Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 127, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 775 & 776, March/April 2006

Chick Sweeney to the Rescue by Jay Alter

If there’s one thing we know about mystery fans, it’s that a large number of them are also animal lovers. Go to a mystery convention — especially the yearly Malice Domestic Convention in the Washington, D.C., area — and you’ll see almost as much bric-a-brac pertaining to cats and dogs as to the immortal characters of mystery fiction. Jay Alter is clearly a lover of domestic animals, and the author also seems to know the wildlife of Arizona.

Do me a favor. When you come out to Phoenix, Arizona, for a vacation, don’t die. Bring sunblock, a sun hat, and a cell phone. Drink water. It is the elixir of life and it will prevent you from turning into scary-looking remains.

Leave your dog at the hotel. Do not climb one of our city mountains like the Mummy or Camelback with Binky. He’ll get tired and thirsty and collapse, or worse, he’ll get curious. Here, Binky. Here, boy. Gosh, where did he go? Meanwhile Bink spotted a coyote cub and bounded off into one of thousands of small blind canyons. He is now on nature’s menu because mommy coyote spotted him. Coyotes love well-fed dogs.

You can see miles of Phoenix atop one of our small mountains. Swimming pools and landscaped backyards are part of the eternal vista. What a safe view. What could happen to us in the middle of a city? There’s no harm in climbing at sunset to see magnificent colors as we sip a little wine. These climbing boots are so hot. Let’s wear our flip-flops and for God’s sake leave that cell phone on the dresser. Hours later, the local residents hear the rescue helicopter with the super bright beam circling, circling, circling. He fell in the dark. She couldn’t lift him and her knowledge of basic first aid — check the scene; check the victim; give aid for sixty seconds; call for help? Didn’t do her a damn bit of good.

Fly on out here and have fun, but remember my warning. You are in the desert.

Why didn’t I take my own advice?

We are all desert dwellers here in Phoenix, Arizona. My small L-shaped house, for one, nestles behind a wall of oleander bushes at the end of Fortieth Street. The street dead-ends because there’s a mountain in the way, Mummy Mountain, and that timeless vast structure is home to wolf spiders, snakes, lizards, coyotes, jack-rabbits, cactus wrens, quail, hawks, roadrunners, and on and on.

I, Chick Sweeney, artist, am simply another resident close-by. My wolf spider, Wolfy, is out stalking prey in the moonlight. My new guest has just laid a few more eggs in my laundry basket and a new resident, a red racer, occupies the space behind the thermostat in the living room. A red racer is a snake. See? There’s plenty of wildlife here in Phoenix. Of course, most of it has scales.

Did I mention the air? Orange blossom, sage, bottlebrush, mesquite, and the dusty floor of the desert itself.

Fortieth Street is sleeping. I’m hard at work. I’m still up at four A.M. on a special commission I started three days ago. It’s a reconstructed handbag owned by a lady named Eva Bates. I polish the fourteen-carat gold frame and I’m done. Another silk-and-bead masterpiece.

I was wrapping the nouveau treasure in tissue paper when the phone rang. I don’t have caller ID, but I knew who it was. I picked up the receiver. “Hi, Perrie, what’s up?”

A southern voice purred into my ear. “Sugarplum, I saw your light on. Lan is still at the studio. I hope I’m not disturbin’ you.”

“Not at all. I’ve just finished Mrs. Bates’s handbag. Are you all right?”

“Honey, to tell you the truth, I hear something makin’ noise in the backyard. ‘Course with all this wind it could be anything. First it sounds close, then far away. Makes me a little nervous.”

“I’ll be right over. Are you inside?”

“Oh no, honey, I’m out here by the pool tryin’ to see somethin’.”

I pictured a pack of rabid coyotes about to eat her shins. “Perrie, get in the house. I’ll be there in a minute.”

I put on a pair of long khaki pants, got a flashlight and the loaded thirty-two that Sergeant Sean Hallahan had taught me to use, and hurried behind my house. Good, with moonlight and flashlight I could see okay. Now if this wind wouldn’t blow my hair in my eyes... I squeezed between the bushes and headed west through desert scrub to Thirty-ninth Street, where Pirouette Butler lives. She’s an ancient Georgia peach and I adore her. Also, it doesn’t hurt that her grandson and I are lovers. She can see my lights are on because she’s high up. Her house, a pseudo-Spanish mansion perched on a hill, looks down on my tiny mother-in-law house. We’re both night owls. I never mind her calling me. I go to her place, she puts on the coffeepot and makes incredible sandwiches that we eat at the red vinyl booth in her breakfast nook.

