Hounding the Pavement Read online

  Holding the leash in its mouth, her charge trotted to the foyer and waited to be hooked to the lead.

  “First day together and I certainly hope you like us more than Bibi,” she said, mentioning the dog’s last walker. “You’ve already met Rudy, and this is Twink.”

  Twink pushed Rudy aside to give the first butt sniff while Sweetie Pie stood submissively.

  “Mr. T says she’s a little too girlie, but we’ll get along. Now let’s get moving.”

  “Hang on and let Rudy say hello.”

  Rudy did his thing; then he and the Westie touched noses and licked. Ellie said, “So, Sweetie, tell the boys a little about yourself.”

  The dog held her nose in the air. “I’m a purebred, of course, though I’ve never been on the pageant circuit. My main job is protecting my owner from unscrupulous men.”

  “Keeps you busy, does it?” Ellie asked, grinning. Her favorite time with a new client was the first few days, when the canines were so happy she understood them that they seemed to blab anything and everything about their life and their owners.

  “I’ll say. Just last night, Babs had a gentleman caller, so I had to sleep in my own bed,” Sweetie responded in a sour tone. “Fortunately, I have an easy way to take care of those uncomfortable situations.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask—what did you do?”

  “Left a present in one of his shiny Italian loafers, just like I do to every interloper. I heard them arguing about it before they left for work.” The Westie gave a tiny yip. “He won’t last the week.”

  “How very . . . um . . . creative of you,” Ellie said, not sure she wanted to know that much about Ms. Jaglinski’s personal life. “I only hope Rudy wouldn’t do that to me.”

  The new pup did a four-legged shuffle, reminding her of their objective. “I gotta pee—really bad.”

  “Cross your legs,” ordered Ellie. “We still have to get the rest of the crew.” They rode the elevator down while she pondered the bond she and Rudy had formed. If and when the time came, she sincerely hoped the little guy wouldn’t resent a new man in her life, but with no prospects in sight, it didn’t pay to worry.

  They picked up their other customers, the usually cheerful Stinker, a smallish beagle with a perky gait, and Jett, an adorable Scottie, and waited while the dogs got acquainted with the new lady of the group in their usual sniff-and-growl manner. Then they headed to Professor Albright’s to collect his pride and joy, a registered AKC champion and Westminster Best in Show Bichon better know as Buddy.

  Now at the professor’s apartment, Rudy hung back while the rest of the gang grew strangely silent. “Uh, Ellie,” he began, “something’s not right. I don’t think we should go inside.”

  “We’re not going inside, silly. Buddy will be waiting at the door, as usual.”

  “If you say so . . .”

  Because Randall hadn’t seen the professor leave, she knocked before using her key. Receiving no answer, she slid the key in the lock, and the door automatically opened. Worried about the easy access, she called the professor’s name. Met with silence, she forged ahead but didn’t get the door open more than a couple of inches when something on the other side blocked her way.

  Raising a brow in Rudy’s direction, she looped the leashes over the knob and used her body weight and a couple of shoulder slams to muscle past whatever was holding the door in place. After squeezing her five-foot-eight-inch frame into the apartment, she stumbled over the object barricading the door.

  Glancing down as she righted herself, Ellie let out a shriek. The professor’s body, pasty-faced and lifeless, lay at her feet. Steeling herself, she sucked in air and called his name. When he didn’t answer or twitch or bat an eyelash, she dropped to her knees and touched his neck to check for a pulse. Then she placed her ear on his chest. With ice-cold skin, no sound of a heartbeat, and no trace of a breath, she knew he was beyond her help.

  Standing, she inhaled another gulp of air, collected her wits, and used the intercom to rouse the doorman. “Randall, call nine-one-one. I think Professor Albright is dead.”

  Ellie stood in the hallway, breathing deeply—in, out, in, out—while she waited for Randall to arrive. She’d peeked inside the apartment and called Buddy’s name a half dozen times, waiting for him to show, but that hadn’t happened. With Rudy and her charges lying quietly at her feet, she accepted that the worst had happened—the professor was dead. But it was Buddy, Professor Albright’s baby, who had her most concerned. She owed it to the professor to do the job he’d hired her for and see to the Bichon’s welfare.

