The Big Book of Christmas Mysteries Part 82

At last he apparently found what he needed. He got up and I heard more paper rustling, then the light went out.

"Now!" I shouted at Po. She raced out of the room and found the intruder as he was on his way out the far door. Blue light flashed; a gun barked. Po yelped and stopped momentarily. By that time I was across the room, too. The intruder was on his way out the apartment door.

I pulled my parka from the chair where I'd left it and took off after him. Po was bleeding slightly from her left shoulder, but the bullet must only have grazed her because she ran strongly. We tumbled down the stairs together and out the front door into the icy December night. As we went outside, I grabbed the dog and rolled over with her. I heard the gun go off a few times but we were moving quickly, too quickly to make a good target.

Streetlamps showed our man running away from us down Halsted to Belmont. He wore the navy ski mask and khaki parka of the solitary runner I'd seen at the harbor the day before yesterday.

Hearing Po and me behind him he put on a burst of speed and made it to a car waiting at the corner. We were near the Omega now; I bundled the dog into the backseat, sent up a prayer to the patron saint of Delco batteries, and turned on the engine.

The streets were deserted. I caught up with the car, a dark Lincoln, where Sheridan Road crossed Lake Sh.o.r.e Drive at Belmont. Instead of turning onto the drive, the Lincoln cut straight across to the harbor.

"This is it, girl," I told Po. "You catch this boy, then we take you in and get that shoulder st.i.tched up. And then you get your favorite dinner-even if it's a whole cow."

The dog was leaning over the front seat, panting, her eyes gleaming. She was a retriever, after all. The Lincoln stopped at the end of the harbor parking lot. I halted the Omega some fifty yards away and got out with the dog. Using a row of parked cars as cover, we ran across the lot, stopping near the Lincoln in the shelter of a van. At that point, Po began her deep, insistent barking.

This was a sound which would attract attention, possibly even the police, so I made no effort to stop her. The man in the Lincoln reached the same conclusion; a window opened and he began firing at us. This was just a waste of ammunition, since we were sheltered behind the van.

The shooting only increased Po's vocal efforts. It also attracted attention from Lake Sh.o.r.e Drive; out of the corner of my eye I saw the flas.h.i.+ng blue lights which herald the arrival of Chicago's finest.

Our attacker saw them, too. A door opened and the man in the ski mask slid out. He took off along the lake path, away from the harbor entrance, out toward the promontory. I clapped my hands at Po and started running after him. She was much faster than me; I lost sight of her in the dark as I picked my way more cautiously along the icy path, s.h.i.+vering in the bitter wind, s.h.i.+vering at the thought of the dark freezing water to my right. I could hear it slapping ominously against the ice-covered rocks, could hear the man pounding ahead of me. No noise from Po. Her tough pads picked their way sure and silent across the frozen gravel.

As I rounded the curve toward the promontory I could hear the man yelling in Spanish at Po, heard a gun go off, heard a loud splash in the water. Rage at him for shooting the dog gave me a last burst of speed. I rounded the end of the point. Saw his dark shape outlined against the rocks and jumped on top of him.

He was completely unprepared for me. We fell heavily, rolling down the rocks. The gun slipped from his hand, banged loudly as it bounced against the ice and fell into the water. We were a foot away from the water, fighting recklessly-the first person to lose a grip would be shoved in to die.

Our parkas weighted our arms and hampered our swings. He lunged clumsily at my throat. I pulled away, grabbed hold of his ski mask and hit his head against the rocks. He grunted and drew back, trying to kick me. As I moved away from his foot I lost my hold on him and slid backwards across the ice. He followed through quickly, giving a mighty shove which pushed me over the edge of the rock. My feet landed in the water. I swung them up with an effort, two icy lumps, and tried to back away.

As I scrabbled for a purchase, a dark shape came out of the water and climbed onto the rock next to me. Po. Not killed after all. She shook herself, spraying water over me and over my a.s.sailant. The sudden bath took him by surprise. He stopped long enough for me to get well away and gain my breath and a better position.

The dog, s.h.i.+vering violently, stayed close to me. I ran a hand through her wet fur. "Soon, kid. We'll get you home and dry soon."

Just as the attacker launched himself at us, a searchlight went on overhead. "This is the police," a loudspeaker boomed. "Drop your guns and come up."

The dark shape hit me, knocked me over. Po let out a yelp and sunk her teeth into his leg. His yelling brought the police to our sides.

They carried strong flashlights. I could see a sodden ma.s.s of paper, a small manila envelope with teethmarks in it. Po wagged her tail and picked it up again.

