Free Dog On It by Spencer Quinn

pushed off, at the same time hearing a sound I wouldn’t call scratching, more like chalk on a blackboard. That sound always did things to me, starting at the back of my neck. I shivered. My lips smacked around loosely. I felt pretty good, so good I charged around the yard a bit, bursting out of one tight turn after another, clods of lawn flying all over the place.
    “Chet, for God’s sake!”
    I skidded to a stiff-legged dead stop, one of the things I do best, and not easy—try it sometime. A twig happened to be in reach. I flopped down, front and back legs all stretched out, and started chewing on the twig. Ah, eucalyptus, probably blown over from old man Heydrich’s tree. Very tasty.
    Bernie and Keefer were standing by the black car, gazing at the door. “Send me a bill,” Bernie said.
    I chewed the stick. I could smell my own breath. It smelled nice.
    “What would be the point of that?” Keefer said. “You’d just pad your own bill—I know how these things work.”
    Bernie gave him a look I’d hardly ever seen from him before. “I don’t pad my bills,” he said.
    Keefer met his look, but not for long. “Suit yourself,” he said. “I’ll hear your report and be on my way.”
    “Ever dealt with a private investigator before?” Bernie said.
    “No, thank God,” said Keefer.
    “Then you’re probably not aware that I don’t report to you. I report only to the client, except for certain information I’m compelled by law to pass on to the police.”
    “The client? What the hell are you talking about?”
    “I’m on a retainer from Cynthia. That makes her the client.”
    Keefer’s face swelled up: another blood-flow thing, but not a blush. This swelling up was a sign of human rage. In my world, rage and noise went together, but when Keefer spoke, his voice didn’t get louder; in fact, he lowered the volume. Humans—not all, but some—have a way of putting you off balance.
    “What that tells me,” Keefer said, “is that you’re a touch slow in the detection department. Any half-decent detective would have figured out that every cent Cynthia has comes right from me.”
    Bernie? A touch slow? I stopped chewing the stick, got my back legs up under me, ready.
    Bernie stayed calm. “That doesn’t change anything. But I know this is a tough time for you, and if Cynthia gives her permission, I’ll fill you in.”
    “I don’t need her permission for—”
    “Maybe the three of us could meet at your place.”
    “My place? Why my place?”
    “Does Madison have a room there?”
    “Yes, but—”
    “I’d like to see it.”
    “Why?”
    “Standard procedure,” Bernie said. “I’m trying to get your daughter back.”
    “She probably took off for Vegas.”
    “Vegas?”
    “She’s impulsive, just like her mother.”
    “Does Madison have a gambling problem?”
    “I didn’t mean Vegas per se,” said Keefer.
    “Has she ever run away before?”
    “How would I know? Think I’m in the loop?”
    “According to Cynthia, there’s no history of running away.”
    “What do you expect her to say?”
    “Meaning?” Bernie said.
    “She’s a terrible mother—isn’t that obvious?”
    “Did you try for custodial rights?”
    “No,” Keefer said. “A young girl needs her mother. At least that’s what I thought at the time. But now—” He raised his hands, palms up. Humans did that when they didn’t know what else to do. I knew the feeling. When I reached that point, I took a nap if I was indoors; outdoors, I marked territory, always a good fallback.
    Bernie was gazing at Keefer in one of his thoughtful ways, his head tilted to the side. That meant he was changing his mind about something, making new plans. “Tell you what,” he said, “why don’t I call Cynthia now? We can meet right here.”
    * * *
    We met in the office, Cynthia and Keefer in the client chairs, Bernie at the desk, me under it. From there, I could see Cynthia and Keefer from their waists down. He wore dark pants and