Evil Breeding

third-floor apartment. “Oh my God! Is she home? We better make sure—”
    “They’re on the Cape for the weekend,” Rita said.
    “My kitchen door was locked,” I said. “So was the outside back door. But we better check your place anyway.” Artie shook his head. “He could still be up there. Would you like me to call the police? Or do you want to do it?”
    “Willie isn’t barking,” I said. “Rita’s Scottie,” I added for Artie’s benefit. A tough, scrappy character, Willie will yap over nothing. He flies at the ankles of people he knows. He always goes after mine. He has eyes of fire.
    Rita panicked. “He’s dead! If he’s quiet, he’s dead!” She bolted out of my study, dashed through the hall and kitchen, flung open the door, and vanished up the stairs. Artie ran after her.
    Still in shock, I wandered into the kitchen, where Steve was placidly holding Tracker in his arms and stroking her.
    “No wounds that I can find,” he reported. “Where do you want me to put her?”
    “Anywhere. Uh, just hold her. Someone’s been here. Someone broke in. Everything’s a mess. I need to go up to Rita’s, and I need to call the—”
    A cacophony of terrier barking bit its way down through the ceiling. That’s Willie’s standard greeting. I hoped Artie had on thick socks and sturdy hiking boots, the kind meant to protect the ankles. Steve and I exchanged smiles. I felt suddenly better. “I guess Willie’s all right,” I said.
    “Yes,” agreed Steve, “but is Artie?”
    “He wasn’t supposed to meet Willie. That’s why we had drinks here instead of at Rita’s.”
    “He was all right with your dogs.”
    “They didn’t bite him,” I pointed out. On the contrary, they’d knocked themselves out to charm Artie. Kimi had dropped to the floor at his feet and wiggled her legs in the air in delight. Rowdy had presented Artie with a toy, a stuffed dinosaur lightly coated with dog saliva. The dogs had probably treated the burglar to an identical welcome.
    “There is that,” Steve said. “Are you all right?”
    “Yes. I really am now. The worst was just realizing that someone had broken in.” I took a deep breath. “The animals are all right. Nothing else really matters. But the window’s open in my office. The burglar cut the screen. Tracker could have gotten out. I can’t believe that the dogs didn’t kill her. She went to the top of the refrigerator. I’ve been trying to teach her that it’s her place.”
    “Your new computer?” Steve asked.
    “Still here. Nothing’s missing that I can see. It’s just a total mess. I really do need to call the police.”
    By the time the cruiser arrived, I’d verified that my TV and VCR were still in the living room. My camera sat in plain sight on a bookshelf, and my handgun, a present from my father, remained in its case in the bedroom closet. There’d been no cash in the house and no jewelry worth more than about five dollars. A sheaf of notes by the kitchen telephone looked somehow different from the way I’d left it. That slight rearrangement was the only indication that the intruder had gone anywhere except my office. I reluctantly used my landlady key to enter the third-floor apartment. It showed no sign of forced entry, and nothing seemed to be missing. Rita reported that her possessions were where they belonged.
    The police were diligent, but breaking and entering with no harm done was a dull crime; my house isn’t exactly the Gardner Museum, and scattered papers sprinkled with cat litter weren’t exactly stolen masterpieces. Playing the beam of her flashlight over the ground in the side yard, one of the officers, a young African-American woman, discovered shallow ruts left by the legs of my park bench, which had been hauled beneath the window of my study and subsequently dragged back to its original position. She seemed a little annoyed that I couldn’t remember whether the gate between the yard and the driveway had been locked or unlocked. When I told her that I kept the study window open for ventilation, she shook her head ruefully and told me to buy an air purifier.
    Neighbors stopped by to ask what the trouble was. The female officer asked whether anyone had seen any odd characters hanging around. Cambridge being the diverse community of eccentrics that it is, my neighbors understood the question perfectly. Some of them remembered Miss Whitehead, a Cambridge legend who habitually strolled through Harvard Square with a