I got to her house in five minutes and gave her a hug at the front door. She said, “Sugarplum, I’m so glad you came over. I think somethin’s dyin’ back there. It’s makin’ all sorts of noise. It woke me up.”

I kept my arm around her as we walked back to the kitchen. Geez! You think I’m small? Hug Perrie. She looks like a silver-haired porcelain doll.

I told her, “I’m concerned what might be out here is a rabid animal, a raccoon or a coyote that’s come down from the Mummy. I have my gun with me. I won’t use it unless it charges me.”

Perrie patted my arm. “Honey, if it’s just sick, I’ll get a vet to help it. I’ll show you where I heard it.”

“No, Perrie. Stay here in the house.” The backyard was pitch black. “What happened to the lights?”

“Honey, Lan and the band were rehearsin’ here to save money. That recording studio in Scottsdale is so expensive. Now half the lights in the house don’t work and I don’t want to call you for every little thing. Lan’ll figure it out.”

I nodded. “Let him fix it. Here goes.”

As I went out the kitchen door Perrie told me she heard the sounds at the very back to the west of the pool. Flashlight in my left hand and gun in the right, I made my way past orange, lemon, paloverde, and mesquite trees. I avoided the golden barrel, cholla, and low-lying desert cacti that could rip your flesh and leave it stinging. I didn’t hear anything.

Wait — something gave out a high-pitched cry.

I swung my light over. There by the mesquite tree. Something big and furry was tangled in a rope. As soon as I got closer it leaped out at me. I jumped back like a jackrabbit and pointed my gun. Its glow-in-the-dark eyes and bloody mouth scared the hell out of me and I probably would have fired my gun except for one thing.

The monster had puppy breath.

I got closer and knelt down. The pup lunged at me again, scrambling furiously to escape the rope. I laid down my hardware and grabbed him. I yanked the rope free of a fish-hook cactus, one of nature’s more painful beauties. The puppy knocked me over, stuck his nose in my armpit, and whimpered. I untied him from the rope, which wasn’t a rope at all but the cord to a white terry-cloth bathrobe.

“Let’s take a good look at you.” I aimed my flashlight at the top of his head. He had a black face and a body the color of brown sugar. He was dirty and bloody with a cut just under his nose that had bled freely, making his muzzle sticky. I couldn’t find any gaping wounds. No intestines or bones sticking out. The petal-soft pads of his right front paw were slashed and oozing. I gently opened his mouth; he let me. No obstructions like a cactus barb, thank God. His needle-sharp milk teeth and jaws were intact. I put the gun and flashlight in my baggy pockets, but before I could scoop him up to carry him he sat up on his hind legs, put his left paw on my shoulder, leaned in, and kissed my cheek. It wasn’t a swipe of his tongue. It was a very gentle pressure of his warm, black, bloody mouth. When he moved his head back, a beam of moonlight caught the dark gleam of his eyes. They looked ancient. Some sort of inherited wisdom dwelled in that injured baby.

I caressed his silky head. “You’re going to be all right.” I lifted him up under his ribcage and made my way back to the house. He weighed a ton, but at least he didn’t squirm.

Perrie opened the back door. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. It’s a poor little dog.”

“It’s a poor big dog.” I staggered over the threshold and put the puppy on the tiled floor. “Ever seen him before, Perrie?”

She shook her head. “No, Chickie, I haven’t, and I know every dog and cat in this neighborhood. Lan didn’t bring him. Puppy needs a vet. Stand by.”

She called an emergency vet service while I gave him a little bowl of water. I knew better than to feed him cold milk, and there was nothing in the house that faintly resembled dog food. Better wait till the vet looked him over.

“I knew these emergency numbers on the refrigerator would come in handy one day,” said Perrie, scribbling information. “Isn’t he the cutest little thing? Didja smell his breath? Isn’t it sweet?” She hung up. “There’s an emergency place on Ninety-second Street in Scottsdale.”

Minutes later we were on McDonald heading east. I drove her Cadillac while she held the pup on her lap.

I glanced over. “He looks like a giant lump of brown sugar. Except for the black face.”

