We sat: me, Bernie, Mr. Parsons. The ambulance dudes had pushed Mrs. Parsons’s gurney into an elevator what seemed like a long time ago. Whenever the elevator opened, Mr. Parsons looked that way, but Mrs. Parsons didn’t come out.

  “We’ve lived long lives, Edna and I,” he said after a while.

  “Um,” Bernie said, “and I’m sure that, uh . . .”

  “There’s death,” Mr. Parsons said, “and then there’s the suffering before it. Two separate issues.”

  Two is as far as I go when it comes to counting; can’t beat it, in my opinion. Other than that, Mr. Parsons was hard to follow at the moment.

  “You left out the suffering that comes after,” Bernie said. “For the survivors.”

  Mr. Parsons nodded. “A void surrounded by two sufferings,” he said. He laughed a short little laugh. “Comforting to know that in a way, although it couldn’t be worse.”

  Bernie got an expression on his face I’d never seen before, hard to describe. Then he reached out and patted Mr. Parsons on the knee, also something I’d never seen before, meaning I’d never seen him pat anyone on the knee, not just Mr. Parsons. But that wasn’t the point. The point was all about patting and me not on the receiving end. I squeezed in between them. Mr. Parsons laughed again. And gave me a pat! And then so did Bernie. I’d made the right move, no question. Chet the Jet!

  “Chet’s so patient,” Mr. Parsons said after some more time had passed.

  “Well, um,” said Bernie.

  “No way Iggy could just sit and wait like this.”

  “Bet he could.”

  Mr. Parsons shook his head. “I know it for a fact. Had Iggy here with me yesterday, so it’s fresh in my mind.”

  “You brought him to the hospital?”

  “Edna wanted it and they gave the okay—part of some new therapy program. And you could say it worked, kind of. Edna had her best day in I can’t tell you how long, part of why they let her go.”

  “Sounds good so far.”

  “Like that old joke,” said Mr. Parsons. “But then Iggy managed to get loose and—”

  The elevator door opened and Mr. Parsons paused. No Mrs. Parsons—but what was this? Fritzie Bortz? Fritzie was a highway patrol buddy of ours, had written us up for speeding once or twice, but only to make his quota, whatever that might mean, probably something good because Bernie had laughed at the time, although not when he cut the checks.

  “Bernie!” Fritzie said, coming over. “Hey, Chet!” Was he limping? And wearing one of those walking boots you see on humans from time to time? “How’s tricks?”

  Tricks? I didn’t even know where to begin. How about with dig a hole and bury the car keys? Not Bernie’s favorite, as it turned out, done once and never repeated, except for that time in Mexico, and things are different down there. But Bernie was a big fan of chase a perp up a tree, and chasing Fritzie up a tree suddenly seemed like a good idea—there was something perpy about him, no doubt about it—except we had no tree, so first I’d have to chase him out into the parking lot and—

  “Think he’d like a treat?” Fritzie said.

  “No telling,” said Bernie.

  Another one of Bernie’s jokes! Bernie’s a great joker. I thought about that as I caught half a biscuit—had Fritzie eaten the rest?—on the fly.

  “Our friend Daniel Parsons,” Bernie said. “Fritzie Bortz, highway patrol, motorcycle division.”

  Mr. Parsons and Fritzie shook hands. “Hurt in the line of duty?” Mr. Parsons said, nodding in the direction of Fritzie’s walking boot.

  Fritzie nodded. “Gotta keep the nation’s highways safe,” he said. “Lifeblood of the economy.”

  “What happened?” Bernie said.

  “Skidded on a greasy fast-food wrapper,” Fritzie said. “Lost control momentarily.” Easy to believe: Fritzie was a terrible biker, had caused many accidents.

  “In the parking lot at Burger Heaven?” Bernie said.

  “Just exiting,” said Fritzie. “How did you know?”

  “Lucky guess,” said Bernie.

  “Still managed to bust the asshole.”

  “What asshole?”

