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  He called for a copy of my agreement and read it over and over, looking for a way out.

  “In our business, everyone gets assigned stories and then they uncover stuff,” Mel tried. “That’s the way it works, mukluk.”

  “Not if they have a contract that says what mine says,” I countered.

  “C’mon, don’t be an ace-hole. I have something just up your alley right now. You’ll love it!”

  “What?”

  “Senator Hard-On! What else? You are going to break it wide open!” Mel declared, holding up today’s front page:

  SEN. HARD-ON SEX PILLS

  Viagra in Niagara Falls

  Both tabloids and every news outlet in town were hot on the story of our horny Democratic U.S. Senator, Ron Hardstein, now renamed Senator Hard-On for his online monkey business involving dozens of women, his smart phone and his penis. My colleagues were at that moment stalking the honorable gentleman, trying to uncover the names of all the women he had had sex with. Everyone in the country was on the story and it all seemed very predictable. The only thing more boring to me than someone else’s sex life was politics.

  “You’ve got to be kidding, Mel.”

  “Why is the biggest story in town not good enough for you?”

  “Because I don’t care what Hardstein does with his equipment. His sex life is between him, his wife and the women. It’s no one else’s business because it had nothing to do with his job. It’s not a story.”

  Mel chuckled. “You’re a beginner in this business, Shepherd. I’m the judge of what is and what isn’t a story.”

  To me, his reasoning seemed circular, a self-licking ice-cream cone. If he was the guy who decided what stories went in the newspaper, then all of his choices became news—proving his news judgment was one hundred per cent correct. When I continued to disagree, he threatened me with legal action.

  “Okay,” I responded.

  We sat looking at each other for a while, until Mel thought better of his threat and took a different tack. “Would you at least be open to fugging suggestions?”

  “Fine. But I don’t have to follow them.”

  “You’ve only been working for newspapers for a month or two. You don’t know how the news biz works.” He started listing ideas for stories, topics for me to dig up scoops on, mostly involving sex and celebrities.

  “The next big story will find me,” I told him.

  “You’re really kissing me off. What are you freaking talking about?”

  “News happens,” I explained, already walking through the door. “You can’t go out and create it.”

  Mel was still laughing uproariously when I left his office, his belly bouncing like a beach ball of Jell-O against his desk.

  3

  As soon as I hit the street, I took out my phone.

  “Is Mel an asshole?” I asked Siri.

  “There’s no need for profanity, Shepherd,” Siri chided me.

  Siri is a lady. I apologized. I asked her to FaceTime Jane. As I waited for the call to connect, I got that feeling again, the one that had kept me alive this far. Someone’s eyes were on me.

  Once the call connected I didn’t bother with preamble.

  “Mel Greenbaum called me in for a chat.”

  “What did he want?” Jane asked, her face concerned. She was wearing her pink Dr. Jane lab coat, her stethoscope around her neck, and looked like a blonde movie actress playing a veterinarian. I could see her kitchen in the background.

  “Well, he shook my hand, patted me on the back, told me about his family, asked about you and Skippy, and then told me to get back to work.”

  “Then what?”

  “I told him the reporter gig may not be for me. He freaked. He tried to convince me I was wrong. Then he threatened to sue me but backed off when I said let the games begin.”

  “So?”

  “So, we’re still friends, I’m working on my dog-poop scoop and keeping an eye out for the Next Big Thing.”

  “Which is what?” she asked.

  “I have no clue. I think he’ll pester me with suggestions. Listen, I think I’ll stop by and pick up Skippy for a walk.”

  I heard a familiar bark. Skippy had heard my voice.

  “What’s up?” Jane asked.

  “Nothing,” I lied.

  “You’re lying,” Jane observed.

  I should not have done this on FaceTime.

  “Only a little,” I admitted.

  “We agreed about this,” Jane pointed out. “No bull.”

  “Sorry. Someone is following me.”

  “Ginny Mac again?”

  “Not her. Someone else, I think.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then how do you know they’re following you?”