"Give me that!" our attacker yelled in his high voice. He fought with the police to try to reach the envelope. "I threw that in the water. How can this be? How did she get it?"

"She's a retriever," I said.

Later, at the police station, we looked at the negatives in the envelope Po had retrieved from the water. They showed a picture of the man in the ski mask looking on with intense, brooding eyes while Santa Claus talked to his little boy. No wonder Cinda found him worth photographing.

"He's a cocaine dealer," Sergeant McGonnigal explained to me. "He jumped a ten-million-dollar bail. No wonder he didn't want any photographs of him circulating around. We're holding him for murder this time."

A uniformed man brought Jonathan into McGonnigal's office. The sergeant cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Looks like your dog saved your hide, Mr. Michaels."

Po, who had been lying at my feet, wrapped in a police horse blanket, gave a bark of pleasure. She staggered to her feet, trailing the blanket, and walked stiffly over to Jonathan, tail wagging.

I explained our adventure to him, and what a heroine the dog had been. "What about that empty film container I gave you this afternoon, Sergeant?"

Apparently Cinda had brought that with her to her rendezvous, not knowing how dangerous her customer was. When he realized it was empty, he'd flung it aside and attacked Cinda. "We got a complete confession," McGonnigal said. "He was so rattled by the sight of the dog with the envelope full of negatives in her mouth that he completely lost his nerve. I know he's got good lawyers-one of them's your friend Oldham-but I hope we have enough to convince a judge not to set bail."

Jonathan was on his knees fondling the dog and talking to her. He looked over his shoulder at McGonnigal. "I'm sure Oldham's relieved that you caught the right man-a murderer who can afford to jump a ten-million-dollar bail is a much better client than one who can hardly keep a retriever in dog food." He turned back to the dog. "But we'll blow our savings on a steak; you get the steak and I'll eat Butcher's Blend tonight, Miss Three-Dot Po of Blackstone, People's Heroine, and winner of the Croix de Chien for valor." Po panted happily and licked his face.

MAD DOG.

d.i.c.k Lochte.

d.i.c.k LOCHTE'S FIRST NOVEL, SLEEPING DOG (1985), recounts the adventures of a precocious fourteen-year-old girl and a worn-out Los Angeles private detective as they search for the girl's mother across most of California. It was nominated for the Edgar, Shamus, and Anthony awards and won the Nero Wolfe Award. It also was selected by the New York Times as a "Notable Book of the Year." The Independent Mystery Booksellers of America named it one of the 100 Most Popular Mystery Novels of the Century. More recently, he has been co-writing books with Christopher Darden and Al Roker. "Mad Dog" was first published in Santa Clues, edited by Martin H. Greenberg and Carol-Lynn Rossell Waugh (New York, Signet, 1993).

Mad Dog.

d.i.c.k LOCHTE.

THE GUY WHO SAID APRIL WAS THE cruelest month must not have spent much time alone in Hollywood during the Christmas season. There's all that smog-filtered sun s.h.i.+ning down. Neon trees. Elves with tans. Reindeer with chrome sidewalls. And the street decorations are flat-out cheesy-sprigs of wilted holly with greetings that are so busy being nondenominational they might as well be serving some other purpose, like telling you to keep off the gra.s.s. If there was any gra.s.s.

As you might guess from the foregoing, I was fairly depressed that night before Christmas Eve. My few friends were scattered to the winds and the holidays loomed so bleak that I was at the end of my tether. So I agreed to appear on The Mad Dog Show.

Mad Dog, last name unknown if it wasn't "Dog," was the latest thing in radio talk hosts. He was rumored to be young, irreverent, glib to the max, and funny on occasion, usually at the expense of someone else. As I discovered by listening to his show the night before my scheduled appearance, he was also brash and self-opinionated and he had an annoying habit of pausing from time to time to let loose with a baying noise. But his coast-to-coast audience was not only charmed by such behavior, it was large and loyal. And, as my publisher's publicity agent informed me, Mad Dog actually read books and was able to sell them.

Even stranger, much to the agent's surprise, the self-described "howling hound of America's airways" specifically requested that I appear on his pre-Christmas Eve show to talk about my latest novel.

His station, KPLA-FM, was in a no-man's-land just off the San Diego freeway, nestled between a large lumberyard, apparently closed for the holidays, and a bland apartment complex that looked newer than the suit I was wearing, if not more substantial. The station would have resembled a little white clapboard cottage except for the rooftop antenna that went up for nearly three stories. It was situated in the middle of a sh.e.l.l-coated compound surrounded by a chain fence.

