The Barker Street Regulars

grave.”
    “You want to know what I think?” Kevin asked.
    “Yes.”
    “You’re letting your imagination run away with you. Look, Holly, you work hard enough at it, you can always make something out of nothing. Take this case we got now. Donald Lively. Drug dealer. Dealt in what? Among other things, cocaine. Sherlock Holmes! The guy victimized the innocent. Not all that innocent, but you can look at it that way.”
    “Was there a yew hedge? A gigantic dog? Were there—”
    “The point is, Holly, what you see depends on what lens you look through.”
    “Lens! There, you see? Lens. Magnifying glass. Sherlock Holmes.”
    Kevin was unimpressed. “If you want to treat this case like it was a Sherlock Holmes story, you look hard enough, and you’re going to find something. I don’t know what, ’cause I haven’t looked, but in his closet, you’re going to find a funny-looking hat with flaps over the ears, or you’re going to find that the guy who lived next door was named Watson or—”
    “Was he?”
    “No. But if he had been, it’d be a coincidence. Like I said, it all depends on the lens you look through.”
    “There it is again!”
    This time, Kevin had the grace to smile. A few minutes later he had the even greater grace to insist on treating me to dinner. As we were leaving the restaurant, I offered polite protests. “And I’m sorry I embarrassed you,” I added.
    “Hey, I was the one who spoiled half your dinner,” Kevin said.
    “That wasn’t your fault.” Kevin held the door for me. He does that. I don’t mind. Stepping onto Mass. Ave., I said, “You couldn’t control where—” I broke off. Passing directly in front of me on the sidewalk, clearly visible in the light of a streetlamp, was a tall, thin man with brown hair cut in a peculiar but fashionable-looking style. His most prominent feature was a bulbous forehead. Tonight, he wasn’t wearing the green suit. Rather, he had on an expensive-looking brown trench coat. As he’d done the first time I’d seen him, though, he carried a white bundle. Actually, he carried two. Neither was a pillowcase. This time, he was clearly returning from an innocent errand. In each hand, he held a plain white plastic shopping bag.
    “Kevin!” I whispered. “Kevin! Get that man!” I lowered my voice another notch and pointed. “Kevin, that’s the man who tried to drown my cat! Get him!” Instead of bolting after the villain as he’d normally have done, Kevin opened his mouth to ask what I assume would have been a question. I now understand that just having recovered from the humiliation I’d inflicted on him in the restaurant, he was eager to avoid tackling the stranger only to have me announce that, gee, sorry, but this wasn’t the same guy after all.
    I’ll let Kevin hold doors for me, but if he doesn’t, I somehow miraculously manage to open them myself. Abandoning Kevin to his second bout of mortification, I sprinted after the man, who had apparently overheard my whispered accusation. As if to confirm his guilt, he was fleeing up Mass. Ave., his progress impeded by the two heavy-looking shopping bags. “You!” I hollered at him. “You! Stop!”
    What did I intend to do with the cat-drowner when I caught him? I had no plan in mind. As I hurtled past parked cars, shop windows, and window-shoppers, it occurred to me that collectively, Rowdy and Kimi outweighed this scrawny cat-murdering bastard. And they were all muscle. If I could handle two Alaskan malamutes in prime condition, I should be able to manage one skinny bit of human scum. “You!” I yelled in a breathless-sounding version of my best bossing-dogs-around voice. “Stop! Or I’m going to get you, and I’m going to rip you to shreds!”
    Without the plastic bags that bumped at his sides, the man might have outdistanced me almost immediately. Running the dogs around Fresh Pond keeps me in decent shape, but in addition to a head start, he had the advantage of long legs. Neither he nor I, however, was a match for Kevin, whose burliness is deceptive: He’s been a long-distance runner since high school. A short sprint barely gives him time to warm up, but once he gets moving, his mass and muscle kick in, and he can keep going forever. When he barged past me, I’d covered a block. My quarry was a good half block ahead. I knew Kevin would lose me. I might as well have stopped to catch my breath. Pride kept me going. Ahead, the thin man made the mistake of looking back.