howling. Eleven thirty-five: Mrs. Norcross is putting the kids out on the deck for some burgers when a big dog jumps over the rail, eats the burgers, growls at the kids, runs off. First mention of lawsuit."
"Kids? We've got her right there," Sam said. "Kids aren't allowed."
"Her grandkids are visiting from Michigan. She filed the proper papers." Spagnola took a deep breath and started into the log again. "Eleven forty-one: large dog craps in Dr. Yamata's Aston Martin. Twelve oh-three: dog eats two, count 'em, two of Mrs. Wittingham's Siamese cats. She just lost her husband last week; this sort of put her over the edge. We had to call Dr. Yamata in off the putting green to give her a sedative. The personal-injury lawyer in the unit next to hers was home for lunch and he came over to help. He was talking class action then, and we didn't even know who owned the dog yet."
"You still don't."
Spagnola ignored Sam. "From twelve thirty to one we had mass sightings and frequent urinations – I won't bore you with details – then one of my guys spotted the dog and followed it to your building, where it disappeared for a minute and reappeared on your deck."
"Disappeared? Josh, aren't you screening these guards for drug use?"
"I think he meant that he lost sight of it. Anyway, it's been on your deck for a couple of hours and all the residents are convinced that it's your dog. They want to boot you out of the complex."
"They can't do that. I own the place."
"Technically, Sam, they can. You own shares in the whole complex, and in the event of a two-thirds vote by the residents they can force you to sell your shares for what you paid for them. It's in the agreement you signed. I looked it up."
They were about a hundred yards from Sam's building and Sam could now hear the howling. "That apartment's worth five times what I paid for it."
"It is on the open market, but not to the other residents. Don't worry about it, Sam. It's not your dog, right?"
"Right."
Outside Sam's front door thirty of his neighbors were waiting, talking in heated tones, and glancing around. "There he is!" one shouted, pointing toward Sam and Spagnola. For a moment Sam was grateful that Spagnola was at his side, and at Spagnola's side was a.38 special.
The ex-burglar leaned to Sam and whispered, "Don't say anything. Not a word. This could get ugly – I see at least two lawyers in that bunch."
Spagnola raised his hands and walked toward the crowd. "Folks, I know you're angry, but we need Mr. Hunter alive if we're going to deal with the problem."
"Thanks," Sam said under his breath.
"No charge," Spagnola said. "It never occurred to them to kill you. Now they'll be embarrassed and go home. Lynchings are so politically incorrect, you know." Spagnola stopped and waited. Sam stayed beside him. As if the security chief had choreographed it, the people in front of Sam's door began to look around, avoiding eye contact with one another, then shuffled off, heads down, in different directions.
"You're amazing," Sam said to Spagnola.
"Nope, it's just that for a lot of years my living depended on the predictability of the professional class. Now it depends on the predictability of the criminal class. Same skills, less risk. You want me to go in first?"
"You have the gun."
"Okay, you wait here." Spagnola unlocked the door and palmed it open slowly. When the door was open just enough for him to pass, the thin security guard snaked through the opening and closed the door behind him.
Sam noticed that the howling had stopped. He put his ear to the door and listened, forgetting for a moment that he had installed a soundproof fire door. A few minutes passed before the latch clicked and Spagnola poked his head out.
"Well?" Sam said.
"How attached are you to that leather sofa?"
"It's insured," Sam said. "Why, did he tear it up? Is he in there?"
"He's in here, but I was wondering if you had some sort of – well – sentimental attachment to the sofa."
"No. Why?
"Kids? We've got her right there," Sam said. "Kids aren't allowed."
"Her grandkids are visiting from Michigan. She filed the proper papers." Spagnola took a deep breath and started into the log again. "Eleven forty-one: large dog craps in Dr. Yamata's Aston Martin. Twelve oh-three: dog eats two, count 'em, two of Mrs. Wittingham's Siamese cats. She just lost her husband last week; this sort of put her over the edge. We had to call Dr. Yamata in off the putting green to give her a sedative. The personal-injury lawyer in the unit next to hers was home for lunch and he came over to help. He was talking class action then, and we didn't even know who owned the dog yet."
"You still don't."
Spagnola ignored Sam. "From twelve thirty to one we had mass sightings and frequent urinations – I won't bore you with details – then one of my guys spotted the dog and followed it to your building, where it disappeared for a minute and reappeared on your deck."
"Disappeared? Josh, aren't you screening these guards for drug use?"
"I think he meant that he lost sight of it. Anyway, it's been on your deck for a couple of hours and all the residents are convinced that it's your dog. They want to boot you out of the complex."
"They can't do that. I own the place."
"Technically, Sam, they can. You own shares in the whole complex, and in the event of a two-thirds vote by the residents they can force you to sell your shares for what you paid for them. It's in the agreement you signed. I looked it up."
They were about a hundred yards from Sam's building and Sam could now hear the howling. "That apartment's worth five times what I paid for it."
"It is on the open market, but not to the other residents. Don't worry about it, Sam. It's not your dog, right?"
"Right."
Outside Sam's front door thirty of his neighbors were waiting, talking in heated tones, and glancing around. "There he is!" one shouted, pointing toward Sam and Spagnola. For a moment Sam was grateful that Spagnola was at his side, and at Spagnola's side was a.38 special.
The ex-burglar leaned to Sam and whispered, "Don't say anything. Not a word. This could get ugly – I see at least two lawyers in that bunch."
Spagnola raised his hands and walked toward the crowd. "Folks, I know you're angry, but we need Mr. Hunter alive if we're going to deal with the problem."
"Thanks," Sam said under his breath.
"No charge," Spagnola said. "It never occurred to them to kill you. Now they'll be embarrassed and go home. Lynchings are so politically incorrect, you know." Spagnola stopped and waited. Sam stayed beside him. As if the security chief had choreographed it, the people in front of Sam's door began to look around, avoiding eye contact with one another, then shuffled off, heads down, in different directions.
"You're amazing," Sam said to Spagnola.
"Nope, it's just that for a lot of years my living depended on the predictability of the professional class. Now it depends on the predictability of the criminal class. Same skills, less risk. You want me to go in first?"
"You have the gun."
"Okay, you wait here." Spagnola unlocked the door and palmed it open slowly. When the door was open just enough for him to pass, the thin security guard snaked through the opening and closed the door behind him.
Sam noticed that the howling had stopped. He put his ear to the door and listened, forgetting for a moment that he had installed a soundproof fire door. A few minutes passed before the latch clicked and Spagnola poked his head out.
"Well?" Sam said.
"How attached are you to that leather sofa?"
"It's insured," Sam said. "Why, did he tear it up? Is he in there?"
"He's in here, but I was wondering if you had some sort of – well – sentimental attachment to the sofa."
"No. Why?
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