This Dog for Hire

another word.
    I peeked inside the crate. Magritte was asleep. I suddenly realized how vulnerable he was, left by his duly authorized agent with a complete stranger who could easily lift him out of his crate, carry him to the escalator, ride down, and leave the Garden without anyone noticing or saying a word.
    Who the fuck was I that be could leave the dog in his charge in my care!
    Dogs were stolen all the time, not all of them from backyards, cars, or where they had been left for just a half a moment while the owner ducked into a store to buy a Boston lettuce.
    But in fact I hadn’t taken the time to ingratiate myself with Magritte’s handler in order to steal Magritte, not that that made this Morgan Gilmore’s lucky day. Quite the contrary. I had weaseled my way here to protect Magritte, and while I was at it, see if I could find something that would make the evidence against his handler more concrete than speculative.
    I looked behind Magritte’s crate to see if there was a camel coat neatly folded and tucked back there, and noticed, right at the side of the crate, in plain sight, that Gil had left, in a small heap, a pile of change, his liver pouch, his calendar, and his card case.
    I opened the calendar first to January 19, the day Magritte had been stolen. There was no notation. Nor was there any under the 20th, the day Clifford was killed.
    Well, how unusual. It didn’t say, “Tuesday, January 19. Call Clifford Cole and find out when he’ll be out without his dog. Kidnap Magritte.”
    Nor did it say, “Wednesday, January 20. Murder Clifford Cole.”
    I put the calendar back where I had found it and picked up the card case, flipped it open, and found not only Gil’s business cards but his credit cards as well. It was a wonder to me that someone so dishonest could trust in the honesty of so many strangers and leave his valuables lying around where anyone could take them. Or did he have the poor judgment to trust that I would protect his valuables for him?
    There was only a raincoat behind the crate. Bum mer. Not even a beret or a white scarf tucked into the sleeve. I reached into his coat pockets and, underneath a handkerchief and an extra show lead, found his key ring. After a quick peek around during which I discovered that no one was paying the least bit of attention to me and that Gil had not re turned to find me with my hand in his pocket, I pulled out my own keys and checked the loft keys Dennis had given me against Gil’s ring.
    I slipped the keys back into the bottom of Gil’s pocket and put the raincoat back behind Magritte's crate.
    There would have had to have been times when Gil had to pick up or drop off Magritte when Cliff couldn’t have been there. So Cliff did the only practical thing he could.
    He made Gil his own set.

23
    You’d Have to Wonder

    “HERE’S OUR BOY!” I heard, close enough to startle me and loud enough for several aisles of people to hear.
    I turned to see Veronica Cahill, stunning in a double-breasted black pantsuit with gold buttons, bending from the waist to look Magritte in the eye.
    “You better win, you little vantz” she told him. “You’re costing me a fortune.”
    I got a wad of pretty good-looking tissues out just in time to catch a sneeze. Magritte sneezed back, as if I were playing his favorite game.
    Just behind Veronica, Louis Lane was standing and waiting, but clearly not waiting his turn to greet Magritte. He spotted me and opened his mouth, but I shook my head in time to close it for him.
    Veronica straightened up, making me feel like a troll. She was even taller than Louis.
    “He looks wonderful, darling,” she said, her hand on Louis’s chest. “There’s not another to equal him. I never get tired of looking at Magritte.” She winked at Louis, whose neck reddened.
    Perhaps it was his allergy acting up.
    “Come on, Veronica. Oughtn’t we try to get ring side now so we don’t miss anything?”
    “No, no. I want to see the others, the ones he’s up against, those scruffy little interlopers.” She turned down the aisle to check out the other basenjis, leaving Louis to follow or not.
    Louis’s mouth opened, then closed. Neither of us said a word.
    He was wearing a white sweater with a charcoal gray jacket over it, a long white silk scarf draped around his neck. I wondered exactly what kind of game he was playing with Veronica. I wondered if. at least on this occasion, he had stretched a point and considered the virtues of