Paw and Order by Spencer Quinn Page B

could do about it, and turned to my water bowl again. Empty. Right, I’d known that. But there seemed to be lots of water pooled on the floor, so I got going on that.
    There’s a vein in Bernie’s neck that jumps sometimes—hardly ever, actually—and what happens next tends to be very bad if you’re a perp. But no perps were around, so therefore? Whoa! We’d come to a so therefore. The way we have things divided at the Little Detective Agency, Bernie handles the so therefores, me bringing other things to the table. I was home free.
    Bernie took a deep breath. The neck vein throbbed one last time and went invisible. “Yes,” he said, “sometimes I need protection, too.”
    And who was always on the spot to do the protecting? It’s not a secret.
    â€œGive me a for instance,” Suzie said.
    â€œRight now,” Bernie said. “Right now is a for instance. When a setup falls apart, it’s in the interest of whoever’s behind it to wipe out the traces. The point is we’re in this together, Suzie. Even if that sounds like a stupid cliché.”
    Suzie gave him a long look. Did her eyes soften? Maybe just a bit. But they both began smelling more like their normal selves. I stopped panting.
    â€œYou’re not the smoothest talker, Bernie.”
    â€œSo I’ve heard.”
    â€œIt’s actually one of your best characteristics.”
    â€œI didn’t know that.”
    â€œAnd there’s another good one.”
    Uh-oh. Suzie had gone way off course, probably because she hadn’t caught Bernie’s keynote speech at the Great Western Private Eye convention, sometime back. True, there’d been some snoring in the audience, but not in the front rows, and there’d definitely been applause at the end. Don’t forget about my hearing, better than yours. I’m sure you bring other things to the table.
    If Bernie was upset that Suzie had dissed him, he didn’t show it. That was Bernie, every time! In fact, he had a little smile on his face, was even shuffling his feet a bit, the same way Charlie had when he’d won the fifty-yard dash at field day. The last field day that I’d be attending, according to Bernie, but that’s another story.
    â€œAll right,” Suzie said. “You win.”
    â€œI don’t want to win,” Bernie said.
    â€œNo?”
    The little smile left Bernie’s face. He and Suzie watched each other in an unblinking sort of way that made me want to blink. I could feel their thoughts, sort of mingling in the air between them. Suzie went to the cupboard and took out . . . what was this? A bottle of bourbon? I’d never seen her touch bourbon. Wasn’t wine her drink? This town—Foggy Bottom? Had I gotten that right?—was turning out to be a strange place where strange things happened.
    Suzie put the bottle and a couple of glasses on the table. “I got this in case you ever came.”
    â€œI came,” Bernie said.
    That was followed by more gazing at each other, and then they sat down. Suzie opened the bottle and poured a little into her glass, quite a bit more in Bernie’s.
    â€œI talked to my editor,” Suzie said.
    â€œAbout what?” said Bernie, swirling his drink around. Bourbon smell got stronger right away.
    â€œConfidentiality agreements in our business and what happens after a source dies.”
    â€œAnd what did he say?” Bernie said.
    â€œSheila’s her name,” said Suzie.
    â€œDamn.”
    â€œYeah, damn.” Suzie took a pretty big sip of her drink. “She said it’s a judgment call.”
    â€œSure,” said Bernie. “Otherwise reporters could end up taking important secrets to their graves.”
    â€œPeople take important secrets to their graves all the time, Bernie. You must know that.” She drained her glass.
    Bernie was quiet for a long time. Then he said, “What’s your