Free Paw and Order by Spencer Quinn Page A

I’ve aroused your curiosity.”
    Bernie said nothing.
    â€œNothing wrong with curiosity, not in this business,” Soares said. “I’m curious, too. Take a guess about what?”
    Bernie stayed silent.
    â€œForensics found two sets of prints on that pink handle,” Soares said. “One match turned up in the IAFIS database—a petty criminal named Bella Lou LaPierre from Breaux Bridge, Louisiana. Another set, mostly on top of Bella Lou’s, we couldn’t identify until we contacted the licensing unit of the Department of Public Safety in Arizona. They turned out to be yours.”
    What was this? Something about Arizona again? Other than that, I had no clue, but whatever was going on was making everyone sweat even more. Maybe not visibly, but the air was getting tangier in a not unpleasant way.
    â€œCare to explain?” Soares said.
    â€œI can’t,” Bernie told him. “But the gun I have is locked in the glove box of my car.”
    â€œMind if we take a look-see?” said Soares.
    We walked to the street, Soares leading, then me and Bernie side by side, followed by the two big cops. I didn’t like having them behind me, also didn’t like having Soares in front, and was trying to figure out what to do about that when we got to the car. Soares stood to the side and made the now-it’s-your-turn gesture with his hand.
    Bernie stepped up, took out the keys, unlocked the passenger side door. Then he leaned in, stuck a key in the glove box, turned it. Nothing happened. He tried again. This time the glove box door popped open. One of the big cops came closer and shone a flashlight inside.
    I saw Bernie’s shades in there; our own flashlight; the manual, all frayed and worn, and also useless, as Bernie had said many times; a bent cigarette; and—hey!—a partly chewed chewy. But no gun, if that was what this was all about.
    â€œBernie Little,” Soares said. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Eben St. John.”

EIGHT
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    W hy are you doing this?” Bernie said.
    â€œWhy am I arresting the obvious suspect in a murder?” said Lieutenant Soares. “Is that the question?”
    â€œI had nothing to do with it.”
    â€œExplain the gun.”
    Bernie glanced back toward the street. “Someone stole it while I was inside sleeping,” Bernie said. “We should go take a look at the glove box again.”
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œSigns of a forced opening—what else?”
    â€œI’ll make a note of it,” Soares said. “We’re impounding the vehicle in any case.”
    The bigger of the big cops took a set of cuffs off his belt.
    â€œThat’s not necessary,” Bernie said.
    The cop turned to Soares, the cuffs dangling from one of his huge fingers.
    â€œWe’re playing this by the book,” Soares said.
    Bernie laughed in his face. Oh, how I loved that!
    The cops moved in closer. I was on my feet, right beside Bernie. Were they planning to cuff Bernie? How could that be ­anything but wrong? The fur on the back of my neck stood straight up.
    â€œHands behind your back,” Soares said. “Turn around.”
    Bernie didn’t move. A low growling started up.
    â€œThis can be hard or easy, your call,” Soares said.
    Bernie gave him a long look. The growling grew louder. Bernie’s gaze shifted in my direction. “All right,” he said. “But first I’ll get Chet inside the house.”
    The cops turned my way. I bared my teeth, not sure why. Untrue: I knew, all right. Then came a bark, very loud, very angry. The smaller big cop stepped back, at the same time reaching for his gun. Oh, yeah? I got ready to spring.
    â€œChet! Sit!”
    Sit? What sense would that make? Definitely the wrong play at a time like this. What was getting into Bernie? First had to come me grabbing that gun arm and then we’d have Bernie doing what needed to be