Rachel Alexander 05 - The Wrong Dog

of his forebears, even better if, like the guy approaching, that’s how you made your living.
    He was oafish looking, tall and thin with the kind of posture that makes you wonder if there are any bones inside his insubstantial-looking body, all arms and legs flipping around like overcooked spaghetti with each step he took in my direction. But then he stopped and just stood where he was, at the far side of the leather-goods store.
    “Are you Sophie’s walker?”
    He nodded, but he wasn’t looking at me. His eyes were on Dashiell. I ignored his unsaid question. I had other things on my mind.
    “She didn’t go to work today and she never called in sick,” I said. “I’ve been unable to reach her here.”
    That’s when he looked up. “And your point is?”
    “Are you here to pick up Bianca?”
    “I am.”
    “I’d like to go with you.”
    “Into the apartment?”
    I nodded.
    “I can’t do that.”
    I would have liked to have taken a step forward, to be, literally, in his face. But Dashiell was between us and I thought that would do.
    “You can. And you will,” I told him. “I’m really worried about Sophie and I’m not going to stand out here arguing with you about this.”
    He stood there staring, those skinny arms flapping at his sides as if he were trying to get airborne, probably trying to figure out who the hell I was to give him so much attitude.
    “Rachel Alexander,” I told him. “And Dashiell. Now open the fucking door.”
    “Mel Sugarman,” he said, the key already in the lock.
    He turned around twice to see what Dashiell was doing, then held the door so that we could go first. I don’t think it was chivalry, which, as far as I can tell, is resting in peace back in the Middle Ages. He probably thought he’d be in a better position if Dash and I were ahead of him, if he could keep an eye on my pit bull. Sometimes I don’t mind the fact that my dog’s breed has the worst PR of any breed in history. Sometimes it’s expedient to let people think what they will.
    I stepped aside at the back of the long hall and watched as he unlocked both of Sophie’s locks, then knocked. He tried a second time before pushing the door open.
    He stepped inside and said her name with so much alarm that I pushed past him until I could see what it was that he had seen.
    She was lying on her side on the far side of the couch. From the doorway, we could see only her legs, the knees pulled up as if she was in pain. But when we walked into the apartment, slowly, and very close to each other, as if we were attached at the hip, we could both see that Sophie Gordon was no longer feeling anything.
    I couldn’t see if her eyes were open or closed because her glasses were all smudged and covered with dust and dog hair. Her mouth was open, as if in a scream. The carpet looked wet near her mouth, as if she’d been drooling. One arm was over her head, the other out in front of her, the knees drawn tight to her stomach, as if she’d been thrashing around before she’d died and had then just frozen in that position. Lying against her back was the bigger of the bullies, Blanche, who had never lifted her head to see who was there. Lying near her face was Bianca, the baby, looking at us, then licking her dead mistress, still trying to wake her up.
    I handed Dashiell’s leash to Mel and felt around for a pulse in her neck, though it hardly seemed necessary. She was ice-cold.
    Even then, when I was kneeling next to her, Blanche’s head stayed down, her chin on the floor, her cheek pressed tight against Sophie’s back.
    I stood up and looked at Mel. “You better call nine-one-one.” He pulled out a cell phone and punched in the number, giving the information in a voice so dry I thought he would choke.
    Afraid to touch anything that would compromise the information available, we stood exactly where we were without moving, waiting for the police to arrive. Dashiell waited, too, standing at the side of the couch, his muzzle high, testing and retesting the air. And Bianca, though she whined from time to time, stayed right where she was, with Sophie. It was Blanche who broke my heart. In all the time we were there, she never once picked up her head to look at us. It was almost as if, with Sophie gone, she’d died, too.
    I did talk to Mel. I knew there wouldn’t be much time, that the cops would be there in minutes.
    “Did Sophie explain about Bianca’s relationship to Blanche?” I asked, cutting right to the