“Oh, come on, Kurt,” said Odelia, but suddenly the irate neighbor turned on her.
“Or maybe you did it. Maybe you and he-man here stole my Jackson Pollock. You’re about to get married, aren’t you? And we all know weddings cost money. A lot of money. So you probably figured you could use some extra cash and stole my painting!”
“Kurt, if I were you I’d be very careful what I say next,” said Chase, also getting a little hot under the collar now, even though he looked very cool in his lycra. Cool and imposing. In fact he was towering over his neighbor, and Kurt, taking in the hunk of male prowess that is Chase Kingsley, quickly piped down. He probably didn’t want to be knocked out cold like his dog.
His doorbell rang, and he went into the house to answer it.
“That will be Vena,” said Odelia.
“Look, you have to believe me,” said Ted. “I didn’t do this. I would never steal from my neighbors—no, scratch that, I would never steal, period. I’m not a thief, Detective Kingsley—Chase. I’m just not.”
“I believe you, Ted,” said Chase, placing a large comforting hand on the man’s shoulder. “And you’ll have to forgive Kurt. He’s very upset right now, and doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“I could sue, you know,” Ted said. “I could sue for slander and, and, and defamation of character.”
“Let’s all keep our cool,” said Chase. “The important thing right now is to make sure Fifi is all right, and that Kurt’s painting is retrieved and the thieves caught. You didn’t happen to be out and about last night, walking Rufus?”
“No, I walked him at eleven, then went straight to bed.”
“Mh. We have a partial license plate—I’ll get to work on that right away.”
Vena stepped onto the scene, looking competent and completely in charge, just the way a pet owner whose pet is out cold likes to see. Kurt was sniffling again, tears having formed in his eyes.
“It’s amazing how people can change when they are worried about their pets,” I told Dooley. “One minute he’s accusing Ted of all kinds of horrible things, and the next he’s weeping like a baby.”
“I think it’s cancer,” said Dooley. “I thought she looked very thin lately. Emaciated. It’s probably a tumor. Sometimes they hit you when you least expect it.”
Vena had examined the little doggie, and smiled a reassuring smile at Kurt. “She’ll be fine,” she said. “I’d say she was drugged. Did she eat something she shouldn’t have?”
“Kurt was burgled last night,” said Odelia. “And the burglars probably gave Fifi something to keep her quiet.”
Vena glanced around, then spotted a piece of meat lying a couple of feet away from where Fifi’s prostrate form lay. She picked up the piece of meat and sniffed then pulled a face. “This would have done the trick,” she said, then handed the meat to Chase. “I’m guessing you’ll need this as evidence, detective?”
Chase nodded, then automatically reached for a plastic evidence baggie, only to find that his lycra running outfit didn’t have pockets for such a contingency.
“Just put it back,” he said. “I’ll get something to take it into the lab.” He jogged off, and Vena worked on Fifi for a moment, and suddenly, like a miracle, the Yorkie opened her eyes, looked around a little groggily, then emitted a happy bark.
“Oh, Fifi!” said Kurt, picking up his doggie and pressing her to his bosom. “You’re alive!”
“Must have gone into remission,” Dooley said knowingly. “Happens all the time. She’ll have to watch out, though. Cancers this aggressive can come back when you least expect them to.”
“Oh, Dooley,” I said, and rolled my eyes.
Chapter 29
Johnny Carew had been brooding—thinking hard. And since thinking hard was not his usual line of work, he was feeling tired. Sweat droplets glistened on his noble brow, and he was frowning before him like he’d never frowned before. He usually wasn’t the kind of crook who believed in escaping from prison, but since this was the first time he’d been imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit, he felt justified in putting his weight behind Jerry’s idea of getting out of there.
Unfortunately, try as he might, no plan of escape seemed forthcoming. Of course he readily admitted to not possessing his associate’s formidable brain, being more the brawn of the criminal twosome. Still, he’d hoped to at least make some contribution. The only thing he could come up with, though, was a simple plan, and he was sure that Jerry would dismiss it out of hand.
Nevertheless he felt it incumbent upon himself to enlighten his partner with the fruits of his intellectual labor, ridiculous as they might seem to a genius like Jer.
“All I can think of is to knock out the guards,” he said. “You pretend to be sick, foaming at the mouth, and I knock ‘em out cold and grab their keys. And then I knock out everyone that tries to stop us. Dumb plan, I know,” he added with an apologetic shrug.
But Jerry’s eyes lit up. “Don’t sell yourself short, Johnny. I think it’s brilliant. Knock out everyone that stands in our way. That’s the way to do it. And you’re the man for the job.”
“I am?” asked Johnny, well pleased with this rare compliment from one who rarely paid him any compliments at all.
“Sure, sure. I’ll froth at the mouth, and thrash around a bit, and you knock ‘em all out. Let’s do it. I’m sick and tired of this place—and the lousy food.”
Jerry was right. The least they could do was to feed them their proper three square meals a day. They might be crooks, but they were also human beings. And besides, they were innocent, though probably the chef and his kitchen crew didn’t know that.
“I’ll call the guard and you start foaming, Jer,” said Johnny, happy by this endorsement from his critical partner. “Heeeeelp!” he screamed. “Heeeeelp! Come and help us!”
Unfortunately, no matter how loud he yelled, no one came.
“What’s taking them so long?” grunted Jerry, lying on the cold floor and getting ready to do some serious frothing and thrashing.
“Maybe they’re on their break,” Johnny suggested. “I’ll give it another shot.” And so he repeated the procedure, this time adding some foot stomping to the mix.
A guard finally came shuffling up, looking bored and munching a chocolate sprinkle donut. “What’s all the fuss?” he asked.
“My partner is sick and dying!” Johnny cried, and gestured to Jerry, now properly thrashing and convincingly frothing. In fact he put so much heart into his performance that even Johnny was getting nervous. “Do something!” he told the guard. “Call a doctor!”
“We’re understaffed,” said the cop. “In fact I’m the only one here.”
Even better, thought Johnny. Even though he didn’t mind knocking out the odd cop here and there, in general he liked people, even cops, and preferred not having to knock them around too much if he could help it.
“Open the door, please, sir,” he said now. “I think he’s dying!”
The guard didn’t look excited by the idea of having to bend over Jerry, whose face was now awash with his own saliva. “Yuck,” he muttered as he glanced over to the thrashing man and shoved the last piece of donut into his mouth, then wiped his hands on his trousers. “Um, I’ll call a doctor, shall I? Don’t go anywhere.”
Cop humor, Johnny thought. “Just open the door and check on him. Don’t they teach you CPR at the police academy? He’ll be dead soon and it’ll be on you. There will be an investigation and they’ll blame his death on you, sir.”
“Christ,” said the cop, rubbing his face with indecision. He then took out a key, inserted it into the lock and turned. The moment he entered the cell, Johnny heaved one of his meaty fists over the man’s head, and let it come down with considerable force.
The cop said, “Ick,” and went down like a ton of bricks.