  “I’m good at that.”

  “Maybe Ginny Mac has someone else following you?”

  “That’s possible. I’ll see you soon.”

  I hit the phone camera app and reversed the angle. I held it up above my shoulder so I could see behind me. No Yankees cap, no red sneakers, no visible face. I put the phone away but I still had the warning itch between my shoulder blades, the urgent urge to seek cover, turn, aim and fire. I fought to resist my fight-or-flight instinct. On the other hand, I was on a sunny street in America. What could happen?

  * * *

  Jane’s five-story Upper East Side brownstone townhouse in the fancy Carnegie Hill neighborhood near Central Park is worth major money. When I asked her if she got the cash from her practice, her dead husband, or was she rich, she looked at me like I was a complete jerk.

  “All three, if it matters,” Jane told me.

  I was very new in New York then and didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to ask people openly about money. Instead, after asking your name—to see if they had ever seen it in bold type in a gossip column—sophisticated Manhattanites just asked where you lived. Their New Yorker Real Estate Radar instantly told them if you were rich, poor or pathetic. If they were still interested in a conversation with you after that, they asked what you did for a living, which was just another disguised money question. I had become used to women asking me the three questions at parties and watching them retreat to the bar after I answered “Shepherd,” “Broome Street” and “newspaper reporter.” I have my own small apartment downtown, a tiny walk-up sub-let. I couldn’t afford to buy it because Manhattan was quickly becoming a millionaires-only spot. Lately, Skippy and I had been spending most of our time with Jane in her fancy townhouse, even though neither one of us had made any actual decision to live together.

  I let myself in with my key. The alarm was off, blinking green. I called her and she answered from the kitchen. So did Skippy. I heard his distinctive yip and his trimmed toenails galloping across the expensive hardwood floors toward me, big as a wolf. I went on one knee to avoid being bowled over by the huge blue-eyed husky, who skidded into me and began licking.

  “Hey, buddy, I was only gone a couple hours,” I told him, scratching his large head where black fur made a symmetrical black cap on his mostly white fur, with two parallel lines descending toward the intelligent bright eyes, the mark of a thoroughbred. I laughed and he leaned into my petting with delight, his tail slamming the floor.

  I met Skippy in a bloody kitchen, a murder scene where one of his masters had been butchered, the first victim of the Hacker. It was like we had always been friends, even before we met. We rescued each other. Skippy had helped me investigate that case and protected me. I was sure he liked it when the game was afoot. One of Skippy’s fuzzy ears twitched. He turned toward the front door and cocked his head.

  Jane was also glad to see me. She gave me a kiss and a hug, her stethoscope and her plastic DOCTOR JANE nameplate scrunched between us.

  “I’m beginning to wonder if you like his kisses better than mine,” she smirked.

  “I would never say that… to your face,” I smiled.

  “Skippy and I just got back from a second walk,�
�� Jane told me. “Don’t let him con you.”

  “That’s okay. I need him for something.”

  “Really?” Jane asked, brushing some blonde hair behind one ear. “What?”

  I changed the subject and asked her about her day. She sighed, as if she was going to tell me about the death of someone’s pet, then burst into laughter.

  “What?” I asked, smiling.

  “Today, I saved a dachshund who was choking to death,” Jane said, still laughing.

  “That’s funny?”

  “I shouldn’t laugh but I can’t help it,” she giggled. “This married couple brought the dog in because he was… Here, I’ll show you.”

  Jane opened up the EyeBall security program on her laptop and started scrolling around. After Jane and I were almost killed, she sprung for an expensive, wall-to-wall video surveillance system with sound that covered every inch of her office and home 24–7 and was accessible from anywhere, with automatic intruder alerts and security monitoring.

  “Here it is. This happened a few hours ago. Wait, it was later… there. Watch.”

  The camera footage had a slight fish-eye distortion to it and showed a stainless steel examination table, cabinets, and four people moving around a reddish-brown dog on the table; Jane and an assistant as well as a middle-aged man and a younger woman, obviously the owners of the hacking hot dog on the table.

