Doghouse (19 page)

“What's wrong?”

“Dunno. Hang on.” He started to turn around, as though expecting to catch someone following them. In that same instant, a solid, denim-clad arm grabbed Tonica by the arm from behind, pushing him against the wall.

Or trying to, anyway.

“The hell?”
It came out a little strangled, because the jerk had his arm pressed up against his throat, but Teddy was sure he'd made his point. The guy—and it was the first guy from the gym, even though he was wearing a jacket and a ball cap now, Teddy could see enough of his face to recognize him, even if the stale smell of cigarettes wasn't enough to choke a horse—tried to force him harder against the wall, his other hand on Teddy's chest. Teddy gave a moment to weep for idiots who thought with their upper body, and not their lower.

And then he let his weight shift to his left leg, stabilizing his shoulders against the wall, and brought his right leg up, aiming not for the groin—a fighter should know enough to wear a cup—but the fold between thigh and groin. There wasn't enough room to get his foot there, but his knee worked almost as well, throwing his attacker off balance, if not quite enough for Teddy to break free.

He managed to look for Ginny, and saw that she was busy, his attacker's companion holding her by the arm in a grip that was going to leave bruises. But nobody'd pulled a gun yet, anyway, so maybe—

Ginny twisted in her attacker's hold and shouted. “Georgie! Help!”

And a forty-pound, fawn-colored bullet streaked out the open window of his coupe, down the sidewalk, and aimed directly at the guy holding Georgie's human. Ginny dropped to her knees and Georgie took the guy down onto the sidewalk, her paws planted firmly on his chest.

Teddy took advantage of the distraction, turning the tables on his attacker, grabbing the arm and twisting it back hard enough to not-quite-break. He'd learned that move from a bouncer in Chicago, and had hoped to never have to use it again. But it still worked.

“The hell?” he asked again, shoving his attacker onto his knees and checking to make sure that Ginny was all right. She looked pissier than a wet cat, but nothing was bleeding or otherwise busted. She rolled back onto her feet and ordered, “Georgie, hold!”

The dog lowered her head to the attacker's chest and sniffed: Teddy could see where if you didn't know Georgie, that could be deeply unnerving.

Teddy returned his attention to the guy who'd attacked him. “Dude, if you wanted to talk, you had my phone number.”

The guy stared at him, then shook his head. “Boss says you're a cop.”

Teddy almost laughed. So much for thinking this guy was undercover. If he was, he was doing a hell of an acting job. “Your boss is wrong.” Teddy stepped back so he could keep both men in sight, but still within reach if either of them made a move. Not that Georgie's chew toy looked like he was moving anytime soon; Teddy knew for a fact that forty pounds of dog muscle was heavy, even if she wasn't leaning on your rib cage.

A couple walking down the street stopped and stared, one of them looking like he was going to intervene, but Teddy caught his companion's glance and shook his head. “These gentlemen are swearing off mugging for Lent,” he said loudly enough to carry. “Aren't you, boys?”

That was enough to convince those would-be Good Samaritans that they didn't want to get involved. But they were going to attract more determined attention if this standoff lasted any longer.

“Get up,” Teddy said. “Don't be stupid.”

“Um?” The guy under Georgie made a weak noise but stayed where he was.

“Georgie, release.” Ginny's command got Georgie off the guy's chest, but she only took a few steps back, and looked quite ready to tackle him again. Both assailants got up slowly, keeping their hands in clear sight at all times. Teddy suspected they'd been rousted by the cops more than once.

“I'm not a cop,” he said again. “And neither is she.”

“So why were you nosing around?” guy number two said. Teddy recognized him now—the rope-jumper who had been watching them while they talked.

“Teddy, what's going on?” Ginny had a hand on Georgie's head now, and looked prissy-pissed. It took him a second, then he remembered that she was still working another story, sort of, and was trying to keep that cover intact. He didn't think it would matter, but he'd follow her lead.

“While you were touring, I asked a few questions of this gentleman,” he said, indicating thug number one. “Personal matter.”

“I would appreciate your keeping your personal matters out of time that I am paying you for. Particularly when it involves violence.”

“Yeah, all right, fine. It's not like I knew this guy was going to decide I was a cop! Jesus.”

Number one widened his eyes. “You were serious? About wanting a dog?”