  “Who dropped the wrapper,” Fritzie said. “Got him on a 13-1603.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Littering. But a real suspicious character, Bernie, dressed all in black—plus he had his collar on backward, probably some new gangbanger thing, like with the ball caps.”

  “Good job,” Bernie said.

  Mr. Parsons gave Bernie a real careful look. Why? I had no idea, but looking at Bernie was one of my favorite activities, so maybe Mr. Parsons and I had something in common.

  “You’re here for treatment?” Bernie said.

  “Was,” Fritzie said. “Now I’m working a case.”

  “In the hospital? You’re highway patrol.”

  “Fifteen years and counting,” Fritzie said. “But the doc’s keeping me off the bike for a few more weeks, and since I was here for treatment anyway, the department got me reassigned. Just a matter of adjusting my skill set.”

  “What’s the case?” Bernie said.

  “Confidential,” said Fritzie.

  “What if I’m in possession of relevant information?”

  Fritzie gave Bernie a narrow-eyed look. “Wondered what you were doing here,” he said. He shot a quick glance at Mr. Parsons, then made the finger motion that means come. Bernie knows all the motions, of course—who do you think taught them to me? He followed Fritzie down the hall. So did I, goes without mentioning.

  Fritzie stopped by an empty gurney. He took out a pad and pencil, licked the pencil tip—whoa! Hadn’t seen a human do that in way too long—and said, “What ya got?”

  “On what?” said Bernie.

  “All these thefts going down here. What else?”

  Bernie nodded one of his little nods. He’s the best nodder in the Valley.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Fritzie said. I was with him on that. “No proof it’s theft? That what you’re saying? All this stuff—watches, rings, cash—just walks off on its own?”

  “You’re talking about patient valuables?”

  “What else? You having an off day, Bernie?”

  “Aren’t valuables stored away during the admission process?”

  “True, in . . . what’s the word?”

  “Theory?”

  “Yeah. In theory everything goes into envelopes that get signed for and put in the safe, but some of the patients like to hang onto their stuff.”

  “Clinging to normal life,” Bernie said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Their motivation.”

  “Psychologically, is what you’re sayin’?”

  Bernie nodded. Fritzie licked the pencil tip again and wrote on his pad. “How do you spell—” he began, but at that moment, a dude with a floor polisher came floor polishing by, just the kind of thing you’d expect in a hospital or big downtown building, but would you expect to know the dude? Actually, I don’t know the answer to that question, don’t even know why it occurred to me, wished it hadn’t. The point is we did know this dude: Dylan McKnight, a dude of the pretty-boy type, with shoulder-length hair and a big white smile. He saw us and stopped, switching off the machine.

  “Bernie?” he said.

  “What are you doing here?” Bernie said.

  Dylan flashed the big white smile. “Skipping the pleasantries, huh? You haven’t changed. How’s Suzie?”

  “Fine,” Bernie said. Better than fine: Suzie was the best! When she and Bernie had first gotten together, she’d been a reporter for the Valley Tribune. Now she’d left town and taken a job with the Washington Post, a no-brainer Bernie had said, but we missed her. What else do you need to know? Oh, yeah: back in some distant past she’d been Dylan’s girlfriend. Had Dylan done time in an orange jumpsuit somewhere along the line? I had a faint memory, like the tiniest wisp of cloud in a clear blue sky.

  “Heard she’d gone to New York,” Dylan said.

  “DC,” said Bernie.

  “But you’re here.”

  “Correct.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Is it?” Bernie said. “You still haven’t explained your presence.”

  “What makes you think I need to explain to you?” Dylan said.

  What was going on? All I knew was that despite liking pretty much all the humans I’d ever met, even most of the perps and gangbangers, I’d never liked Dylan. Also, I seemed to be on my feet now instead of sitting, plus the hairs on the back of my neck were rising up, always an exciting feeling.

  Dylan backed away. “How come your dog hates me?”

  “Chet doesn’t hate you,” Bernie said. “He just gets impatient when people don’t answer simple questions.”

  “Is that supposed to be funny?” Dylan said. “He’s just a stupid dog.”

