Rachel Alexander 05 - The Wrong Dog

she’s new.”
    Zeichner was shaking his head.
    “No dogs in this building. Cats. We have three. My neighbors,” he gestured with the cigar, “have one each. Maybe another building?”
    I opened the door to the street and let Dash out, then turned back. Zeichner locked his mailbox and walked out past Dashiell. I followed him, describing what Mel looked like.
    Zeichner shook his head. “I’d like to help you, but I don’t know,” he said.
    “Well, thanks anyway.” I headed for the next building. “Wait a minute,” he called after me. “There’s a skinny guy I see a lot across the street.” He pointed with the cigar. “But his dog doesn’t look like a mix. I mean, not that I’m any expert. Are they usually solid colors, mixed breeds?“
    “Some are, sure.”
    “Well, then maybe this one I saw is Margaret. Or Judy.“
    “Where did he come from?”
    “The guy?”
    “Yeah.”
    “There.” He gestured with his head this time. “Only I still think the dog is a purebred.”
    “A bull terrier?” I asked, thinking he might have seen Mel with Bianca.
    But he just shrugged. “Ask me if it’s an Abyssinian or a Burmese, I can help you out. More than that—” He shrugged again.
    I started to cross the street.
    “What do they look like?” he asked. “Bull terriers.“
    “Medium size, white, Roman nose, shortish tail.” I left out the part about the tear.
    He shook his head, took a puff of his cigar. “Medium size? I don’t think so. This one looked much bigger than medium size.”
    I thanked him and Dashiell and I crossed the street, but when I checked the name on the upper bell, it wasn’t Sugarman. It was Madison. I turned to leave, but then turned back. The plaque on this building said it was managed by
    JSB Properties, just like the building where some vet had taken cells from Blanche. For half a second, I wondered about that. But then I’d always been told that half the buildings in the West Village were owned by Bill Gottlieb. Maybe JSB Properties owned and managed a sizeable chunk of the other half. Because the brass plate on Zeichner’s building had the same name on it, too, as building manager. The third key I tried unlocked the outer door. Then I stood in front of Madison’s mailbox and hesitated. But not for long. A moment later, I was holding his phone bill in my hand.
    Still, I reminded myself, Mel could easily have been taking care of cats, plants, and mail for someone who was away on vacation. Maybe this was where he’d gone the night I’d lost him, not because he lived here, but because he had an Egyptian hairless to feed, a litter box to clean, a coleus to water, and some bills to drop on Madison’s desk. On C. Madison III’s desk.
    Hoo-hah, my grandmother Sonya would have said.
    I had to agree. It didn’t look like the kind of place a III would live. Still, you never know.
    I looked down at Dashiell, who was looking back at me, his tail wagging, well, boss, are we going to see some action or not? written all over his face.
    So I rang the bell. And heard barking.
    The key to the left of the mailbox key opened the door to the stairway. Then mightn’t the next one unlock Madison’s door?
    The stairs were worn down to almost nothing, uneven enough that I had to watch where I put my feet. I held on to the railing, listening to the sound of barking getting louder as I neared the apartment.
    Dash was stuck behind me on the narrow stairway, but when I was halfway up, he couldn’t contain himself any longer. He squeezed by me and scrambled on ahead, dipping his nose to the saddle of the door as soon as we got there, then turning back to see what was taking me so long.
    The key in my hand was a Medico. So was the lock.
    The barking had stopped. Now the dog on the other side of the door was sniffing at the saddle, trying to figure out who was there, friend or foe.
    I slipped the key into the lock and gave it half a turn, then hesitated. If it wasn’t Mel’s apartment, I was trespassing. But that wasn’t my concern. What I did care about was that if it wasn’t Mel’s place, then that wasn’t Judy on the other side of the door. Whoever it was had a mighty big bark. Maybe it was something huge, something hugely unfriendly.
    No matter what was in there, I had to get inside. I had to get to the bottom of this, and I had to do it now.
    Dashiell was pressed against my side, his forehead wrinkled, his hackles up, his tail straight out behind him, stiff as a rudder. A low growl