Dog Stalk

A stalking case turns sinister for Tom and Rachel when their client, an online sex performer, is menaced by a dog with an unusual pedigree.

Dog Stalk, Part One

Vanessa King had long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, and big blue eyes behind large round glasses. In her mid-20s, slim, she wore loose jeans and a leather jacket over a crisp white blouse, and she was sitting across from me in a diner booth, with a large Coke and a bowl of grapefruit in front of her.

            “I’m being stalked,” she said. “I don’t know who. They send me pictures of a dog.”

            I pushed my half-eaten plate of waffles aside and picked up my coffee. “What kind of dog?”

            “I don’t know. A small one. Here.” She held up her phone. 

            The dog in the photo had brown fur and was sitting in a bed of flowers with a “What did I do?” look on its tilted face. I nodded. “It’s a Yorkshire terrier. Cute.”

            She shuddered. “I hate it. He keeps sending me these pictures every day, dozens of times a day. Email, regular mail, and that means he knows where I live. On my Twitter, my Facebook, Instagram, and—other places.” She sighed. “Okay, I might as well tell you. I’ve got a ManyFans account. It’s how I basically make my living since I lost my library job last year.”

            I didn’t judge. Lots of my clients have, well, unorthodox backgrounds. Performing on a website that featured nudity, sex, and stripper heels wasn’t even in the top 10.

            So I nodded again. “How long has this been going on?”

            “About two months. The thing is—” She leaned forward. “I keep thinking I see the same dog outside. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen a guy walking this dog when I’m grocery shopping, or visiting my mom.”

            I nodded. “Do you have any idea who it might be?”

            “How would I know?” She crossed her arms. “I mean, it can’t be any of my friends. Even my exes—I never got any death threats or anything from them. Hell, none of them even own dogs. But this job?” She rolled her eyes. “You attract the weirdos. I mean, even if they’re weirdos, they’re mostly not dangerous. Just annoying. And they go away most of the time if you block them and ignore them. But I’ve had people say they’re going to rape me, or rip my body to pieces and feed it to their fish, that kind of stuff. That freaks you out. But this is—different.”

            She sipped her Coke through a straw. “He just keeps coming, like he’s got nothing to do all day but generate fake email addresses. It’s driving me crazy.”

            “Okay.” I thought for a moment. “So I can do a few things. Forward me a couple of emails. I might be able to trace one of them back to the source.” I wasn’t optimistic, but my girlfriend Rachel knows a lot more about hacking the internet than I do. “I can track your social media looking for suspects—there’s a profile for stalkers that might help. If you haven’t shut everything down.”

            “I can’t shut anything down.” Vanessa looked disgusted. “It’s how I make money.”

            “I understand. Also I can follow you and look for the dog. And the man. You’ll have to give me some notice and leeway about when you go out—”

            She nodded. “I don’t go out that much. Since the corona. Groceries, visiting my mom—she’s in assisted living. Sometimes friends, but since this started I’ve been staying at home mostly.” She grinned. “Fortunately I can do my work from home. Sometimes I find other places, but you’ve got to be careful.” 

            We discussed money. She wanted to Venmo me a retainer, but I didn’t know how to do that, so we agreed on Paypal. Being a private detective has changed since the days of Sam Spade.

            I paid for breakfast—credit card—and we headed for the door. “I’ll follow you back home,” I told Vanessa. “If that’s all right.”

            “It’s just a few blocks.” She pointed. “Here’s my address.” She took out a business card and scribbled on the back. Then she printed a few words and symbols below the address. “And here’s a pass to get onto my page. In case you need it. It’s good for 30 days.”

            The card gave her name as “Vee Viking,” and featured an image of her in a low-cut blouse, bra strap visible. I wondered if Rachel would really believe I was scanning a Manyfans page strictly for business. Probably not. “Uh, if we do spot the guy, do you want me to confront him?” Please no, please no, please no . . .

            She shook her head, to my relief. “Not outside. Maybe just follow him? If you can?”

            I nodded. “Sounds good.”

            

We were in a trendy neighborhood on the north side of Chicago, filled with cafés and boutiques, along with shoe stores, jazz clubs, and Thai restaurants. Vanessa left first, carrying her Coke. I counted to five and stepped outside, looked up and down the sidewalk as if deciding which direction to take, then turned to follow her as she sauntered down the sidewalk. 

            The morning was warm, and for a Tuesday the street was busy, Mothers and nannies were pushing kids in strollers to the park, UPS and Amazon workers juggled stacks of packages in their arms from double-parked trucks, and men and women scrolling through their phones, trying not to collide with signposts, cars, or each other.

            Vanessa walked slowly down the street, stopping to peer inside shop windows, taking her time at crosswalks, and sipping on her Coke. I didn’t get too close, but I stayed with her, my eyes darting far and wide in search of a man and a dog. 

            She paused for a light and looked back in my direction, casually. Then she stiffened, tossed her Coke into a garbage can, and pulled out her phone. 

            My phone buzzed an instant later. “Tom Jurgen—”

            “It’s him!” Her voice was an urgent whisper. “Behind you. Dark hat, long coat. Don’t let him—”

            “Okay,” I said loudly. “That’s eggs, bacon, orange juice, and what else?” I hung up but pretended to listen as I turned slightly, frowning as if annoyed by having to pick up groceries for my spouse.

