
She handed me the key and then waved her hand in a gesture of indifference. “I can call the dog walker,” she said. “Don’t worry.”
That led to an interesting question. “You mean Taylor Cassidy?” I asked. But I was looking at Akra.
To my sincere disappointment, she showed no reaction at all and continued to try to stare through Louise’s skull, as if there were something really interesting behind it if she could only see.
Louise looked up at me—I am a few inches taller than her—and looked slightly startled. “You know Taylor?” she asked.
She seemed to be completely in earnest, no hidden agenda, so I answered, “We’ve met.” Because we had.
