Rachel Alexander 05 - The Wrong Dog

stairs. Clearly, the man had no scruples. He was not only a murderer, he was a liar, too.
    I had to pull Dashiell back into the apartment His back was up, his hackles electrified from his thick neck to the base of his tail. The bullies were barking now, too. Before opening the door to the garden for them, I looked into Sophie’s room to check the damage. The answering machine was upside down on the floor, the receiver as far away as the cord had let it go, the screen was tom, the hole about the size of a leaping, angry pit bull, and there were deep scratches on the desk where Dashiell had kicked off after landing.
    I let Blanche and Bianca in, and went into the kitchen to make that cup of tea, but I’d apparently forgotten to light the burner. Or had I? When I touched the kettle, it was hot. Then another strange thing happened. I could hear someone playing the piano. I looked around, but there weren’t any lights on in the windows I could see. No surprise. It was five to four. I walked out and sat on the bench in the dark, listening carefully, trying to locate the source. But the way sound bounces off buildings in the city, it could have been coming from anywhere, even the other side of Third Street, in one of the apartments between the pizza place and the garage.
    Sitting there in the dark, my feet pulled up onto the bench, Bianca up there next to me while Blanche slept at my feet and Dashiell, still hyper-alert, patrolled, I remembered that the first time Sophie had called me, I’d heard music. At the time, I’d thought she had her radio playing. But it wasn’t that. She’d been out in her garden, talking about hiring a PI.
    A chill went up my back and down my aching right arm.
    Could someone have overheard her? Of course. That made lots of what had happened make sense.
    Someone had been watching her all along.
    And now that someone was watching me.
    I got up and went inside, calling the dogs to follow, locking the door behind me. Then I shut off the living room lights. I walked down the little hall to Sophie’s front door and slipped the chain lock on. Then, followed by all three dogs, I went into Sophie’s room and closed the window over the desk, turning the lock and checking to make sure it held. I thought we’d all had quite enough activity for one night.
    But I couldn’t sleep. Nor did I want to. With all the lights off, I got dressed, and, leaving the bullies at home, Dashiell and I left the apartment, locked the door, and headed not out, but up the stairs.

Chapter 23
    Someone Had Insomnia

    Dashiell ran ahead, turning to wait for me at each landing. Normally, he would have thought this was a game. He might have run down to the landing below, then bumped me in the leg on his way past me, just to show me he was the faster animal, and the one with the wittier sense of humor. But after Joe’s visit, Dash was all business, running ahead to make sure the way was safe for me, looking back to assure himself that I was on my way to join him, that nothing had stopped me or slowed me down.
    All the way up, I prayed I’d find an unlocked door. When I finally got to six, my breath ragged but not enough to stop me, I looked for the door to the roof. Opening it and looking up the stairs, I could see the panic bar on the door and knew I could get out. It was a fire exit and had to be open.
    We ran up the last flight and I hit the bar and let Dashiell out first. Then I slipped off my shoes, propping the door open with them. A door with panic hardware would definitely be locked from the outside and I didn’t want to be locked out on the roof of Sophie’s building with no way to get back in.
    I walked to the back edge of the roof and knelt so that I could look over and still feel relatively safe. The parapet was only three feet high and had I stood there looking down, my stomach would have done the loop de loop until ten minutes after I was back downstairs at Sophie’s.
    It was nearly dawn and all the windows but one were dark. Someone had insomnia. Or a baby who’d cried for attention. No matter. I could still see what I wanted to— which windows overlooked Sophie’s garden.
    Someone could see her. Someone could listen to her phone calls when she took the cordless phone out into the garden and called a private investigator. Someone had seen something, or heard something, that made them want Sophie dead.
    Looking over the edge I could see into the next garden, the one behind the brick wall, and the back of