  The elevator opened and Randall rushed toward her. “I’ve called the police. Are you sure about the professor? Is he really dead?”

  “I’m sure. And I need a favor. I haven’t seen Buddy, and I’m worried he’s cowering under the bed or something. Can you bring the dogs downstairs and keep them occupied? When I find him, I’ll come to the lobby and take the crew for their walk.”

  “If I must.” Randall gathered the leads. “But don’t be long. I’m not supposed to leave my post, and if these dogs decide they can’t . . . you know . . .”

  “Take them outside and let them inspect a tree. I swear I’ll clean up after them. Please?”

  Tight-lipped, the doorman nodded and headed toward the elevator with the five dogs in tow. When the door closed, Ellie returned to the apartment, tiptoed past the professor, and began her search for the bichon. She checked beneath the bed, inside the closets, under the sofa, even looked in a few of the cupboards, but the dog was nowhere to be found.

  Back in the foyer, she gazed at her deceased client, a nice man she’d liked and respected. His facial features, so animated in life, were set in a scowl that made it look as if he’d been in pain. When his wide-open eyes started giving her the creeps, she returned to the hall and rested her bottom against a wall.

  What had happened to him? How long had he lain there? Did he have a heart attack? And where was Buddy?

  The apartment intercom buzzed, drawing her inside the foyer again. “Ellie, the police and EMTs are on their way and these animals need to go out. You’ll have to come down.” Randall sounded as if crying would be his next order of business.

  The moment she returned to the hall, the elevator slid open. Two uniformed officers and three men in navy jackets and pants hurried toward her, the men in jackets steering a gurney loaded with equipment. She waited while the policemen entered the apartment and, a few seconds later, came out.

  Giving her a pointed look, the taller of the two said, “I’m Officer Martin, this is Officer Burroughs. We need your name, address, and identification if you have it on you.”

  She searched the leather pouch hanging from her shoulder, found the requested item, and passed it to Martin, who handed it to Burroughs. “Was it a heart attack?”

  The officer raised a brow. “Won’t know until after the circus arrives. In any case, we’re not at liberty to say.” Officer Martin held up his clipboard and continued his inquiry. “You want to tell us how you found him?”

  “I walk his dog every morning, usually after he goes to the university.”

  “Columbia?”

  “Yes. He’s a professor of animal behavior, I think. And a very—I mean, he was a very sweet man.”

  “How did you know he was dead?”

  “I wasn’t sure at first, so I checked for a pulse, a breath, signs of a heartbeat. When I couldn’t find anything positive, I used the intercom to inform Randall.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “Just to have a few friendly words and walk Buddy.”

  “Buddy? One of the dogs the doorman’s holding downstairs?”

  “No. Buddy is the professor’s dog. Randall came up and took the others so I could search the apartment, but there was no sign of him.”

  “You inspected the scene?” the officer asked, his voice almost a snarl.

  “Walking Buddy is my job, and he’s used to going out every morning at this time. When I
realized I couldn’t help the professor, what else was I supposed to do?”

  “Haven’t you ever watched a cop show on television?”

  “No, and I don’t intend to start,” she shot back. She wasn’t into murder, mayhem, or anything that might make her head hurt. She’d had enough unhappiness of her own over the past ten years, and didn’t want to witness anyone else’s.

  “If you had, you’d know you never contaminate a crime scene by tromping through the premises. Tampering with evidence is a serious offense.”

  “But you just said you weren’t sure a crime had been committed. How was I supposed to know, if you don’t?”

  “Look, Ms.—”

  “Engleman. Ellen Elizabeth, but I go by Ellie. And for the record, I didn’t touch anything. I just looked for Buddy.”

  “Uh-huh.” Martin continued to frown. “How, exactly, did you enter the premises?”

  “With my key, of course, like I do every morning.”

  “You have a key to his apartment?”

