Rachel Alexander 02 - The Dog who knew too much

where she is now. But if I know you,
    you’ll find out. So good, now you have your work cut out for you.”
    “Did you secure the scene?”
    “No need to put Ashkenasi out of business, Rachel. It was a suicide.”
    He tossed the ball toward Charles Street and it bounced under one of the police cars. Watson and Dash went to wrestle the ball out from under the car while Elwood stood by, so dopey looking he might have been drugged.
    “Right,” I said. “There was a note. Where is that now?”
    “In the file, Rach .”
    “Could I see it, Marty?” I whispered, even though there was no one else around.
    “Let me get this straight, you’re standing there asking me to break the rules?”
    Every cop lives by two rules, Marty had told me the first two hundred times I’d asked for information. Rule one, Keep your mouth shut. Rule two, Never break rule one.
    “Just this once,” I said. As usual.
    He rolled his eyes.
    “You’re a pain in my butt, did I ever tell you that?”
    “You did,” I said. “Several times.”
    “Okay, as long as it’s on the record. Wait a minute. Wait right here.”
    Information you don’t share, he’d say, drawing out the significant word, can’t come back to haunt you.
    He opened the side door, the one that led to the kennels. Elwood and Watson ran inside, and then Marty disappeared, too. I waited in the alley, Dashiell at my side. In a few minutes Marty was back, a doughnut box in his hand, Elwood waddling along behind him.
    “These are the doughnuts you accused me of feeding Elwood,” he said. “Here, take this home and read for yourself. These ar e fat free , Rachel. No way Elwood coulda got fat on these. I think it’s his metabolism.”
    I took the box and looked at Elwood, remembering that not so long ago he was thinner, faster, and smarter.
    “You might have a point there, Marty. Have you ever had his thyroid function tested? He might be hypothyroid.”
    “Yeah? Gluck has that, the guy at the desk. Blew up to two-fifty couple of years ago. Slept ten hours a night, sucked caffeine all day, and he was always looking to take a nap. Now he takes his pills, he’s just like normal. I’ll get El checked out. Thanks, Rach .”
    “Thank you,” I said. “For the doughnut box.” I gave it a shake.
    “And the doughnut.”
    “Don’t mention it,” he said. Then he whispered, “I mean really don’t mention it.”
    I nodded.
    “You take care, kid, okay ?”
    I clipped Dash’s leash to his collar and headed back toward Tenth Street . As soon as I had turned the comer onto Hudson , heading south, I read the box, then opened it. There were two things inside. I pocketed the folded piece of paper, ditched the box in the trash basket on the comer, and ate the delectable-looking, full-fat, chocolate-covered doughnut on the way to Lisa’s.

She’d Called Her Penny

    LISA JACOBS’S APARTMENT was on the second floor of the Printing House, one of many formerly industrial buildings that had been converted into high-priced condos or co-ops, only in the case of the Printing House, the prices were so high that a lot of the units had failed to sell and were rentals. Not Lisa’s. Lisa had wanted the Village, the Village, so her daddy had bought her a condo, one with full-time concierge coverage, maid service, and a gym on the top floor. Lisa’s apartment faced east, overlooking Hudson Street and, beyond that, James J. Walker Park, where kids played baseball in the warm weather and dogs played Who’s Dominant? from December through March.
    Dashiell went crazy smelling the odors left by Lisa’s Akita as I walked around trying to get a feel for the place and for the woman who until recently had lived here. Straight across from the door was a wall of enormous windows, serving both the downstairs and the bedroom, up a flight, built as a balcony over the end of the apartment nearest the door and looking down over the living room. The place was painted white, underfurnished , clean, interesting —it looked as if it had been a cheerful place to live. There was a small, colorful rug in the area opposite the kitchen where the dining room table sat, and the Times , nearly two weeks old, was lying there as if Lisa had just gone to heat up her coffee. Or more likely, get another hit of herb tea. Over the table, hanging upside down from the ceiling, were dozens of dried bouquets of roses, still fragrant, and on the table was a teal blue vase, empty now. Near the vase were Lisa’s appointment