The Husband

A gray-and-black moth was settled on the porch post to the right of the front steps, a night-flyer sleeping in the shade until sunset.

“I have ocular migraines,” Taggart said. “They’re entirely visual. I get the glimmering light and the temporary blind spot for like twenty minutes, but there’s no pain.”

“If you’ve got to have a migraine, that sounds like the kind to have.”

“A doctor probably wouldn’t prescribe ergotamine until she was having a migraine a month.”

“It’s just twice a year. Three times,” Mitch said.

He wished that he had resorted to a different lie. Taggart having personal knowledge of migraines was rotten luck.

This small talk unnerved Mitch. To his own ear, he sounded wary, tense.

Of course, Taggart had no doubt long ago grown accustomed to people being wary and tense with him, even innocent people, even his mother.

Mitch had been avoiding the detective’s stare. With an effort, he made eye contact again.

“We did find an AVID on the dog,” Taggart said.

“A what?”

“An American Veterinary Identification Device. That microchip ID I mentioned earlier.”

“Oh. Right.”

Before Mitch realized that his sense of guilt had sabotaged him again, his gaze had drifted away from Taggart to follow a passing car in the street.

“They inject it into the muscle between the dog’s shoulders,” said Taggart. “It’s very tiny. The animal doesn’t feel it. We scanned the retriever, got her AVID number. She’s from a house one block east, two blocks north of the shooting. Owner’s name is Okadan.”

“Bobby Okadan? I do his gardening.”

“Yes, I know.”

“The guy who was killed—that wasn’t Mr. Okadan.”

“No.”

“Who was he? A family member, a friend?”

Avoiding the question, Taggart said, “I’m surprised you didn’t recognize the dog.”

“One golden looks like another.”

“Not really. They’re distinct individuals.”

“Mishiki,” Mitch remembered.

“That’s the dog’s name,” Taggart confirmed.

“We do that property on Tuesdays, and the housekeeper makes sure Mishiki stays inside while we’re there, out of our way. Mostly I’ve seen the dog through a patio door.”

“Evidently, Mishiki was stolen from the Okadans’ backyard this morning, probably around eleven-thirty. The leash and collar on her don’t belong to the Okadans.”

“You mean… the dog was stolen by the guy who was shot?”

“So it appears.”

This revelation reversed Mitch’s problem with eye contact. Now he couldn’t look away from the detective.

Taggart hadn’t come here just to share a puzzling bit of case news. Apparently this development triggered, in the detective’s mind, a question about something Mitch had said earlier—or had failed to say.

From inside the house came the muffled ringing of the telephone.

The kidnappers weren’t supposed to call until six o’clock. But if they called earlier and couldn’t reach him, they might be angry.

As Mitch started to rise from his chair, Taggart said, “I’d rather you didn’t answer that. It’s probably Mr. Barnes.”

“Iggy?”

“He and I spoke half an hour ago. I asked him not to call here until I had a chance to speak with you. He’s probably been wrestling with his conscience ever since, and finally his conscience won. Or lost, depending on your point of view.”

Remaining in his chair, Mitch said, “What’s this about?”

Ignoring the question, returning to his subject, Taggart said, “How often do you think dogs are stolen, Mr. Rafferty?”

“I never thought about them being stolen at all.”

“It happens. They aren’t taken as frequently as cars.” His smile was not infectious. “You can’t break a dog down for parts like you can a Porsche. But they do get snatched now and then.”

“If you say so.”

“Purebred dogs can be worth thousands. As often as not, the thief doesn’t intend to sell the animal. He just wants a fancy dog for himself, without paying for it.”

Though Taggart paused, Mitch didn’t say anything. He wanted to speed up the conversation. He was anxious to know the point. All this dog talk had a bite in it somewhere.

“Certain breeds are stolen more than others because they’re known to be friendly, unlikely to resist the thief. Golden retrievers are one of the most sociable, least aggressive of all the popular breeds.”

The detective lowered his head, lowered his eyes, sat pensively for a moment, as if considering what he wished to say next.

Mitch didn’t believe that Taggart needed to gather his thoughts. This man’s thoughts were as precisely ordered as the clothes in an obsessive-compulsive’s closet.

“Dogs are mostly stolen out of parked cars,” Taggart continued. “People leave the dog alone, the doors unlocked. When they come back, Fido’s gone, and someone’s renamed him Duke.”

Realizing that he was gripping the arms of the wicker chair as if strapped in the hot seat and waiting for the executioner to throw the big switch, Mitch made an effort to appear relaxed.

“Or the owner ties the dog to a parking meter outside a shop. The thief slips the knot and walks off with a new best friend.”

Another pause. Mitch endured it.