“Yes, he does,” said Perrie. “He’s our Sugarboy.” She finished wiping his dirty face with a damp cloth she’d brought along. “Look at that little wound. Like somebody punched him.”

I nodded. “I would say, who would do that to a puppy, but there’re plenty of scumbags who would do worse.”

“There is nothin’ lower than someone hurtin’ a poor animal,” said Perrie. “Did you see him drink all that water? And you know he’s hungry, but Chick, honey, he hasn’t been in my backyard for long. I woulda heard ’im even over all this wind.”

I nodded, turning left onto Scottsdale Road and heading north to Shea. “That’s true. His injuries are fresh.”

We watched for the street address of the emergency animal clinic after I turned off Shea Boulevard to Ninety-second Street. Perrie saw it.

Five minutes later we gave the pup over to the care of Dr. Chas Galvin. Perrie explained the circumstances. She filled out paperwork as we sat in the deserted waiting room.

“Perrie, I’ll check the backyard when we get home. I think he could have crawled under at the place where the dry wash cuts through. He probably belongs to someone living on Bethany Home Road.”

“Chickie, you’re right,” said Perrie. “I haven’t been to the back fence in a long time. That’s the only place he could crawl through. Richard and Leslie are in Palm Springs. Betty is allergic to pet hair, but I’ll give her a call. Oh, and I’ll check with May Newton. She seems to know everybody else’s business. I think she wants somethin’ to take her mind off her book. She got another rejection letter from a publisher.”

“For that horrible vampire novel? Suck My Neck?”

“Suck the Blood From My Lips. But it’s not that one. She gave up on the vampire genre. Now she’s determined to be a writer of the hard-boiled detective story. I think the title of this one is Cheap Chain Smokers.”

I laughed out loud. “Oh yeah, that’ll make the bestseller list.”

“But Chickie,” said Perrie, “don’t writers have to start somewhere? And May tries so hard.”

“Okay, I’m slime for laughing at her. Your ability to see the positive in people never fails to amaze me.”

“Thank you, sugarplum. Tell me about that pretty bag you made.”

Before I could explain the entire process we had our pup back. Dr. Galvin gave us Sugarboy, a sleepy and bandaged purebred mastiff. No ID chip. Perrie paid the bill, which included antibiotics, a twenty-pound bag of very expensive puppy chow, and a pamphlet entitled Love Those Mastiffs. They needed, said Dr. Galvin, the right kind of food so their muscles and bones could develop the healthiest way.

We got home at dawn and made the puppy a bed out of beach towels and an old super-soft cotton quilt. After he ate he snuggled down, yawned, and fell asleep, snoring softly. While Perrie made pancakes I washed and changed clothes and decided to walk the perimeter of her property, checking the wash area first.

The dawn was spectacular, of course. Streaks of pink and turquoise flanked the golden ball of the sun. It would move slowly across a cloudless azure sky. The wind shook the dry fronds in the palm and date-palm trees to the south of Perrie’s pool. They sounded like bones rattling. Another beautiful day in the Valley of the Sun.

I strode immediately past desert scrub of all descriptions to the back chain-link fence that separated Perrie’s property from the desert that ended at the foot of the Mummy. Maybe Sugarboy had traveled south from Bethany Home Road through yards and washes. I took a look at the wash, a rock-lined trench that ran diagonally into Perrie’s property. It was bone dry and would only become a lifesaver during the monsoons, which started in July, when torrents of rain flooded the city. Without washes, thousands of homes would flood every year. As I took a look beneath the fence, I made a mental note to check the sandbags in my storage shed. There were ten inches of space between the bottom tines of the fence and the rocks of the wash. I guess the pup could have wriggled under the fence, but not without leaving clumps of fur or claw marks or blood on the dusty rocks. The area was undisturbed.

I walked the perimeter of Perrie’s property looking for any signs of entry. The pup had cut his paw. Wouldn’t there be bloody paw prints somewhere? It was lucky that Perrie had heard the puppy crying from such a distance with the wind making such a racket.

From such a distance?

I stopped. “I am a complete idiot,” I said out loud. I ran to Perrie’s back door and knelt down. There were bloody smears where the pup had scratched at the door. Now I had my wits about me. I followed the very faint blood trail to the place at the fish-hook cactus where the pup had caught the end of the sash. More blood drops headed west to the wall that separated Perrie’s property from Richard and Leslie Mathison’s.

