“Theatrically done,” he says. “Hugh’s idea.” He glances over to where the woman and her two children watch us from the sidewalk, and he sighs. “I did not expect to be recognized.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I must get used to it.”
I could argue that he doesn’t need to get used to it. Say the word, and we’d stop Jack’s chronicling with a generous one-time payment. Except that wouldn’t stop Gray’s adventures from finding their way into print, which is why we agreed to the arrangement with Jack.
Another journalist had started the stories, and they’d found an audience. If Jack doesn’t write it, someone else will. This way, we have control over the narrative.
I just wish we’d had creative control from the start so it could have been fictionalized. People recognize Gray because his skin color is not singular but still distinct. That was established—overly established—in the early chronicles, and all we can do now is use sketches that look a little less like us. Yet it’s a losing battle, especially when our real names are already attached to the “characters.”
We leave McCreadie to his interrogation. At the very least, with the woman and her children as witnesses, it clarifies that Hugh McCreadie is an actual and competent detective and not the hapless guy in need of his friend’s help, as the early installments depicted him.
McCreadie would say it doesn’t matter, but I know it does. The new versions shine a positive light on McCreadie, and while some of his superiors don’t appreciate the added attention to the force, most of them are thrilled. They certainly don’t want their criminal officer looking inept.
McCreadie walks to us as Iain stays with Roy.
“He admits he had the dog,” McCreadie says. “Of course, he claims Bobby came with him willingly, and he only wanted to help an ailing creature, but I am not challenging him on that right now.”
“So where’s Bobby?”
“Stolen.” McCreadie catches my look. “Yes, the irony is not lost on me. His stolen dog was stolen from him.”
“Could Bobby have escaped the coop?”
“No, Roy says he tied Bobby inside, and when he came out this morning, the collar was still there. It had been tight around the dog’s neck, and Roy had locked the coop. The thief seemed to have entered through the window.”
“There’s a window?”
McCreadie shrugs. “He says there is. I have agreed not to charge him at this time as long as he cooperates. He will take us to the coop and show us how it was done.”
“I want Bobby back when you find him,” Roy says as we head into the courtyard behind his apartment building. “He is mine.” He glares at Gray. “And do not listen to this fellow. I did not steal him. You cannot steal a stray dog.”
“He has a license, as you pointed out,” Gray says. “That means he is not a stray. He belongs to whoever owns that license, which I believe is William Chambers.”
Roy sets his jaw. “I found the dog. I cared for him. He is mine. I expect my property returned.”
Gray wisely decides to drop this. I note that Roy hasn’t said anything about the poor elderly dog he’d tried to pass off as Bobby. Iain took that one with him when he left, saying he’d look after it until they determined whether it had also been stolen.
Roy leads us to the coop. The rope and collar won’t be in it—he’d used those on the ringer Bobby. But he shows McCreadie where the rope was tied inside the coop. He also shows the window. I think I could fit through it myself. I want to try, but Gray points out the rusty nail. Yes, Mrs. Wallace would not be happy if I ruined my clothing either.
“I could fit, though,” I say as Roy stands off to the side.
“I . . .” McCreadie trails off. “How do I say this politely, Mallory?”
I look down at myself. “Oh. Right. My boobs.”
McCreadie goes the most adorable shade of red, which means I must add. “And my ass,” which only has his face going brighter red.
“Mallory . . .” Gray says.
“Yes, yes. Do not torture the poor Victorian gentlemen with mentions of feminine body parts. Or if I must refer to them, use proper language.” I clear my throat. “Dear sirs, I fear you are correct. I could not pass through that window on account of my ample bosom and posterior.” I examine the window. “So it’d either be a small man or a less rounded woman.”
I pop my head through the window, instantly regretting it as the smell hits. Right. Forgot that. Withdraw. Use my handkerchief. Try again.
I peer around inside from this angle, even as my eyes water from the smell. Then I spot it—a partial print on the floor. When I start crouching near the hatch again, Gray bends to say, “May I help?”