Security was a big thing at KPLA-FM, apparently. A lighted metal gate blocked the only road in that I could find. I aimed my car at it, braked, and waited for a little watchman camera to spin on its axis until its lens was pointed at my winds.h.i.+eld.

"h.e.l.lo," an electronically neutered voice said, "have you an appointment?"

"I'm Leo Bloodworth," I replied, sticking my head out of the side window. "I'm guesting on the ..."

"Of course," the voice interrupted me. "Mad Dog's expecting you. Please enter and park in the visitor section."

There weren't many cars. I pulled in between a black sedan and a sports convertible, got out without dinging either, and strolled to the brightly lit front door, my current novel under my arm.

The door was locked.

I couldn't find a bell, so I knocked.

A little peephole broke the surface of the door, through which an interior light glowed. A shadow covered the light and the door was opened by a pleasant woman in her senior years, rather plump and motherly. There was something familiar about her intelligent, cobalt-blue eyes. Had she been an actress on one of those TV shows my family used to watch? Aunt Somebody who was always baking cookies and dispensing comfort and advice?

"I'm Sylvia Redfern, the a.s.sistant station manager," she said. "I'm not usually here this late, but we're very short-staffed because of the holidays. Come, I'll show you to what pa.s.ses for our greenroom."

She led me to a small, pale blue and white, windowless s.p.a.ce furnished with thrift-sale sofas and chairs, a large soft-drink machine, and a loudspeaker against a far wall, from which emanated music that sounded vaguely cla.s.sical.

There were two people in the room. The man was a reedy type whose lined face and spa.r.s.e white hair made me place his age as somewhere in his mid-sixties, at least a decade older than me. The woman, tall and handsome with good cheekbones and short black hair, I figured for being at least twenty years my junior.

"Another fellow guest," Sylvia Redfern announced cheerily. "Ms. Landy Thorp and Dr. Eldon Varney, this is Officer Leo Bloodworth."

"Just Leo Bloodworth," I corrected, nodding to them both.

Sylvia Redfern looked chagrined. "Oh, my," she said, "I thought you were with the police."

"Not for twenty years or so. I hope our host isn't expecting me to ..."

"I'm sure his information is more up to date than mine," she replied, embarra.s.sed. "Please make yourself comfortable. I'd better go back front and see to the other guests when they arrive."

Dr. Varney's tired eyes took in the jacket of my book. He gave me a brief, condescending smile and returned to his chair. Landy Thorp said, "You're the one who writes with that little girl."

It was true. Through a series of circ.u.mstances too painful to discuss, my writing career had been linked to that of a bright and difficult teenager named Serendipity Dahlquist. Two moderately successful books, Sleeping Dog and Laughing Dog, had carried both our names. This was the newest in the series, Devil Dog.

"May I?" Landy Thorp asked and I handed her the novel.

She looked at the back cover where Serendipity and I were posed in my office. "She's darling," Landy Thorp said. "Is she going to be on the show, too?"

"No. She's in New England with her grandmother." And having a real Christmas, I thought. "So I'm here to flog the book. What brings you to The Mad Dog Show, Miss Thorp?"

She frowned and returned Devil Dog as she replied, "I'm not sure I know." Then the frown disappeared and she added, "But please call me Landy."

"Landy and Leo it will be," I said. "You don't know why you're here?"

"Somebody from the show called the magazine where I work and asked for them to send a representative and here I am."

"What magazine?" I asked.

"Los Angeles Today."

"Los Angeles Today?" Dr. Varney asked with a sneer twisting his wrinkled face. "That monument to shoddy journalism?"

Landy stared at him.

"The magazine ruffle your feathers, Doc?" I asked.

"I gather they're in the midst of interring some very old bones better left undisturbed."

Landy shrugged. "Beats me," she said. "I've only been there for a year. What's the story?"

"Nothing I care to discuss," Dr. Varney said. "Which is precisely what I told the research person who phoned me."

I strolled to the drink machine and was studying its complex instructions when the background music was replaced by an unmistakable "Ahoooooooo, ruff-ruff, ahoooooooooo. It's near the nine o'clock hour and this is your pal, Mad Dog, inviting you to step into the doghouse with my special guest, businessman Gabriel Warren. Mr. Warren has currently curtailed his activities as CEO of Altadine Industries, to head up Project Rebuild, a task force that hopes to revitalize business in the riot-torn South Central area of our city. With him are his a.s.sociates in the project, Norman Daken, a member of the board at Altadine and Charles 'Red' Rafferty, formerly a commander in the LAPD, ahooooo, ahoooooo, and now Altadine's head of security.