I lost the trail. The southwest back corner of Perrie’s place was dense with mesquite and paloverde trees. Branches from several trees extended over the wall. Too thin to hold the pup’s weight. Yeah, like he could climb in the first place. I stared at the wall. It was common fake adobe. Underneath the swirly stucco layer were cinderblocks and cement. Thousands of these walls separated one millionaire’s home from another.

I saw it as I walked along the wall, my eyes down. A piece of brown glass. Then more. The mouth of a beer bottle. A big bottom piece as sharp as a razor. Sharp enough to cut a puppy’s smooth young pad. Cigarette butts. I handled one. Fresh. The sun had barely touched it. Several other butts were dry and faded.

I’m pretty good at climbing, so I scrambled up a paloverde tree close to the wall.

Oh hell, two dead bodies were on the other side.

A girl in a bathrobe and a guy wearing nothing but blue jeans. They looked stiff as surfboards beside the Mathisons’ empty swimming pool. I grabbed a branch above my head and swung out and over the wall, dropping way down. I tiptoed between pieces of brown glass and stood there staring. Aside from cuts and scrapes on their arms and hands, there were no big wounds. They were very young. Thin bodies. Wild hair. Romeo and Juliet together forever. They held bloody hands.

No pulse for either one. There was nothing for me to do except notify the police. Might as well use the nearest phone. I ran to the back door. Locked. I banged on the window in case someone was in the house. No one. Okay, I’d go back over the wall and call from Perrie’s.

Oh God, that wall looked high. It was much higher on this side. I needed to drag over a lawn chair or a pot. Anything to stand on.

But there was nothing. I stared at the branch of the paloverde tree, now way out of reach.

Time to break into the house. Any rock would do. I looked around the backyard. But there were no rocks. No firewood. No grill utensils. No pool equipment. I took off my shoe and hurled it against the kitchen window. It bounced. I gripped my shoe by the toe and banged the heel against the window. Not a crack. Where were my big flashlight and my gun? In Perrie’s guestroom, on the dresser.

I yelled for Perrie. Could she hear me over the wind with her door closed and the griddle sizzling? I yelled again.

Hell, I had to climb that wall.

But how? There were no trees close to the Mathison side of the wall. I backed up. Ran as fast as I could to the wall and jumped. For two seconds I held on to swirls of plaster, but I couldn’t get a firm enough grip on the top. Down I went, and scraped the hell out of my arms before I landed on my butt.

Like they did.

“After,” I muttered. “After you threw the puppy over the wall to get someone’s attention.”

Juliet twitched. A pinch of something fluffy floated off her hand and swirled upward with the breeze. Does rigor mortis make a body move or is she... Yes, a pulse. Her eyelids fluttered. The bloodshot eyes rolled, then focused on me. They didn’t look human. Her dry lips opened to reveal chipped teeth. A loud raspy breath burst from her mouth. Her eyes closed. She shuddered. So did I. I checked him again. Definitely a corpse.

Meanwhile, I was in the same predicament as the doomed duo. Maybe they came outside to smash beer bottles against the wall and flick cigarettes over onto someone else’s property. The neighbors from hell. Then the wind blew the door closed and they were too drunk and loopy for one to give the other a boost over the wall. Who knows?

What’s my excuse? Hell, I’m in good shape; why can’t I do this? I tried again. And again. By the fourth time, I was so angry I was ready to chew my way through the wall.

I ran. I jumped. I made it.

Now a scraped, bloody mess, I ran to Perrie’s kitchen.

She was horrified. “Oh my God, Chickie. What happened to you? Are you shot?” She rushed over and embraced me.

Suddenly shaky, I hugged her back. “Perrie, call nine-one-one. There’s an unconscious girl and a dead boy in the Mathisons’ backyard. They threw Sugarboy over the wall to get our attention. The house is locked. I tried to get in but I couldn’t break the window. I came back over the wall. Gee, those pancakes smell good.”

Perrie took charge. Ten minutes later, both houses were swarming with police and emergency medical personnel. I refused to be loaded into an ambulance. Six hours in an emergency room? No, thanks. Perrie called Sean’s beeper and left her number. He’d recognize it.

Twenty minutes later, an actual doctor made an actual house call. Dr. Snyder patched up the worst scrapes on my hands, arms, and knees. He bandaged my right ankle, a bit sprained from jumping down from the wall into the Mathisons’ yard in the first place, and...

