Chapter Eleven
Jess was halfway back to Ann Arbor with her newest purchase in the back of her SUV and supplies to go with his care when her phone played the James Bond theme song. Wheeler.
“Hey.” She stopped at a stop sign and looked over her shoulder. Smirking, she drove on. Wheeler would pop a gasket when he saw this. Maybe he wouldn’t be so intent on them co-mingling in his house. That had to be a good thing.
“Where are you?” he said, curtly.
“Driving toward Ann Arbor.”
“How fast can you get back?”
Whatever had changed his mood since this morning had been big. He was uptight. “Ten-ish minutes,” she said. “Why? Did Calvin come back?”
“I haven’t seen him. But we have a lead.” He sounded like he was typing. “There was a witness to the church shooting. A man thinks he saw the sniper running away from the parking lot as he was heading out of town for a family reunion.”
Jess glanced in her rearview mirror. Maybe she’d been a bit impulsive, but what was done was done. “I don’t think I can make it. I need to talk to Irving about a place to rent.”
“You’re staying with me.”
“That’s not a good idea.” What wasn’t a great plan to begin with was impossible to change now. Events of the last hour had changed their circumstances. Wheeler would never go for two roommates. “Irving knows people.”
“I’m not arguing with you. I know you can protect yourself and take down bad guys without breaking a nail, but this isn’t an argument you’ll win. Even if the fire was not intended to be lethal, you could have died last night.”
He did have a point. “Fine. But remember I tried to change your mind.” She agreed to meet him at Brash.
When she pulled up beside him, he was on the phone. She pulled open the back door and loaded her stuff into the backseat of his SUV.
“Give me the address,” he said, completely engrossed in his conversation. “Right. And tell Bosco to check on the cameras.”
The poor guy was about to bust a gasket and was clueless.
“Good job,” she whispered and grinned like a lotto winner. She may have had some misgivings with this plan. Now she was looking forward to his reaction.
Hurrying into the front seat, she slid in as he was ending the call. “Anything wrong?” she asked sweetly.
“Nope. Just some follow-up.” He glanced over at her, froze, and turned his eyes toward the back seat. “Shit!”
“Wheeler, meet Spike. Spike, Wheeler.”
“You have a pet? When did you get a pet?” He watched the ginormous brown and cream dog lick the window, smearing slobber all over the once-clear glass. “Get that beast out of my SUV.”
“Spike is a dog, not a beast. The pound employees think he’s a cross between French Mastiff and a Great Dane.” She widened her eyes. “I recall quite vividly that you said I needed protection. Calvin is out and Spike is my new bodyguard.”
* * *
There was no way this was a just a dog. He had to have bear or moose or water buffalo in him somewhere. He was huge. At least one-fifty was his guess. “You can’t have that mutt in here. He’s slobbering on my seats.”
Jess reached back her hand. The dog licked it. “See, he loves me already. I’m not taking him back.”
With a flat brown muzzle that looked like it had been hit in the face by a truck, his jowls shook as he happily slobbered all over her hand with his oversized pink tongue. Gross.
Her eyes widened as she looked up at him like he’d just kicked her dog. “I thought you wanted me safe?”
Damnit! He just been manipulated, and by a master. If he said no to the beast, she’d find somewhere else to live and he couldn’t look out for her. If he said yes, he’d have to take her, dog and all.
The damn PI was a pro.
Without responding, he angrily headed for the nearest auto parts store. He stomped inside, made a purchase and headed out.
“Get the dog out.” She took Spike’s leash. Its head was almost to Sam’s armpit. “Did he come with a saddle?”
Jess chuckled.
Sam bit open the package and shook out the black seat cover while she cooed and scratched the dog. He handed her the wrapper and climbed inside. “If the damn dog is riding shotgun, he isn’t ruining my seat.”
There was already slobber on the fabric, but it wasn’t enough to keep him from covering it over. A little slobber was better than a shitload of it. And the dog had a serious drooling problem.
By the time he had the cover smoothed out, Spike had taken care of business on his tire.
Wheeler looked at the wet spot and frowned. “He’d better be housebroken or he’s wearing a diaper.”
Jess shrugged non-committally and nuzzled the bison-sized head. The mutt smelled of fruity doggie shampoo.
“Although I’d initially wanted a smaller dog, one look at his big dopey face and I was in love.” Jess rubbed the sides of his head. “You are the cutest boy. Yes, you are.” She loaded him into the SUV and snapped in his harness. “His owner moved overseas and couldn’t take him. Aren’t we lucky for that?”
Wheeler grunted and climbed behind the wheel. “If he pisses on my refinished hardwood floors, he’s moving into the garage.”
That did it. She twisted on the seat and faced him. “Do you hate dogs in general or just mine?”
“I don’t hate dogs. That isn’t a dog. It’s a giant shedding flea breeder.” They left in a squawk of tires. “And it’s not sleeping on the furniture.”
* * *
If it came down to Wheeler or Spike, there was no contest. She and Spike would find somewhere else to live. The arrangement hadn’t been her choice anyway. She’d been arm-twisted into it.
Taryn had offered her shelter, but she had two kittens that would freak over Spike. Brash had a couple of sparsely furnished rooms for unexpected overnighters. Irving would be okay calling the fire an emergency and letting her crash there. But Spike might be an issue. Still, there had to be rentals that took dogs.
Glancing into the back seat, her confidence took a hit. He was a really, really big dog. What would a landlord think?
“Spike does not have fleas and I plan to get a dog pillow before I head over to your house.” He was such a loveable dog. And he was hers. “He will be an excellent guest. You’ll see.”
With Wheeler still unhappy, the ride to the interview was quiet, except for the sounds of Spike vigorously scratching himself and licking the window.
A row of six houses lined the side street behind the church and faced the parking lot. They were all similar 50s brick ranches, though one owner had added a second floor. The yards were neat and the plants and trees carefully tended.
“Interviews were conducted after the shooting but Mr. Leptic hadn’t been home when we canvassed the area,” Wheeler explained when he finally decided to talk to her. “He didn’t hear about the incident until last night and called in.”
The Leptic house was red brick with white trim and a narrow cement porch lined with a wrought iron railing. His bushes were neatly trimmed and there was no sign of flowers to pretty up the plain exterior. Wheeler knocked on the white metal door.
The middle aged Mr. Magoo figure with thick bottle glasses who appeared when the door opened left Jess certain Mr. Leptic couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, much less be a good witness to a crime. Darn.
“Mr. Leptic?” Wheeler’s expression remained neutral but he had to be disappointed to lose their first lead. “I’m Detective Wheeler. We came to talk to you about a tip you called in last night about the church shooting on Saturday.”
“Of course, of course. Come on in.” He stepped back to let them pass. The inside of the house lacked any kind of decoration to liven up the interior. Plain furniture, plain white walls, and a TV from the eighties perched on a particle board stand sat in the corner, covered with dust. Jess speculated whether or not it worked.
Leptic indicated the couch and sat on a chair nearby. “When I heard the news from Mrs. Fishman next door, I realized I might have seen the shooter. At least, I think I did.”
Wheeler pulled out his notebook. He stared at Leptic with cop patience. The eyes behind the strange-looking glasses were magnified and distorted.
“Excuse me for saying this, Mr. Leptic,” Wheeler said and indicated the glasses by pointing to his own eyes. “But how much could you actually see of the shooter?”
Leptic frowned, then grinned. “Oh, right.” He pulled off the glasses. “Sorry about that. I’m a philatelist and use these for my work.” At their puzzled expressions, he added, “I collect stamps. As a hobby. My eyes are perfect. Now let me tell you about your sniper.”