“That's not how he tells it.”
Nice, Harry. I tried to regroup.
“Look, Cummings, you have twelve hours to come up with a male dog. I also want sixty dollars, cash.”
Thorpe nudged me and mouthed, “Sixty dollars?”
I put my hand over the mouthpiece. “Carpet cleaning.”
“I don't know if I can find a male dog in just 12 hours, Mr. Dognapper.”
“Then I turn Julia into a set of luggage.”
I heard her gasp. “You horrible man!”
“I'll do it, too. She's got enough hide on her to make two suitcases and a carry-on. The wrinkled look is hot this year.”
I scratched Julia on the head, and she licked my chin. Her breath made me teary-eyed.
“Please don't hurt my dog.”
“I'll call you tomorrow morning with the details. If you contact the police, I'll mail you Julia's tail.”
“I...I already called the police. I called them right after you left.”
Hell. “Well, don't call the police again. I have a friend at the Post Office who gives me a discount rate. I'm there twice a week, mailing doggie parts.”
I hit the disconnect.
“Did it work?” Thorpe asked.
“Like a charm. Go home and get some rest. In about twelve hours, you'll have your dog back.”
#
The trick was finding an exchange location where I wouldn't be conspicuous in a ski mask. Chicago had several ice rinks, but I didn't think any of them allowed dogs.
I decided on the alley behind the Congress Hotel, off of Michigan Avenue. I got there two hours early to check the place out.
Time crawled by. I kept track of it in my notepad.
9:02am—Arrive at scene. Don't see any cops. Pull on ski mask and wait.
9:11am—It sure is hot.
9:33am—Julia finds some rotting fruit behind the dumpster. Eats it.
10:01am—Boy, is it hot.
10:20am—I think I'm getting a heat rash in this mask. Am I allergic to wool?
10:38am—Julia finds a dead rat. Eats it.
10:40am—Sure is a hot one.
11:02am—Play fetch with the dog, using my pencil.
Julia ate the pencil. I was going to jot this down on the pad, but you can guess how that went.
“Julia!”
The dog jerked on the leash, tugging me to my feet. Abigail Cummings had arrived. She wore a pink linen pants suit, and more make-up than the Rockettes. All of them, combined. I fought the urge to carve my initials in her cheek with my fingernail.
Dog and dog owner had a happy little reunion, hugging and licking, and I was getting ready to sigh in relief when I noticed the pooch Abigail had brought with her.
“I'm no expert, but isn't that a Collie?”
“A Collie/Shepherd mix. I picked him up at the shelter.”
“That's not Marcus.”
Abigail frowned at me. “I told you before, Mr. Dognapper. I don't have Vincent Thorpe's dog.”
Her bottom lip began to quiver, and her eyes went glassy. I realized, to my befuddlement, that I actually believed her.
“Fine. Give me the mutt.”
Abigail handed me the leash. I stared down at the dog. It was a male, but I doubted I could fool Thorpe into thinking it was Marcus. Even if I shaved off all the fur and shortened the legs with a saw.
“What about my money?” I asked.
She dug into her purse and pulled out a check.
“I can't take a check.”
“It's good. I swear.”
“How am I supposed to remain incognito if I deposit a check?”
Abigail did the lip quiver thing again.
“Oh my goodness, I didn't even think of that. Please don't make Julia into baggage.”
More tears.
“Calm down. Don't cry. You'll ruin your...uh...make-up.”
I offered her a handkerchief. She dabbed at her eyes and handed it back to me.
It looked like it had been tie-dyed.
“I think I have two or three dollars in my purse,” she rasped in her smoker voice. “Is that okay?”
What the hell. I took it.
“I'll take those Tic-Tacs, too.”
She handed them over. Wint-O-Green.
“Can we go now?”
“Go ahead.”
She turned to leave the alley, and a thought occurred to me.
“Ms. Cummings! When the police came to visit you to look for Marcus, did you have an alibi?”
She glanced over her shoulder and nodded vigorously.
“That's the point. The day Vincent said he brought the dog to my house, I wasn't home. I was enjoying the third day of an Alaskan Cruise.”
#
Vincent Thorpe was waiting for me when I got back to my office. He carefully scanned the floor before approaching my desk.
“That's not Marcus! That's not even a Shar-pei!”
“We'll discuss that later.”
“Where's Marcus?”
“There have been some complications.”
“Complications?” Thorpe leaned in closer, raised an eyebrow. “What happened to your face?”
“I think I'm allergic to wool.”
“It looks like you rubbed your cheeks with sandpaper.”
I wrote, “I hate him” on my notepad.
“Look, Mr. Thorpe, Abigail Cummings doesn't have Marcus. But I may have an idea who does.”
“Who?”
“First, I need to ask you a few questions...”
#
My face was too sore for the ski mask again, so I opted for a nylon stocking.
It was hot.
I shifted positions on the branch I was sitting on, and took another look through the binoculars.
Nothing. The backyard was quiet. But thirty feet away, next to a holly bush, was either a small, brown anthill, or evidence that there was a dog on the premises.
I took out my pencil and reviewed my stake-out sheet.
9:46pm—Climbed tree.
9:55pm—My face hurts.
10:07pm—It really hurts bad.
10:22pm—I think I'll go see a doctor.
10:45pm—Maybe the drug store has some kind of cream.
I added, “11:07pm—Spotted evidence in backyard. Remember to pick up some aloe vera on the way home.”
