Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

Belle signaled the server for the tab, then pointed at her plate, requesting a go box for it. “You have no idea how many times I prayed to my crotch to get with it when my period was a little late. Now I’m hollering up there, ‘Swim, boys. Swim.’”

Jack was supposed to laugh. He said, “I didn’t think you wanted kids.” Pride bit off, With me.

“Woman’s prerogative. One baby would be okay. Wonderful, actually.” Belle drained her glass and blew out a breath. “Carleton isn’t the paternal type, but I’ll be damned if Abdullah Whatthefuckever will be our sole heir.”

“Abdu—oh. The dog.”

“How dare you call a champion afghan hound a dog. The old biddies at Westminster would have your head. So would the harem he’s servicing in Florida.” Belle autographed the credit card chit. “That hairball on stilts is higher maintenance than I am.”

Jack chuckled. “That’s saying somethin’, kid.”

Motion outside the window caught his eye. Vaguely attuned to Belle’s continued slander against man’s best friend, Jack leaned over the table, expanding his view of the restaurant’s parking lot.

The lunch crowd had pretty well winnowed to vacationers as logy as over-the-road truckers who were seventeen hours into a ten-hour day. Jack’s Taurus was baking in the mid-July sun. Belle’s café-au-lait Mercedes coupe was parked a half-dozen rows east and farther from the restaurant’s entrance.

Here and there, customers prolonged goodbyes, nodding and talking over the roofs of their vehicles. No familiar faces among them—no white-and-Bondo-colored subcompacts in the vicinity.

Still scanning the lot, Jack said, “You haven’t noticed anybody, um, hanging around outside your house lately, have you? A strange car cruising by, anything like that?”

When Belle didn’t answer, he looked at her. “Hey, no cause for the big eyes. Just curious, that’s all.”

Belle extracted a pair of sunglasses from her bag and slipped them on. Swiveling in her chair, she said, “I knew you were in trouble. What is it this time? Another pissed-off husband swinging single? Somebody pink-slipped after your background check?”

“I’m not in trouble.”

She pulled down the shades an inch and peered over the frames.

“I’m not,” Jack insisted, then groaned. “There’s this mope—twenty-something, big as an upright freezer. He tagged me for a job, I turned him down, gave him some excellent career counseling and sent him on his way.”

Belle’s stare narrowed, but remained as steady as twin-beam halogens. Her fingers waggled, Keep going.

Jack peeled back his suit coat sleeve for a look at his watch. If he didn’t haul asphalt in three minutes, he’d be late for the appointment with Gerry Abramson. “The kid thought he’d impress me with my own résumé, financials and an activities report.”

“You mean he tailed you?”

Jack scowled at her apparent amusement. “If I hadn’t been working a domestic, I’d have spotted his crap-mobile—” he snapped his fingers “—like that.”

“Uh-huh.” A fingernail clicked a riff on the tabletop. “You think he’s stalking you.”

“Not really.” Saying it didn’t make it true, but Jack liked the sound of it. “Trust me. He’s about as built for covert surveillance as Sasquatch.”

Belle pondered a moment. “Then you’re afraid he’ll use info from the dossier on you to stalk me.” It wasn’t a question. And there wasn’t a molecule of fear in her tone.

“It occurred to me.” Jack stood and held the back of her chair to steady it. The scenery below provoked a mental wolf whistle. Belle McPhee deHaven had an unquestionably fine set of legs, but it was the peek at her cleavage that brought back many a fond memory.

She and Jack epitomized a couple who should never have parlayed friendship into matrimony. He was damn lucky he’d escaped the latter without destroying the former.

He walked her out, saying, “Okay, I’ll admit, this dude gave me the heebie-jeebies. You know the type. A schlump, except the eye contact’s too long and a touch too intense.”

“Does this schlump have a name?”

“Brett Dean Blankenship.” Taking Belle’s keys, he pressed the fob’s remote button to unlock the Mercedes’s door. “About six-three and four hundred pounds of solid flab. How he packs it into a Chevy Cavalier defies physics.”

Belle scanned the parking lot, as if daring Moby Dick to surface. “Thanks for the warning.”

“At most, it’s a heads-up.” He kissed her lightly on the lips. “Sorry I have to run.”

“I’m used to it.” She flashed a no-insult-intended smile.

Jack couldn’t tell through her sunglasses, but bet it didn’t reach her eyes. Something was bothering her. He could feel it. “How about meeting me for a drink later? If Abramson’s retainer is over a couple of grand, I’ll even buy.”

