Paw and Order by Spencer Quinn

way I love him. He glanced at me—his expression changing slightly—and back to Suzie. “What have I missed?”

SIX
----
    E ben?” Bernie said. “The Brit who was here this morning?”
    â€œYes, Bernie,” Suzie said. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” She gave him a sideways look, maybe enjoying the way his hair was all messed up. And his eyebrows, too! Have I mentioned Bernie’s eyebrows? They have a language of their own. “How about more coffee?” Suzie said.
    Bernie shook his head. A vein throbbed in one of his hands, something I hadn’t seen in a while, the last time being the only missing kid case we’d ever worked where we didn’t get the kid back. That vein had throbbed in Bernie’s hand; he’d whipped us into a screaming U-turn; we’d roared through the night, pedal to the metal; and gotten there too late. I’ll never forget when we opened that broom closet. We’d taken care of justice later that night ourselves, me and Bernie. I won’t forget that either. Or the name of the kid: Gail.
    Back to Suzie’s kitchen. The vein throbbed. Bernie said, “You discovered the body?”
    â€œChet and I, yes.”
    â€œAre you all right?” That had to be meant for Suzie: dead body discovery was part of my job.
    â€œI think so,” Suzie said. “I’m kind of stunned, if you want the truth.”
    â€œUm,” Bernie said. “Uh.” Then he reached across the table and patted Suzie’s hand. Their fingers kind of wound around each other, almost like living things. Whoa. But, of course, they were living things. I’d meant more like . . . like dancers, say. Finger dancers? Back up, big guy. You’re in way over your head.
    â€œ. . . a Lieutenant Soares from Metro Police,” Suzie was saying.
    â€œWhat was he like?” Bernie said.
    â€œSeemed competent, but he wasn’t in charge for long. A plainclothes guy showed up pretty soon and took over.”
    â€œA detective captain?”
    â€œI don’t know. I sensed the usual uniform slash nonuniform tension. Ferretti was his name, double R, double T, Victor D. He seemed even more competent, now that I think about it.”
    â€œHow so?”
    â€œFor one thing, he hadn’t been there for more than a minute or two before he found what I’m assuming is the murder weapon.”
    â€œWhich was?”
    â€œA gun.”
    â€œWhat kind of gun?”
    â€œA pistol or revolver—I can never hold the distinction in my mind for some reason.”
    â€œA pistol has an ammo clip, whereas—”
    â€œAnd please don’t explain it again. A twenty-two, by the way, which matched the shell casing Chet found on the floor.”
    Bernie gave me a nice smile. I moved closer to him in case a treat was in the cards. Something something part of success is just showing up, Bernie always says. Cards themselves I never wanted to see in the cards. We once had a very bad night with cards, me and Bernie, although more Bernie if you want the actual truth, the problem having to do with inside straights, a complete mystery to me, and I guess from how it turned out, a mystery to Bernie, too. He gave me a nice scratch between the ears, hitting that spot I can never quite reach. No one hits that spot like Bernie. I forgot whatever it was I’d been wanting.
    â€œ. . . point I’m making,” Suzie went on, “is that this Ferretti guy was pretty sharp.”
    â€œAnd he’s satisfied it’s a murder?”
    â€œI think so.”
    â€œWhat was the distance between the gun and the body?”
    Suzie’s eyes shifted.
    â€œWhat?” Bernie said. “What was that thought?”
    â€œI spoke to Lizette—the landlady—on the way in. She asked the same question in almost those exact words.”
    â€œMaybe she’s a PI in disguise,” Bernie said.