Neither did I when I got home, or at least it didn't feel much like I slept. Except I must have, because I was having dreams that had something to do with being with Susan and not being with her and trying to find some children. I woke up and fell asleep and dreamed variations of the same dream until the phone rang and got me up at 7:15 It was Susan.
"You better come out here, right now," Susan said, and there was no laughter iri her voice.
"Trouble''"
"They've killed the dog," Susan said. "Please come quickly."
It was pre-rush hour, and what traffic there was was going the other way. I was at her house in twenty-five minutes. Susan met me at her front door. She had on her warm-up suit and sneakers. Without makeup her face looked a little simpler, like she must have as a kid.
"In the kitchen," she said. Her eyes were wet.
I went in. The black Lab was there. It had been shot in the head and the blood was stiff and dry and nearly as black as the fur it had stiffened. Some had soaked into the rug where the dog lay, on its side, between the kitchen table and the back door. I moved its leg. It was unyielding. The body had stiffened. "You find it this morning?"
"Yes."
"You come into the kitchen last night?"
Susan shook her head. "I came in the front door and went right upstairs."
"Probably shot it last night. Probably thought she was yours. Your back door wasn't locked."
"No," Susan said. "You know I don't lock the doors."
I stood up. "You may as well call the cops, and the dog officer."
"She was a lovely dog," Susan said. "What will I tell her folks?"
I didn't say anything.
"Why?" Susan looked at me. "You mentioned there had been threats, but… ?"
"I don't know. Maybe a warning. Maybe a substitute. They came and you weren't here, but'the dog was, so they brought her in and shot her instead. It won't happen again," I said. "You know who did it?"
"I know who had it done. That's better. Call the cops."
Chapter 25
Two cops came with the local dog officer. One of the cops was Cataldo. They took the dog away and the other cop went to tell the owners. Susan told Cataldo she didn't know why someone would do this.
Cataldo looked at me. "And you wouldn't have any idea either, would you?"
"No.
"Funny thing to do for no reason. Not even your dog, Susan."
"I know, Lonnie. I know. The poor thing. Maybe they were burglars and thought the dog would give them away."
"So they brought it in and shot it?"
Susan shrugged.
I said, "I have to go to work. Can you keep an eye on her?" Cataldo nodded. "I'll take her to school and pick her up when she's ready to come home."
"How about after that?" I said.
"I'll stick around," Cataldo said. "'Case the burglars come back."
"How about a paid detail?" I said. "Until I get this straightened out."
Cataldo shook his head. "I know Susan a long time now. Most of the guys do. We'll watch her for free."
"Who wouldn't?" I said.
Cataldo nodded again.
Susan said, "I won't even argue," and they went together in the cruiser.
I stood in her kitchen looking at the bloodstained rug and called Henry Cimoli on the phone. "Tell Hawk I need him," I said. "I'll be in there in about half an hour and I want him as soon as he can get there."
Henry said, "I'll tell him." And I hung up and headed for my car. When I got to the Harbor Health Club, Henry was in his office and Hawk was with him. They were drinking coffee. Henry had on blue-striped Adidas sneakers and a white T-shirt and dark blue sweat pants with zippered bottoms. The T-shirt said MANAGER in blue letters. Hawk was wearing gray and black Puma running shoes, white denim jeans, and a white cashmere sweater, V-neck, with no shirt under it. "Coffee?" Henry said. He was a little guy who'd been a very fine lightweight fighter once. Now he managed the Harbor Health Club and worked out twice a day. He looked like a superman doll. I took a white china mug of coffee from him. Hawk was slouched in one of the guest 156 chairs, his feet on the desk, holding a coffee mug in both hands.
To Hawk I said, "Somebody shot a dog and left it in Susan's kitchen."
"She okay?"
"Yes. I figured Tony Marcus."
Hawk nodded. He took a sip of coffee, put the mug on Henry's desk, and stood up by letting his feet drop off the desk and levering his body up as his feet hit. "Let's get to it," he said.
"You know where to find him?" I said.
"Yeah, he got a place in the South End-restaurant called Buddy's Fox, Clarendon and Tremont."
Henry said, "You want a third?"
I said, "No. Anything goes bad, tell Quirk, and see about Susan."
Henry nodded. Hawk slid open a drawer in Henry's desk and took out a shoulder holster with a .357 Magnum in it. He shrugged it on and put on a sandcolored suede jacket with a zipper front. And we went.
Buddy's Fox was across from the big round-roofed performing arts center.
Hawk parked his black Jaguar sedan at a hydrant in front of the restaurant and we got out. Hawk opened the trunk and took out a twelve-gauge shotgun. A pump model. He checked the action once, and then fed five shells into the magazine. He closed the trunk and said, "The restaurant is long and no wider than the front. Booths on both sides. Bar across the back. To the right of the bar is a little corridor. Down the corridor there are the men's room, the ladies' room on the right wall, the kitchen door at the far end, and Tony's office door on the left wall." Hawk held the shotgun casually across his shoulder, trigger guard up, as if we were shooting grouse on the moors.
"He always in there taking care of business. Has breakfast here every morning. Leaves after supper every night."
"He ever alone," I said.
"No," Hawk said. There was a sign in the restaurant window that said OPEN FOR BREAKFAST. I took my gun out and let it hang by my side. We went in. The place was old and looked as though it had been kept that way. There were four or five people having breakfast. Behind the bar at the far end a big, thick-necked black man with a flat nose was polishing glasses. We were halfway down the length of the room before he noticed us, and another ten steps toward him before he registered the shotgun. He looked toward the archway at the end of the bar and then put down the glass he was polishing and let his hands drop.
I raised my gun, "If your hands disappear, Jack, you're dead," I said.
The bartender froze. "Put 'em on the bar," I said. The bartender put both hands on the bar. The breakfast crowd was beginning to notice that all was not copacetic. The sounds of cutlery and conversation died. Without lifting the shotgun off his shoulder, Hawk stepped around behind the bar and hit the bartender in the forehead, bringing the gun butt forward as if he were driving a peg. The sound was harsh in the now dead-silent room. The bartender slumped off the bar and fell without a sound. I went past the end of the bar down the corridor. Hawk came behind me. A waitress met us halfway down the short hall. She had a tray of ham and eggs and home fries and toast. I said, "Go back in the kitchen, honey, and be quiet."
She looked at the gun in my hand and past me at Hawk with his shotgun and backed down the hall and into the kitchen. Just short of the swinging door on the left wall was a paneled oak door with no marking.
Hawk nodded. I turned the knob. It was locked.
A voice inside said, "Yeah. Who is it?"
Hawk moved up beside me. "Hawk," he said. "Open up."
A lock clicked, the knob turned, and Hawk and I hit the door simultaneously, each with a shoulder. The door rammed open, and whoever had opened it went backward and fell over a chair. Inside I kicked the door shut behind us. Hawk stepped to the left of the door, pumped a shell into the chamber of the shotgun, and held the gun level and still. To my left the guy who'd opened the door was getting to his feet. There was a trickle of blood from his nose. Another man stood against the back wall of the office, his hands straight at his sides and slightly spread. At the desk in front of me, with the remnants of breakfast on a tray and a white napkin tucked into his collar, was Tony Marcus. He was a nice-looking guy with a salt-and-pepper Afro and a thick mustache. He was tan skinned, not nearly as dark as Hawk. His neck and chin line looked soft and comfortable. The suit he had on under the napkin looked like maybe a thousand dollars and custom tailored. His nails shone.