Cockatiels at Seven by Donna Andrews Page B

needed to find out what was going on there—apparently in Karen’s apartment.
    “Go see ‘leese car?” Timmy suggested.
    “In a minute,” I said.
    Maybe I could get some information out of Sammy. Like our neighbor, Mr. Early, Sammy was infatuated with my cousin Rose Noire—who was a free spirit, and so far had barely noticed the existence of any of her suitors. As a result, Sammy was highly vulnerable to manipulation by any member of my large extended family who wanted a favor, or the answer to some question about police business that she really shouldn’t even be asking. I tried to be the exception to the family rule, and only play the Rose Noire card in truly dire emergencies.
    “ ’Leese car now?” Timmy repeated.
    But with county and campus police swarming in and out of Karen’s apartment after more than twenty-four hours during which she hadn’t been seen, hadn’tcalled, hadn’t answered her cell phone or her home phone—this was a dire emergency, wasn’t it?
    Just then the car tunes CD segued from “Old McDonald’s Farm” into Barney the dinosaur singing “I Love You, You Love Me.” That settled it. Definitely an emergency. I cut the ignition, grabbed the diaper bag, and resigned myself to liberating Timmy from the safety of his car seat.
    “Come on, Timmy,” I said. “We’re going to see the police cars.”
    Keeping a grip on Timmy’s hand proved to be an impossible task, so I settled for getting a good grip on the waistband of his pants. The shirt collar would have worked better—I wouldn’t have had to stoop so much—but I suspected that would work much as a choke chain did on Spike. Unlike most dogs, Spike never seemed to notice the first warning signs of strangulation, and I suspected Timmy would prove equally oblivious to pain. With Spike, we’d solved that problem with a harness that shifted the pressure from his throat to his chest. Did they make toddler harnesses? And if so, was it worth finding one for what I hoped would be the short remainder of Timmy’s stay with me?
    “Hi, Sammy,” I called out, as we drew near. “What the heck’s going on?”
    “Hi, Meg,” he said. “I’m sorry, but you can’t come in here now.”
    I decided to play dumb.
    “Drat,” I said. “You guys would have to be making a big raid on this dump just when I need to take Timmy home.”
    I indicated Timmy, who was straining toward the nearest police car, repeating “ ’Leese car! ‘Leese car!”
    “Timmy?” Sammy said, looking down at the preoccupied toddler. “He lives here?”
    “His mother is my friend, Karen Walker,” I said. “Apartment twelve. If I can’t come in, could you get a message to Karen that I’m out here with Timmy?”
    Sammy and the Camcops looked at each other.
    “I’ll go find Chief Burke,” one of the Camcops said.
    “So you’ve been babysitting the kid?” the other Camcop asked.
    “She—no, Timmy!” I snapped, and grabbed him by the waist again. He’d been reaching toward Sammy’s service revolver.
    Just then Chief Burke came trotting up. Things must be serious—I couldn’t recall when I’d seen the chief moving faster than his usual stately walk.
    “This is Karen Walker’s son?” he asked.
    “Timmy,” I said. “Timmy, say hello to Chief Burke. He’s the boss of all the police here.”
    The remaining Camcop frowned. Timmy tilted his head and inspected the chief with interest.
    “Hello,” he said. “Want ride in the ‘leese car.”
    “Do you indeed?” the chief said.
    Timmy frowned and cocked his head, as if this was a test.
    “Please?” he said finally.
    “That’s the magic word,” the chief said, with a faint smile. “We need to talk,” he added to me. “Sammy! Why don’t you take Master Timothy for a ride in your cruiser?”
    “I don’t have a car seat,” Sammy said, turning pale.
    “I do,” I said, holding out my keys. “My car’s down the block.”
    “Make it a good long ride,” the chief said. “Use the siren a