“No, I just randomly walk into skeevy gyms and ask strangers about random shit. Yeah, I was serious.” Teddy was pretty sure he hadn't sounded so disgusted since six-year-old Annalee had tried to kiss his seven-year-old self back when. “But there's no way in hell I want to do business with you right now. Your boss thinks I'm a cop? Have
him
contact me, and we can talk. Otherwise, forget about it. Ms. Mallard, I apologize. Let's get you back to the car, and let these gentlemen sort themselves out.”

“No, wait,” thug number two called as they started to walk away. “Look, we're sorry. But the boss, he doesn't talk to anyone direct. You want a dog, just let us know. We've got a bunch of litters coming due; you can have your pick, fair price.”

“Litters?” Ginny stopped and turned, looking at him. “You're breeding them?”

“Well, yeah.” Thug number two sounded believably surprised. “Direct distribution, no middleman. We keep it on the quiet so we don't pay no fees, nobody poking around demanding their cut. You don't get papers or nothing but that's not what you're looking for, right?”

“You—you're running a puppy mill,” Ginny said in disgust.

“Hey.” Thug number one looked insulted. “Our dogs get good care.”

“Yeah, that's why you sold my contact an animal that's badly socialized, and looks like it's been fed crap and not enough of even that for its entire life?” Teddy shook his head, aware that he was blowing his story to bits, but not caring anymore. “Give me the name of your boss, and I'll forget we ever had any of these conversations.”

“Ah hell, you're from one of those animal activist groups, aren't you?” Thug number two scowled. “Screw you. We're not doing anything wrong.”

“The emotional swings in this are giving me a headache,” Ginny said, her voice crisp. “Whatever you're doing, it's illegal. You know that; otherwise you wouldn't have been worried if my friend here was a cop or not. This little conversation alone is enough to get you into unpleasantly hot water with the officials, if we were to report it—and at the very least, enough to get you both kicked out of this gym, permanently, as I'm told that they're most concerned with keeping their noses clean.”

That made thug number two snort with bitter amusement, and Ginny turned to him. “Excuse me, did you want to say something?”

In another life, Virginia Mallard had been the strictest librarian to ever rock a cliché, because that voice made Teddy stiffen his spine and feel the urge to say “no, ma'am.”

“Management in there only knows one kind of clean and that's cleaning up. You buying their holier-than-thou crap?”

Ginny leaned in. “You saying something's going on there?”

“Maybe I am, maybe I'm not.”

Teddy laughed. “Dude, yank my chain all you want, I don't care, I'll just walk away. But do not annoy the lady. Her client list would make you piss yourself.”

Not entirely untrue: he'd heard some of the stories about some of her jobs, all with names withheld but enough detail to understand why Ginny was able to afford a nice apartment and fancy tech on a select client list. Not that she could ever call on them for a favor, probably. But maybe, if it was important enough . . . or she was angry enough, yeah.

Thug number one was made of lesser stuff than his partner. “The place is clean enough. Manager keeps a tight ship now. Like I said, they don't allow nothing to go down on the floor, and freelancing gets you kicked right out. But they've got their own action going on. I don't ask, so I can't tell. It's smarter that way.”

Teddy doubted this guy had ever done anything smart in his life. But he could see where the self-preservation instinct would kick in.

“Something connected to the fights they used to hold in the back room?” he asked. “Only not with fighters anymore, because they got busted, and they don't want to risk anyone who might talk if they thought they weren't getting a large enough cut of the action? Maybe something with more bark than bite?”

Thug number one nodded his head, repeating, “I don't know anything, I can't tell anything. And you ain't got the chops to get invited in, neither of you.”

“Let us worry about that,” Teddy said, crossing his arms across his chest and smiling, his best “I'm the House and you're gonna get bounced” smirk. “Give us a name.”

Seth walked
out of the back rooms at Mary's and glared at the woman behind the bar. “Who let the rat in again?”

“Oh hush,” Stacy said, gathering the puppy in her arms defensively. “You're the one who got them involved in this; it's your own fault Parsifal's got nowhere to live.”

“How'n hell is that my fault?” Seth didn't bother to wait for an answer, stomping back into the kitchen and making as much noise as he possibly could to show how annoyed he was. Stacy shook her head, giving the puppy another kiss between his oversized ears before putting him back down on the bar. He sprawled there contentedly, watching her set up the cash register. Jon had called in sick—likely
story, she thought with a sniff—so she got to fill in. She didn't mind: Mondays were slow days, so she was able to combine this with agreeing to puppy-sit, swinging by Ginny's apartment to gather Parsifal—and a handful of wee pads—before she came in.