            I spotted the dog first. It looked like the Yorkie from the photos, but I’m no dog expert. I leaned against a doorway and kept talking on my phone, hoping to get a picture as the man passed.

            He was tall, broader than me, in a black fisherman’s cap and a long gray raincoat, even though the sun was shining and most people wore light jackets, shirts, or running shorts.

            I managed one snapshot of his profile. He glanced over at me, but I kept talking without looking in his direction, and he walked past. 

            I headed after him. He followed Vanessa four blocks until she reached her apartment building. After she went inside he stood out in front for five minutes, then pulled his dog along back in my direction. I ducked inside a bar, enjoyed the aroma of beer and fried food for 30 seconds, then slipped back out and took up the slow pursuit.

            Tailing someone on foot is easier than doing it in a car, but it has its challenges. People get in your way, the subject can cross the street unexpectedly, and it takes just a moment to lose track of someone even in a small crowd. Fortunately the dog kept him from moving too fast, checking out fire hydrants and parked cars, and the guy had to stop twice to clean up after it. 

            After 20 minutes my subject turned down a side street. Trees filtered the sun, and a cool breeze streamed from the east. A mail carrier pushed a cart. A middle-aged woman lugged a canvas bag of groceries, and a car honked as a teenager raced a skateboard down the street.

            The man stopped in front of a five-story apartment building and took off his cap. After a moment, he climbed the front stairs and slipped a key into the lock on the front door. The dog followed him inside, and the door closed.

            I kept walking to the end of the block. Across the street was a park with a view of Lake Michigan. I sat on a bench where I could see the building and waited for 15 minutes. When he didn’t come out again, I walked on the far side of the street to the building and took a picture. It was brown brick, with bars across the bottom of every window and a fence on the roof that probably guarded a sun deck.

After looking both ways to avoid skateboarding teenagers, I crossed the street and climbed the five stone steps to the front door. There was no list of tenants outside, no buzzers, just an electronic keypad. You needed a password just to access the tenant list. No pushing random buttons and hoping someone would buzz you in without any questions. Those were the good old days. 

I headed back down to the sidewalk before anyone came out. 

 

 

Back home I sent an email to my client with the address and photo of the house. Then I started digging, looking for the owner and its tenants. It could take a while.

            Rachel, on the other side of the office, turned from her computer, yawning and stretching. “So what’s the case?”

            Rachel’s my girlfriend. She’s got short red hair and hazelnut eyes, and she helps me out on my cases when her psychic powers call for it. She’s also a graphic designer, and some months she makes more money than I do. 

            “Stalking.” I sipped the last of my coffee. “Guy sending cute dog pictures, and following the client around. I actually followed him home, though. This may be the easiest case ever.”

            “Great kid. Don’t get cocky.” She picked up her empty mug and walked over to pick up mine for refills. She saw the house and the dog on my computer screen—and she also spotted Vanessa King’s card on my desk. 

“This is your client?” She picked up her card and turned it over. “ManyFans?”

            “It’s a living for lots of people.” I tried not to sound defensive. “And her money’s good.”

            “Hey, I’m all for female empowerment. Girl power, sex positivity, supporting our sisters, all that jazz. Let’s check her out.” She brought coffee from the kitchen, pulled her chair over next to mine, and waited for me to go to the ManyFans website and log in using the password Vanessa had given me. 

“Wow.” Rachel grabbed my mouse and scrolled down Vanessa’s page. Her pictures were—explicit. She was mostly solo and generally nude, although she was pretty inventive with accessories like colorful scarves, stiletto heels, thigh-high stockings, jewelry, and the like. For props she made creative use of fruits, vegetables, wine bottles, and sex toys that looked like science fiction movie props. Her handful of partners were muscular and enthusiastic.

“That position doesn’t look comfortable at all,” Rachel commented on one image. I kept my mouth shut—the wrong comment could get me punched.

Eventually she scooted her chair back to her side of the office. “Well, if my business crashes and burns, I guess I’ve got that as an option.”

“Your sexiness would crash the internet in a day,” I told her. 

“I shall use my power wisely.” She yawned and turned back to the computer.

My phone buzzed. Vanessa King. “That house? It’s only like, two blocks away from where my mother is, in assisted living. I don’t know if it’s a coincidence or what.”

“I’m checking it out right now.” I closed her ManyFans page. Somehow seeing a client naked while talking to her on the phone felt unprofessional. “It’s owned by a company called Barkley Properties. I’m working on a list of tenants.”

“Okay. Good. Thanks.” She paused. “Did you, uh, check out my page?”

“I did, yes.” What to say? “My girlfriend and I thought it was, uh, nice.”

“Nice?” She laughed. “I’m going for ‘super sexy mega hot’ here. ‘Nice’ doesn’t bring in the pervs.”

“Well, let’s say it worked for me.” I was glad I didn’t have the call on speaker for Rachel to hear.

“That’s better.” Vanessa hung up.

Half an hour later I had the names of the 40-some residents. The list included just basic information—names, move-in date, number of people in each unit—and also pets. Seventeen people had either cats or dogs registered with the office.

I sent the list of dog owners to Vanessa, then went to work on some other cases. It’s good to keep busy if you have enough clients to juggle.

She called, but it wasn’t about the names. “Go look at my page. Right now. I’ll wait.”

