Paw and Order by Spencer Quinn Page B

raisin eyes went to Bernie, then me, and back to Bernie. I actually smelled raisins.
    â€œDidn’t realize you had company,” Lieutenant Soares said. “You might want to—”
    â€œI’d prefer Bernie’s presence,” Suzie said. “Lieutenant Soares, my friend Bernie Little.”
    â€œThe one who belongs to the dog?” said Lieutenant Soares.
    â€œHis name’s Chet,” Bernie said. They didn’t shake hands.
    Suzie sat down at the table. Lieutenant Soares took the chair Bernie had been using. Bernie leaned against the counter. I sat at his feet. A mouse made scratching sounds in the far wall. Nothing else was happening.
    â€œI looked you up,” Lieutenant Soares said to Suzie, “read some of your work online. That story you wrote about those Neanderthal reenactors was pretty funny.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œThat was how it is, or you made some of it up?”
    â€œI don’t make anything up, Lieutenant.”
    Soares nodded, a kind of nod with his head tilted to one side. Bernie, the best nodder there was, had one just like it. What did it mean? You tell me.
    â€œGlad to hear that, and no insult intended,” Soares said. “Fill me in on Eben St. John.”
    â€œWhat about him?” Suzie said.
    â€œA telling anecdote would be nice,” Soares said.
    â€œTelling anecdote?”
    â€œThe kind of thing that conveys the essence—the way you did with those Neanderthal guys and the bone marrow episode.”
    I felt a change in Bernie. He didn’t move, or go tense, or anything like that, but something inside him had switched on to the max. It was a change I’d felt in him before, the last time being just before we’d walked into an ambush at the old airplane graveyard out in the desert. All those bullets ricocheting off all those planes! I’d never heard such a racket, and I’m counting on it being a one-time-only event.
    â€œI don’t have an anecdote like that,” Suzie said. “All I can tell you is that Eben was well educated—he had a BA from Oxford and a PhD in economics from Georgetown—spoke several languages, and was an expert on Russia and Eastern Europe.”
    â€œWhat do you know about World Wide Solutions?”
    â€œThat was his consulting company.”
    â€œWho was behind it?” Soares said.
    â€œBehind it in what way?” said Suzie.
    â€œFunding,” Soares said. “Ownership.”
    â€œI was under the impression that Eben owned it himself.”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œAre you saying that’s false?”
    â€œJust gathering information,” Soares said.
    â€œI should be doing that myself,” Suzie said. “Are there any suspects?”
    â€œToo soon to say.” Soares’s glance went to Bernie, then back to Suzie. “How would you characterize your relationship with Mr. St. John?”
    â€œWe were acquaintances,” Suzie said, “as I think I mentioned before.”
    â€œYou did,” Soares said. “My apologies. Mind telling me the purpose of your visit? We’ve got his appointment list and you weren’t on it for today.”
    â€œI was following up on some earlier conversations.”
    â€œAbout . . . ?”
    â€œAbout a possible story.”
    â€œAnd the subject matter of the story?”
    â€œDo you really expect an answer?” Suzie said. “That’s not how journalism works.”
    â€œThis is a murder investigation, Ms. Sanchez.”
    I knew Bernie was going to say something even before he opened his mouth, not because I was actually following all this blather, no offense, but because I felt it coming. We’re partners, which should be pretty clear by now. “So?” he said.
    Soares turned slowly to Bernie. “Bernie, was it?” he said. “Are you familiar with murder investigations, Bernie?”
    â€œFamiliar enough to know you’re out of