Shoot Read Free Page A

up above my shoulder so I could see behind me. No Yankees cap, no red sneakers, no visible face. I put the phone away but I still had the warning itch between my shoulder blades, the urgent urge to seek cover, turn, aim and fire. I fought to resist my fight-or-flight instinct. On the other hand, I was on a sunny street in America. What could happen?
    * * *
    Jane’s five-story Upper East Side brownstone townhouse in the fancy Carnegie Hill neighborhood near Central Park is worth major money. When I asked her if she got the cash from her practice, her dead husband, or was she rich, she looked at me like I was a complete jerk.
    “All three, if it matters,” Jane told me.
    I was very new in New York then and didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to ask people openly about money. Instead, after asking your name—to see if they had ever seen it in bold type in a gossip column—sophisticated Manhattanites just asked where you lived. Their New Yorker Real Estate Radar instantly told them if you were rich, poor or pathetic. If they were still interested in a conversation with you after that, they asked what you did for a living, which was just another disguised money question. I had become used to women asking me the three questions at parties and watching them retreat to the bar after I answered “Shepherd,” “Broome Street” and “newspaper reporter.” I have my own small apartment downtown, a tiny walk-up sub-let. I couldn’t afford to buy it because Manhattan was quickly becoming a millionaires-only spot. Lately, Skippy and I had been spending most of our time with Jane in her fancy townhouse, even though neither one of us had made any actual decision to live together.
    I let myself in with my key. The alarm was off, blinking green. I called her and she answered from the kitchen. So did Skippy. I heard his distinctive yip and his trimmed toenails galloping across the expensive hardwood floors toward me, big as a wolf. I went on one knee to avoid being bowled over by the huge blue-eyed husky, who skidded into me and began licking.
    “Hey, buddy, I was only gone a couple hours,” I told him, scratching his large head where black fur made a symmetrical black cap on his mostly white fur, with two parallel lines descending toward the intelligent bright eyes, the mark of a thoroughbred. I laughed and he leaned into my petting with delight, his tail slamming the floor.
    I met Skippy in a bloody kitchen, a murder scene where one of his masters had been butchered, the first victim of the Hacker. It was like we had always been friends, even before we met. We rescued each other. Skippy had helped me investigate that case and protected me. I was sure he liked it when the game was afoot. One of Skippy’s fuzzy ears twitched. He turned toward the front door and cocked his head.
    Jane was also glad to see me. She gave me a kiss and a hug, her stethoscope and her plastic DOCTOR JANE nameplate scrunched between us.
    “I’m beginning to wonder if you like his kisses better than mine,” she smirked.
    “I would never say that… to your face,” I smiled.
    “Skippy and I just got back from a second walk,” Jane told me. “Don’t let him con you.”
    “That’s okay. I need him for something.”
    “Really?” Jane asked, brushing some blonde hair behind one ear. “What?”
    I changed the subject and asked her about her day. She sighed, as if she was going to tell me about the death of someone’s pet, then burst into laughter.
    “What?” I asked, smiling.
    “Today, I saved a dachshund who was choking to death,” Jane said, still laughing.
    “That’s funny?”
    “I shouldn’t laugh but I can’t help it,” she giggled. “This married couple brought the dog in because he was… Here, I’ll show you.”
    Jane opened up the EyeBall security program on her laptop and started scrolling around. After Jane and I were almost killed, she sprung for an expensive, wall-to-wall video surveillance system with sound that covered