I found the bookmark and logged in. Somehow Rachel was right behind me instantly. Either she’d heard Vanessa or her psychic powers were kicking in. I put the phone on speaker and said, “Okay, here we are.” 

“I posted the top picture an hour ago. Do you see it?” Vanessa was in a living room, nude, standing in front of a full-length window. Obviously not worried about the neighbors across the street. Hands over her head, a wide smile on her face, a gold chain around her waist. The caption read: “Sunny day! Too hot for clothes! Wish you all were here!!!”

Next to her on the carpet was the Yorkshire, wagging its tail.

            “What—did he get inside your apartment?”

            “No! It’s not here! There was no dog here! It just—popped up in my picture!” Her breath was ragged. “I checked all the pics I took, he’s not in them. I deleted the post and did it again—and it was there! How can they do that?”

            I looked at Rachel. “Any ideas?”

            She shook her head. “Someone could have hacked you and posted a photoshop.”

            “This happened right away! The minute I posted it! Oh god, now people are asking me about it. God, that’s sick, I’m blocking this guy—wait, who are you again?”

            “Rachel. I work with Tom. I’m his girlfriend.” She still gets territorial with me. 

            “Oh. Okay. What do you guys think is going on?”

            I hesitated. “I don’t know. This seems like more than simple stalking. How this guy could . . .” I looked at Rachel. “You can’t get anything from this, can you?”

            She punched my shoulder. “It doesn’t work that way. Let me—” She planted her fingertips on my screen, moving them around between Vanessa and the dog. “No, of course not. But that doesn’t mean it’s not magic.”

            “Magic? What? This is crazy!”

            “I’m psychic,” Rachel said firmly. “I can read things from people, but generally they have to be right in front of me, not pictures on a computer.”

            “And we have some experience with—strange phenomena,” I added. “I know it’s hard to believe. I still think there’s some way this could be a photoshop thing, but we all need to keep an open mind.”

            We heard Vanessa take a deep breath. “Okay. One of my girlfriends is in a coven. I mean, I think she’s just playing games, but—whatever. If we can figure out who that guy is, we can find out how he did this, right?”

            “Hopefully.” This had seemed like a straightforward stalking case. Now—I didn’t know what to think.

            We hung up. Rachel gazed at Vanessa’s image again for a moment. “What do you think? See anything?”

            She punched my shoulder again. “I see that I’m redesigning a website for a plumbing company and you’re getting paid to look at porn.”

            “Just lucky some days.” I saved the image to my case file—research, right?—then logged off and went back to work.

 

Vanessa didn’t recognize any names. Checking out all 40 of them would be time-consuming and expensive. I started with just the male names. Background checks can only tell you so much, but maybe I’d find a restraining order or a stalking complaint in someone’s history. 

            No luck. I found unpaid parking tickets, tax liens, and a few arrests for drugs, bad checks, and one disturbance of the peace,, but nothing related to harassment or hacking. 

            Late that afternoon I tailed her to the grocery store and the drugstore. We didn’t see the stalker or the dog. I hung out across the street from her apartment building for half an hour without any luck. When I called, we agreed that I’d show up tomorrow at noon so she could walk to her mother’s facility for lunch.

            Rachel made dinner—vegetarian chili, enough for leftovers, so I could just reheat it when it was my turn tomorrow night—and when I finished cleaning up I found her in the living room on her laptop, looking at Vanessa’s ManyFans page.

            “Do you think I’d look good like that?” She peered at an image of Vanessa naked in high-heeled boots, brandishing a whip.

            I sat next to her. “Do you have heels like that?”

            “I’d fall down.” She tilted her face. “I do have a whip.”

            I’d seen it in the closet, but I’d never had the nerve to ask. “So—Ted Lasso?” I picked up the remote.

            She pulled it out of my hand. “Maybe later. Get your Minolta.”

Dog Stalk, Part Two

At noon the next day I followed Vanessa down the street from her apartment building to her mom’s assisted living facility—Sunnyside Achievement Home. Six stories high, it took up an entire block on a street off Ashland, across from a mattress store, a preschool, and a Burger King. I watched her tie a mask around her face and walk through the sliding doors..

            Taking pictures last night had been, well, stimulating. Rachel enjoyed snapping her whip, which made me nervous. But she complained that the pictures all looked like surveillance photos, so we deleted them, made sure they were really deleted, and then—some time later—finally got around to watching Ted Lasso. I’d found her this morning looking up cameras on the internet.

          Gray clouds overhead threatened rain later. I leaned against the window of the mattress store, my phone out, glancing up and down the sidewalk here and across the street. A cloudy day, hinting at rain later. No sign of the stalker or his little dog, just people shopping, running for the bus, parking their cars, walking with coffee—the usual street scene.

            Vanessa emerged from the Sunnyside Home 45 minutes later. She looked around, then pulled out her phone. Mine buzzed.

            “I’ve got a lawyer meeting downtown,” she told me. “I’m going to catch a cab, so you can go home.”

            “All right. Your mother okay?”

            “She hates the food they give her there, but I brought her some cookies.” Vanessa laughed. “Thanks.”

            She hailed a cab that headed down the street. I waited a few more minutes, then turned for the Burger King. Rachel, a vegetarian, would kill me, but I was hungry.

