Paw and Order (11 page)

“Is that meant to be a recommendation?”

“You tell me, Aubrey.”

Another pause. “Mr. Ross, if you don't mind.”

“I'm Bernie Little,” Bernie said. “Bernie, if you don't mind.”

We moved toward Mr. Ross. His hand stayed in his pocket. He had a gun in there, gun oil being one of those smells you don't miss in our business. It didn't matter now, what with the gap closing between him and us. Just go for it, Mr. Ross. But he did not. They hardly ever do when you want them to. And those other times, when you don't want them to? That's the problem.

“And this is Chet,” Bernie said.

Mr. Ross glanced at me. “I had a dog quite like him,” he said. “He was run over by a postal lorry.”

FIFTEEN

S
orry to hear that,” Bernie said, and so was I, although postal lorry was a puzzler.

“The experience reminded me of valuable lessons learned along the way,” said Mr. Ross. The purple was just about all gone from the sky now, but plenty of it seemed to remain on the surface of his glasses, blocking his eyes from view. A very round dude, Mr. Ross, and also real short: if I stood up on my back legs, I was pretty sure I'd be taller, could rest my paws on top of his bald round head. I gave the idea some thought.

“What kind of lessons?” Bernie said.

Mr. Ross gazed up at Bernie, now mostly just a big, lovely-smelling shadow. “Regarding the unforeseen, mutability, chaos.” He paused, then softly clapped his hands. Lights went on all along the back of the house, revealing a long sort of deck or patio, with couches, chairs, barbecue pit, swimming pool. “In short,” Mr. Ross continued, taking a long look at Bernie in the light, “the limits of management.”

Zipping right by me without a trace, whatever that was all about, but I was on to something much more interesting, namely the eyes of Mr. Ross, now visible. They turned out to be very large and round and purple, just like the late evening sky, or pretty close. The only purple-eyed human I'd ever seen! Or maybe it was the purple color of the skin below his eyes, or the eyelids, or . . . never mind. We'll stick to him having purple eyes.

“You left out entropy on your little list,” Bernie said.

And once again, this time on Mr. Ross's face, I saw that look, the look of someone realizing Bernie was the smartest human in the room. “For whatever reason, entropy was never a force in my career,” he said.

“I want to talk about your career,” Bernie said.

“And what, as you Americans are always so quick to ask, is in it for me?” Mr. Ross said.

Americans? That comes up from time to time. In fact, I was pretty sure we were Americans, me and Bernie, but that was as far as I could take it.

“What's your usual?” Bernie said.

“My usual?”

“Inducement. What does it normally take to get your cooperation?”

“Are you offering me a bribe—Bernie, was it?”

“What's your going rate?” Bernie said.

“You think me bribable?” said Mr. Ross.

“Can you fog a mirror?”

I knew fog, I knew mirrors, but that was it. This was Bernie at his most brilliant. And Bernie at his most brilliant is often when we start moving the dial. A very small smile appeared on Mr. Ross's face, just a quick upturn at the corners of his mouth, there and gone.

“Very well,” he said. “Consider a donation to a favorite charity, negotiable later or not at all.”

“Nothing easier,” Bernie said.

Mr. Ross stepped onto the deck, sat on a couch. We followed, Bernie sitting on the end of a chaise longue, me beside him. For company we had some night bugs, drawn by the light, in the way of night bugs. Most of them made a last-minute turn toward one of those cool bug zappers and got zapped,
zap zap zap
, a satisfying sound to my ears.

“This is about Maurice's son, Eben,” Bernie said. “He was murdered, which I'm guessing you know. Maurice hired us to find the killer.”

“You're a private investigator?”

Bernie nodded.

“But not from around here—Texas, perhaps. I have an ear for accents.”

“We're licensed in this district, which is the relevant point.”

Mr. Ross glanced my way. Accents had come up already in this case, Bernie saying that Lizette—and maybe somebody else we'd run across—had one. But Bernie didn't sound at all like Lizette. Mr. Ross was way off base, a baseball thing where next came putting your head down, disappearing back into the dugout, and sitting by your lonesome.

“I heard the news, quite naturally,” Mr. Ross said, “but through the usual media outlets. I have no pertinent inside knowledge.”

