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Bernie waving.
    In all the commotion, I hadn’t noticed that another car had pulled up. A woman had stepped out, was watching us. Bernie turned to her.
    “Bernie Little?”
    “Yes?”
    “Hi, I’m Suzie Sanchez.” She came closer, held out her hand. Bernie shook it, clutching the front of his robe with his otherhand, eyebrows raised. He had dark, prominent eyebrows that had a whole language of their own. “From the
Valley Tribune
?” she said. “I hope I didn’t get the day wrong.”
    “The day?”
    “For that feature we discussed—a day in the life of a Valley PI. Lieutenant Stine of the Metro PD recommended you.”
    “Oh,” said Bernie. “Right, right.” Had I heard about this? Maybe, maybe not. Bernie glanced down at his bare feet. “Running a bit late, sorry,” he said. “Due to . . . circumstances. I’ll be right with you.”
    Suzie Sanchez’s eyes shifted to the road, in the direction Leda had gone. “No rush, I’ve booked the day.” She looked at me. Her eyes were bright, dark and shiny like the countertops in the kitchen. “What a cute dog! Is he yours?”
    “That’s Chet.”
    “Can I pat him?”
    “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”
    Suzie Sanchez laughed; not quite as nice as Charlie’s laugh, but pretty close. She walked over, showed me her hand—it smelled of soap and lemons—then scratched me between the ears, where it turned out I was itchy. Ah.
    “Does he like treats?”
    Do I like treats? Was that the question? She reached into her bag, pulled out a bone-shaped biscuit, size large.
    “You carry dog biscuits around with you?”
    “Reporters run into dogs all the time,” she said, “not all of them as nice as Chet.”
    She lowered the biscuit in range. Wouldn’t do to snap it up in a greedy way, might not be in keeping with my cute appearance. I was just telling myself that when—Snap!
    Suzie Sanchez laughed again. I downed the biscuit in twobites, maybe one. Some brand totally new to me and the best I’d ever tasted. What a world!
    “Can he have another one?” she said. “I’ve got a whole box in the car.”
    Strong air currents blew all around me.

four
                                                  
    Stakeouts: I’ve sat through a million. Okay, possibly not a million. Truth is, I’m not too sure about a million, what it means, exactly—or any other number, for that matter—but I get the drift from Bernie. A million means a lot, like “out the yingyang,” another favorite number of Bernie’s, maybe even bigger.
    “This is exciting,” Suzie said.
    We sat there, me, Bernie, Suzie Sanchez. We had a pickup we used for stakeouts, old, black, inconspicuous. There was a bench seat in front, so I was in the middle; not so good, what with the mirror interfering with my view, but I’m not a complainer.
    “Exciting how?” said Bernie.
    “Just knowing that something dramatic could happen at any moment.” Suzie gestured with her coffee cup to an office park across the street. We were in the Valley but don’t ask me where. The Valley went on forever in all directions, and although I was pretty sure I could find my way home from any of them, it wouldn’t be by a method you’d understand.
    Bernie opened a little packet, dumped the contents in his coffee, stirred with a pencil. “I wouldn’t say dramatic. Not necessarily.”
    “But divorce is a life-changing event, isn’t it? I call that dramatic.”
    Bernie nodded, a slow nod with his eyes shifted, a nod that meant she’d caught his attention. His eyes shifted back, looked past me, at her, then away. “Ever been divorced yourself?”
    “Oh, no,” she said. “But my parents were, so I know about the life-changing part.”
    Bernie sipped his coffee. I’d tried coffee once or twice, didn’t get what all the fuss was about. Water was my drink: delicious every time, never failed. “So you’re, uh, married?” Bernie said.
    People began coming out