“How long has it been since you’ve had a tetanus shot?”

“Uhhhhhh...”

There’s nothing like the cold, sharp smell of alcohol swabbed on your arm to reduce you to a terrified child about to get a hot stinging needle in your flesh.

“All done.”

“Gee, that wasn’t bad at all.”

“I’m fast.”

He had a wonderful smile and his cologne smelled good. Gee, he was nice.

Did I just say “gee” for the third time? I’m going to sleep now.

While I snoozed in the guestroom, the Phoenix Police investigated the vandalism of the Mathison place and, thanks to Perrie, notified Richard and Leslie in Palm Springs. At sometime during my rest Sugarboy came in and jumped up on my bed. Still half asleep, I put my arm around him. He sniffed me and left. By dinnertime I was awake and hungry. Lan had already come and gone after kissing me very softly and grabbing a bite to eat. I dressed in cargo khakis and a white linen shirt, both presents from Perrie. Wonderful aromas wafted from the kitchen.

Sugarboy stood in the doorway looking inscrutable.

“Kibble for your thoughts?”

He didn’t do the adorable puppy-face tilt but looked straight into my eyes. There it was again. The knowing look. He barked once, an incredibly loud sound that vibrated the air, and walked by my side down the hall. We both limped into the kitchen. Perrie saw us and burst out laughing. I had to laugh, too. I said, “If he was any higher, we’d be joined at the hip.”

“He’s guardin’ you, Chickie,” said Perrie. “I read the booklet. That’s what mastiffs do. He did the same to me while you were sleepin’. I’m half hoping we get to keep him.”

I nodded. “Me, too.”

“Sit and eat, Chickie.”

Perrie had fixed chicken and vegetables with a big tossed salad. Sugarboy rested with his head on my thigh, stretched out on the red padded seat of the breakfast booth, while I ate like a starved lumberjack. Five minutes later, my big Irish cop, Sean Hallahan, strode into the kitchen from the back door. We smiled at each other. What if his ex-wife had not wanted him back?

I pointed my knife at him. “Spill your guts, copper.”

Perrie poured him a cup of coffee and we got the info. “Amber Leech and Todd Leery,” said Sean. “L. A. street kids. They drifted to Palm Springs, where they got jobs as dishwasher and wait staff at Joey’s Bistro. They used fake birth dates on their IDs. She’s sixteen. One count of drug possession. One count of prostitution. Charged as a minor. Got two years’ probation.”

“Poor little thing,” murmured Perrie.

“Leery was eighteen,” continued Sean. “Had a long juvenile record and fled California on a felony warrant. The Palm Springs PD discovered that Leery had been dealing at his motel. They were on their way to arrest him when both kids disappeared. Looks like Amber stole cash and keys from Mrs. Mathison’s purse while she was cleaning up the table at Joey’s. It was in a dimly lighted alcove. The whole party was on the dance floor. That was last Tuesday. As thefts go, it was actually pretty smart. You’d know if your charge cards were missing, but do you know how much cash you have? Amber didn’t take all of it. And keys. Mrs. Mathison wasn’t sure if they were in her purse. Maybe they were back at the house on a dresser. We don’t know how Leech and Leery got to Phoenix. Not by bus with a big puppy. Maybe there’s a third person. No strange car in the driveway, though. They used the keys, went right through the front door, and made themselves at home.”

“But why?” asked Perrie. “Why would young people like that drive to another state and break into someone’s house?”

“I don’t know, Perrie. Amber’s awake, but she’s not talking. They were fugitives. She probably got the address from Mrs. Mathison’s driver’s license. Maybe she overheard conversation at the table. People say incredibly private things in public. She must have known the house was empty and figured the Mathisons were staying in Palm Springs with friends for a while. They’re teens. Maybe a big empty house sounded like a hideout to them.”

I swallowed a mouthful of chicken and asked, “Did you find the keys, Sean?”

He nodded. “Yeah, they were in her backpack along with pay stubs, stolen charge cards, silverware, espresso cups and saucers, and a lot of drugs. She was full of meth, crack, and booze, but she’s already screaming for Leery.”

“I remember the house now, Sean,” I said. “When I looked through the kitchen window I could see how trashed everything was.”

“Oh, how awful,” said Perrie.