“You were Maurice's only suggestion,” Bernie said. “According to him, Eben came to the US because of you.”

“Some men are resentful by nature,” said Mr. Ross.

“You're talking about Maurice?”

“What sort of life would that have been?”

“You're losing me,” Bernie said. Which was just one of his rope-a-dope tricks. There was no losing us, me and Bernie, not in the end, which usually involved me grabbing the perp by the pant leg. Those white pant legs of Mr. Ross's had cuffs. I like sinking my teeth into cuffed pant legs above all others, no telling why.

“I refer to the St. John family business, to which seconding Eben was the extent of Maurice's ambition for him,” Mr. Ross said. “Imagine a man of Eben's caliber withering away in some provincial office.”

“Beats getting shot in the head,” Bernie said. “What's the family business?”

Mr. Ross peered at Bernie with those round, purple eyes. “You're one of those only-in-America types,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Bernie.

Mr. Ross nodded to himself. “The St. Johns own a factory, possibly two or three.”

“What's the product?”

“There you have me. Tunnel-boring equipment, perhaps?”

“And what did you have going that was better?”

“Something more intellectual,” said Mr. Ross, “giving rein to Eben's analytical gifts.”

“Are you talking about World Wide Solutions?” Bernie said.

“That came after.”

“After what?”

“After Eben did his bolt.”

“What does that mean?”

“Not an American expression?” Mr. Ross said. “I never stop learning. It means to take off unexpectedly. Eben decided to go out on his own.”

“But before that, he worked for you?”

“Before my retirement, yes.”

“What did you do?”

“I was an employee of the British government.”

“I looked you up,” Bernie said. “Your last position was third assistant secretary in the embassy's international trade office.”

“Correct.”

“Sounds no more interesting than tunnel-boring equipment, maybe less.”

“For some, no doubt,” said Mr. Ross.

“Unless you were doing some tunneling of your own.”

Mr. Ross sat up a bit. Bernie had his attention. He had mine, too. Bernie always does, of course, but I meant especially now. Wasn't tunneling a kind of digging? Digging is one of my specialties. When I get front legs and back legs going full speed ahead all at once, I can make dirt fly like you would not believe. That bride up in her childhood tree house, getting her picture taken in her white wedding dress? And me down below, on a quest for some loot Bernie was convinced lay buried in that very yard? You don't forget scenes like that, amigo.

But the point is good diggers have a certain look to them, and it's never short and round—like Mr. Ross, to take a handy example. I was having a real hard time picturing him in the digging business. With those little hands, so soft and pudgy? Not in my lifetime, amigo, a lovely lifetime going on and on in the nicest way. The road goes on forever, and the party never ends.

Back to Mr. Ross, still sitting up straight, gaze on Bernie. “Are you making a suggestion of some sort?”

“Yeah,” said Bernie. “I'm suggesting you were a spy, probably still are.”

“Spy,” Mr. Ross said. “Such a freighted word, so many inaccurate if romantic connotations. I hesitate to even use it.”

“I bet you do,” Bernie said.

That little smile made another appearance on Mr. Ross's face, real brief.

“You did say you worked for the Brits?” Bernie said.

“I'm British to the core.”

“Why would the Brits spy on us?” Bernie said. “I thought we were friends.”

“There's nothing simple about friendship,” Mr. Ross said.

“Have you ever had one?” Bernie said.

Mr. Ross didn't like that. His face got heavy and . . . and kind of bulldoggish? Whoa! What a connection! No way this dude could remind me of any members of the nation within. But he did! I wished it wasn't happening, but that did no good. Mr. Ross was a bulldog in my mind, now and forever.

“. . . putting it this way,” Mr. Ross was saying. “If you're sleeping with an elephant, you'd better learn all you can about him—what makes him inclined to roll over, for example. No animus involved—it's mere prudence.”

Prudence? That was the name of the elephant? Sounded right. I'd spent time with an elephant name of Peanut, the two of us all alone down in the Mexican desert, and Mr. Ross was on the button. That very thing, an elephant rollover, had happened to me! I'd scrambled out from under Peanut at the very last moment and given her a piece of my mind—a barking piece, better believe it. Then had come a demonstration of what she could do with her trunk, which up till that moment I'd thought was all about rustling around for grub and poring enormous amounts of water into her mouth. If an elephant was now in this case, we were headed off the rails. I checked the air: not a whiff of elephant, and that's a smell that can't be missed, except maybe by someone like you. No offense.

