Deadly Dues by Linda Kupecek

again.
    â€œOh—well . . .” Damn. I was supposed to be good liar. I tried to decide whether to play dumb or reveal Geoff’s visit.
    Ryga continued to watch me. I must have looked pathetic. Or desperate. Or—the very worst possibility—guilty.
    I sat up, groaning, letting the bag of now not-so-frozen peas slide from under my sweater and onto the floor. Oh, if only I could think. What I would give for a distraction right now.
    Thank you, universe. Two officers appeared in the kitchen doorway, One looked barely out of his teens, with bright red hair and energy to match; the other was older, solid, and looked as if his very favourite food was extra large pizza.
    â€œHey, Chaz,” said the older one. “We’re finished here.”
    â€œHave you seen my dog?” I asked.
    They looked at me blankly, then froze. Their mouths dropped open, and they turned to each other as if their lotto numbers had suddenly appeared in front of them.
    They looked back at me, and at each other, and then in unison sang, “Doggie Doggie Bow Wow!” They were really off-key, but it was darned cute. And very satisfying. The look on Ryga’s face was something I could dine out on for the next year. If I lived that long.
    I tried very hard not to look superior, vindicated, famous and adorably innocent all at once.
    â€¢ • •
    This state of superiority faded after two hours of questioning, waiting, then more questioning. By then, Ryga had closed his notebook, helped me to my wobbly feet, asked me if there was anybody I would like him to call (absolutely not—the top names on my speed-dial were all people who might babble about bodies), and called a cleanup crew on my behalf, as my hands were shaking too much to dial the phone. As I was about to close the door behind him and the last of the police officers, Mrs. Lauterman, wearing an amazing fluffy housecoat the colours of Neapolitan ice cream, careened across the lawn with her walker, told him what a nice girl I was, and demanded his card. Bless her. I waved at her, knowing she would want the literally gory details of my evening.
    I scanned the street, looking for something big, white and furry, and started getting short of breath when I realized that Horatio was nowhere to be seen.
    A battered van pulled up in front of my condo, and a skinny guy in his twenties and a thirty-ish woman built like a fire hydrant got out and started hauling mysterious-looking implements and appliances from the back.
    The cleanup crew, whew. They made night calls. I waved Mrs. Lauterman a good night, sleep tight , and followed them inside.
    â€œThis isn’t so bad,” said the woman, after a quick look at the living room.
    â€œYeah,” said the skinny guy. “You should have seen our last gig. It was a gang shooting in a restaurant kitchen. You couldn’t tell the lasagna from—”
    â€œStop right there!” I said, maybe a little loudly. I dragged out my poor, overloaded credit card from my bag and shoved it at the woman, who seemed to be in charge. “You can bill that card, but make it as cheap as possible, or it will bounce.”
    â€œCredit cards don’t bounce. They get declined,” she said.
    â€œEither way, if you want to get paid, make it cheap.”
    â€œNow that’s encouraging,” she said.
    â€œShouldn’t take us more than an hour,” he said.
    â€œFine. Lock the door behind you. I need to find my dog.”
    I hoisted my bag over my shoulder and escaped out the door.
    As I drove down Rockvale Drive, I scanned the yards for Horatio. It was futile, but I was worried about him. And the thought of staying in the condo without him was unbearable.
    Once I reached Cameron Avenue, my breathing was almost back to normal. No Horatio, but lots of dangerously alluring all-night donut shops. Lu, stop that.
    I called Pete from my cell phone. He answered mid-ring. God, the guy must be desperate to hear