Mavity nodded, looking both uncertain and hopeful. She reached out to touch the oak chest. "This is old. Look at that crack, and how dark the wood is. It's sort of like those wood carvings my brother, Greeley, sends me sometimes from Panama."

"I got it at the Barmeir sale. I had it in the trunk of my car the morning that man broke in."

"It's nicer than that white chest Richard Casselrod made such a scene over-stole it, is what he did. No other word for it. Jerked it right out of Cora Lee's hands, even if he did throw down some money."

Harper rose, calling the dalmatian to him. "I'll take him up to Dr. Firetti to board. Firetti owes me a favor."

"I…" Susan began. "He and Lamb get along very well. If you don't find Lenny…"

Harper nodded. "That would be fine. But right now, it isn't wise for you to keep him. You don't want Lenny White coming around, using the dog as an excuse. In fact," Harper said, "I'm not keen on you going back home alone."

"I'll be fine with Lamb. If Lamb had been home that morning, those men wouldn't have gotten in."

Harper didn't reply. He rose and left, taking the spotted dog with him. Wilma stood at the window, watching the dalmatian leap up into the cab of Harper's Chevy pickup. And Susan sat looking silently at Wilma and Mavity, realizing suddenly how very much she did not want to be home alone, did not want to go to sleep at night wondering if someone would break a window and come in-except of course Lamb would bark and wake her.

But she grinned at Mavity's wrinkled frown of concern. "A poodle's no sissy, Mavity. Those teeth could take your arm off."

Though in truth, it was Lamb she worried about. Worried that someone would hit him with a heavy weapon or shoot him, leaving both of them defenseless.

Driving up Ocean, with the dalmatian in the seat beside him, Max Harper's mind remained on Susan Brittain. An extra patrol around her place wouldn't hurt, as long as he had the manpower. Turning off Ocean beside Beckwhite Automotive, he glanced toward the east wing of the handsome Mediterranean building where Clyde Damen's large, sprawling repair shop was housed, with its separate body and paint shops, its storage sheds and parking space, and Clyde's private workshop where he restored antique cars. He could see into the main shop, but he didn't see Clyde. The low morning sun brightened the red tile roof of the complex and picked out the brilliant colors of the Icelandic poppies that bloomed before the dealership's show windows. The bright colors made him think of his dead wife, of the garden Millie had loved.

Through the shaded glass of the showroom, he could see a dark green Rolls-Royce gleaming, and two new Jaguars, one bright red. He wondered how it would be to have that kind of money.

Grinning, he stroked the spotted dog. "I wouldn't spend it on cars," he told the dalmatian. "Spend it on horses, and maybe dogs, too-and on Charlie," he said. And maybe that was all right.

Millie had told him more than once that she wouldn't want him to be alone. Until now he'd been content enough, cherishing only her memory.

Dr. Firetti's home and hospital were just beyond Beckwhite's, on a residential side street. His facility was a complex of three small, frame cottages that had been built back in the thirties, and were now joined by high patio walls to make an entry and secure dog runs. Harper sat in his truck a moment before going in.

"I guess," he told the dog, "when this blows over, if no one's claimed you, Susan would give you a fine home." He ruffled the dog's ears. "Companion for Lamb. I bet you'd like that."

Susan Brittain had had enough trouble with that wreck that had put her in the retirement home, that had left her so crippled her daughter wasn't sure she'd walk again. But walk she did, got herself up out of the wheelchair, surely with the help of the poodle for moral support. And now this mess at her place, which he hoped wasn't going to escalate into something worse. Seemed to him that a woman living alone ought to have better security. He had some thoughts on the matter, but his ideas weren't popular.

This break-in had him uneasy; there were too many vague connections. But that's what investigating was about. What was the matter with him? Was he getting old, losing his edge? Fetching a halter rope from the back of the truck, he snapped it on the dalmatian's collar and led the dog into the waiting room.

The ten-by-ten foyer was furnished with a green tweed carpet, green leather couch and love seat, and a couple of wooden chairs. A small old lady sat on the love seat, clutching a cardboard cat carrier on her lap. As Harper entered, a low hiss filled the room, sending the dalmatian bolting away from the carrier, toward the door. The receptionist nodded to Harper, spoke into the intercom, and in a moment motioned Harper on back to Firetti's office.

Firetti was a small man with a smooth round face, pale hair thinning on top, and rimless glasses. When he examined a large dog, as he prepared to do now, he put on safety glasses. He'd been hit in the face more than once by a lunging animal. Changing glasses, he lifted the dalmatian to the table, though Harper hadn't suggested an examination.

"Just a quick look-over. What's the problem?"

"Can you keep him out of sight for a while? One of those back kennels? If you get anyone in here inquiring, let me know at once. Or if it's a phone call, get whatever information you can. Say you'll keep a lookout, and call them."

Firetti nodded, smiling as if pleased to be a part of police business. He ran his hands down the dog, stroked him, checked mouth and teeth and ears, took his temperature, listened to his heart, then set him down off the table. He didn't ask questions, just nodded to Harper, and led the dog away to the isolation wing. Harper was back at the department in time for court, acting as a witness on a drunk driving case that he hoped would net the defendant the maximum sentence.

He was out of court again by 10:50, heading down the hall to the department, wishing the remodeling was finished, wondering if things would ever be back to normal. Why did any kind of building project take four times as long as the contractor promised? Half his officers were in temporary quarters scattered all over the courthouse. The other half were doing their desk work among bare stud walls, stacks of two-by-fours, sawhorses and piles of sawdust and screaming power tools, and no kind of security. He wondered why he'd started this project.

Though, to give the contractor credit, his carpenters were as quiet as they could be, they didn't shout, didn't talk on the job except when their work demanded a few words-no long-winded bouts of sports talk and male gossip that most carpenters indulged in while they hammered away.

When he checked with the dispatcher, two calls got his attention.

At 9:15, the neighbor living next door to Elliott Traynor had called to report gunfire the night before. A Lillian Sanders. She said she couldn't call until her husband went to work because he had considered the noise backfire and said she shouldn't bother the police, that she would only make a fool of herself. Checking back over last night's calls he found four reports of possible gunfire, though it could have been only backfire. An officer had patrolled the area for some time, with no indication of trouble.

At 9:40, Charlie had called for him but wouldn't leave a message. That wasn't like Charlie. The number she gave was Elliott Traynors'. She told the dispatcher she'd be there until noon.

Leaving the station, he headed for the Traynors'. Why anyone needed their house cleaned every day was beyond his comprehension. The Traynors didn't even have children or pets to mess things up.