“You think he's cute, don't you?” Stacy asked Penny, who was perched on one of the bar stools, washing her paw with immense concentration. One pointed ear flicked in the human's direction, but otherwise Penny declined to respond
.
“Well, I think you're cute, Parsi,” she said, and the puppy reached up to cover her face with kisses, making Stacy scrunch her face away in disgust even as she giggled.

“All right, be good now while I work, okay? Ginny promised you knew how to behave, wouldn't be any trouble at all. You're not going to make her into a liar, are you?”

That earned her another face kiss. “Oh, yuck, dog—really?”

The phone behind the bar rang and she pushed the puppy down before twisting around to answer it. “Mary's Bar, Stacy speaking.”

She frowned. “No, I'm sorry, he's not working this afternoon. Would you like to leave a message? Oh, you're calling about Parsifal? The puppy? Yes, he's here. Oh, sure, we'll be open; come on by and meet him!”

She hung up the phone and smiled down at Parsifal, who was now chewing on his hind leg. “Looks like we may've found you a forever home!”

12

A
fter getting to knock someone
down, Georgie's normally placid blood had been riled. She braced her stocky body on the pavement and resisted leaving the scene of the party, even though the two thugs had long since skedaddled, not risking their would-be targets changing their minds and calling the cops on them after all. Not even a handful of treats could convince her to get in the car, not when evildoers might come around the corner and need to be knocked down
again
.

“Damn it, dog.” Ginny finally lost her temper. “Get in there
right
now.”

Georgie made a surprised half hop into the car and squirmed her way into the backseat, turning around once and settling herself without further ado.

“Huh.” Ginny made note of the tone she'd used, and wondered if it would work on people, too. Probably not, but she made another mental note to try it at some point.

It took a few minutes more for the humans to get in the car and settled, and by then she'd let go of dog-training worries and gotten back to the question at hand. Only
they'd just been given so much information, she wasn't quite sure what the question
was,
anymore.

Tonica sat in the driver's seat, waiting, as though he could tell she was trying to sort through her thoughts. Maybe he could: they'd been working together long enough, and he was good at that kind of thing.

“Yeah?” he asked finally.

She focused on what seemed to her to be the most important thing.

“Do you think, maybe, we got pointed in the wrong direction? I mean, the landlord said dogfighting and we took after that like . . . well, like a dog with a bone, but maybe the dogs in Deke's basement were from a puppy mill, not a fight club? It would make more sense—the coming and going, the lack of space. Maybe they were using Deke's house as, I don't know, some kind of halfway house from breeder to buyers? Take the puppies, leave the mommas?”

Tonica considered the question. “Yeah. That would make sense. And . . . it fits the players better—there's been a sense of casualness to all this that didn't
feel
right, if we were talking about something so violent. It also explains why we got mugged by the loser twins back there, instead of getting an actual beat-down, or being shot.” He paused. “Are puppy mills even illegal?”

Ginny had already gotten her tablet out, and was looking up the local regs on breeding facilities. “Washington has laws on the books regulating any place with more than ten dogs. How many dogs would you guess were down there?”

“I'd have said no more than ten, assuming the cages were
large enough to turn around in, and they weren't packing in any golden retrievers. So say nine, to keep them legal . . . Nasty, but legal.”

Ginny harumphed. “You can't make a lot of money selling nine dogs at a time, not enough to justify the cost, I wouldn't think. Not for dogs without papers. But if you had a couple of these places, maybe five?” The number of houses Deke's landlord had on the books.

“Or more,” Tonica said. “That's one landlord—it could be a franchise.”

Ginny pressed her eyelids shut against the tears. Basement after basement of puppies like Parsifal, like the dog they saw on the street . . .

“How many of them do you think die, Teddy? How many of the puppies . . . ?”

“I don't know. A lot, probably. That wasn't a sterile environment down there, and they weren't getting the best of care.” Tonica shook his head. “It doesn't matter, though.” His hands were resting on the steering wheel, his fingers slowly curling and uncurling as though he were regretting not hitting Goons One and Two when he had the chance. “There's regulation, yeah, but it sounds like they're not doing anything illegal. We can't call the cops, because nobody was breaking any laws—they were just being scummy. And we have no proof of animal abuse to nail them on.”

