Spagnola looked up and gestured for Sam to sit. Then he grinned, mimed a mimic of the caller he was listening to, looked bored, feigned falling asleep, gestured the international sign language for being jerked off, then said, "Is that so, Doctor? Well, as far as I know I have no superiors since the Crucifixion, so give it your best shot." He slammed down the phone.
Sam said, "Got something on Dr. Epstein?"
Spagnola smiled. "He's porking the Cliffs' highly ethical Monday-Wednesday-Friday masseuse."
"Everybody's porking her."
"No, everybody's porking the Tuesday-Thursday-Saturday masseuse. Monday-Wednesday-Friday is very exclusive."
"And highly ethical."
"Says so in the brochure." Spagnola grinned, then casually picked up a legal pad from his desk and looked it over. "Samuel, my friend, your puppy has kept me on the phone with charming folks like Epstein all day. Shall I read you the log?"
"I don't know what you're talking about, Josh. I don't have a dog."
"Then you will want to notify security about the large canine that is currently on your back deck disturbing Dr. Epstein's nap."
"I'm not kidding, Josh. If there's a dog on my deck I don't know anything about it." Sam suddenly remembered that he'd left the sliding door to the deck open. "Christ!"
"Yes, the door is open. I've told you about that before, it's an invitation to burglars."
"That deck is twenty feet off the ground. How did a dog get up there? How did it get in my apartment without setting off the alarm?"
"I was wondering that same thing. If it isn't your dog, how did it get up there? It looks bad. The other association members are having an emergency meeting tonight to discuss the problem."
"There isn't a problem. Let's just go get the damn dog and take it to the pound."
"Yes, let's. I'll read the log to you while we walk over." Spagnola rose, picked up the legal pad, and led Sam out the door, then paused, locked the office, and set the alarm. "Can't trust anyone," he said.
They walked brick paths shaded with arbors of pink and red bougainvillea while Spagnola read. "Nine A.M.: Mrs. Feldstein calls to report that a wolf has just urinated on her wisterias. I ignored that one. Nine oh-five: Mrs. Feldstein reports that the wolf is forcibly having sex with her Persian cat. I went on that call myself, just to see it. Nine ten: Mrs. Feldstein reports that the wolf ate the Persian after having his way with it. There was some blood and fur on her walk when I got there, but no wolf."
"Is this thing a wolf?" Sam asked.
"I don't think so. I've only seen it from below your deck. It has the right coloring for a coyote, but it's too damn big. Naw, it can't be a wolf. You sure you didn't bring home some babe last night who forgot to tell you that she had a furry friend in the car?"
"Please, Josh."
"Okay. Ten fourteen: Mrs. Narada reports that her cat has been attacked by a large dog. Now I send all the boys out looking, but they don't find anything until eleven. Then one of them calls in that a big dog has just bitten holes in the tires on his golf cart and run off. Eleven thirty: Dr. Epstein makes his first lost-nap calclass="underline" dog howling. Eleven thirty-five: Mrs. Norcross is putting the kids out on the deck for some burgers when a big dog jumps over the rail, eats the burgers, growls at the kids, runs off. First mention of lawsuit."
"Kids? We've got her right there," Sam said. "Kids aren't allowed."
"Her grandkids are visiting from Michigan. She filed the proper papers." Spagnola took a deep breath and started into the log again. "Eleven forty-one: large dog craps in Dr. Yamata's Aston Martin. Twelve oh-three: dog eats two, count 'em, two of Mrs. Wittingham's Siamese cats. She just lost her husband last week; this sort of put her over the edge. We had to call Dr. Yamata in off the putting green to give her a sedative. The personal-injury lawyer in the unit next to hers was home for lunch and he came over to help. He was talking class action then, and we didn't even know who owned the dog yet."
"You still don't."
Spagnola ignored Sam. "From twelve thirty to one we had mass sightings and frequent urinations — I won't bore you with details — then one of my guys spotted the dog and followed it to your building, where it disappeared for a minute and reappeared on your deck."
"Disappeared? Josh, aren't you screening these guards for drug use?"
"I think he meant that he lost sight of it. Anyway, it's been on your deck for a couple of hours and all the residents are convinced that it's your dog. They want to boot you out of the complex."
"They can't do that. I own the place."
"Technically, Sam, they can. You own shares in the whole complex, and in the event of a two-thirds vote by the residents they can force you to sell your shares for what you paid for them. It's in the agreement you signed. I looked it up."
They were about a hundred yards from Sam's building and Sam could now hear the howling. "That apartment's worth five times what I paid for it."
"It is on the open market, but not to the other residents. Don't worry about it, Sam. It's not your dog, right?"
"Right."
Outside Sam's front door thirty of his neighbors were waiting, talking in heated tones, and glancing around. "There he is!" one shouted, pointing toward Sam and Spagnola. For a moment Sam was grateful that Spagnola was at his side, and at Spagnola's side was a.38 special.
The ex-burglar leaned to Sam and whispered, "Don't say anything. Not a word. This could get ugly — I see at least two lawyers in that bunch."
Spagnola raised his hands and walked toward the crowd. "Folks, I know you're angry, but we need Mr. Hunter alive if we're going to deal with the problem."
"Thanks," Sam said under his breath.
"No charge," Spagnola said. "It never occurred to them to kill you. Now they'll be embarrassed and go home. Lynchings are so politically incorrect, you know." Spagnola stopped and waited. Sam stayed beside him. As if the security chief had choreographed it, the people in front of Sam's door began to look around, avoiding eye contact with one another, then shuffled off, heads down, in different directions.
"You're amazing," Sam said to Spagnola.
"Nope, it's just that for a lot of years my living depended on the predictability of the professional class. Now it depends on the predictability of the criminal class. Same skills, less risk. You want me to go in first?"
"You have the gun."
"Okay, you wait here." Spagnola unlocked the door and palmed it open slowly. When the door was open just enough for him to pass, the thin security guard snaked through the opening and closed the door behind him.
Sam noticed that the howling had stopped. He put his ear to the door and listened, forgetting for a moment that he had installed a soundproof fire door. A few minutes passed before the latch clicked and Spagnola poked his head out.
"Well?" Sam said.
"How attached are you to that leather sofa?"
"It's insured," Sam said. "Why, did he tear it up? Is he in there?"
"He's in here, but I was wondering if you had some sort of — well — sentimental attachment to the sofa."
"No. Why? What's going on?"
Spagnola threw the door open and stepped out of the way. Sam looked through the foyer into the sunken living room, where a large tan dog had his teeth dug into the arm of the leather sofa and was humping away on it like a furry jackhammer.
"Josh, shoot that animal."
"Sam, I know how you feel. You go through life thinking that you're the only one, then you walk in on something like this — it's a blow to the ego."
"Just shoot the damn dog, Josh."
"Can't do it. California law clearly states that a firearm may only be discharged in city limits in cases of imminent physical danger. Doesn't say a word about protecting the honor of someone's couch."