“I wish I could.” Belle sighed as though she meant it. “Carleton and I are meeting some people for dinner at the club.”

Bars kicked off happy hour at four, but Jack gave her a rain check. “If you, uh, want to shoot the breeze some more, you know the numbers.”

She nodded and pulled the car door shut.

By the time Jack reached the Taurus, he decided his imagination was working double overtime. An occupational hazard for a semi-underemployed snoop. Belle’s admitted boredom wasn’t a crisis, even if the rival for your husband’s affections was a trophy dog. And he hadn’t seen Blankenship as much as sensed him.

He dawdled a moment beside his car to let the blast-furnace heat escape the open door. Belle was right about his being a lousy husband and provider, he thought. But for all the things she’d ripped him for, boredom had never been one of them.

The National Federated Insurers’ office was housed in a remodeled Asian restaurant. The mud-brown exterior and pagoda roof reclad in cedar shakes evoked Jackie Chan Does Sante Fe, but the parking area was large enough for employees, visitors and a bank’s repossessed-vehicles sales lot.

Jack perused a sweet electric-blue speedboat marooned on its trailer. Babe magnet. Babe-in-a-bikini magnet. He could be the Captain and she, his Tennille. The fantasy shimmied and vanished, like a cartoon genie into a bottle. Babes young enough to wear bikinis probably wouldn’t know the Captain and Tennille from Captain Kangaroo.

On that depressing note, Jack entered the insurance agency’s reception area and gave his name to the blonde behind the counter. Without missing a beat of her cell phone conversation, she pointed over her shoulder at Gerry Abramson’s private office.

A double row of desks resided where buffet steam tables had fed the all-you-can-eat multitudes until a health department inspector contracted botulism. Three of the agency’s four workstations were unoccupied. At the back on the window-wall side, Wes Shapiro waved Jack on.

The office manager wouldn’t be picked out of a lineup if a witness had a snapshot of the assailant. Medium build, medium height, medium everything from buzz cut to wingtips. One of those guys who looked the same at his high school graduation as he did at the thirtieth reunion. And not in a good way.

“How’s it going, stranger?” Wes stuck out a hand. “I haven’t seen you since the snow was flying.”

Park City received a total of three inches all last winter, but the slip-and-fall claim Jack investigated turned out to be genuine. When the victim’s civil suit against the negligent store owner went to court, Jack would testify for the plaintiff. Gladly testify. Last he’d heard, she was still in a wheelchair.

Wes lowered his voice. “I told the boss to call you two months ago.” A thumb pinched an index finger. “The cheap son of a gun has the first dollar this agency ever made.”

“Framed and hung on the wall, no less.” McPhee Investigations’ first dollar was encased in Lucite on Jack’s desk. Classy.

“Tell Gerry I’ll have the files together in a few,” Wes said. “He’ll nag me on the intercom anyway, but the photocopier’s a two-speed model. Slow and broken.”

Jack continued on, turning into a corridor with gender-specific restrooms on his right. Wes’s parting remark was an ode to middle management. Nowhere to go but out imposed a constant straddle between indispensible and justifying your existence.

He and Gerry Abramson shook on their mutual gladness to see each other. For as long as Jack had known him, the independent insurance broker had threatened retirement. Today, a hypertensive complexion and bulldog jaw implied a fatal coronary might punch Gerry’s ticket before dinnertime.

Jack asked after Letha, Gerry’s wife of forty-seven years. The vivacious grandmother of nine was battling Parkinson’s disease.

“She has her good days and bad.” Gerry winged his elbows on the arms of a leather desk chair. “The doc’s put her on a new course of treatment. It’s experimental and costs the moon, but it seems to help.”

He shook his head. “Almost a half century in the insurance business, and I’m fighting tooth and toenail with our carrier to cover the meds.” A bitter chuckle, then, “And losing.”

“Then chumps like me don’t have a prayer.” Jack rapped on the visitor chair’s oak frame. A sole proprietor fears extended illness and a debilitating injury more than the IRS. No work, no income. The flu bug can knock a zero off a month’s earnings.

“Time was,” Gerry continued, “and not that long ago, when I felt good telling customers not to worry. Fire? Surgery? Hail damage? We’ve got you covered.”

