Free Red Dog by Jason Miller Page A

it was all over and put back in the hatbox she’d agreed to do a little work for me and my fledgling agency. Mostly she kept our books and prevented me being arrested by the IRS, but she was good at other kinds of work, too, computer work and using the Google and that kind of thing.
    She said, “I found her, Slim.”
    â€œReach’s ex? Carol Ray?”
    â€œNo. Vivien Leigh. I found Vivien Leigh.”
    â€œThere’s no reason to be cross about it,” I said. “Carol Ray then. Where is she?”
    â€œFreeman Spur. Like your drug dealer boy told you.” She gave me the address and even described the house, which she’d seen on Google Street View. She said, “Kid wasn’t kidding about the tough part, either. She’s got priors.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œCitation for disorderly conduct. Five years ago.”
    â€œDoesn’t sound like much.”
    â€œI didn’t think so, either, at first, anyway,” she said. “Dug a little deeper. Turns out the disorderly conduct involved setting Dennis Reach’s car on fire.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œWith Dennis Reach inside,” she said.
    â€œI want to say ‘oh’ again but it’d be the third time.”
    â€œI noticed that. Before you ask, nothing much came of it, besides that disorderly. Reach must have been real popular with law enforcement over there in Jackson County because they basically let Carol Ray walk with a slap on the fanny and a promise to be a good girl. She had a gun, too. A pistola in the glove box of her car but no carry permit, so they took the gun, but again, no charges.”
    â€œIf there’s one gun around, there are probably others.”
    â€œThat’s usually how it works. Maybe even an AR-15.”
    â€œI’ll be careful,” I said.
    â€œGood,” she said, and paused, thinking. Then she said, “Maybe go ahead and mail my check this morning, though.”
    G UNS AND CARRY PERMITS AND CAR FIRES ASIDE, I DIDN’T have any reason to think Carol Ray was a danger to anyone outside her late ex-husband. There were more guns in southern Illinois glove boxes than gloves or ice scrapers or haphazardly refolded road maps, and if you were going to start worrying about folks carrying firearms without the proper permits you were probably going to stop going outdoors altogether.
    Late morning, Anci and I rode my motorcycle north and east to the village of Freeman Spur. We found the address Susan had given us in a little neighborhood on Mount Moriah Avenue, a Craftsman new-build surrounded by some pleasant-looking Amur maples and juniper bushes. We parked next to an ivory Porsche 911 and climbed off and pulled off our helmets. Anci looked at the car and hummed approvingly.
    â€œWill you look at that lovely thing,” she said. “Maybe that’s what we should do with our new dognapping money.”
    â€œYesterday you said you wanted an air conditioner. Said your bedroom is full of box fans. Remember that?”
    â€œThat was yesterday. As of this morning, this is today.”
    I said, “Tomorrow you’ll see a spotted horse and want that.”
    â€œNow that you mention it.”
    We went up to the house and knocked and waited and waited, but nobody answered.
    Anci wrinkled her nose. “Car’s here, so she must have another. Maybe even something nicer.”
    â€œMaybe it’s that spotted horse.”
    â€œAnother foolproof deduction,” she said. “Why not run into town for another cup of coffee, swing back in a bit?”
    We were about to ride away when a sandy-haired boy appeared from next door and ran over to us, waving sunburned arms.
    He said, “That’s a cool bike.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œPretty sad lope, though. I’ve heard louder thoughts.”
    â€œNot-so thanks,” I said. “You think you know something about bikes, do you?”
    â€œI know a thing or three,” he