“So we've got nothing. Maybe . . . maybe it's time to let go.”

In the seat behind them, Georgie let out a sigh, clearly
tired after all the excitement. Tonica's sigh almost echoed hers. “Mallard.” She could hear the frustration in that one word.

“Look,” Ginny said, “you're the one who's always reminding me that we're not pros, that we're going to get ourselves killed doing this, right? Well, Deke almost
did
get killed, and Shana, too—somebody I dragged into this. And we just got jumped, even if they didn't have guns—
this time
. And Deke's
still
going to be homeless at the end of the day. Literally, since his house isn't habitable right now. Oh, and remember, we got
fired.
So why not just cut our losses and walk away, let Deke take his lumps like an adult? Like we said we would, if he was actually guilty?” She stopped more because she'd run out of breath than because she'd run out of words.

“Because if we did that, we'd hate ourselves.” Tonica glanced sideways at her, then he started the car, and pulled away from the curb and into traffic.

“So what, then?” she asked, frustrated, but unable to argue the point because yeah, he was right.

“So we keep going. And I can't believe I'm the one giving rah-rah pep talks this time.”

That almost made Ginny laugh. True, they'd totally switched their usual positions on this.

“We know what we know . . . what
don't
we know yet?” he asked.

Ginny thought.

“We don't know who set fire to the house, and why—or
even if it was arson at all. We don't know who the loser twins' boss is, although I'll lay money on it being the cold-eyed podiatrist, what's his name.”

“Hollins,” Tonica supplied.

“Right. Hollins, who we know is linked to the gym, if not directly with Deke. We don't know if the two things—dogs and fire—are connected, or if the fire was the landlord trying to clear the decks so he could upgrade.” She reached back and rubbed the side of Georgie's head. “We don't know a lot. I don't know how any of it can help us, though.”

“Start with the fire. If it was arson, if the landlord was behind it, or if we can even
suggest
that the landlord was behind it . . .”

“If the landlord was responsible, or he knew anything about what was going on, we can use that as leverage to get Deke good references, get him housed again. Yeah. Yes. All right.” He knew her too well: the moment they had a plan, even the baby germ of a plan, her mind seized on it, focusing all the tension and stress into something she could
do
. “I should be pissed at how well you know how to manipulate me.”

“It's called partnership, not manipulation,” he said. “So, talk to me. What else do we have, what else do we need, to nail the landlord to the wall?”

“We need eyewitnesses. Deke's useless, and I'm pretty sure Shana told me everything she knew, but there was someone else there—the maintenance guy who called the
fire department. The cops had to have talked to him already.”

“But there's no way he'll talk to us, not if the cops have put the fear of being accused into him, and I'll bet they have, even if only by implication. So we're back to needing the accident reports, and the insurance forms. Because otherwise right now all we've got is a burnt-out boxer, and a burned-down house.”

“And a tiny puppy. Pretty much, yeah,” she said. She leaned her head against the back of the seat and closed her eyes. Somehow, this case seemed so much harder than their others. Maybe because they knew their client, maybe because Deke was so . . . hopeless, on his own.
Hapless,
was the word that came to her. She'd never understood what it meant before, not really.

“Huh.”

She opened her eyes. “What?”

“Probably nothing.”

“You don't say ‘huh' when it's probably nothing, Tonica. What?”

His gaze strayed to the rearview mirror, and he frowned. “I think we're being followed.”

“What?” She quashed the urge to turn around and look—not cool, if they were being followed—and stared out the windshield instead, as though the car in front of them might have an answer. “Why? I mean, why do you think that?”

“I've seen the car behind us before. I didn't think anything of it because hey, lots of cars in Seattle. But not so many black sedans, like a livery car.”

“You think someone hired a livery car to follow us?”

Tonica changed lanes, then looked in the rearview mirror again. “Yeah, no, but I'm pretty sure they're following us. There was no reason for them to change lanes when I did, but they did and stayed a car behind. I think the guy's a pro.”

“How do you know how a professional follows someone, Tonica?”

“I watch a lot of television.”

She knew for a fact that he didn't even own a television.

“Seriously?”

“There's one way to find out.” He changed lanes again, and took the next exit before the bridge, heading for Queen Anne. It took them out of their way back to Ballard, but Ginny didn't question him, and she didn't turn to see if anyone—specifically a black sedan—followed them off the exit ramp.

