a short hallway decorated with some of his framed photographs. In the small living room furnished with a brown sofa and a couple of wicker chairs, Jack found his three-year-old boxer clawing hunks out of the front door. The dog, large enough to place his paws on his master's chest when he stood on his powerful back legs, looked as if he were trying to burrow through the wood. Splinters were flying around the dog's head.
"Hey!" Jack said and swatted at Conan's rump. "Stop that!"
The dog didn't even look back. The frantic clawing continued.
"Damn it, what's wrong with you?" He reached down to pull Conan away from the door, and it was then that the dog whirled around, growling very softly, showing his teeth. Jack froze, his heart skipping a beat. Conan had always been a gentle dog, and lately Jack had been teaching him to catch a Frisbee out in the courtyard of the Sandalwood Apartments. Now Jack stared at those teeth and felt cold fear roiling in his stomach. The dog's eyes were unblinking, challenging the man to move.
"It's me," Jack said softly. "Conan? It's me, boy. I'm not going to hurt you."
The dog turned again, claws gouging at the door. The wood looked like a scarred battlefield.
Quickly Jack reached out and unbolted the door. Conan heard the click and stepped back, panting. When the door came open, the dog slipped through noiselessly and ran off across the courtyard toward Lexington Avenue. Jack stared after him, unable to believe that his pet had actually turned and snarled at him. Outside the fronds of palm trees stirred in the wind like lazy fans. At the base of the trees were multicolored lamps, and it was by the green light of one of these that Jack saw Conan's running shape, lengthened by its powerful strides, disappear from sight.
Gayle, now dressed in her tight Jordache jeans and checked blouse, stepped out of the hallway shadows and said, "Jack? What was that all about?"
"I don't really know. Conan just . . . went wild. He snarled at me. Actually showed his teeth! He's gotten feisty before, but he's never acted like this."
She stepped beside him and peered through the door. The rest of the apartment complex was utterly quiet. "Maybe it's the mating season or something. He'll be back."
"I don't know. You think I should go looking for him?"
"Not at this time of night." She glanced quickly at her wristwatch and made a face. "I've got to be getting home, Jack. Ace Tattler reporter has to have her head on straight in the morning when she goes to see the cops."
Jack stared out into the courtyard for another moment, hoping to see Conan bounding back, and then turned toward her. "Why don't you stay? I'll spring for breakfast."
"The last time I stayed for breakfast, I ended up burning the eggs. No thanks."
"Well, wait a minute while I get dressed. I'll drive you."
"What, and leave my car here overnight? Mr. Kidd, what would your neighbors think?"
"Screw 'em." He took Gayle in his arms and closed the door with his foot. "Who do you have to see tomorrow?"
"My favorite homicide squad captain—Palatazin. I imagine it'll be the same old 'no comment' session." She traced a line in Jack's forehead with a finger; she could feel his body beginning to respond beneath his thin robe and her own answering. "I have the feeling he thinks the Tattler's stories are a little on the sensational side."
"Imagine that." Jack nuzzled her neck and began to lick the base of her throat in slow circles. "Long live yellow
journalism."
She made a noise between a grunt and a sigh and felt the feather of need tickling at her thighs. It's soooooo chilly outside, she thought. And soooooo dark. Oh, that feels good. Jack took her hand to lead her back to the bedroom, and she said softly, "Breakfast at eight?"
FIVE
Leaking blue exhaust fumes, a gray Volkswagen Beetle with a crumpled rear fender moved along Outpost Drive and up into the stark dun-colored hills above Hollywood. As the road steepened, the Volkwagen's engine began to
"Hey!" Jack said and swatted at Conan's rump. "Stop that!"
The dog didn't even look back. The frantic clawing continued.
"Damn it, what's wrong with you?" He reached down to pull Conan away from the door, and it was then that the dog whirled around, growling very softly, showing his teeth. Jack froze, his heart skipping a beat. Conan had always been a gentle dog, and lately Jack had been teaching him to catch a Frisbee out in the courtyard of the Sandalwood Apartments. Now Jack stared at those teeth and felt cold fear roiling in his stomach. The dog's eyes were unblinking, challenging the man to move.
"It's me," Jack said softly. "Conan? It's me, boy. I'm not going to hurt you."
The dog turned again, claws gouging at the door. The wood looked like a scarred battlefield.
Quickly Jack reached out and unbolted the door. Conan heard the click and stepped back, panting. When the door came open, the dog slipped through noiselessly and ran off across the courtyard toward Lexington Avenue. Jack stared after him, unable to believe that his pet had actually turned and snarled at him. Outside the fronds of palm trees stirred in the wind like lazy fans. At the base of the trees were multicolored lamps, and it was by the green light of one of these that Jack saw Conan's running shape, lengthened by its powerful strides, disappear from sight.
Gayle, now dressed in her tight Jordache jeans and checked blouse, stepped out of the hallway shadows and said, "Jack? What was that all about?"
"I don't really know. Conan just . . . went wild. He snarled at me. Actually showed his teeth! He's gotten feisty before, but he's never acted like this."
She stepped beside him and peered through the door. The rest of the apartment complex was utterly quiet. "Maybe it's the mating season or something. He'll be back."
"I don't know. You think I should go looking for him?"
"Not at this time of night." She glanced quickly at her wristwatch and made a face. "I've got to be getting home, Jack. Ace Tattler reporter has to have her head on straight in the morning when she goes to see the cops."
Jack stared out into the courtyard for another moment, hoping to see Conan bounding back, and then turned toward her. "Why don't you stay? I'll spring for breakfast."
"The last time I stayed for breakfast, I ended up burning the eggs. No thanks."
"Well, wait a minute while I get dressed. I'll drive you."
"What, and leave my car here overnight? Mr. Kidd, what would your neighbors think?"
"Screw 'em." He took Gayle in his arms and closed the door with his foot. "Who do you have to see tomorrow?"
"My favorite homicide squad captain—Palatazin. I imagine it'll be the same old 'no comment' session." She traced a line in Jack's forehead with a finger; she could feel his body beginning to respond beneath his thin robe and her own answering. "I have the feeling he thinks the Tattler's stories are a little on the sensational side."
"Imagine that." Jack nuzzled her neck and began to lick the base of her throat in slow circles. "Long live yellow
journalism."
She made a noise between a grunt and a sigh and felt the feather of need tickling at her thighs. It's soooooo chilly outside, she thought. And soooooo dark. Oh, that feels good. Jack took her hand to lead her back to the bedroom, and she said softly, "Breakfast at eight?"
FIVE
Leaking blue exhaust fumes, a gray Volkswagen Beetle with a crumpled rear fender moved along Outpost Drive and up into the stark dun-colored hills above Hollywood. As the road steepened, the Volkwagen's engine began to
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