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“Ya know. Potcake. Cupcake. Betty Crocker.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t follow.”
“Potcakes are feral dogs native to the Turks and Caicos. They got the handle ’cause the locals used to toss ’em caked remains from cooking pots.”
“Like hushpuppies in the south.”
Benjamin either failed to catch or chose to ignore my comment. “There’s a center on the island that rescues and places pups. I figured what the heck? I have a big house, I live alone, I could use some company. So, I got me a potcake.”
I reached a hand toward Betty. She bared her teeth and growled low in her throat.
All righty, then.
As we’d agreed, Monck took the lead. While he posed questions, I studied his interviewee.
Joe Benjamin wasn’t the homeliest man I’d ever seen. But he was a contender. His eyes were close set and hooded, his goatee black and wispy, his brows bushy and reaching wide to hold hands with each other.
Benjamin was definitely not a sun lover. His skin was a sallow gray underlain with tones of yellow. Perhaps to compensate for the lack of melanin, he wore a long-sleeved tee with a dizzying graphic across the front—3D stripes in neon yellow and green.
“What’s this about?” Smiling, Benjamin crossed his legs and dropped one hand onto Betty’s head.
“Your name came up in an investigation,” Monck said.
“No kidding?” Brows spiraling up like shaggy worms testing the breeze. “What investigation?”
“I’m afraid I can’t share that information.”
“Whoo-hoo. Very Sam Spade.” Benjamin lifted and fondled Betty’s left ear. The dog never took her eyes off Monck and me.
“May I ask what you do for a living, Mr. Benjamin?”
“Make magic with digital ecosystems.” Waggling jazz hands beside his face.
Irritation tightened Monck’s lips.
“I’m in cyber tech. Web design, mainly.”
“You work from home.”
“I do. Well, mostly. I have a night gig answering phones. Helps pay the bills.”
As Benjamin spoke, my eyes roved the room.
The walls held standard poster art, probably purchased at Target or Walmart. Sunflowers, a dog on a bike, the left half of an owl.
In one corner, a tall, open-shelved cabinet displayed an eclectic collection of tchotchkes. A faux-marble glass Buddha. A long skinny sword with a curved blade and decorative handle positioned upright in a stand, another half its size beside it. A ceramic plate with a phosphorescent sunrise at its center.
“How long have you lived in Provo?” Monck asked.
“Ten years.”
“May I ask why you moved here?”
“It was my father’s idea. He’d heard about a new Chabad—”
“Chabad?” Monck interrupted.
“A Hasidic synagogue. The word itself is meant to evoke wisdom, understanding, and knowledge,” Benjamin went on, not bothering to hide his disdain. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging. But heavy-duty orthodoxy has never been my jam. My father drank the Kool-Aid his entire life.”