A crooked finger ratcheted down the knot in his tie, as though it were the source of discomfort. “Nowadays, I’m the villain with a briefcase full of loopholes and exclusions.” He grimaced, levering the collar button backward through its corresponding hole. “And a lot smaller check than they hung their hopes on.”

Jack wondered why Gerry didn’t sell out and retire. What kept him coming to this cozy, thick-carpeted office paneled in genuine walnut and adorned with framed certificates of achievement and appreciation? A national newspaper’s bar chart recently rated the public’s attitude toward various professions. Attorneys historically ranked number one in the most-despised category. The poll’s results now placed insurance agents in the lead by several percentage points.

Gerry Abramson had two first loves. Clinging to a semblance of control over an industry he hardly recognized wasn’t as painful as watching a bastard named Parkinson steal away his wife and being helpless to stop him.

“How about a soda?” he said, rolling backward in his chair. He opened a minifridge built into the credenza. “Bottled water? Chilled cappucino?” He winked. “Just between us, these juice boxes for the grandkids aren’t bad with a shot of vodka stirred in.”

Jack declined and was relieved when Gerry snapped the ring tab on a can of diet cola. The man had every reason in the world to spike an orange drink at two o’clock on a hot July afternoon. The Abramson clan photo atop the credenza symbolized eighteen better reasons not to.

“This job you mentioned on the phone,” he said. “Since you didn’t specify, I’m guessing it’s a fraudulent property-loss claim. Probably a high-profile customer.”

Gerry glared at the doorway, then jabbed an in-house button on the console phone.

“Here’s the copies,” Wes said, entering the office at the precise moment his employer’s call connected. He cut a look at Jack, as though delivering the punch line of a private joke.

After the handoff to Gerry, Wes pulled over a second visitor’s chair. His backside was approaching a landing, but hadn’t quite touched down when Gerry cocked his head at the phone. “Three lines are on hold.”

Wes nodded. “One for Chase and two for Melanie. They just came back in from their claims adjustments.”

“Then take one of Melanie’s until she’s freed up,” Gerry said “And, do me a favor and close the door on your way out.”

“Oh. Sure thing.” The office manager left the room smiling. Behind him, the door shut with a barely audible snick.

Gerry rolled his eyes. “Wes wants to be an investigator so bad it’s almost painful to see.”

Thinking of Blankenship, Jack replied, “Doesn’t everybody?”

The copied files Gerry parceled out concerned a series of residential burglaries dating back to Memorial Day weekend. “Here’s where it gets interesting.” He gave Jack a sheaf of police reports. “The same thief or thieves hit last year, starting Memorial Day, then went to ground Labor Day weekend.”

He paused to let Jack skim the pages. “Luck of the draw, maybe, but only two of last year’s targets were National Federated clients. This year, the so-called Calendar Burglar has already nailed three of my policy holders.”

The nickname rang a bell—the tiny baby-shoe kind, not a tolling brass one. By the number of reports, the reverse should have been true. “Why haven’t I seen anything in the newspaper about this?”

“The Park City Herald focused on it to some extent late last summer. You know, ‘Another west-side home burgled while owners on vacation.’ Or east side. Or south side. Then the usual PD information officer quotes on home security, warnings about disclosing travel plans to strangers, etc.”

Gerry drained the soda can and lobbed it at the trash bin. “Property-theft complaints always jump in the summer and during the holidays. By the time the cops and the newspaper connected these particular dots, the Calendar Burglar vamoosed.”

“Feeling the heat,” Jack speculated. “Moved on to cooler pastures.”

“That was the assumption, except a unit detective followed up in his spare time. Feelers put out to regional PDs netted no thefts that resembled these—the M.O. or an exclusive preference for jewelry.”

Gerry allowed that the burglar could have switched specialties, wintered in a warmer clime or been jailed on an unrelated charge. “Whatever caused the lull, he’s back. The Herald isn’t happy about keeping the story low profile, but some influential victims and real estate developers don’t want their neighborhoods depicted as crime scenes.”

“God forbid.” Jack snorted. “They may as well leave out cookies and milk for this dude. A little snack for bad ol’ anti-Claus.”

“Residential watch groups were alerted in early June. Private security and police patrols in probable target zones have been increased.”

“Uh-huh.” Jack’s finger tapped the prior Sunday’s date on the most recent burglary complaint. “Fairly obvious, what a big friggin’ bite that’s taking out of crime.”

“I want him caught, McPhee.”

Jack looked up. The tone and content of Gerry’s statement weren’t particularly open to interpretation. “You want me to catch a burglar?”

