Desperate Housedogs

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Detective Judd Malone scanned my living room, his baby blues taking in my overstuffed couch, easy chairs and crowded bookshelves. My cats, Thelma and Louise, perched in the window sill, replete with tuna. Each opened an eye and then, unimpressed, went back to their beauty sleep. Dogbert climbed from his doggie bed, trotted over for a sniff, but then also dismissed Malone and went back to his nap.

“Can I get you something to drink?” I asked.

Some hospitality is automatic. Even when you have an unannounced guest. Even a guest who might arrest you. He shook his head and continued his scan.

“Well, then. What can I help you with, Detective?”

“I understand you visited Kevin Blackstone today?”

“Yes, I did. I’m the behavioral counselor for his German shepherds. What about Kevin?” I had a really bad feeling about this.

Malone arched a brow. “Kevin Blackstone is dead.”

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