"Also taking part in tonight's discussion are Victor Newgate of the legal firm of Axminster and Newgate, mystery novelist slash private detective, Leo Bloodworth, journalist Landy Thorp, and Dr. Clayton Varney, shrink to the stars."

Varney scowled at his billing. I was doing a little scowling, myself. Red Rafferty had been the guy who'd asked for and accepted my badge and gun when I was booted off the LAPD. I suppose he'd had reason. It all took place back in the Vietnam days. Two kids had broken into a branch of the Golden Pacific Bank one night as a protest. The manager had been there and tried to shoot them and me and so I wound up subduing him and letting the kids go. The banker pushed it and Rafferty did what he thought he had to. But I never exactly loved him for it. And I was not pleased at the prospect of spending an hour with him in the doghouse.

A commercial for a holiday bloodbath movie resonated from the speaker. Dr. Varney stood suddenly and headed for the door. Before he got there, it was opened by a meek little guy carrying a clipboard. He looked like he could still be in college, with his blond crew cut and gla.s.ses. "Hi," he said, "I'm Mad Dog's engineer, Greg. This way to the studio."

"First, I demand a clarification," Dr. Varney told him. "I want to know precisely what we're going to be discussing tonight."

Greg seemed a bit taken aback by the doctor.

He blinked and consulted his clipboard. "Crime in the inner city. What's causing the current rash of bank robberies. The working of the criminal mind. Like that."

"Contemporary issues," Dr. Varney said.

"Oh, absolutely," Greg replied. "Mad Dog's a very happening-now dude."

Somewhat mollified, Dr. Varney dragged along behind us as the little guy led us down a short hall and into a low-ceilinged, egg-carton-lined, claustrophobic room with one large picture window which exposed an even smaller room with two empty chairs facing a soundboard.

The men in the room looked up at us. They occupied five of the nine chairs. In front of each chair was a microphone. Mad Dog stood to welcome us. He was a heavyset young guy, with a faceful of long black hair that looked fake, and a forelock that looked real bothering his forehead and nearly covering one of his baby blues. He was in s.h.i.+rtsleeves and black slacks and he waved us to the empty seats with a wide, hairy grin.

Since I was locking eyes with Red Rafferty while I located a chair across from him, I didn't spot the animal until I was seated. It was a weird-looking mutt nestled on a dirty, brown cus.h.i.+on in a far corner.

"That's Dougie Dog, the show's mascot, Mr. Bloodworth," Mad Dog explained. "We use him for the Wet Veggie spots. He's not very active. Kinda O-L-D. But we love him."

"Is this for him?" I asked, indicating the empty chair next to me.

"No." Mad Dog smiled and settled into his chair. "The D-Dog prefers his cus.h.i.+on. That's for ... someone falling by later."

"Sir?" Dr. Varney, who was hovering beside the table, addressed our host.

"Please, Doctor. It's Mad Dog."

"Mad Dog, then." Dr. Varney's lips curled on the nickname as if he'd bitten into a bad plum. "Before I partic.i.p.ate in tonight's program, I want your a.s.surances that we will be discussing issues of current concern."

"Tonight's topic is crime, Doctor. As current as today's newspaper. Or, in Ms. Thorp's case, today's magazine."

"Sit here, Clayton," the dapper, fifty-something Gabriel Warren said, pulling out a chair next to him for the doctor. "Good seeing you again." He looked like the complete CEO with his hand-tailored pinstripe, his no-nonsense hundred dollar razor cut, his gleaming white s.h.i.+rt, and red-striped power tie. His voice was clear and confident, just the sort of voice you need if you're planning on running for the Senate in the near future, which everyone seemed to think he was. "You know Norman, don't you?" he asked Varney.

"Of course." The doc nodded to the plump, middle-aged man in a rumpled tweed suit at Warren's left hand, Norman Daken.

"What are you doin' here, Bloodworth?" my old chief asked unpleasantly. Never a thin man, he'd added about six inches around the middle and one more chin, bringing his total to three.

"Pus.h.i.+ng my novel," I said, pointing to the book on the table.

He glanced at it. "Beats workin', I guess," he said.

"It takes a little more effort than having somebody stick a fifty-dollar bill in your pocket," I said. That brought a nice shade of purple to his face. There'd been rumors that he'd made considerably more money as a cop than had been in his bimonthly paycheck, especially in his early days.

"Aaoooo, aaoooo," Mad Dog bayed. "Gentlemen, lady, I think Greg would like to get levels on all of us."

While each of us, in turn, babbled nonsense into our respective mikes to Greg's satisfaction, the woman who'd greeted me at the door, Sylvia Redfern, entered the engineer's cubicle and positioned the chair beside him-the better to observe us through the window.