Paw and Order by Spencer Quinn Page A

questions.”
    â€œThis is crazy,” Suzie said. “Is Soares saying he has definitive evidence that you were asleep in this house when the murder happened?”
    â€œHow could he?” Bernie said. “It must be something else.”
    â€œLike?”
    â€œI don’t know. But it must have been ironclad. The murder weapon was mine, at least in a sense, and it had my prints on it—normally a slam dunk.”
    â€œWhat does ‘in a sense’ mean?”
    Bernie started in on a long and complicated story about some biker bar down in bayou country. It seemed vaguely familiar, but back out in the desert I was soaring through the blue sky, the cloud javelina in my sights. Just as I was coming down on him, he saw me and snarled, showing his tusks. Whoa! Tusks that were way bigger than normal, and . . . what was this? Made of buzz saw blades? I flapped my wings frantically to get higher in the air, out of reach, but of course, I had no wings, so I didn’t go higher, instead drifted down and down toward those horrible—
    â€œWhat’s he whimpering about?”
    â€œSometimes he has bad dreams. Chet? Wake up, big guy.”
    I opened my eyes. Bernie was leaning over me, giving me a gentle shake. No whimpering was going on, and no whimpering had been going on—you can bet the ranch. Whimpering is not my style. I went over to my water bowl and lapped up water, lapped it up as noisily as possible, for reasons unknown to me.
    Bernie went over to Suzie, still sitting in her chair. He raised his hands like he was about to lay them on her shoulders, then seemed to change his mind, and stuck them in his pockets instead. Was something wrong between them? I tried to remember.
    â€œI don’t like being set up,” Bernie said.
    â€œBut how could it be a setup?” Suzie said.
    They were talking to each other but not looking at each other. Instead, they were both facing in my direction, eyes on me. I stopped drinking—all the water was gone now, or at least not in the bowl—and eyed them back.
    â€œWhy not?” Bernie said.
    â€œNo one knew you were going to be here, not even me,” Suzie said. “Plus assuming someone took the gun from your glove box, how could they have counted on a gun being there in the first place?”
    Bernie was quiet for a long time. Then he shrugged and said, “I don’t like being set up.” His voice got quieter and harder at the same time in a way that made the fur on the back of my neck stand straight up. “And I’m going to do something about it.”
    â€œLike what?” Suzie said.
    â€œLike track down Eben’s killer,” Bernie said. “What else?”
    â€œHow are you going to do that? Can you even operate in DC?”
    â€œI hope I can operate here, at least,” Bernie said.
    â€œHere?”
    â€œIn this house.”
    â€œI don’t understand.”
    â€œThat’s what worries me,” Bernie said.
    Suzie rose and faced Bernie. “Are you trying to scare me, Bernie?” she said.
    He gazed down at her. “Last thing I’d want,” he said, his voice kind of husky, like something was in his throat. “But suppose Eben was killed because of the story you two were working on.”
    â€œI wasn’t working on a story with Eben,” Suzie said. “He was a source.”
    â€œSame thing.”
    â€œIt’s not the same thing.”
    Bernie raised his hand. “Okay, okay, have it—”
    â€œAnd I don’t like being talked to like this.”
    â€œHuh? Like what?”
    â€œTalked down to,” Suzie said. “Patronized. I don’t need protection.”
    â€œEverybody needs protection at some point in their lives,” Bernie said.
    â€œYeah? What about you?”
    Uh-oh. Something was wrong between them, no doubt about it. How could that be, now that we were all back together? I started panting, nothing I