As Dog Is My Witness by JEFFREY COHEN Read Free Book Online Page A

by
itself. I can’t wait around for the driver every time—I have more
cars that need fixing.”
    “So you think that if I follow you through your day,
I’ll see whoever’s undoing your work.”
    Mahoney nodded. He kept rubbing Warren’s belly,
because the dog was doing his “eye trick,” the thing where he looks
as pathetic as possible to elicit sympathy. It always works, and
I’ve been trying to figure out how to do it myself when dealing
with Abby. “That’s how I figure it,” he said. “And since you don’t
actually have a job . . . 
    I raised one eyebrow, a trick I learned through years
of watching Leonard Nimoy on Star Trek. “You have a funny
way of asking someone for help.”
    “It’s not something I do often,” he admitted.
    “True. And I owe you about six thousand times
over.”
    Mahoney, who had knelt down to attend to Warren,
groaned as he stood, and threw a melodramatic arm across his brow.
“I just want the nightmare to end!” he wailed, then looked to see
if I was buying the act, which I wasn’t. Warren, who doesn’t deal
well with raw emotion, got up and left the room. Hell, if nobody
was going to rub his belly . . 
    “You don’t know from nightmares,” I told Mahoney.
“I’ll soon have to spend a week in this house with Abby’s brother
and his family.”
    Mahoney winced and sat down. “Howard?”
    “The one and only.”
    “No way you could find a business trip to go on for a
week?”
    Mentally thanking Leonard Nimoy, I raised my eyebrow
again. “A minute ago, you said I don’t have a job. Now you want me
to send myself away on assignment? Which is it? Besides, I just got
back from a trip yesterday.”
    As briefly as possible, I filled him in on the
exciting details of the trip to Hollywood (really Santa Monica),
and my current assignment for Snapdragon (really Lori
Shery).
    “So you have a rewrite to do that might finally
jump-start your career, plus a murder investigation, plus Howard
and his Yuppie version of a family coming to stay for seven
fun-filled days.”
    “That’s right,” I said.
    “For a guy with no job, you’re pretty busy.”
    “Remarkably so.”
    “So, can you follow me tomorrow?” Suddenly, his eyes
looked just like Warren’s.
    “Sure,” I said.
     
     

Chapter Nine

    B efore I could start
following Mahoney, however, I had to deal with my children. Ethan
usually beats Leah home from school, since he doesn’t have any
interest in extracurricular activities or social interaction with
other children. In other words, he doesn’t have any school friends
to slow him down.
    Today, he lumbered into the house, ignoring the
whines and cries of the dog, who did everything except leap into
Ethan’s arms and beg for attention. Ethan hung his overflowing
backpack on the banister, yelled, “Hi, Dad,” in no particular
direction, and headed for the kitchen, where snacks are kept. He is
his father’s son.
    Since I am, unlike Warren, gifted with the power of
speech, I called into the kitchen, “How was your day?”
    “Okay.” Given that hearty chunk of data, I walked to
his backpack and opened it, extracting the black and white notebook
that Wilma Coogan, Ethan’s aide at school, and I pass back and
forth every day. Wilma, partial to Ethan as she has proven herself
to be, might not tell me everything he won’t mention, but
she’s certainly a better source of hard information than a
twelve-year-old with Asperger’s.
    So, it was with a modest amount of surprise that I
turned to today’s page and read, “Hi, Aaron. Ethan forgot his
science homework, and got a zero for the day. He reacted badly, and
threw a pen at Ms. Markowski. Don’t worry—I made sure he apologized
and didn’t get detention.” Wilma then listed Ethan’s homework for
the next day, subject by subject, including the science worksheet
he had apparently failed to bring in that day.
    “Ethan!”
    He ambled out of the kitchen and into my office,
holding a brownie he’d found in