Suckers - Jack Kilborn [5]
“What about my money?” I asked.
She dug into her purse and pulled out a check.
“I can’t take a check.”
“It’s good. I swear.”
“How am I supposed to remain incognito if I deposit a check?”
Abigail did the lip quiver thing again.
“Oh my goodness, I didn’t even think of that. Please don’t make Julia into baggage.”
More tears.
“Calm down. Don’t cry. You’ll ruin your…uh…make-up.”
I offered her a handkerchief. She dabbed at her eyes and handed it back to me.
It looked like it had been tie-dyed.
“I think I have two or three dollars in my purse,” she rasped in her smoker voice. “Is that okay?”
What the hell. I took it.
“I’ll take those Tic-Tacs, too.”
She handed them over. Wint-O-Green.
“Can we go now?”
“Go ahead.”
She turned to leave the alley, and a thought occurred to me.
“Ms. Cummings! When the police came to visit you to look for Marcus, did you have an alibi?”
She glanced over her shoulder and nodded vigorously.
“That’s the point. The day Vincent said he brought the dog to my house, I wasn’t home. I was enjoying the third day of an Alaskan Cruise.”
Vincent Thorpe was waiting for me when I got back to my office. He carefully scanned the floor before approaching my desk.
“That’s not Marcus! That’s not even a Shar-pei!”
“We’ll discuss that later.”
“Where’s Marcus?”
“There have been some complications.”
“Complications?” Thorpe leaned in closer, raised an eyebrow. “What happened to your face?”
“I think I’m allergic to wool.”
“It looks like you rubbed your cheeks with sandpaper.”
I wrote, “I hate him” on my notepad.
“Look, Mr. Thorpe, Abigail Cummings doesn’t have Marcus. But I may have an idea who does.”
“Who?”
“First, I need to ask you a few questions…”
My face was too sore for the ski mask again, so I opted for a nylon stocking.
It was hot.
I shifted positions on the branch I was sitting on, and took another look through the binoculars.
Nothing. The backyard was quiet. But thirty feet away, next to a holly bush, was either a small, brown anthill, or evidence that there was a dog on the premises.
I took out my pencil and reviewed my stake-out sheet.
9:46pm—Climbed tree.
9:55pm—My face hurts.
10:07pm—It really hurts bad.
10:22pm—I think I’ll go see a doctor.
10:45pm—Maybe the drug store has some kind of cream.
I added, “11:07pm—Spotted evidence in backyard. Remember to pick up some aloe vera on the way home.”
Before I had a chance to cross my Ts, the patio door opened.
I didn’t even need the binoculars. A man, mid-forties with short, brown hair, was walking a dog that was obviously a Shar-pei.
Though my track-team days were far behind me (okay, non-existent), I still managed to leap down from the tree without hurting myself.
The man yelped in surprise, but I had my gun out and in his face before he had a chance to move.
“Hi there, Mr. Ricketts. Kneel down.”
“Who are you? What do…”
I cocked the gun.
“Kneel!”
He knelt.
“Good. Now lift up that dog’s back leg.”
“What?”
“Now!”
Glen Ricketts lifted. I checked.
It was Marcus.
“Leash,” I ordered.
He handed me the leash. My third dog in two days, but this time it was the right one.
Now for Part Two of the Big Plan.
“Do you know who I am, Glen?”
He shook his head, terrified.
“Special Agent Phillip Pants, of the American Kennel Club. Do you know why I’m here?”
He shook his head again.
“Don’t lie to me, Glen! Does the AKC allow dognapping?”
“No,” he whimpered.
“Your dog show days are over, Ricketts. Consider your membership revoked. If I so much catch you in the pet food isle at the Piggly Wiggly, I’m going to take you in and have you neutered. Got it?”
He nodded, eager to please. I gave Marcus a pat on the head, and then turned to leave.
“Hold on!”
Glen’s eyes were defeated, pleading.
“What?”
“You mean I can’t own a dog, ever again?”
“Not ever.”
“But…but…dogs are my life. I love dogs.”
“And that’s why you should have never stole someone else’s.”
He sniffled, loud and wet.
“What am I supposed to do now?”
I frowned. Grown men crying like babies weren