            Then I spotted the stalker.

            Actually I saw the dog first, trotting ahead of the man on the other side of the street. I stepped behind a light pole. Yeah, it wouldn’t exactly hide me if he looked in my direction, but he had his eyes on the Yorkie, his hand firmly on the leash.

            They walked up the block, then stopped in front of Sunnyside. The man looked up at the windows for a moment while the dog pulled on his leash, and then they walked up to the entrance. The doors slid open for them, and they went inside.

            Okay, this was unexpected. I called my client and left a message. I stayed by the pole, my stomach growling. Half an hour passed. Man and dog eventually came out, and the dog immediately peed on a fire hydrant. I ignored my hunger and followed them back to their home, then headed back to where I’d parked near Vanessa’s apartment. Vanessa called back as I was getting into my car. “What happened?”

            “He showed up at your mother’s facility and went inside,” I told her. “He stayed about half an hour, then went home.”

            “But why?” 

            “I could go ask the front desk.” Maybe they’d tell me, maybe not. It wouldn’t hurt to try. “There’s one obvious connection.”

            “Mom?” Confusion. “But how—wait. Where are you now?”

            “In my car. About a block from your building, where I parked to follow you.”

            “Come on up to my place. Let’s call her together.”

            I hesitated only a moment. “Be right there.”

            Rachel snorted when I called to tell her. “A gorgeous porn model’s apartment? Behave yourself. Maybe get some photography tips.”

            Vanessa met me at the door to her apartment in sweats and a pink T-shirt. “Hi. Water? Coffee?”

            I was still hungry, but I couldn’t ask for a sandwich. Could I? “Just some water would be fine.”

            I recognized parts of the apartment from her page. She’d done a shoot playing with cooking implements in her kitchen, and several in her living room featuring balloons, stuffed animals, and toys of an adult nature. She handed me a bottle of water and led me to her office, crammed with computers, cameras, sound equipment, books piled on the floor, and posters of young singers I’d never heard of on the walls. 

            Vanessa sat down, dropping her phone on the desk in front of a massive screen. “I haven’t told her about the stalker yet. I didn’t want to scare her.”

            I nodded. “Does she know about your, uh, business?”

            “Of course.” The question seemed to surprise her. “I told her right away. She thinks it’s funny.”

            “Sorry. I was thinking of blackmail.”

            She laughed. “Nobody who knows me would be surprised. I mean, I do it so I can take care of mom. But I’m not going to worry about hiding it.”

           That took away one motive. “My girlfriend likes your site, by the way. She wants some pointers. On taking pictures, I mean, not, uh, anything else.” 

            Vanessa laughed again. “I’ll see what I can do.” She tapped her mother’s picture.

            “H-hello? Vannie?” She sounded like she’d woken from a nap. 

Vanessa talked in a rush as if afraid she might lose her nerve and hang up. “Mom? I’ve got to tell you something. I’m here with a private detective, Tom Jurgen. He’s here because I’m being, well, stalked. By a guy with a little dog. He saw the guy go into your place after I had lunch with you, and, well, we’re worried that he might be up to something with you.” She paused, catching her breath.

            “A—a private detective?” 

            “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Tom Jurgen. I’ve been following this man since yesterday..”

            “Well, I don’t—Vannie, are you sure? There are a lot of dogs out there—”

            “I’m sure, mom.” Vanessa was annoyed. “I’ll call you later.” She hung up. “Damn it. She never believes me.”

            I stood up. “I’m going back there. It’s a hunch, probably nothing.”

            She stared at me. “What do you mean?”

            I chose words cautiously. “If she—if does know the guy, she might call him. I just want to see if he shows up there again.”

            “Oh my god.” Vanessa shook her head. “Why would mom be—be protecting a guy like that?”

            I didn’t want to speculate. “People have all kinds of reasons. Maybe we’ll find out. Or maybe I’m just wrong.” I headed for the door. “I’ll be in touch.”

            I had a box of peanut butter granola bars in the car for emergencies, so I ate two while driving to Sunnyside. Better than nothing—

I almost spit the last bite out when I spotted the guy on the sidewalk, with his dog, half a block from Sunnyside. Walking quickly away. 

I hit the brake, wondering if I should pull a U-turn to follow him or just abandon the car and tail him on foot. But before I could decide, sirens started shrieking in front of me, and my phone buzzed at the same instant.

Vanessa. “They just called—they’re taking my mom to the hospital! What’s going on?”

Cars honked behind me as I peered up the street. Blue and red lights were flashing in Sunnyside’s front driveway as an ambulance pulled out. “Yeah, I think I see ambulances there. Hang on. I’ll pick you up.”

“Okay. Hurry.”

Dog Stalk, Part Three

Vanessa’s mother—Gloria—had been found semiconscious in her room by a nurse who heard her moaning on the floor. The doctors were thinking it was a stroke.

            Vanessa told the emergency staff at St. Joseph Hospital that I was her brother. I don’t think they believed her, but no one argued. So we got in to see Gloria in our face masks, while she wore an oxygen mask and had several IVs in her arms.

            “Just a few minutes,” the doctor said. She left to check on her next patient, pulling the curtain behind her.

            “Mom? Ma?” Vanessa leaned down. “Are you okay? What happened?”

            Her eyelids flickered. “Oh, Vannie. Hi. What are you doing here?”

