Free Scents and Sensibility by Spencer Quinn Page A

said Conte, “is Shooter?”
    â€œEllie’s dog,” Bernie said. “She takes him everywhere.”
    â€œShe does?” said Conte. “I specifically forbade that.”
    â€œKind of moot, Carl, at this point,” Stine said.
    Conte’s face swelled up a bit, got reddish. “I’ll be the—”
    â€œAnd where’s her pickup?” Bernie said.
    Stine looked at Conte. “Hasn’t turned up yet,” Conte said.
    â€œWho’s in charge of the investigation?” said Bernie.
    â€œThat’s still being worked out,” Stine said. “But it’d help, Bernie, if—”
    â€œHow about sending a chopper out there?” Bernie said.
    â€œWe did,” said Stine. “Had to turn back—fuel pump crimped up or some damn thing.”
    â€œSend another one.”
    â€œAll in the shop.”
    â€œCan we put a lid on this, for chrissake?” Conte said. “Whoever ends up running this case, it’s sure as hell not gonna be this guy.” He pointed at Bernie, even wagged his finger at him. Bernie hates that. A wagging finger is nothing like a wagging tail—took me some time to figure that out. “We need to know what you know, and stat.”
    His finger stopped wagging but remained pointed at Bernie. Bernie gazed at it. The finger folded back up, and Conte lowered his hand.
    â€œI met Ellie at my neighbor’s place,” Bernie said. “She was investigating a saguaro theft that had turned up in your chip ID program. I guess she wanted to check the spot where it had been dug up. We did the same, which was how we found her.”
    â€œWhy?” Conte said. “Why did you, quote, do the same?”
    â€œCuriosity,” said Bernie.
    â€œYou’re a private investigator.”
    â€œCorrect.”
    â€œDo you normally investigate on your own dime? Just out of ‘curiosity?’ ”
    â€œWhat are you trying to say?”
    Conte leaned forward. “I looked into you. Some people around this town hate your guts. Others think you’re the best thing since sliced bread. Somehow the mayor’s one of that group, hard to believe. But I didn’t get the impression you work on your own dime. Meaning there’s a client. I want to know who.”
    Whoa! Slow down. There were Bernie haters? First I’d heard of it. Even most of the perps and gangbangers like Bernie, after they get to know him. Plus what was so great about sliced bread? I’ve had it both ways, and guess what, dude—dude meaning Conte, not you. Tastes the exact same, a not very interesting taste in my opinion.
    â€œNo one’s paid me to work on this case,” Bernie said.
    Conte turned to Stine. “You always let him get away with this shit? We have a dead agent out there, murdered in the field, and this asshole is stonewalling.”
    I didn’t know what was going on with anyone else’s teeth, but my own were getting this sudden urge that sometimes comes over them, namely the urge to bite. Was now a good time? I went back and forth on that one, except there was no back, only forth. In short, yes! It was a good time! All at once, I felt Bernie’s grip on my collar, not grasping it hard or anything like that, but just there. Why would that be?
    Stine raised his hands, palms out in the stop sign. “Guys, can we lower the volume on this?”
    â€œThere’s only one of us raising it,” Bernie said.
    Stine sighed. “Maybe. But you can understand why he’s upset. And if that old man is in fact your client, then there’s no point in stonewalling.”
    â€œOld man?” Bernie said, real quiet.
    â€œWhat was it?” said Stine. “Partridge?”
    â€œParsons,” Conte said.
    â€œRight, Parsons,” Stine went on. “We’ve got people over there questioning him right now, and—”
    â€œYou what?” Bernie said, starting to rise.
    â€œWhy