Part 3 (1/2)
10:45pm-Maybe the drug store has some kind of cream.
I added, ”11:07pm-Spotted evidence in backyard. Remember to pick up some aloe vera on the way home.”
Before I had a chance to cross my Ts, the patio door opened.
I didn't even need the binoculars. A man, mid-forties with short, brown hair, was walking a dog that was obviously a Shar-pei.
Though my track-team days were far behind me (okay, non-existent), I still managed to leap down from the tree without hurting myself.
The man yelped in surprise, but I had my gun out and in his face before he had a chance to move.
”Hi there, Mr. Ricketts. Kneel down.”
”Who are you? What do...”
I c.o.c.ked the gun.
”Kneel!”
He knelt.
”Good. Now lift up that dog's back leg.”
”What?”
”Now!”
Glen Ricketts lifted. I checked.
It was Marcus.
”Leash,” I ordered.
He handed me the leash. My third dog in two days, but this time it was the right one.
Now for Part Two of the Big Plan.
”Do you know who I am, Glen?”
He shook his head, terrified.
”Special Agent Phillip Pants, of the American Kennel Club. Do you know why I'm here?”
He shook his head again.
”Don't lie to me, Glen! Does the AKC allow dognapping?”
”No,” he whimpered.
”Your dog show days are over, Ricketts. Consider your members.h.i.+p revoked. If I so much catch you in the pet food isle at the Piggly Wiggly, I'm going to take you in and have you neutered. Got it?”
He nodded, eager to please. I gave Marcus a pat on the head, and then turned to leave.
”Hold on!”
Glen's eyes were defeated, pleading.
”What?”
”You mean I can't own a dog, ever again?”
”Not ever.”
”But...but...dogs are my life. I love dogs.”
”And that's why you should have never stole someone else's.”
He sniffled, loud and wet.
”What am I supposed to do now?”
I frowned. Grown men crying like babies weren't my favorite thing to watch. But this joker had brought it upon himself.
”Buy a cat,” I told him.
Then I walked back to my car, Marcus in tow.
”Marcus!”
I watching, grinning, as Vincent Thorpe paid no mind to his expensive suit and rolled around on my floor with his dog, giggling like a caffeinated school boy.
”Mr. McGlade, how can I ever repay you?”
”Cash is good.”
He disentangled himself from the pooch long enough to pull out his wallet and hand over a fat wad of bills.
”Tell me, how did you know it was Glen Rickets?”
”Simple. You said yourself that he was always one of your closest compet.i.tors, up until his dog died earlier this year.”
”But what about Ms. c.u.mmings? I talked to her on the phone. I even dropped the dog off at her house, and she took him from me. Wasn't she involved somehow?”
”The phone was easy-Ms. c.u.mmings has a voice like a chainsaw. With practice, anyone can imitate a smoker's croak. But Glen really got clever for the meeting. He picked a time when Ms. c.u.mmings was out of town, and then he spent a good hour or two with Max Factor.”
”Excuse me?”
”Cosmetics. As you recall, Abigail c.u.mmings wore enough make-up to cause back-problems. Who could tell what she looked like under all that gunk? Glen just slopped on enough to look like a circus clown, and then he impersonated her.”