Let Sleeping Dogs Lie. Suzann Ledbetter

all right already. One phone call, then we’re outa here.”

      Skeptical it would keep its yap shut, he ripped a page from a legal pad, wadded it and threw it across the room. Forty-three fetches later, Abramson’s latest claimant haughtily affirmed the impossibility of a noise complaint the previous Thursday night at her address. As she put it, her English bull mastiff was “off premises.”

      “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I need specifics to quash this complaint. Was your dog staying with a relative, a friend…?”

      “Certainly not. Winston was kenneled, until early this morning.”

      Jack swallowed to drown any hint of elation. “And the name of the kennel, please?”

      “Well, if you must know, it’s—” A brief silence segued to murky muffles, as though she’d dunked the receiver in a bucket of oil. Gibberish, then, “He says he’s—” A louder summons to “Officer Garble-garble” provided excellent cues for Jack to deep-six the call.