            “You had a stroke. Or something. That’s what they say. Ma—” She put a hand on Gloria’s arm. “Did that guy come? With the dog?”

            Gloria’s eyes closed. Vanessa shook her arm. “Mom? Mom?”

            “Peter,” Gloria murmured. One of her shoulders twitched. Was she going into a seizure? “Peter was . . .”

            “Is that his name?” I bent down, on the other side of the bed. “The man with the dog?”

            “Peter . . .” Her body started shaking. “I’m sorrrryyyy . . .”

            I pulled the curtain back, but two nurses were already bursting in. “Stand back, please,” one of them told us, and we backed off. Vanessa cried softly. 

            The doctor came back and looked Gloria over. “We need to do some scans,” she told us. “I’m optimistic, but once we have a look inside her head and other places, we’ll have a better idea of how to treat your mother.”

            Vanessa sighed. “Thank you.”

            We found the cafeteria for coffee. Vanessa slumped in her chair. “Is it because of him? How could he—maybe he injected her with something?”

          I sipped my coffee. “Who’s Peter?”

          “I don’t know.” She rubbed her temples. “A friend of hers? Or that guy? I can’t think—” She stopped. “Oh my god.”

            “What?”

            “I have—had—I had a brother named Peter. He died when I was eleven. But that couldn’t—maybe she was hallucinating?” She pushed her coffee aside. “That doesn’t make sense.”

            “Could the guy—” I tried to think of the right way to ask. “Does he look like your brother at all?”

            “What? No.” But she seemed to consider it for a moment. “I don’t know. He’s dead. What are you getting at?”

            “How did he die?”

            She closed her eyes. “It was a car accident. Dad said a dog ran in front of the car, and he hit a tree. Peter was in the front seat. I wasn’t there. Dad died a few years later. But Peter was killed instantly.” She was reciting a story, not reliving the loss. Her tone was calm and quiet. Then—“What the hell are you thinking? Dad somehow faked Peter’s death or something? That’s crazy!”

            I’ve seen some crazy things as a P.I., and when I was a reporter before that—which is why I’m not a reporter any more. The dead don’t always stay dead. But I shook my head. “No. It could be nothing. I’m just trying to think through all the possibilities.”

            “It couldn’t be Peter. I mean, it’s been 10 years, but I’d know.” She shivered. “There’s something about that dog, though. It just gives me the creeps whenever I see it.”

            “What kind of dog did your father see? When the crash happened.”

            Vanessa shook her head. “I don’t know. Look, I know your girlfriend’s psychic and everything, so I’m trying to keep an open mind. I just can’t think about that right now.”

            “Of course.” I finished my coffee. “Will you stay, or do you want me to drive you back?”

            “I’ll stick around for a while.” She stood up.

We disposed of our cups, and Vanessa went back to wait outside the ER. I headed out for the parking garage, across a small courtyard where ambulances parked. The clouds were thicker, darker overhead.

            Standing next to an ambulance was the stalker. And his dog. 

            Our eyes met. I couldn’t tell if he recognized me, but he didn’t back away. The Yorkie sat at his feet, sniffing the air.

            I stopped, watching him as he looked at me. I pulled out my phone and called Vanessa. “He’s here. Outside.”

            “Oh hell.” She gulped. “Do you—can you go talk to him?”

            “Yeah.” Not my first choice, but sometimes I have to grit my teeth and dive in. “I’ll call back.”

            I switched my phone to video, took a deep breath, and walked forward. “Hi.” I waved with my free hand. “Nice dog. Boy or girl?”

            He blinked. I did a close-up on his face. He was in his 60s, with pale, icy blue eyes and a day’s worth of stubble on his face. A thick chin and a nose that looked like it had been broken in the past.  

            “Why are you videoing me?” His voice was low and gravelly.

            “Why are you following Vanessa? And sending pictures of your dog to her?” My heart was pounding, but I managed to keep my voice steady. “Why did you go to her mother’s place today?”

            The dog stood up and yapped at me. The man pulled gently on his leash. “Settle down, Peter. Just some asshole.”

            Peter? “Your dog’s name is Peter? What’s your name?”

            “Saul. Ben—” He stopped. “Who the hell are you?”

“Tom Jurgen. Vanessa hired me.” I fumbled in my pocket for a card, but the man yanked on the dog’s leash and turned to walk away. Not to the parking garage, but toward the park across the street. Maybe Peter needed to pee.

            I let them go and called Vanessa again. “Peter is the dog’s name.”

            “What? So that’s why mom . . .” Her voice trailed off. “That still doesn’t make sense. Is he still there?”

            “No, he left. His name is Saul. Does that mean anything to you?”

            She thought for a moment. “I don’t . . . think so.” 

            “Okay. I can crosscheck it with the list of tenants.”

            “I’m going to stay here for a while. If I get to talk to my mom again I’ll ask her.”

            “Good.” I started walking to the parking garage. “Be careful.”

            “Yeah.” After a moment she said, “You too.”

 

There were actually two Sauls at the apartment building—Ben and Jean, a married couple. Both retired, he was 67, a former telecom executive, and Jean, 64, had worked at a bank. No unpaid taxes or liens on their property. The tenant listing showed they owned a dog. They still had a landline, so I got their phone number.