“Yeah,” said Sean. “The whole place looks like it’s been turned upside down. Part of their vandalism was letting the puppy eliminate anywhere, and there are plenty of cigarette burns on the furniture. It’s a wonder they didn’t burn the place down. Mrs. Mathison mentioned that their security system is shut down.”

“And their pool is empty,” said Perrie. “Oh dear.”

“Yep,” said Sean.

“Oh dear yep what?” I asked.

“Chickie, they are probably in serious debt.”

Sean agreed. “The little sign in the front yard is meaningless if you don’t pay your bill.”

“So Leech and Leery didn’t clip wires or anything?” I asked.

“No need,” said Sean. “They just got lucky for a few days.”

Perrie took a sip of coffee and very gently rested the cup on its wafer-thin porcelain saucer. “Sixteen years old and already she’s a lost little soul. What will become of her, Sean?”

“The law will grab her, Perrie. She’ll be charged here for the trashed house but will be sent back to California for probation violation.”

I stroked Sugarboy’s velvety ear. “I might feel sorry for the lost little soul except that she punched this puppy in the face and heaved him over the wall.”

“Might have been Leery,” said Sean.

“No, it was her. She had fur on her hands. He didn’t.”

“Does she have any folks, Sean?” asked Perrie.

He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I checked her background to look for a Phoenix connection. I don’t know all the particulars, but she ran off from foster care when she was fourteen.”

I felt a chill. Didn’t I do the same thing? Only I was twelve. Eleven years ago.

Around sunset I was back at my place with Sugarboy. My ankle felt okay as long as it was bandaged. I had let the pup walk some of the way and had carried him over the roughest stretches of the desert terrain. Even with his bandaged front paw, he sniffed at twigs and roots and breathed his puppy breath at me with great enthusiasm.

At home I straightened the place up a little, got my stuff for Eva Bates ready in my big leather bag, and while waiting for Lan, set out a cube of sirloin in a tiny Chinese sauce dish and put it under the kitchen table.

Sugarboy stared at it. I told him, “That is not for you.”

“Is it for me?” Lan Butler stood in the doorway looking tired, sweaty, and good enough to eat.

I grinned at him. “Sorry, not you, either.”

He came into the kitchen, kissed me, and looked down at the dish. “Who gets that?”

“Elizardbeth Taylor.”

“And she is...?”

“A spiny desert lizard. The males have violet patches on their undersides above their hind legs. Sometimes the females have them, too.”

“How do you know she’s a female?”

“She lays eggs in my laundry basket. They look like wrinkled oblong white capsules.”

“Can’t you capture her?”

“Believe me, I’ve tried. She’s too fast. This mother-in-law’s house is filled with nooks and crannies. It seems none of the cabinets are flush against the walls. There’s a big crack in the cement at the back of the stove. I think that’s how she got in.”

“Won’t she walk out the front door if you leave it open?”

“I tried that. Left the door open all night a month ago. A king snake slid in here and took a snooze on the living-room carpet.”

Lan swore.

“Oh, they’re not poisonous. It went out as soon as it saw me. Apparently lizards are dumber than snakes. She can’t find her way out. I’ll get her one of these days and put her outside.”

“Meanwhile you’re feeding her steak?”

“Elizardbeth’s got to eat. And speaking of eating, if you can take me to Scottsdale to drop off Mrs. Bates’s bag I’ll treat you to a hunk of chocolate cake the size of your arm. Let’s go to the Marketplace. We can take Sugarboy and sit outside.”

“Deal, except I’ll treat.”

So after kisses and hugs and various displays of affection I called Mrs. Bates and told her I’d deliver the bag in twenty minutes. She mumbled a reply. I grabbed everything, and soon we were rushing along Camelback Road heading east to Scottsdale in Lan’s Jeep. Minutes later, he turned into Dromedary Lane. I directed him to the fourth house on the left. He pulled into the drive, and I just sat there.

“Chick, you okay? Want me to lift you out?”

“No, I’m all right. It’s just... the tone of her voice. She sounded a little drunk.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No, Lan. It’s all right. You’ll need to keep Sugarboy here.”

I got out and went to the house. Five minutes later I was back clutching my bag and a wad of money.

Lan said, “Your face is the color of a tomato.”

I will absolutely not burst into tears. “Let’s go. I want a piece of cake the size of my head.”

