L.A. Boneyard by P.A. Brown Page B

me a bit about yourself. Aside from the fact you’re a police detective. Why should I let one of my dogs go to you?”
    David had no idea how to respond to that. So he countered.
    “You’re free to come out and see the dog for yourself. You can see if he’s happy, or not.”
    She agreed to that and he gave her their Silver Lake address.
    But she couldn’t commit on a time. “I’ll let you know.”
    David called it quits around six, and headed home for a much needed shower. Sergeant met him at the door, a scrap of skin hanging from his nose. Upstairs in the bedroom, the bed looked like a small bomb had gone off in it. Sweeney lay on David’s pillow, eying the dog with disgust.
    David scooped the angry cat up, and gave Sergeant a stern look when he surged forward, trying to nudge the Siamese in his arms. Putting both animals outside on the hall landing, he L.A. BONEYARD 85
    stripped the bloodied sheets where the two had tussled, and put fresh ones on. When he let the two back in, Sweeney curled up on David’s pillow. Sergeant took up his place at the foot of the bed.
    Shaking his head, David carried the bed clothes down to the laundry room, and put a load in. Then he went in search of supper, settling on a quick-fry steak and rice side dish. He ate in the media room, flipping through channels until he finally settled on a NASCAR race in Daytona.
    Someone pounded on the door. Sergeant beat him to it, and even before he threw the heavy oak door open, he knew who was on the other side.
    Jairo leaned against the tiled courtyard, legs crossed at the ankles, his brown lab lying at his feet. The dog scrambled up when the door opened, and greeted Sergeant enthusiastically.
    Jairo tousled the Doberman’s head fondly.
    “Looks like you had a run in with a claw,” he said with an easy grin.
    “I think he lost that argument,” David said, determined not to respond to Jairo’s unwanted presence. It was getting harder and harder to ignore his own wholly unwanted physical reaction to the man.
    In the meantime, the dog needed a good run. He grabbed his jacket and running shoes, and led Jairo at a fast clip over to the park, where the two dogs were free to gambol, and chase each other along the shoreline.
    Back at the house, Jairo grinned when it became obvious David wasn’t going to invite him in. He saluted him and tugged Popeye back to his car. David didn’t bother watching to see if he left. He shut and locked the door, and led the exhausted dog into the media room, where they both settled down to watch a Johnny Cash retrospective. Half way through the show Chris called. He sounded tired, but upbeat.
    “You’re taking care of yourself, right?”
    “Sure,” Chris said with a laugh. “Trust me, no wild parties.
    How’s the dog?”

    86 P.A. Brown
    “He’s good.” David shook his head, looking down at the sleeping dog at his feet. “He misses you.” His voice dropped.
    “He’s not the only one.”
    They traded “I love you’s” and David got off the phone.
    Blindly he reached down and stroked the dog’s dark head, wishing more than anything that Chris had never gone to New York.
    The next morning Jairo located the Leland Way landlord. He had done a property search and found the owner, who was renting the place out. He agreed to meet them at eleven outside the house. Jairo reported his findings.
    “Mr. Bailey Larson has owned that particular building since nineteen ninety-four. He and his wife used to own it, but they divorced in ninety-six and he purchased the structure from her.”
    “Did he know the two tenants?”
    “He met them, but doesn’t know much about either of them, except they spoke with heavy accents and they were lookers. Like with the tattoo artist, they made quite an impression on our guy.”
    “No trouble with them?”
    “Paid their rent on time. Last check cleared a couple of weeks ago. He would have been expecting next month’s check in another week.”
    “What bank were the checks