  She fished the color-coded ring from her bag. “I have a key to each of my clients’ homes. All dog walkers do. It’s the only way they can get the job done.”

  “I see,” he answered blandly, but the words reeked of suspicion. “How long have you been walking dogs?”

  “A little over three weeks.”

  He raised a brow. “I assume you’re bonded and insured?”

  Oh, Lord. Getting the proper paperwork was on her to-do list, not the one she should have completed before she began accepting clients. And she’d be darned if she’d waste a thousand dollars on the proper licensing fees on the off chance the job wouldn’t work out.

  “Um . . . everything is in the pipeline. I’m waiting to get my paperwork,” she said, crossing mental fingers.

  “Stand over there.” Martin pointed to the wall across the hall. “And don’t move.”

  “Is someone going to hunt for Buddy? Give the apartment a more thorough search?”

  “We have a dead body on our hands, Ms. Engleman. We don’t have time to look for some mutt—”

  “Buddy is not a mutt,” she interrupted, taking the insult personally. “He won at Madison Square Garden, so he’s a champion, and he’s sweet and adorable and—it was an accident, right? I mean, the professor did die of natural causes?”

  “The ME will make that decision. Until then, we treat all deaths of this type as suspicious.”

  “Then you’ll search for Buddy?”

  “Detective Ryder will decide.”

  “Who’s Ryder?”

  “He’s the lead on this one, along with his partner Fugazzo. We do the preliminary, and they’ll assume command when they arrive on-scene. You’ll have to talk to them.”

  The intercom sounded and the officer answered.

  “Ms. Engleman needs to get down here right away. There’s a crowd gathering outside and these dogs—” Crazed yapping echoed in the background. “Tell her they have to go out.”

  “Hang on a second.” Officer Martin glanced at Ellie. “You aren’t supposed to leave the scene.”

  The canine racket grew louder.

  “Ellie, I need you,” Randall shouted over the din.

  “Please? The doorman knows me personally. You can even keep my ID until I return,” she pleaded. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes, honest.”

  “Sorry, but—”

  “Surely I can go on one trip while you’re doing . . . whatever it is you do? I have to finish, or there’ll be a mess downstairs.”

  Martin gazed at Burroughs, who shrugged. “I don’t know—”

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I give you my word.”

  Sighing, the officer said, “All right, but make it quick. Ryder doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  Chapter 2

  Ellie scurried to the elevator and rode down to the main level, where a small crowd had formed. Rushing past the doorman and another cop, she grabbed the leashes and raced to the sidewalk before anyone could ask questions.

  She imagined Randall and the officer would have their hands full in a few minutes. Sometimes, being invisible was a good thing. People who performed daily service jobs, like window washers, bicycle messengers, trash collectors, and dog walkers, were often overlooked by the self-absorbed residents of Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Though she’d only been at her job a short while, she realized this nonexistence made it easy to overhear conversations or slip into and out of places that might be off-limits to the rest of society.

  Crossing Fifth Avenue, heading toward Central Park, she spotted an ice-cream vendor hawking the ideal antidote to her rising stress level. After paying for the dark chocolate confection, usually the best pick-me-up of her day, she unwrapped it and moaned when the cold creamy filling and thick, rich coating melted in her mouth.

  Thanks to the difficult time her overbearing ex had given her when they’d split, her single-digit dress size was a thing of the past. Also gone were her strenuous morning workouts at the health club, ditto her lunchtime salads and grilled chicken dinners. Once she’d hit a plateau of sorts, she’d sold her most extravagant clothes, donated the rest to a women’s shelter, and spent the last of her savings on a new wardrobe, sans panty hose, tight skirts, and heels. These days, she ate real-people food and exercised by climbing stairs and walking her charges—a much more interesting and fulfilling way to stay fit.

  While the dogs groused, sniffed, and took care of business, she scarfed down the ice cream and swiped a hand over her mouth. Then she removed a couple of plastic bags from her pocket, collected the droppings, and deposited the bags in the nearest trash bin. It was time to return to the Davenport.

  “Come on, fellas. Let’s go.”

  “Hey, what’s the big idea . . . fool?”