While I pulled myself together, Lan went straight back across Camelback to Twenty-fourth Street to the Biltmore Fashion Plaza. He parked in the back nearest to the Marketplace café. The outdoors portion was crowded, but Lan whipped out a bill, and minutes later we had coffee and slices of cake in front of us at a cleared-off table. Sugarboy lapped water from a porcelain bowl. I stared into my coffee. Lan waited.

I licked my lips, tasting dust. “Well, that delivery sucked. Mrs. Bates and her daughter were both drunk. Mom refused to pay the agreed amount while daughter accused me of dry-cleaning the bag. She said she could have done that herself. I showed them the old dirty materials and offered them the extra silk and lace and beads, but they just wanted the bag for free. I had to threaten to take her to small-claims court. She had the money in her pocket, Lan. She threw it at me. If I didn’t need money so badly I’d have thrown it back at her. The daughter said, ‘I’ll show you,’ and tried to grab me. I snapped her head back with my elbow and left.”

Lan rested his chin in the palm of his hand, his elbow on the table. His beautiful eyes sparkled. His slow, sensual smile revealed small, even teeth that made him look like a big sexy kid. “You poor little girl,” he murmured. “I’ll eat your cake for you. Pass it here.”

I took a big breath full of sound and exhaled fury.

“Did you get all your money?” he asked.

I snapped, “Yes.”

“Never be concerned with toads, Chick.”

I inhaled again. Japanese food from Ayako of Tokyo, mimosa blossoms, and dust.

I shook my head. “Why are you right all the time?”

Lan cracked his knuckles. “Male DNA.”

I grinned. “Gosh, Mr. Butler, you’ve completely lifted me out of my funk. I think I’ll put this cake up your nose.”

He fluttered his long lashes at me. “Darling, you care.”

I took a huge bite of cake and gave him an open chocolate smile. “It’s my nature.”

His pocket chirped as I dug into the cake and took a sip of coffee.

He opened his cell phone. “Excuse me, Chick. Hmmm, it’s GranPerrie. Hi, Grans... What... Look, I don’t...” He bolted up out of his chair and stood straight. “Yes, I have your dog.”

I froze.

“Don’t hurt her. She helped save your life. You can...”

Amber. He was talking to Amber Leech. She’d made Perrie dial Lan’s cell number.

Everyone at the café heard her screaming.

“No, look, take it easy. You’ll get your dog. And if you need money...”

I went to the nearest person, a guy drinking wine and smoking a cigarette, and knelt down. I said softly, “Do you have a phone? This is an emergency.”

He stubbed out his cigarette. “You two being funny?”

“No.”

He took a phone, a notebook, and a pen from his pocket. “Write it down.”

He dialed nine-one-one while I wrote Perrie’s address. He nodded, indicating he had the dispatcher on the line. I gave him the paper and said, “Extreme danger. Hostage. No sirens.”

He nodded.

I ran after Lan, who had already scooped up Sugarboy. We jumped in the Jeep. He shouted over the whine of the engine and the wind rushing past our heads in the open vehicle. “Somebody busted Amber out of the hospital. I’m taking the access road.”

“What road?”

“Hang on.”

I arranged Sugarboy on my lap and clipped the seat belt over both of us. He squirmed for a few seconds, then lay still. I gripped the little sissy bar with my right hand and hung on as the Jeep bounced onto a narrow gravel road that skirted the Biltmore Golf Course and swung north. We rushed past a construction site crowded with heavy equipment, some of which hung from cranes. Prevents theft, I thought. Smart.

“Almost there,” shouted Lan. “Got that money? Where’s your bag?”

“Uh...” My bag was back at our table at the Marketplace, but the big lump in my cargo pocket crackled. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry, Chick. I wanted to leave you out of this, but she knows you have Sugarboy. She’s screaming her head off.”

I remembered Amber’s less-than-human face. I yelled, “It’s okay.” I clutched Sugarboy as the Jeep bounced off the ground and jolted down on two wheels as Lan made a sharp curve to Stanford Street. It was not okay. I should have let her die.

I know Perrie had to be terrified if she’d told Amber I’d got the puppy. She was a southern lady who would lay down her life for the people she loved.

Thirty seconds later, we were at Perrie’s. I held Sugarboy and followed Lan. The house was dark. My heart was pounding so hard I breathed in gulps. The front door opened and a thin figure beckoned us in. The third party. Another skinny boy. He gripped one of Perrie’s very sharp knives.