I dug a little deeper, and soon I found it: Nine years ago they’d sued a driver for running over their dog and killing it. 

            “Yahtzee,” I said quietly.

            Rachel swiveled in her chair. “What’s that?”

            “The owner of the dog that caused the car accident where Vanessa’s brother got killed tried to sue them for killing their dog. It got thrown out of court because, well, a kid got killed. The brother was named Peter, and so is the little Yorkie.”

            “So it’s a revenge stalking thing? Because of a dog?”

            “Yeah, but if they were crazy enough to actually sue the family . . .” I shook my head. 

            “People love their pets. Dogs, cats, boa constrictors too.”

            “Don’t remind me.” I’d had a close encounter with a big snake in a recent case. It still gave me nightmares.

Rachel pulled her chair over as I called Vanessa. “The dog owner is named Ben Saul. He and his wife owned the dog that your father hit in the car accident.”

            “What the . . .” Vanessa was silent for a moment. “I remember that now. He tried to sue dad for killing his dog, after Peter—anyway, I never met him. I remember mom and dad saying he was crazy. It really hurt dad.” She swallowed. “What the—what’s going on?”

            “I don’t know. Have you talked to your mother?”

            “They won’t let me see her yet. Do you think this guy tried to kill her? Because of his dog?”

            “Ask the doctors when you get a chance if there’s any sign of injury. I don’t know.”

            “All right. But what do we do now?”

            I looked at Rachel. “I think it’s time to confront him. We have enough for a restraining order. He’s got a motive for stalking you—”

            “But how’s he putting pictures in my pictures? What does he want?”

            “That’s what we have to ask him.”

            Vanessa sighed. “Okay. I want to be there. Can I call you when I’m ready? After I talk to mom, if I get to.”

            I nodded. “We’ll be here.”

            Rachel punched my shoulder as I hung up. “What’s this ‘we,’ kemo sabe? I’ve got work to do.”

            I rubbed my arm. “I thought you might come along and check him out. And the dog. Using your awesome psychic powers. Plus, between you and her, Saul might be more intimidated by two strong gorgeous women than just me. But if you want to stay here—”

            “Forget it.” She punched me again, but lighter this time. “Besides, I want to meet this chick. If I ever need to switch careers, I could use some pointers.” Then she patted the top of my head and headed back to her desk.

Dog Stalk, Part Four

 Vanessa called two hours later. “She keeps going in and out. The doctors don’t think she was attacked, but she fell and hit her head—maybe that’s what caused the stroke, they’re saying. They did X-rays and blood tests, and she’s going to be here a few days, maybe more.” She sighed. 

            “Has she said anything about the dog? Or the man?”

            “She says there was a man, she doesn’t know his name, but it’s all kind of vague. I can’t tell where she saw them. They found her in her room, but I don’t know if he was there or what.”

            “We can check the security cameras, if it comes to that. Are you feeling up to visiting the Sauls?”

            She groaned quietly. “I guess. I’ve got to know what’s going on.”

            “Okay. We’ll pick you up.” I waved a hand at Rachel on her computer. “I’m bringing Rachel. She’s psychic. Did I mention that already? We’ll be there in 30 minutes.”

            Vanessa was waiting at the front entrance to the hospital when we drove up. She looked tired, with shadows under her eyes as she trudged to the car. Rachel sat with her in the back.

I struggled into a tight parking space half a block up the street from the Sauls’ apartment house as a light rain started falling. “So, how would you like to handle this?”

Vanessa looked at Rachel. I’d heard them talking quietly in the back about her mother, dogs, and a little bit about me—”Yeah, he’s a little crazy, but that’s why I’m here.”

“Maybe let’s call him first?” Rachel suggested. “Before we go up to his door?”

Vanessa nodded. “I mean, we could go right there, I suppose, but—” She shook her head. “I’m not up for that unless we have to. Let’s call him”

“Sounds good.” I took out my phone and pressed the digits. One ring, two—”Hello?”

“Mr. Saul? We met briefly outside St. Joseph’s hospital. I’m Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective working for Vanessa King—you’ve been following her with your dog. We’d like to ask you some questions.” I looked at Vanessa. She nodded.

A long pause. Would he hang up? Tell us to go away? Bring the dog up to the phone to bark at us? Finally he said, “There’s a park down the street. Meet me there in 15 minutes.” He hung up. 

I put my phone away. “You can wait here if you want.”

“No.” Vanessa opened her door. “I want to see him. And this dog.”

The rain started falling more steadily as we walked down the street. We crossed and took seats on a wooden bench under a tree that sheltered us from some of the shower. Bicyclists passed by. Dog walkers too, pulling or being pulled by a wide mix of breeds. The sun was setting behind the clouds. We zipped up our jackets. I wished for coffee.

After 20 minutes we spotted Saul and his wife. And the Yorkie. Saul wore his fisherman’s cap and long raincoat; his wife had a scarf over her head and a cloth coat pulled tight at her throat. She carried a purse and held an umbrella over their heads. 

Peter, the dog, wore a red checkered coat over his back. It was pretty cute.

They crossed and stood in front of us. “What’s this all about?” Saul’s voice was low and guarded.

“That’s what we want to ask you.” I stood up. “You’ve been following my client, Vanessa King. Sending her pictures of your dog Peter, and lately somehow inserting him into her online images. You visited her mother today and now she’s in the hospital. What happened? Why are you stalking her?”