  “Did you see what he ate, Mr. Corcoran?” Jane asked the husband. “You have to watch them—they’ll gobble up anything off the street.”

  “My wife was home alone but Timmy only goes out in his dog walk in our back yard,” the husband said. “We don’t take him onto the street.”

  “I have no idea what happened,” his pretty blonde wife whimpered. “One second he was fine, and the next he was choking. Please help him!”

  “I got home and my wife was hysterical,” the guy explained. “I put ’em both in the car and rushed over.”

  “This is where I injected Apomorphine to induce vomiting,” Jane explained to me, as I saw her give the dog a shot, while her assistant held the animal still, a basin at the ready.

  The dog puked violently. The wife began crying, as her husband held her. Jane used a pair of forceps to remove an object from the basin. It was what New Yorkers called a Coney Island whitefish. A rubber.

  “What the hell?” the husband asked.

  “A condom,” Jane explained. “That was the problem. It was blocking Timmy’s airway. He’s breathing fine now.”

  The grateful dachshund tried to lick Jane, who backed off.

  “Oh, my God,” said the wife, grabbing her husband’s elbow and shoving him toward the door. “Michael. I’ll take care of this.”

  “Wait… what?” the husband sputtered, looking at his wife, the dog, the condom.

  “Mr. Corcoran, you have to dispose of these… items properly, so Timmy doesn’t get hold of them.”

  “I… I don’t use them,” he said, vaguely. “I don’t need ’em. I got a vasectomy. We…”

  “Michael…” his wife pleaded, running out of words.

  “I don’t use ’em.” He glared at her. “Somebody else musta left it there! Tell it to the guy who used it! Ask my wife!”

  Jane and her assistant looked at each other.

  “Who is he? You did this in front of Timmy?” he demanded.

  “I’ll give you folks a few minutes alone,” Jane said diplomatically, beating a hasty retreat.

  The video continued, with yelling and tears and the husband storming out. Jane stopped the recording.

  “Why am I laughing? This is sad,” Jane said. “I’m a terrible person.”

  “So am I,” I told her. “Totally twisted.”

  We both broke down; two terrible people, laughing.

  4

  “I had no idea,” Jane insisted, her laughter fading. “I feel terrible. How was I to know?”

  “You couldn’t,” I said. “You were trying to save a dog, not end a marriage. I wonder who’ll get custody of Timmy?”

  We laughed some more, setting Skippy barking. It took me a few seconds to realize Skippy was barking at the front door. Someone was knocking.

  “Be cool, Skippy,” I told him, patting his head.

  He obeyed, but his snowy seventy-pound body tensed, eyes on the door, his blue eyes cold, ready. I opened the door and found a chubby housewife with stringy brown hair, dressed in a loose yellow sundress and red Crocs, waving some papers and babbling breathlessly in a tearful, semi-hysterical voice about how Dr. Strangelove was missing. Her eyes were red. She lifted a shopping bag and wiped one eye with an elbow.

  “I beg your pardon?” Jane said. “Who is missing?”

  “My little baby, Dr. Strangelove. There’s a reward. Here’s his picture,” she managed.

  She handed us each a Xerox copy of a cute little blonde dog with a wavy coat, some of which was blue, and a pink tongue. One eye was blue, the other white. It looked like a pooch assembled by Dr. Frankenstein. MISSING, $50 REWARD.

  “He’s a cockapoo-shih-tzu-pug mix?” Jane asked.

  “Yes,” the woman answered, surprised. “You know dogs?”

  Jane told her she was a vet. By this time the woman was inside and Skippy was sniffing her shoes with interest. She began petting Skippy and baby-talking him. Skippy loved it, a new pal.

  “You live nearby?” I asked her.

  “Yes, we’ve only been here a month. That’s why I’m so worried. Doc doesn’t know the neighborhood yet. I’m afraid he’ll try to go back to Queens.”

  “Why Dr. Strangelove?” Jane asked.

