Tinkerbell on Walkabout Read Free Page B

you.”
    “Bob schedules everything .”
He gestures at the calendar on the wall behind the desk. Model-Ts, not model
T&A. “If it’s not on that
calendar, it isn’t scheduled.
That’s the first place I
looked when he didn’t show up
Tuesday. He had two rebuilds. He wasn’t here to do them. I even went by his house. All locked up. And his
car’s still here, parked
behind the garage. I didn’t
notice it until I went out to feed the dogs yesterday morning.”
    “Have you reported him missing?” July asks. I half expect
her to pull a casebook out of her pocket.
    “No. It’s
too soon, isn’t it? Someone
has to be missing for awhile before the police give a rip.”
    “Seventy-two hours,” says July, “but given Bob’s reputation
as a solid citizen, you could make a case for speeding things up. You really
think something’s wrong?”
    Perry swallows convulsively, a haunted look in his eyes.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure,
Jules. This isn’t like Bob.
Besides, he left his car .”
    “You’ve searched the lot?” I ask.
    Perry nods. “Walked it from one end to the other. Checked
the outbuildings, too. Bob’s
not a young guy and he loves big, sloppy burgers . . .”
    “I’m calling this in.” July reaches for the phone. So much
for our hunting/gathering expedition.
    “What about the dogs?” I ask Perry.
    “The dogs?”
    “Were they out in the yard or penned when you came in
Tuesday morning?”
    His eyes seem to read the air in front of him. “Uh, in. They
were in. Their pen’s out behind the garage.”
    “So either Bob put them back in or . . .”
    Perry’s eyes widen. “Or what?”
    “Let’s take a look,” I suggest.
    July glances over at me from the phone and nods, her brow
furrowing at whatever she’s hearing on the other end. “Don’t touch,” she
mouths, as if I have to be reminded.
    Perry leads the way through the fine almost-rain to the
covered dog pen on the south-facing corner of the building. The inmates seem
happy to see us, jumping against the chain link enclosure and emitting hopeful
doggy whines.
    There are three dogs: a large Shepherd/Collie mix, a smaller
gray and black mutt, and a Golden Lab to cover the middle ground between the
two. The pen has a pin-and-cradle latch with a combination lock.
    I prod the lock with a fingernail, noticing subliminally
that I can hear the sound of traffic on the highway behind us. The dogs
congregate, vying for my attention. The Lab is limping. I drop to my haunches
and pat the fence with the flat of my hand.
    “Come here, girl,” I coo.
    The Lab minces over, showing an open, trench-like wound
about four inches long on her left hip.
    “Evie’s a klutz,” Perry says. “She’s bigger than she thinks
and she tries to follow Max everywhere.” He indicates the small mutt, who’s nosing the knee of my jeans
through the wire. “Never learns.”
    I get up, wipe my hands on my jeans, and glance over my
shoulder toward the highway. A screen of pines and manzanita blocks my view,
but the foliage isn’t my primary interest—a gleaming royal blue Volvo PV-544
sits against the curtain of greenery. I make it to be a ’64 or ’65. Classic.
    I go over and press my nose to each window—figuratively
speaking. The upholstery looks factory new. I take off my knit cap, cover my
hand with it and open the door.
    “I’ve already searched it,” Perry says from behind me.
    I ignore him and peek under the floor mats, in the glove
box, and under the seats for anything out of the ordinary. I find nothing. I’ve
gone around to the trunk and am gazing into its empty interior when July joins
us. She looks like a Valkyrie—blood fever rising in her pale eyes.
    “They filed a report,” she says. “They won’t declare him
missing until tomorrow morning.”
    “Aren’t they going to send someone out to look around?”
    “Nope.”
    I close the trunk. “Well, we’re here. You’re a cop. And I was
almost a cop.”
    “I’m Highway Patrol, Gina. I have