Peter darted forward at Vanessa. Saul yanked him back, but the dog kept pulling on his leash, growling quietly.

Vanessa bent forward, peering at the dog. “Why is he named after my brother?”

“Peter.” Saul was talking to the dog, not Vanessa. “Heel, Peter.”

Peter shook his body, as if annoyed with all of us.

I looked at Rachel. “Anything?”

“I’m not Dr. Dolittle.” She held out a hand. “Maybe if he takes a sniff?”

Saul frowned. “And you are?”

“Rachel. My associate. She, uh—”

“I’m psychic. Sort of.” 

The woman rolled her eyes. “Really?”

Rachel crossed her arms. “You two are mad at each other. You had a big fight right before you came out here. He wants to get rid of Peter, he’s scared of him.” She looked at Saul, then back at Jean. “You said you’d rather divorce him. Or kill him. You don’t mean the first. You might mean the second.” 

Saul glared at Rachel. Then he pointed at the bench. “Could my wife sit down?”

Rachel scooted closer to Vanessa so Jean could fold up her umbrella and sit. Peter stayed near Saul’s feet.

“So, Mr. Saul?” I was six feet away from him—social distancing, but also just cautious. “What’s the story?”

He bent down to pet the dog on his head. “We lost Doc 10 years ago,” he said. “Audrey, she—she loved that dog. Our daughter. She . . .” He sighed. “It was cancer. A few years later. She was only 14.” His voice shook.

“I’m sorry,” Vanessa said. “That’s—terrible. I know. But what does that have to do with the crash? With me and my mother? My brother died—”

Suddenly Peter darted forward, catching Saul off guard, and lunged at Vanessa, snarling. Saul yanked, but the leash slipped from his fingers. “Peter! No!” 

Vanessa jumped up, ready to run. Rachel pushed herself in front of her as Peter leaped, barking at them. Rachel kicked at him, and he got his teeth into her jeans, ripping them. I stumbled toward them, shouting, but Saul got there first and grabbed Peter’s collar, pulling the dog back.

“You okay?” I bent down to check out Rachel’s leg. “Did it break the skin?”

“I’m fine, dummy.” Rachel pushed me away, her face flushed. She glared at Saul. “Somebody owes me a new pair of pants.” 

Peter yapped at us. Saul pulled on the leash, but Peter plopped down in the grass, glaring and growling. At least he wasn’t on the warpath again. For now.

Then Rachel took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m going in.”

I squeezed her shoulder. “Be careful.”

Rachel crouched, holding a hand out. Peter snarled. Rachel waited. 

After 10 seconds or so the dog edged forward cautiously to sniff at Rachel’s fingers. Then he nuzzled her hand, wagging his tail up and down.

Rachel stayed still, breathing slowly. After a moment she pulled her hand away and stood up, blinking.

I stepped next to her. “You okay?”

She nodded, and turned to Vanessa. “It’s Peter. It’s your brother.”

“W-what?” She looked down at the Yorkie. “Peter?”

Again the dog darted forward, barking. Vanessa backed away. Then Peter sank down and rolled over, panting. As if inviting Vanessa to rub his belly.

She glanced at me and Rachel. Rachel nodded. Vanessa leaned down, reaching out tentatively. Peter sniffed her fingers, then licked her, panting harder. After a moment he rolled up and nuzzled her feet, sniffing her ankles.

Saul pulled him back.

Vanessa looked at Rachel. “What did you just say just now? The dog is my brother?”

“Yeah.” Rachel nodded, her eyes on the dog. “I could see you—you as a kid. I guess it was you, I haven’t seen pictures of you that long ago, but it looked like you. And it felt like you. He is your brother.”

“That’s crazy. How could . . .” Vanessa looked down at the Yorkie, huddled against Saul’s legs. “Peter?”

I know a lot about vampires and demons, but I don’t have much experience with reincarnation. But I trusted Rachel. I turned to Jean, since her husband didn’t seem eager to share. “So what’s going on?”

She looked up, her eyes trembling. “We lost Doc. Then Audrey. It almost killed us. We couldn’t have another baby, we tried, but . . . and we couldn’t adopt. We adopted a dog, but he didn’t like us. He died last year. Then we went to adopt Peter—”

“How did you know his name?” I asked.

“He told us.” That was Saul, crouched down to pet the dog. “He—we can hear him. Not with words. But anybody who has a dog will tell you. You can hear them.”

“And he told you to stalk Vanessa? Why?”

Jean answered. “He wants to be with her. He wants . . .”

She stood up, reached into her purse, and raised a long knife with a sharp point and a serrated edge. “We won’t let him go.”

Oh hell.

Peter started barking as Jean lunged at Vanessa, her lips pulled back and her eyes wide with fury—just like a dog on the attack. I grabbed for her arm, but she slashed the knife at me and I instinctively swung sideways. 

Rachel pushed Vanessa out of Jean’s path, then ducked as the older woman thrust the knife at her face. I darted forward and tackled her to the wet ground. She squirmed beneath me, and her husband stomped his foot in the middle of my back.

I grunted with pain, but managed to wrap my hand around Jean’s wrist, holding the knife down. Saul kicked at my ribs, and I lost my grip.