  “It’s a funny character in an old movie.” That didn’t really answer the question.

  “You moved into this block?” I pressed.

  “No, around the corner. Have you seen him? I’m terrified he’ll get hit by a car.” She turned to Jane. “Where’s your office?”

  Jane told her and was about to continue when I interrupted.

  “If we see him, where would we bring him?” I asked. “I don’t see your address on the sheet, just your cell number.”

  “That’s the best way to get me. I’m never home,” she said. Then she pointed at me, her mouth open. “Wait a second. I know you, your face. You’re famous, aren’t you? You’re that newspaper guy. The one who caught the serial killer!”

  “Yes, he is,” Jane chuckled.

  “I knew you looked familiar,” she gushed, shaking my hand with a firm grip. “Wow. That is amazing. I am talking to a celebrity. Oh! Wait!”

  She produced a cellphone and hugged me around the shoulders with the other arm in a selfie grip. The flash blinded me. Skippy jumped and yipped. She thanked me and asked me my name.

  “Shepherd,” Jane told her. “F.X. Shepherd. I’m Jane Arthur.”

  She thanked us, petted her new friend Skippy, shook our hands and left to knock on other doors down the block. I watched her for a while. After I shut the door, I followed Jane to the kitchen table, inside a semi-greenhouse that overlooked her enclosed garden.

  “Did you find anything weird about all that?” I asked Jane.

  “All what?”

  “I don’t know,” I shrugged. “I just got strange vibes from her.”

  “Skippy seemed to like her,” Jane pointed out.

  I went back to the door, opened it and looked down the block. She was gone.

  “What was weird?” Jane asked.

  “She gave us no name, no address. Just the name of the dog. She has been in your home, knows our names, what kind of alarm system you have and has my picture.”

  “There’s a phone number on the sheet,” Jane pointed out.

  I suggested she call it. She dialed and listened, before smiling and hanging up.

  “It’s the Manhattan Humane Society. You think she’s the one following you?”

  “That thought occurred to me. What else did she touch?” I asked.

  “Just Skippy. And you.”

  I crouched down and felt Skippy’s collar. Then I
felt in between his collar and his neck. There was a lump. I scraped it off. It was a small, flat black plastic disc, sticky on one side. I checked my pockets. In my left pants pocket was a thin plastic rectangle. I pulled it out. It was clear, with only one word, AMI, followed by a phone number and an email. I showed it to Jane, and dialed the number. It rang once.

  “Hello, AMI. How may I help you?”

  It was a different voice.

  “Dr. Strangelove, please,” I asked, as Jane made a funny face.

  “I’m sorry, the doctor is not in. How may we serve you?”

  “If you work for the government, I’m hanging up,” I told her.

  There was a pause.

  “We are a private firm. We never work for government.”

  “You’re the one who’s been following me? You’re a private detective?”

  “I prefer the term confidential investigator. May we do this in person, please?”

  “Why didn’t you do it when you were here? Why all the bullshit of planting an RFID chip inside Skippy’s collar and slipping your card into my pocket?”

  “You were not alone, so I couldn’t talk. I like to stay in practice, so I couldn’t resist the plant. I wanted to see if you would notice. And you did.”

  “Just come back and I’ll listen, if you promise no more bullshit.”

  “The proposal is for you alone. This is a highly confidential position.”

  “Nope. No deal. I tell Jane everything. Also, Skippy.”

  More silence. I waited.

  “I’m hanging up now,” I said.

  “Ten minutes.”

  5

  I opened the door to a svelte, fifty-ish blonde in a slinky black pants suit, high heels and dark shades, an expensive black leather Coach bag hanging from her shoulder.

  “Yeah?” I asked her.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said, not sounding sorry at all.

  She brushed by me, past Jane—whose mouth was hanging open—straight to the kitchen table. I followed her. I was sure it couldn’t be the same person but when she took off the shades and spoke, her eyes and voice settled the issue. As the chubby housewife, she had a higher, fluttery voice, seemed fifty pounds heavier and even walked differently.