Then Herb and I went off to get the warrant.
Whelp Wanted
Harry McGlade dates back to 1985, when I was 15. I've been a mystery fan since I was nine years old, and I thought it would be a fun genre to parody. On a summer afternoon at my friend Jim Coursey's house, we sat at his Apple IIe (with the green phosphorus monitor) and giggled like fiends writing one stupid PI cliche after another. I picked the name Harry McGlade out of a phone book. For the next dozen years, I wrote over a hundred McGlade short stories. None of them were any good, but they did garner me my very first rejection letters, including one in 1989 from Playboy. This story was sold to the now-defunct Futures Mysterious Anthology Magazine. I wrote it just after my first novel came out in 2004.
I was halfway through a meatball sandwich when a man came into my office and offered me money to steal a dog.
A lot of money.
“Are you an animal lover, Mr. McGlade?”
“Depends on the animal. And call me Harry.”
He offered his hand. I stuck out mine, and watched him frown when he noticed the marinara stains. He abruptly pulled back, reaching instead into the inner pocket of his blazer. The suit he wore was tailored and looked expensive, and his skin was tanned to a shade only money can buy.
“This is Marcus.” His hand extended again, holding a photograph. “He's a Shar-pei.”
Marcus was one of those unfortunate Chinese wrinkle dogs, the kind that look like a great big raisin with fur. He was light brown, and his face had so many folds of skin that his eyes were completely covered.
I bet the poor pooch walked into a lot of walls.
“Cute,” I said, because the man wanted to hire me.
“Marcus is a champion show dog. He's won four AKC competitions. Several judges have commented that he's the finest example of the breed they've ever seen.”
I wanted to say something about Marcus needing a good starch and press, but instead inquired about the dog's worth.
“With the winnings, and stud fees, he's worth upwards of ten thousand dollars.”
I whistled. The dog was worth more than I was.
“So, what's the deal, Mr...”
“Thorpe. Vincent Thorpe. I'm willing to double your usual fee if you can get him back.”
I took another bite of meatball, wiped my mouth on my sleeve, and leaned back in my swivel chair. The chair groaned in disapproval.
“Tell me a little about Marcus, Mr. Thorpe. Curly fries?”
“Pardon me?”
I gestured to the bag on my desk. “Did you want any curly fries? Potatoes make me bloaty.”
He shook his head. I snatched a fry, bloating be damned.
“I've, um, raised Marcus since he was a pup. He has one of the best pedigrees in the sport. Since Samson passed away, there has quite literally been no competition.”
“Samson?”
“Another Shar-pei. Came from the same littler as Marcus, owned by a man named Glen Ricketts. Magnificent dog. We went neck and neck several times.”
“Hold on, a second. I'd like to take notes.”
I pulled out my notepad and a pencil. On the first piece of paper, I wrote, “Dog.”
“Do you know who has Marcus now?”
“Another breeder named Abigail Cummings. She borrowed Marcus to service her Shar-pei, Julia. When I went to pick him up, she insisted she didn't have him, and claimed she didn't know what I was talking about.”
I jotted this down. My fingers made a grease spot on the page.
“Did you try the police?”
“Yes. They searched her house, but didn't find Marcus. She's insisting I made a mistake.”
“Did Abigail give you money to borrow Marcus? Sign any contracts?”
“No. I lent him to her as a favor. And she kept him.”
“How do you know her?”
“Casually, from the American Kennel Club. Her Shar-pei, Julia, is a truly magnificent bitch. You should see her haunches.”
I let that one go.
“Why did you lend out Marcus if you only knew her casually?”
“She called me a few days ago, promised me the pick of the litter if I lent her Marcus. I never should have done it. I should have just given her a straw.”
“A straw?”
“Of Marcus's semen. I milk him by...”
I held up my palm and scribbled out the word 'straw.' It was more info than I wanted. “Let's move on.”
Thorpe pressed his lips together so tightly they lost color. His eyes got sticky.
“Please, Harry. Marcus is more than just a dog to me. He's my best friend.”
I didn't doubt it. You don't milk a casual acquaintance.
“Maybe you could hire an attorney.”
“That takes too long. If I go through legal channels, it could be months before my case is called. And even then, I'd need some kind of proof that she had him, so I'd have to hire a private investigator anyway.”
I scraped away a coffee stain on my desk with my thumbnail.
“I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Thorpe. But hiring me to bust into someone's home and steal a dog...I'm guessing that breaks all sorts of laws. I could have my license revoked, I could go to jail—”
“I'll triple your fee.”
“I take cash, checks, or major credit cards.”
#
Night Vision Goggles use a microprocessor to magnify ambient light and allow a user to see in almost total blackness.
They're also pricey as hell, so I had to make due with a flashlight and some old binoculars.
It was a little past eleven in the evening, and I was sitting in the bough of a tree, staring into the backyard of Abigail Cummings. I'd been there for almost two hours. The night was typical for July in Chicago; hot, sticky, and humid. The black ski mask I wore was so damp with sweat it threatened to drown me.
Plus, I was bloaty.
I let the binocs hang around my neck and flashed the light at my notepad to review my stake-out report.
9:14pm—Climbed tree.
9:40pm—Drank two sodas.
10:15pm—Foot fell asleep.
Not too exciting so far. I took out my pencil and added, “11:04pm—really regret drinking those sodas.”
To keep my mind off of my bladder, I spent a few minutes trying to balance the pencil on the tip of my finger. It worked, until I dropped the pencil.
I checked my watch. 11:09. I attempted to write “dropped my pencil” on my notepad, but you can guess how that turned out.
I was all set to call it a night, when I saw movement in the backyard.
It was a woman, sixty-something, her short white hair glowing in the porch light.
Next to her, on a leash, was Marcus.
“Is someone in my tree?”
I fought panic, and through Herculean effort managed to keep my pants dry.
“No,” I answered.
She wasn't fooled.
“I'm calling the police!”
“Wait!” My voice must have sounded desperate, because she paused in her race back to the house.
“I'm from the US Department of Foliage. I was taking samples of your tree. It seems to be infested with the