“And how did Eben do in the prudence department?” Bernie said.

Uh-oh. Prudence was the perp? Was that where Bernie was taking this? I'd smelled guinea pig in Eben's office, no doubt about that, but as for elephant, there'd been zilch. I felt a little lost. Sometimes, especially working a tough case like this one, it's good to take a break. I wandered over to Mr. Ross's equipment cart, still out there on the beautiful putting-green lawn. The sounds of Bernie and Mr. Ross talking drifted over to me, but like a kind of breeze, no longer bothersome.

“Excellent question,” Mr. Ross said. “Is it possible to be prudent and passionate at the same time?”

There was a short silence, and then Bernie said, “Eben was passionate?” He sounded a little strange, his voice kind of thickened.

“Oh, surely,” said Mr. Ross. “He was an idealist.”

“An idealist,” Bernie said, his voice back to normal, maybe somewhat sharper than normal.

“But with outstanding analytical gifts.”

“You mentioned that. Give me some examples.”

“I regret I'm unable to.”

“Because they don't exist?”

“Because of constraints.”

“How about an example of his passion?” Bernie said. “Any constraints there?”

“On that I can speak more freely. World Wide Solutions was his passion.”

“Sounds grandiose to me,” Bernie said.

“I prefer ‘ambitious,' ” said Mr. Ross. “Eben sacrificed a lot for World Wide Solutions—possibly everything.”

“What was it?” Bernie said.

There was a long pause. “At its core?” Mr. Ross said. “A plea for transparency.”

“What does that mean?” Bernie said, and I couldn't have agreed more. What did any of this mean? I returned to what I'd been doing, felt better.

“I can tell you what Eben meant by it,” said Mr. Ross. “ ‘Intelligence for the masses.' ”

“Who are the masses?”

“All those global citizens out there—the ones not like you and me.”

“I'm not in your league,” Bernie said.

Mr. Ross laughed. He had a very pleasant, round little dude sort of laugh. “Eben's point was that intelligence—in the sense of understanding what is really going on in the inner hearts and minds of the powerful—has always been restricted to the few. What a world it would be if the truths were universally known!”

“Maybe worse,” Bernie said.

Mr. Ross laughed again. “I happen to agree with you. In fact, I tried to dissuade Eben on those very grounds.”

“At the same time persuading him to keep nosing around on your behalf?”

“I wouldn't put it like that.”

“MI5? Is that it? MI6? I'm not familiar with the British setup.”

“I wish I could help you with that,” Mr. Ross said.

“What can you help me with?” Bernie said. “Where should I be looking?”

“Ask questions,” said Mr. Ross. “I'll do my best to answer.”

“So you want this crime solved?”

“Very much.”

“No matter where it leads?”

“I can only hope so.”

“But there's no guarantee?”

“Men like you and me don't speak of guarantees,” said Mr. Ross. “Haven't we outgrown childish things?”

“Like I said—I'm not in your league.” There was a silence, broken only by a faint but comforting sound, sort of woody and toothy. Then Bernie said, “Have you been in touch with the police?”

“No.”

“The chief investigator is a DC lieutenant named Soares. Do you know him?”

“No.”

“But a guy from some other department may be calling the shots.”

“Oh?” said Mr. Ross. “What other department?”

“No idea,” Bernie said. “Did Eben have any enemies?”

“Almost certainly, if you mean institutional enemies.”

“What about the personal kind?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Does the name Terrapin Exports mean anything to you?”

“No.”

“Preakness Development?”

“Ditto.”

“There may be a man involved in the case—late thirties, six feet, fit-looking, slicked-back hair. Goes by the name of York.”

“I know no one matching that description.”

“How about a tall woman, mid-fifties, well turned out?”

“Could be thousands of women in this city.”

“She wears those funny little glasses. What are they called? Cat's-eye?”

There was a silence. Then Mr. Ross said, “Yes, cat's-eye.”

“You know the woman?” Bernie said.

“I know the type of glasses.”

“And the woman?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“Was World Wide Solutions a one-man show? Or should we be speaking of it in the present tense?”

“Oh, the past tense, certainly.”