The insurance broker leaned forward and braced his elbows on the desk. “I hope your schedule’s clear enough, or can be cleared to devote full-time to this.”

There were some less than lucrative jobs pending on Jack’s calendar. Otherwise, if the schedule had been any clearer, he’d be applying for a shopping-cart jockey’s job at the local Sav-A-Lot.

National Federated’s retainer would be commensurate with exclusivity, but a scratching sensation behind Jack’s sternum hinted that Gerry Abramson was holding something back.

Perhaps an untranscribed chat with a crime-unit investigator who suspected this Calendar Burglar carried an AK-47 in his pillowcase. Most housebreakers aren’t armed; county jail or prison-time on a theft rap is measured in single-to double-digit months. Add a weapons charge and it’s usually sayonara for a long stretch.

But kill somebody with it—say, the P.I. on your case—and it’s twenty-five to life. A punishment befitting the crime, Jack thought, except for me still being dead.

“The newspaper may be downplaying the story,” he said, “but this victims list must have lit a bonfire under the police chief’s butt.”

Gerry nodded. “It hasn’t slowed, much less stopped these thefts. If the Calendar Burglar isn’t arrested before Labor Day weekend, it stands to reason, he’ll disappear again.”

And bloom like jonquils along a fence row next May. “I understand the reasoning, Gerry. To be honest, just thinking about it has my motor running, and the fee for services could be a beaut.”

Jack laid the paperwork on the desk, then sat back and crossed a leg on his knee. “What I don’t get is why you think I can make a tinker’s damn worth of difference.”

“Fresh eyes. Fresh perspective.” His gesture relayed “If I’m footing the bill, what’s the problem?”

The response was credible, even logical, but a tad too quick. Jack thought back to Wes’s earlier remark about advising Gerry to contact McPhee Investigations shortly after the burglaries recommenced. Then the polite bum’s rush Wes received when he tried to invite himself to the powwow.

“You think Shapiro’s the Calendar Burglar,” Jack said. “He covered himself by concentrating on other insurers’ clients, then either greed or smarts told him he’d better dip into the home well, or somebody’d get wise.”

Gerry’s expression slackened. Skin folds lapping his eyelids retracted, as though an instant blepharoplasty had been performed. Chuckles escalated to a belly laugh. “Wait’ll I tell Letha. Picturing Wes tiptoeing around like Cary Grant in that old cat burglar movie will be stuck in our heads for who knows how long.”

Great. Now that he mentioned it, the image implanted itself in Jack’s mind. Sort of like Don Knotts resurrected for a remake. No, not quite that big a departure. Jerry Stiller, maybe. Or What’s-his-name—that average Joe born to play average Joes.

“It’s as simple as this,” Gerry said. “I’m an independent insurance agent. A hub in a wheel with multiple spokes. When loss claims hike, instead of one provider’s boot on my neck, it’s a centipede.” He blew out a breath. “I shouldn’t have to tell you, I don’t need the stress.”

A half hour later, Jack left the building with an armload of files, a retainer check and no idea how he’d earn it.

4

Single-story duplexes are usually long rectangles with mirror-reverse floorplans. By the county assessor’s definition, two contiguous residential units separated by a foot-thick rock firewall were patio homes. Very la-di-da, in Dina’s opinion, but such was government work. Whether duplex or patio home, the bisected building wasn’t rectangular, either, but an L painted a cruddy shade of gray.

The units shared a three-quarter pie-shaped front yard, a sweetgum tree and views of an adjacent redbrick warehouse, but respective tenants seldom saw each other. The jackknifed design had the neighbors facing north at the corner of Rosedale Court and Lambert Avenue; the Wexlers’ side pointed due east on Lambert at its intersection with Spring Street.

Visitors directed to the corner of Lambert and Rosedale would idle at the curb, look from one unit to the other and mutter “Eeny, meeny, miney.” Occasionally they chose the right “mo.” A few hit the gas and drove away in a huff. Those who rang the Wexlers’ doorbell in error kept them apprised of the current neighbors’ last name.

As Dina cruised up Lambert Avenue at 1:15 a.m., the Rosedale side’s windows were dark. Lights blazed from Casa Wexler as if a party was in progress. Where Harriet’s energy-conservation policy once consisted of “Flip off that switch when you leave a room. You think I own the electric company?”, evidently, she now thought her daughter did.