  Sometimes a fierce look on one human’s face—in this case, Bernie’s—makes a timid look happen on another’s—in this case, Dylan’s. “For Chrissake,” he said. “I’m working off my community service. Happy now?”

  “They sent you to a hospital?” Bernie said.

  “Why not?” said Dylan.

  “Your drug problem, for starters,” Bernie said.

  “Whoa!” said Fritzie, jumping to his feet, and if not jumping at least getting there, with a slight wince. “Where were you last night between midnight and eight a.m.?”

  Bernie turned to him. “Fritzie, please.”

  “Nice job, Bernie,” Fritzie said. “I’ll take it from here.” He pointed at Dylan. “Whatever your name is, pal, you got a right to remain silent and . . . and if you can’t afford to remain silent, then . . . um . . .”

  Dylan flashed his big white smile. “Don’t you have to arrest me first?”

  “Happy now, smartass?” Fritzie said, slapping the cuffs on Dylan, and when they wouldn’t close just taking hold of Dylan’s arm instead. Dylan did look kind of happy, even kept looking that way when Bernie leaned over and got those cuffs on right.

  •••

  “I don’t get it,” Fritzie said.

  We—meaning me, Bernie, Fritzie, and Dylan—sat in the office of a very nice woman named Dr. Ming, who ran the whole hospital or had just come from a run to the hospital, depending on exactly what Fritzie had told Bernie, me having tuned out at the time on account of the scent of a female member of the nation within that rose off Dr. Ming, especially from her hands.

  “About this being Mr. McKnight’s first day on the job?” said Dr. Ming. She turned her laptop so Fritzie could see. “This is a PDF of his employment card. Line 3A shows that he was released from Central State Correctional at six a.m. this morning and the checked box at the bottom means he clocked in for the eight a.m. shift at 7:59.”

  “Huh?” said Fritzie. “How’d he do that in this traffic?”

  “Caught every green light,” Dylan said. “My lucky day.”

  “No one catches every green light,” Fritzie said, unlocking Dylan’s cuffs. “They’re not set up that way. Sudden red lights are the goddamn point of the exercise.”

  “They are?” said Dr. Ming.

  “County budget depends on it, ma’am,” said Fritzie. He rose, gave Dylan’s collar a little swat with the back of his hand.

  “I’m free to get back to gainful work?” Dylan said.

  “Of course,” said Dr. Ming. “Isn’t that right, Officer Bortz?”

  “Till I get to the bottom of this,” said Fritzie as he and Dylan left the room, Dylan smiling his big white smile, Fritzie with his hands curled into fists.

  Bernie and I stayed where we were, me because Bernie was staying, and Bernie because it had to be the smart play.

  “Officer Bortz mentioned you’re a private detective,” Dr. Ming said.

  “I work with Chet here,” Bernie said.

  Dr. Ming turned to me. “Flat out gorgeous, isn’t he?” she said. You couldn’t help liking Dr. Ming. “Ever considered breeding him? Prada, my shepherd-collie mix, resembles Chet somewhat. She’s coming into heat anytime now.” Was this what I thought it was? You couldn’t help liking Dr. Ming even more and more, maybe second in the world to Bernie. My mind went right to a case Bernie and I worked down Mexico way, and a night when I ran into a member of the nation within name of Lola. The truth is my mind often goes to that particular night and then stays there for a bit.

  When it was ready to move on, Bernie was saying something like, “ . . . not actually working. We’re here with a friend. Is Pee Wee still head of security? I’m happy to talk to him if you’d like.”

  Pee Wee Vasko? We knew security dudes out the yingyang, but Pee Wee was one of the best. Who gave me my very first Polish sausage? Or at least was in the room when I happened to come across it?

  “Pee Wee retired a few months ago,” Dr. Ming said. “Do you know Vince Viles?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll see if he’s in.” Dr. Ming reached for her phone.