Then Rachel rushed at Saul, slamming her knuckles into his chest. She studies krav maga. Saul staggered back, groaning, and Rachel punched him again in the shoulder. He tumbled to the grass, gasping, and Rachel whirled to help me.

“Help!” Vanessa shouted. She was on the ground from Rachel’s shove, and Peter was on top of her, tearing at the collar of her blouse with his sharp teeth. “Help!”

Rachel glanced down at me, apparently decided I’d survive against a woman in her 60s, and ran to Vanessa.

I grabbed Jean’s wrist again and squeezed until she yelped and dropped the knife. Then I rolled off of her and flung the knife into the bushes behind the bench. She lurched up on her hands and knees. “Goddamn you!” she shouted, her voice hoarse. “Ben! Help Peter!”

I hauled myself up to my feet unsteadily. Rachel was pulling on Peter’s collar until he finally let go of Vanessa’s blouse, and then she lost her balance, stumbling backward. Saul caught her by one shoulder and tried to twist her around, a hand raised to hit her.

Two steps, and I punched him in the side as hard as I could. He roared in angry pain, but Rachel stabbed an elbow into his stomach and he fell down again.

Peter attacked Rachel’s ankles, snarling as she tried to kick him away. “Bad doggie!” she yelled. “Bad dog, Peter!”

I reached down to grab him, and he snapped at my fingers. I looked around for a stick or something to defend Rachel with, and saw Jean’s umbrella leaning against the bench. I snatched it up, turned, and whacked it on Peter’s head. “Get away! Go away!”

“Peter!” Vanessa’s voice shot through the dog’s growls. “Stop it! Come here!”

Peter darted at me, barking loud as I swung the umbrella back to hit him again. Then his ears twitched as Vanessa shouted at him again. With a final growl he turned and walked cautiously over to her.

I kept the umbrella tight in my fist as I took Rachel’s hand. “You okay?”

She shook me away. “Fine.” She glanced down at Saul, moaning in the grass. “I can beat up a senior citizen. Yay for me.”

“Stop it Peter!” Vanessa was on her knees, with Peter barking in her face. She grabbed his collar with both hands. “Stop it! Or—Or—” She shook him. “Or I’m telling mom!”

Abruptly Peter stopped barking. He tossed his head around, trying to get free, and flicked his tongue around as if trying to lick Vanessa’s fingers.

“Okay.” Vanessa let go of him. Her arms and shoulders were trembling as she rose. Peter tried nuzzling her ankles, but she nudged him away. “Go back to those people. Go back!”

She pointed at Ben Saul. Peter looked back at them—Saul was helping Jean to her feet—tilted his face up at Vanessa once, and then trotted over to the couple. 

Rachel took Vanessa’s shoulder. “You okay?”

“I—I think so.” She was shaking. “What was that? I just—talked to him like he was Peter. I just—felt like I was talking to Peter.”

“At least he listened to you,” Rachel said. “Like a little brother should.”

I looked around the park. Surprisingly, no one was watching us, but the rain was falling harder, probably keeping folks moving along. I put my foot on Jean Saul’s knife.  I had her umbrella in my hand.

“All right.” I took a breath to calm my nerves as the rain fell. “We could call the cops and tell them you tried to kill us over a dog, but they’d figure we’re all crazy. Why don’t you just tell us why? Why are you stalking my client, why did you try to kill us? How did you end up with a dog that’s got Vanessa’s brother’s soul—or whatever—inside his cute little head?”

They looked at each other. Then Jean asked, “Could you give us our umbrella?”

I handed it over, handle first. It was wide enough for both of them to stand beneath it, with Peter at their feet. 

“We adopted Peter three months ago,” she said slowly. “He came from a farm in the country, near where we were living when—when it happened. There was something—different about him. He was Peter—that was his name, right from the start. We took him home, and he was good. Really good. Then Ben told me—”

“I’d walk him, but he was leading me,” Saul interrupted. “It was sort of a game. Then one day about two months ago, he spotted you.”

“Me.” Vanessa looked at the dog. “How did you know?”

“He just knew.” Saul shook his head. “We followed you for days. I heard your name in a coffee shop. Looked you up online. Found your—your page.”

Jean scowled, but he ignored her. “Then I—Peter kept telling me what to do. Follow you every day. Send you pictures—”

“How did you insert Peter into the pictures online?” I asked. 

“He did it. I don’t know.” Saul shook his head. “He’d sit in my lap, and reach up, and just touch the screen and, and, then he’d be right there. In the picture. I don’t know.” He shook his head again. 

“We couldn’t let you take him.” Jean’s voice was quiet. “That’s what I thought—what I was afraid of. I love him so much.”

For a moment the only sound was the falling rain. 

Then I looked at Vanessa. “What do you want to do?”

It was a tough question, especially after being attacked. She shivered. “I want to get out of here.” She stared at Peter. “And I want you to stay away from me! Do you hear me? All of you! Stay away!”

The dog whimpered and hid between Saul’s legs. 

“We’ll try.” Jean’s voice was a whisper over the rain. She looked down at Peter. “All right, Peter? Let’s go home.”

He yanked on the leash and put an arm around his wife. They slowly walked away.

Rachel punched my arm. “Can we get out of the rain? I’m soaked to my panties. No smart aleck comments.”

“My socks are squishy.” I held her hand as we trudged to the car.