“It’ll be fine,” said Peter. “Really. But first I need someone to take care of the dog.”
“What, you got one of those little toy poodles? Won’t it fit in your purse?”
“You’ll like him.” Peter walked around to the mahogany cargo box, taking out his keys. “You’re not carrying a hamburger in your pocket, are you?”
“Man, I don’t like dogs.”
Peter turned the key and unlatched the cargo box door. Lewis backed away the whole time. Mingus punched the door open with his nose and launched himself out of the box like a guided missile. He landed four feet from Lewis at full stop, crouched, growling.
“What the fuck!” Lewis had bent his knees and brought up his hands automatically.
The growl ramped up past tank-engine levels as Mingus showed the serrations of his teeth. He had a lot of teeth.
Lewis slowly reached behind him for the Glock tucked into his belt.
“Better not,” said Peter, enjoying the moment. “He’s a lot faster than you.”
Lewis stilled his hands, eyeing the animal. “What the fuck kind of dog is this?”
Peter smiled. “His name is Mingus. He was Jimmy’s dog. I kind of inherited him. But he doesn’t listen to me. He pretty much does what he wants.”
“You jarheads are fucking crazy.” Lewis was pinned in place by that growl.
“Mingus?” The dog cocked an ear back, willing to listen, but kept his focus totally on Lewis. “You ready for some dinner?”
Mingus came out of his crouch, licked his chops, then yawned, showing fangs like a maniac’s knife collection, bright with saliva under the streetlight. He stretched, then trotted around and jumped effortlessly through the open window of Peter’s truck.
Lewis had his breathing under control. “This is why I don’t fucking like dogs.”
“Why don’t you follow me to Dinah’s house. But stay in your truck when we get there,” Peter said. “She’s going to be mad enough at me without her seeing your ugly ass.”
—
“You want me to what?”
Dinah stood in her open doorway, blocking access to the house, a look of horror on her face.
Mingus sat on Peter’s foot, panting happily, his teeth gleaming in the dim porch light. Peter realized that this was the first time Dinah had seen the dog without the rope-and-stick contraption. The dog looked less ridiculous without it. And more dangerous.
“It’s just for one night,” said Peter. “Maybe two. I brought his food.”
“Peter, that dog terrorized this neighborhood for weeks.”
“I think he was just hungry,” said Peter. “He’s actually a nice dog. Very protective.”
“Peter, if you think for one minute—”
“Mom, who is it?” Charlie came to his mom at the open door. Then he saw Peter and the dog. “Mingus!” He pushed past his mother, who grabbed for his arm and missed. The boy dropped to his knees and hugged the dog, who washed the boy’s face thoroughly with his wet slab of a tongue.
“He smells like strawberries,” said Charlie. “You gave him a bath.”
Dinah’s glare could have started a fire. “Peter.”
Little Miles wandered over. “Hello, Mr. Mingus,” he said, and put out a hand to the dog, knuckles up like Peter had shown him. The dog licked his way up the boy’s arm, cleaning off what looked like spaghetti sauce. Miles giggled. Dogs always liked little kids. They tasted like sweat and table scraps.
Dinah sighed. It was the sound of a mother who knows when to give in.
“You better be the one to feed him,” said Peter. “So he knows you’re in charge.”
She gave him the stinkeye. “It didn’t work with you.”
Peter gave her his most winning smile. “One more thing,” he said. And held out the chrome .32 he’d taken off the scarred man.
“No, no.” She took a step away.
“The safety is here.” He showed her. “On, off. Point and shoot.” He held it out again. “Take it, Dinah. Just in case.”
She shook her head but opened her hand. Peter put the gun in her palm.
She held it out from her body like it might explode. “Lieutenant Ash.” The muscles worked in her jaw.
“I’ll be back,” he said. “I promise.”
She looked at the boys, who were busy with the dog, then at Peter. She reached across the space between them and tapped him hard on the chest with a pointing finger.
“You had damn well better.”
32
The thin November light was fading, night coming earlier as winter came on. Peter and Lewis sat in the Yukon, waiting.
Through yet another Web search, Peter had found a newspaper article about Skinner’s house in Fox Point, three suburbs north of the city. It had forested lots, narrow curving roads, and a distinct lack of streetlights. The most expensive area was between Lake Drive and Lake Michigan.
Skinner’s place was on the lake.