HARRY

I decide to wait, and see if Ed comes back to her place. I don't recognize her car—and yes, I checked for it—so I park next to the dumpster and start an impromptu stakeout. Good thing I ate lunch first. I actually sort of like stakeouts. Don't tell Perry because he won't believe it, but I do. I get some of my class work in, and catch up on the news, and grab a catnap or two while I'm at it. I have this sense for movement, so I know when to look up and spot whoever I'm tailing.

Probably a leftover from being a burglar. Who says I don't have market-oriented skills, right?

Anyway, about three hours later I notice that a little VW Bug is pulling into the slot on the other side of the recycling dumpster, so I watch and sure enough it's Ed.

She's sort of easy to recognize as I've said.

She had a bag of groceries—just think about that a moment, shall we? The girl's heading into a four star restaurant and she's carrying groceries—if that's not a tip-off that she's living here, I dunno what is.

Ed knocks on the backdoor and it opens; clearly there's a routine here.

I'm still nosy, so I jump out and head to the back myself, and knock.

The same woman as before opens it, and I give her a smile. "I'm here to see Ed?"

"She's not here," the woman says just as Ed peeks over her shoulder.

"He's one of my bosses, Delphina," Ed tells her, and I can see the cook relax a bit.

This hits my alert button. See, I know about dysfunctional relationships, and this protective mode tells me that it's not just the cook being a bitch here; there's something going on with Ed.

"You're sure . . . thorough," the cook mutters, but she's not really pissed; just a little annoyed. Ed looks a tiny bit flustered.

"Um, Mr. Lockhart. Was there something you needed?"

"Need? Nah," I tell her and give up my most disarming smile. I have a pretty good one—at least, I think so. It usually gets me beaten up and not killed. "Just trying to figure out how you handled rent in an upper market neighborhood like this."

"It's . . . exclusive," she tells me, and again, there's that tone that isn't one for a lot of questions.

"Yep. Can I help you carry that stuff up?"

It's a sneaky way to get a look at her place, sure. I know that. I add, "If Ms Ghazy gets one bag I can take the other."

It's an easy way to bring along a chaperone, and both women look at each other. They do that non-talking communication thing, and then I'm in when they smile.

Elevator in the back of the kitchen. Very sneaky, too, because it has buttons for the ground floor and one floor up, and on top of that, a key slot. Ed takes out the key and we go up to the third floor.

"Home sweet home," she tells me, and I follow the two women out into a place about fifteen times nicer than the dowdy apartment I'm renting.

PERRY

Lunch was good, in an Old World sort of way, and despite Harry's comment I didn't see anyone fitting his description of Mrs. Ragozy. She must have had some booth in the back, or maybe a private cell. I had the Arugula salad and called to make sure the second dog handler was in before I stopped by his place of business.

Doctor Raoul Gonzalez had a full waiting room judging by the filled seats and barking. I stepped around the patients and spoke to the receptionist, who had a lovebird on her shoulder.

"Oh yes, Doctor Gonzalez is expecting you," she assured me. "His office is at the end of the hall."

I found my way; the door was open and the room empty. I looked around, checked his credentials hanging on the wall. Cornell—now I was impressed.

And a little curious why someone pulling in over ninety-thousand a year would be showing dogs on the side.

"Mr. Van Shrike?" I heard someone say in a baritone like caramel, and I turned around.

Tall, aristocratic, with curly hair and an amazing pair of big brown eyes. Soulful. I plastered on a polite smile and held out my hand, pushing aside that first painful surge, because whatever else, I was on a case and the first rule of this work is not to let your testosterone blind you.

"Doctor Gonzalez," I managed.

Good handshake, not a bone-crusher, but not loose, either. He smiled, and Christ, that with the eyes was damned near too much. No wonder Mrs. Henshaw had him on her speed dial. I sure as hell would, and I don't even own a dog.

"You're here about Sheila," he murmured, and put his hands into his lab coat pockets. "What can I do to help?"

"Anything you can tell me would be useful," I replied, trying to sound professional. "Medical conditions, suspicious associates, anything out of her ordinary routine."

"Hmmm," he murmured, and gestured for me to have a seat in the chair opposite the desk. I did and took the opportunity to study him again while he thought about my request.

Blue button-down shirt under the lab coat; no tie, unbuttoned at the throat. A gold watch, no rings, clean nails and hold me back, a very nice pair of lips to go with those soulful eyes.

Clearly it's been a while since I've gotten laid.

"Sheila was due to go into season in about three weeks," Gonzalez tells me quietly. "If anyone wanted to breed her, now would be a good time to grab her. That's my suspicion, Mr. Van Shrike. Sheila has one of the better pedigrees registered, and that's well documented in the show world."

""So you think it's an inside job?" I ask, getting back to the issues that matter. He nods.

"Yes, I'm sure of it. Unfortunately, the police are treating it as a theft, and that's a low priority."

"So Mrs. Henshaw said," I reply, and he smiles at me.

It's a nice smile and right in the middle of it, I get a vibe I don't expect.

I blink, and for the first time in a long time, I'm not sure what to do.

ED

So Del and I made dinner. The THREE of us, since Mr. Lockhart said yes to staying, and I didn't really mind. There was a sale on pork chops and Del brought up a really nice cheesy rice to go with them. Yum. I love knowing everything's fresh. While I cooked, I watched Mr. Lockhart look around, and it sort of tickled me that he liked the movie posters and the collection of salt and pepper shakers from my mom.

"Nice. Where's your fire escape?"

I looked at him and he shrugged. "Building code. Have to have two routes down from an upper story."

"The back end, by the bathroom," I told him reluctantly, because I don't like people knowing there's another way up. Mr. Lockhart gives a nod and wanders around again while Del pours some wine.

The layout of my place is kind of cool even if I do say so myself—it's one big rectangle with no inner walls except for the bathroom, which Dad had installed for me, so I've set off my bedroom area in one corner with beaded curtains.

Frosted pink, because I'm girly that way.

We sit down and eat. Both Del and I are sort of surprised at how much Mr. Lockhart can put away, because he's so wiry, but he chows down, complimenting us the whole time while Del keeps flashing me grins. I can tell what she's thinking—he's harmless and cute and that she approves of anyone who likes good cooking.

I can't say I'm immune, but it's nice to know I make a good pork chop.

While we eat, Mr. Lockhart finally convinces me to call him Harry, and tells us these outrageous stories about how he came to California to be in a movie ("Seriously, I was going to be the next Colin Farell!") and how he lost his finger. (Steel doors are hell on the hands. Those and Airdales.") Del checks the time and gets back to the kitchen for the second rush, leaving me and Harry to do the dishes.

"It's a nice place. Good security and I approve of the downstairs neighbors," he tells me. I can see he's twitchy and wants a smoke, but he's too nice to ask.

"Yeah," I agree, and wipe my hands on the dishtowel. Things are tidy, and it's time for Harry to go. I hope he can pick up the hint.

"Okay, I'll just see myself out," he points over his shoulder with his thumb and I nod. "You're coming in tomorrow, right?"

"That's the arrangement, yeah," I tell him. "I'll show up with my vital documents and packed lunch, let Mr. Van Shrike run my prints and give me all those official papers to sign."

Harry cocks his head and grins. I like his grin because it's so . . . cheeky.

"So . . . what are you packing for lunch?" he begins in a tone I suspect I'm going to know very well.