The Barker Street Regulars

papers, he’d been operating an elite cocaine operation that catered to software millionaires, wealthy foreign students, and other beautiful people with runny noses. Because of the proximity of Lively’s headquarters to those of the law, the case had received lots of media attention. Kevin and a couple of other investigators working on it had had their pictures in both Boston newspapers and had appeared on the TV news. Kevin was, however, atypically silent about the progress of the investigation. Today, he looked preoccupied and discouraged.
    “That’s some Hollywood version,” I said defensively. “In the stories, Watson doesn’t approve, and eventually, Holmes gets cured. Anyway, Kevin, I want you to find this guy who tried to drown the cat.”
    “You call the M.S.P.C.A.?” The Massachusetts Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.
    “Yes, but they’re obviously not going to do any-thing. They did ask about his van, but they had no interest in examining the evidence. And if his foot hit this stone when he kicked the pillowcase, he might be limping! That would help. Even apart from that! Kevin, I could identify this man.” I tried to talk Kevin into let-ting me go to the station to look through mug shots. Anyone vile enough to commit assault and attempted murder on an animal would surely have his picture on file in connection with other crimes, too. Kevin didn’t disagree, really. He just said that he’d think about it. He left without the stone, the pillowcase, and the twine.
    After Kevin’s departure, I ran to the local convenience store for cat food, litter, and a disposable cat litter tray that I filled and installed in my bedroom. This time, instead of trying to entice the cat out, I shoved a bowl of smelly canned cat food into its den, firmly closed the bedroom door, and got to work on the dogs. Kimi is easier to bathe than Rowdy. I did her first and then tackled Rowdy, who considers water a form of sulphuric acid that will burn through his skin on contact. He managed to leap out of the tub only once, but as usual, he shrieked the entire time, and when I’d finally finished rinsing him, he shook hard before I’d grabbed a towel, and the whole bathroom got sprayed with damp dog hair.
    When Steve arrived, the kitchen table was shoved against a counter, and the grooming table and my new high-power blower occupied the center of the floor. Kimi, I must brag, looked fabulous. My wrists ached from brushing her. Rowdy was now on the table, the blower was roaring, and the kitchen looked like what it had become: a grooming shop. Although more tiring and messy than assuming the lotus position to chant ohm and envision irises, grooming is nonetheless a form of meditation in which subject and object, you and the dog, achieve a state of mystical communication and blissfully transcendent unity. When you’re done, you look like hell and feel wonderful.
    Steve didn’t feel wonderful. For once, he didn’t even look wonderful. He wore green scrubs, which usually bring out the green in his eyes, but he was spattered with drops of blood, his eyes were a flat blue, and his face was expressionless. I turned off the dryer and needlessly asked how he was doing. Instead of answering, he just said he needed a shower.
    “I haven’t cleaned the bathroom yet,” I admitted. “It’s still filled with hair. I’ll do it now.”
    “Don’t bother,” he said.
    “I don’t mind. And don’t open the bedroom door. There’s a cat in there. I need you to take a look at it. There’s no hurry.”
    “Good.” He opened the refrigerator door, got a glass from the cupboard, and started to pour himself some milk. Before drinking it, he stuck in a finger and removed what must have been a dog hair. “You couldn’t do this somewhere else?”
    “I always groom here in the winter.”
    “At seven-thirty on Friday night?”
    “It’s not seven-thirty. Is it? I lost track of time. The dogs haven’t even eaten yet.”
    “Neither,” said Steve gloomily, “have I.”
    Three hours later, the dogs were in their crates in the guest room, and Steve and I were in bed. He was asleep. I was reading Sherlock Holmes. Holmes hadn’t had a sex life, either, I was thinking. Abstinence didn’t seem to have done him any harm. I put the book down, turned off the light, passed out, and had erotic dreams. In the middle of the night, I was awakened by a soft noise or perhaps by the crack of light that showed through the half-open