One lamp illuminated the family room at the back of the house.

The walk down the hall seemed surreal to me. No one spoke. The dark walls went on and on. Sugarboy got heavier and hotter. The boy walked behind us silently. He smelled like burned tires.

At journey’s end there sat the little blabbermouth on the couch, with enough decency to look embarrassed.

“Chick, I’m really sorry,” said May Newton.

Perrie patted her hand. “Don’t you worry about a thing, May. We’re all gonna be fine.”

That was an incredible statement coming from a woman who had the tip of a knife in her right ear. Amber sat on the arm of the couch clutching the knife in her right hand and running the show. She looked more dead than alive. Her breath came in short bursting pants. She looked sick and clammy and nuts.

Her voice was old and soaked with drugs and alcohol. “I want my dog. I want money.”

I put Sugarboy down. He stood right beside me, not moving. I pulled Eva Bates’s cash out of my pocket. Amber held out her left hand. I stepped forward to give her the money, but a few of the wadded bills fell from my hand and fluttered to the floor.

She watched the bills.

I watched the knife.

She leaned forward. The tip of the knife moved away from Perrie’s ear. Away from her face. “Get it,” said Amber. “Put it in my hand.” Her hand swept up, cutting a razor-sharp silvery arc with the knife. She poised the knife over my head as I picked up the bills.

A ferocious sound then filled the room. Sugarboy barking. He jumped in front of me, his fur standing up, the deep-chested rage of a lion roaring up through his throat.

Something fell in front of me. Hands tore at me. I saw the knife flashing and turned my head. Something ripped at my hair. I jerked loose and saw Perrie. I kicked and punched away from struggling bodies, grabbed her, and raced down the hall to her room. I shoved her into the bathroom. “Lock the door and don’t come out.” I ran back into the family room and smack into a huge cop.

“Is this her?” the cop shouted.

“No,” yelled Lan. “That’s Chick Sweeney.”

And the whole thing was over.

The skinny kid was booked into the Madison Street jail as a John Doe. His prints aren’t on file and he hasn’t said a word. He cries a lot. As the police rushed through the door Lan grabbed the kid’s hand and made him drop the knife. The kid mumbled how sorry he was. They were going to his aunt’s in New Mexico and needed money. The cops came in so easily because the kid left the door open. Somehow he had enough brain cells to get Amber out of the hospital, or is there a fourth party? The Phoenix Police Department is investigating and will issue a statement.

Perrie says I rushed into the kitchen where she was about to call for help and carried her down the hall to her room. I don’t remember carrying her. I cut my hair short the next day thanks to Amber’s knife. Me? Not a scratch. I didn’t do a damn thing. I even got my bag back from the Marketplace café. The guy who called the police is Richard Mont, an independent film producer. May Newton’s story is simple. The skinny kid saw her out walking and very politely inquired where was the nice lady who had the dog. He read about it in the paper. Twenty minutes later, she and Perrie were prisoners. She jumped on Amber when Sugarboy barked. She kicked and punched a woman of drug-induced demonic strength who clutched a deadly weapon. She got cut on her left hand. Ten stitches. But the prisoner thing, the fight: I think it changed her. She’s hard at work writing Cheap Chain Smokers. The warm Phoenix breeze carries the scent of cigarettes and the sound of May’s clacking typewriter through her open window.

Perrie, Lan, and Sugarboy are sound asleep, but I need to make some money. I’m back at my house working on a rosewood jewelry box that’s sixty years old. It’s two A.M. I’ll repair the scratches and make a new velvet lining. I’m trying to concentrate, but the rescue helicopter is circling slowly around the Mummy. Periodically the white beam floods my little L-shaped house with brilliant light. I stop what I’m doing. I close my eyes. I think of the lost little soul who managed to get away through the back door last night. She wiggled under the fence at the wash, leaving hair and blood. She’s hunkered down somewhere in one of those lost canyons smelling sage, tasting dust. Getting thirsty. She’s out there because Phoenix is a city full of fences and walls and she didn’t turn up in anyone else’s backyard. If she cannot find her way out, she’s on the menu. Maybe she’ll take a very long nap this time, because no one will find her and rescue her again. Maybe one day an adventuresome climber will find gnawed remains. Clutched in the skeletal hands will be a rusty knife and a wad of faded cash. Even the bills that fell to the floor.