Tonica took them down side streets, staying just at the speed limit, driving as though he knew where he was going. For all she knew, he did. Ginny waited, her fingers pressed into her palms. Behind her, Georgie stirred restlessly, picking up on her unease.

“Damn,” Tonica said.

“Still with us?”

“Yeah. No, wait.” He looked in the mirror again. “I don't know.” They came to a corner with a red light, and paused, waiting. The tension in the car was high, both of them staring straight ahead, Tonica occasionally glancing into the rearview mirror without turning his head.

“Is he behind us?”

“No.”

“Yay?” she ventured cautiously.

“Yay, I guess,” he agreed. “I was so damned sure. . . .”

A car pulled up at the other corner of the intersection, and Tonica cursed. Ginny was able to see that it was a black sedan, just as the light changed and the sedan turned on yellow and cruised past them—too slowly to mistake the considering look the driver gave them, as though he were inspecting the interior of their car. The other windows were tinted, dark enough to hide anyone who might be in the backseat.

“Teddy . . .” Ginny's fingernails dug into the flesh of her palm, which was suddenly slick with sweat.

And then the sedan and its driver were gone, speeding away.

Ginny exhaled, unclenching her fingers slowly. “What the hell was that all about?”

“Damned if I know,” he said. “But that wasn't casual interest.”

“No kidding,” she said. “And it wasn't friendly interest, either. I've been checked out before and it doesn't look like that.”

In the back, Georgie whined, and Ginny turned around to look at her. “What's wrong, baby? Did the weird man upset you, too?”

“It was like he was looking for something,” Tonica said. “Something in the car. I—you had Stacy pick up Parsifal,
right?” he asked, and his voice was a little too calm, a little too tight for comfort.

Ginny just looked at him, her hazel eyes wide. “Yeah.”

Normally Stacy
preferred the endless restless chaos of a night shift, where she had to think fast and be quick on her feet to keep orders moving and the patrons happy. But she had to admit that there was something nice about a slow afternoon shift, too. Especially when she had good company.

“Oh, puppy! A tiny puppy! Is he yours, Stace?”

“Nah. He is a cutie, though, isn't he?” Stacy smiled at Gwen, who was offering her hand for Parsifal to sniff, and then lick. “And I'm pretty sure that you've grown overnight, Parsi. Not that you're not still a tiny thing.” The puppy looked up at her, all floppy ears and oversized eyes under a fringe of brown fur. “Better behave, or Penny will beat you up.”

The cat was in her usual spot on top of the shelves now, looking down at the activity with the air of a mostly benevolent despot. Once she'd realized that her human wasn't coming in any time soon, she had retreated with a sniff, but not left entirely.

“How are they getting along?” Gwen asked. “Any chance we can keep him for the bar? Make it a cat-and-dog matched set?” Gwen was a regular, who had voted “yea” to making Penny the official bar cat several years ago—not
that Stacy thought there had been any question in the matter. Once Penny decided, it had been a done deal.

“No,” Seth said, walking past with a scowl on his face.

Gwen laughed, harder when Stacy stuck her tongue out at the older man's back. Seth's dislike of animals in the bar was well-known. Even though he tolerated Penny for being a good mouser, and had learned to grumble mostly silently about Georgie's free run of the bar, he'd still rather they were all banished to the sidewalk.

Then again, Stacy thought sometimes he'd prefer if they were
all
banished to the sidewalk.

“I doubt it,” Stacy said to Gwen, serious again. “Penny pretty much runs her own life, but a dog you have to, you know, take
care
of. We'd end up arguing over who took him home every night, and who had to walk him. . . . It'd be like being married, only without the sex. Anyway, Penny already has a dog, Ginny's Georgie.”

Penny's tail flicked against the cabinet, thumping once, and she yawned, showing all her teeth and curling tongue, as though to say that there, the discussion was settled.

“All right, fine. You still serving beer here?”

“That I can do. Whacha want?”

“A Bock, please.”

Stacy pulled the beer and was making change from a twenty when the door opened again and someone came in, closing the door carefully behind them. She looked up and, when she realized he was a stranger, gave him a once-over the way Seth had been training her, trying to decide how
she'd handle him if he became a problem. The guy was taller than her, broad-shouldered but not bulked up with visible muscle. A hit to the knees, then, while staying out of range if he tried to grab her, until she could grab the bat behind the bar or yell for help.