  “But I’m not through.”

  “This is a rip-off!”

  The impatient voices, surprisingly human in her mind, made her smile. Canines had opinions, just as their caretakers did. Rudy was sensitive to her every thought, much as Sweetie Pie was to Barbara Jaglinski’s. Unfortunately, the new man in the CEO’s life would probably screw up their relationship by refusing to accept the Westie. Rudy was her best friend; she couldn’t imagine anyone taking his place, even Mr. Perfect, the man she’d conjured over the past year.

  Mr. Perfect stood right at six feet, with wavy blond hair, a square jaw, wide shoulders, and eyes that saw straight into her soul. He enjoyed chick flicks, walking in the rain, breakfast in bed, and Chinese takeout. He didn’t chew with his mouth open, leave the seat up on the toilet, or belch and pass gas in front of her, at least not on purpose. And he was a considerate yet commanding lover who always made sure she had an orgasm before he crossed the finish line.

  Most important, he liked dogs, which made him so far removed from her semibald, potbellied ex that the two men couldn’t even share the same planet. And probably didn’t, because Ellie doubted she’d find Mr. Perfect anywhere on Earth.

  She’d take a dog over a man any day. Dogs let you know exactly what they wanted in a relationship, and it wasn’t much. Regular food, an occasional tummy rub, a few treats and playtime, and they loved you for life.

  Embarrassed by such personal thoughts in the midst of a crisis, she rounded the herd toward home. She had to think of Professor Albright and poor Buddy. Where the heck was he?

  “Mr. T’s gotta have one more leg lift or he’s gonna burst.”

  “Sorry, but no.” She tugged on the leashes. “Let’s go.”

  “What’s the hurry?”

  “Can’t you figure it out? Buddy’s missin’, sucka,” Twink informed the pack before Ellie could respond.

  The statement caused a near riot. Interspersed between frantic barks and worried yips came questions, too many for Ellie to answer as she walked down the block. And while she did, her mind continued to assess what had happened. The idea that someone might actually harm a man as nice as Professor Albright seemed bizarre. She hadn’t known him well, but he lived alone, he
acted pleasant enough, and he was a dog lover. Though not ancient, he was in his sixties, so a heart attack was the most logical reason for his death. But if that were the case, why did the police need to conduct an investigation?

  Nearing the Davenport, she slowed, and her charges began to circle, wrapping themselves around her calves and ankles until she arrived in front of the building in a tangle of yapping dogs, intertwined leashes, and frustration.

  Sam Ryder’s day had started out like a brick on the head and skidded downhill from there. First, his younger sister, a psychology major at NYU and a self-proclaimed expert on the world in general, had called at just past six a.m. After reminding him that tomorrow night was his standing date to have dinner at their mother’s, she threw in a comment about how he’d missed the family gathering the last three weeks in a row and hung up before he could tell her he’d been too busy to eat a regular meal for at least a month.

  He figured their mother’s girdle was too tight, and she’d nagged Sherry into conveying her displeasure. Which meant he’d have a hell of a lot of explaining to do if—and it was a very big if—he made it to dinner.

  After that, he’d indulged in his usual morning workout and pulled a muscle, creating an ache in his shoulder that definitely didn’t sit well. He’d eaten a quick breakfast with the hope of taking a hot shower to ease the shoulder and, thanks to the lousy plumbing in his apartment, had about frozen his gonads off in the ice-cold spray.

  On his way out the door, he’d taken his second phone call of the day, a possible homicide on the Upper East Side, and then, as an additional insult, he’d stepped in a pile of dog shit as he walked from his building to his car.

  “People have no respect for the law,” he grumbled, as he climbed into his beat-up Chevy. With Fugazzo out on family leave, it was going to be a long couple of months.

  After fighting crosstown traffic, he turned onto Fifth and spotted his destination, noting the flashing lights of patrol cars and an ambulance, as well as the crowd assembled in front of the building. Though it was early in the season for the ghouls to be out full force, spring had arrived just last week, which always seemed to lure the weirdos from their lairs.