  •••

  Pee Wee Vasko was a big guy, as tall as Bernie and much broader. Vince Viles was even bigger than that, a huge dude with a round red face and a hand that kind of made Bernie’s look small when they shook. His nonshaking hand was interesting, too, a bandage wrapped around his pointing finger, and a thin streak of blood leaking through. I could smell it. I could also smell his gun, tucked out of sight in his pocket or maybe a shoulder holster.

  “Nice meeting you, Bern,” he said. Bern? Bernie hated being called Bern, so I hated it, too. “And that’s some pooch,” Vince added. Although what was really so bad about Bern if you gave it some thought, which I didn’t. “What can I do for you?”

  “Fritzie Bortz is a little new to this kind of investigation,” Bernie said. “Dr. Ming thought Chet and I might be useful.”

  “You and Fritzie good buddies?” Vince said.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Bernie said.

  Whoa! I would have. But now I wouldn’t.

  “Is it true he busted a priest for littering?”

  “Looks that way,” Bernie said.

  “What do you wanna know?” Vince said. “I’ll do anything to get him out of here.”

  “What’s the story?”

  Vince shrugged his shoulders, enormous shoulders, like he had watermelons under his shirt. Memories of watermelon fun occupied my mind for a while and then Vince was saying, “ . . . watches, even earrings, taken right out of the patients’ ears while they sleep.”

  “Medicated sleeps,” Bernie said.

  “Exactly.”

  “Any suspects?”

  Vince shook his head.

  “Leads?”

  “Nope.”

  “How about video?”

  “No help,” Vince said. “Hospital I worked before—this was out in Riverside—had video in all the rooms, but here it’s just the ICU patients.”

  “Anything stolen from them?”

  Vince sat back, his chair creaking under him. “Interesting question,” he said.

  “And the answer?”

  Vince opened his mouth, closed it, looked at the wall, which I myself could do without turning my head, just another one of the things we’ve got going for us in the nation within. What I saw on the wall was a light-colored space where a picture had once hung. We’d had some of those when Leda left after the divorce; then Suzie had come along and filled them all in, mostly with paintings of the ocean.

  “I’ll look into that,” Vince said.

  “You see the implication?” Bernie said.

  Vince sat back a little more. “Some men in my position might take offense at that question,” he said. “Like there’s a suggestion I don’t know my job. But I’m not that type. The implication is if nothing went missing in the ICU, it’s an inside job. Didn’t see that before, but now I do. Many thanks.”

  “No need for that,” Bernie said. “Is there video of the public space—lobby, elevators, hallways?”

  “Lobby and hallways, yes,” Vince said. “Elevators, no. You want to start watching tape?”

  “I do.”

  •••

  We sat in a darkened room not much bigger than a closet, me and Bernie, watching tape. Watching tape was part of the job at the Little Detective Agency, and we had it down, better believe it. Bernie took a chair, remote in hand; I lay at his feet, enjoying the smell of his sneakers, eyes on the screen. People went back and forth, some in hospital getups, some not. What were we looking for, exactly? I recognized two of the people in the videos: Dr. Ming, who went by a bunch of times, and Vince Viles once, rounding a corner at a pretty good clip. Other than that, I had zip. Have you ever noticed that having zip tends to make your eyelids heavy? That’s how it goes with me.

  •••

  “Well, well,” Bernie said. “Will you look at that?”

  My eyelids snapped open, and if not actually snapping, at least parted a little bit. On the screen a nurse walked backward and out of sight. Then Bernie hit a button and she went forward. Were we playing the game of making everything go back and forth, which we often did toward the end of tape sessions—fun is just one of our techniques at the Little Detective Agency. But maybe not this time. Bernie let the nurse keep walking, down a corridor and past a crossing corridor. She got smaller and smaller and had almost disappeared when someone came charging down the crossing corridor and turned into the main one, coming right at us. And not just coming, but pelting full speed! And not just someone, but a member of the nation within! And not just a member of the nation within, but my best pal Iggy! And not just my best pal Iggy, but my best pal Iggy trailing his leash! Trailing his leash always meant Iggy at his best.

 

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