Dina pulled past the mailbox, shifted the Beetle into Reverse and backed into the driveway. The engine hacked and sputtered. Mechanical bronchitis was typical of vehicles with a couple of hundred thousand miles on their odometers.

Someday she’d have the money to restore it to its original…well, glory was a bit highfalutin for an ancient VW. She’d settle for a new milky-cocoa paint job and straightening the Val Kilmer sneer in the rear bumper.

The Beetle was as short in the chassis as she was, but the single garage wasn’t deep enough to squeeze between the wall and the car to open the front-end trunk. She shifted into Neutral, yanked on the emergency brake, then slumped in the seat. She was just too pooped to muscle up the garage door, back in the Bug, unload her stuff, then jump for the rope tied to the door’s cross brace to pull it down again.

“Someday number two,” she said. “I’ll have a garage with an electric opener and shutter.”

Leaving the Beetle to the elements, she reached into the trunk and wrestled with the magnetic Luigi’s Chicago-Style Pizza sign earlier peeled off the driver’s-side door. Her hobo bag slung over one shoulder counterbalanced the canvas tote on the other. Quietly, she closed the trunk, then relocked it.

The duplex’s front door swung open the moment the key was inserted. Dina groaned in frustration. Sirens and extended commercial breaks often lured her mother from the world that was her chair to survey the larger, outside one. When the TV program resumed, or no disaster was visible beyond the stoop, she’d shut the door and call it good.

Harriet Wexler could not—or would not—get it through her head that the day was long gone when locked doors and drawn curtains meant you had something to hide.

Inside, an infomercial hawked its wares to an unoccupied glider rocker. The habit of leaving on the TV “for company” impelled silent prayers that her mother hadn’t toddled off hours ago to the bathroom and collapsed in a heap on the floor.

Dina left her purse and bag on the table and tiptoed down the hall. Whuffly snores met her midway. In the master bedroom, clear plastic tubing tethered Harriet to the oxygen machine at the end of the bed. Yards of extra hose lassoed the cannonball footpost.

In the light slanting from the open bathroom door, she resembled a child actor made up and bewigged to play her future self. Fingers curled over the bedcovers pulled up to her chin suggested a foil for pixies and their nightly tug-of-war with the blanket.

Dina eyed the machine’s distilled-water level, then blew her mother a kiss. “Sweet dreams, Mom.”

Naturally, Harriet continued to insist she didn’t need oxygen, though her color and energy had improved in the past four days. Dina worried about her tripping over the tubing, but fear of breaking a hip made Harriet extracautious. All in all, the two Bobs’ no-fuss, no-muss solution deserved a Nobel peace prize.

In the hall bathroom, Dina ran water in the sink and pretended the mirror above it didn’t exist. Off with the black cargo pants, her sour-sweaty top and bra; on went the giant Mizzou T-shirt she’d slept in the night before. Soaping and rinsing her face felt wonderful. A hot shower would be ecstasy, but water tattooing the plastic tub surround sounded like marbles in a cocktail shaker.

Her face buried in a hand towel, she yelped when a voice said, “Where the devil have you been, young lady?”

Dina’s head whiplashed toward the door, her pulse spiking a zillion beats a minute. Clutching the towel to her chest, she shrieked, “Jesus Chr-ist, Mom. You scared the livin’ hell out of me.”

By Harriet’s expression, she was gratified to know she hadn’t lost the ability to strike terror in the heart of her kid from ambush. “That pizza joint closes at eleven on weeknights.” She sniffed several times, then puckered her lips. “This is Thursday, you look like you’ve been dragged through a knothole backward and what I smell ain’t pepperoni.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dina flinched. Sure, her defense strategies were years out of practice, but they hadn’t been that lame since fourth grade. What popped out was a snotty, even lamer, “Technically, it’s been Friday for almost two hours.”

“You said you’d be home before midnight.”

“I said I’d probably be home by midnight.” Dina hung the damp towel on the bar behind her, smoothing the wrinkles and leveling the hems. “If you needed me, all you had to do was hit the panic button.”

An emergency alert device hanging like a pendant around Harriet’s neck was programmed to automatically dial Dina’s cell phone. An autodial to 911 would be faster, but a city ordinance prohibited a direct connection to an emergency dispatcher. It was up to Dina to contact emergency services.

“Too many false alarms for a direct call,” a city official told Dina. “An average of sixteen a day when the city council passed the ordinance. And that was twenty years ago.”