The video of the woman abruptly changed to the contrite, chiseled face of a young news anchor with much-too-blue contact lenses. He squinted to read the teleprompter.
“However, the Tiny Tyke Academy’s spokesperson told our reporter that Samantha Ann Cramer wasn’t picked up at the school. They had no record of her arriving for her regular Wednesday morning bullet…” the man stopped and blinked at the camera. “Ah…uh…” he stammered, clearing his throat. “I mean ballet, her Wednesday morning ballet class. The mother insisted she had dropped off the four-year-old girl at nine a.m., as always, and watched her until she was inside the building. Meanwhile, police and child welfare authorities began—”
Rigger clicked off the TV when his doorbell chimed. He opened the door to see the familiar pea-jacket, Henry the Barbie doll, and sweet Irish eyes of Rachel.
“Come in, come in.” He stepped aside and waved them into his apartment, imitating the enthusiasm he wanted to feel.
When he closed the door, a fluffy ball of fur came bounding around a corner on the opposite side of the large living room. The puppy tripped on the red ribbon trailing from his neck, tumbled down the four carpeted steps, landed on his head, rolled end-over-end, and jumped to his feet. With tiny pink tongue flapping out the side of his mouth, he ran straight for the girl.
“L’phant!” she cried and ran behind the woman. He chased after her. Rachel dodged away. “L’phant, l’phant!” she squealed. “Save me.”
On the third time around, the woman grabbed the girl and held her up high. The puppy sat, panting, looking up at the child, still wanting to play.
“What the heck do you think you’re doing?” She didn’t give Rigger a chance to answer. “If I wanted her to have a dog, I’d buy her a dog. And it wouldn’t be a scruffy mutt like this one.” She shoved away the puppy with her foot.
Instead of being rebuffed, the dog took it as an invitation. He yipped happily, pouncing on the woman’s foot.
Rachel squirmed around to watch him.
“Who said it was for her?” Rigger asked.
“Oh, so it’s your dog?”
“Yes. I’ve been thinking for a long time I needed a watchdog.”
She blew out a breath through pursed lips and shoved away the puppy again. “You call that a watchdog?”
Rigger nodded.
“What’s his name, then?”
“I call him…um…” He glanced down at the playful tan and white half-spaniel. “Wolf. His name is Wolf.”
“Wolf?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if you’ll take your vicious watchdog named ‘Wolf’ and lock him in a closet or something, I’ll put Rachel down and get to work.”
“All right.” Rigger knelt down, swallowing his pain and moving as smoothly as a twenty-eight-year-old man should have been able to. He picked up the little dog. “Come on, pup. You can play in the bathroom for a while.”
Wolf—Appearance – 10, Likability -10, Attitude – 10, Usefulness – 0.
When he came back from putting the dog in the upstairs bathroom, he found Rachel standing in the middle of the living room, gazing at the artwork.
“Henry likes your pictures.” She turned the Barbie doll toward Rigger.
“Thank you, Henry.”
Rigger watched the woman remove her coat, drape it over a chair-back, and take a bibbed apron from her handbag. The apron still had a K-Mart price tag attached. She yanked off the tag, stuffed it into her pocket, slipped the neck strap over her head, and tied the apron strings in the back. Her apricot blouse contrasted nicely with the short tan skirt. It wasn’t the same outfit she wore before. Neither were her red peep-toe pumps.
“I’ll start in the kitchen. That’s always the worst.”
She didn’t wait for a response before walking away toward the formal dining room, which opened onto a large sunny kitchen. Her heels tapped across the hardwood floor that shimmered under a new coat of wax.
Rigger sat on the edge of his chair and looked at Rachel. “Well, what are we to do?”
“Henry Bouvier got to have operate.”
“Right now?”
“Yes, she’s dying.”
Rigger blinked. Building a dollhouse of cushions was what he’d expected. “Who’ll do the surgery?”
She looked at him, her brows knitted as well as a four-year-old can do that sort of thing.
“Operate,” he explained. “Who’s going to operate on her?”
“You are,” she said matter-of-factly, as if that should have been obvious. “But first she has to go to the bathroom.”
“Wolf is in the upstairs bathroom, but there’s another one, just down that hall.” He pointed toward a hallway to the right of the fireplace.
Rachel looked intently into Henry’s eyes. A small volume of two-way optical twittering went on for several seconds.
“Nope,” Rachel said, “has to be the upstairs bathroom.”
“Okay, but—”
The girl jumped up and ran toward the stairs, giving the kitchen a quick look.
“Hey,” Rigger said in a loud whisper.
She stopped, turning toward him, her foot on the second step.
“You forgot Henry.” He picked up the doll from where she lay at his feet.
Rachel ran back, grabbed Henry from his hand, and ran again for the stairs. With another glance toward the kitchen, she bounded up the steps.
Rigger smiled. Wolf—Appearance – 10, Likability – 10, Attitude – 10, Usefulness – 10. Perfect score.
Five minutes passed. He listened to the too-loud cleaning noises coming from the kitchen. Another five minutes, and Rigger began to wonder if Rachel was all right.
The woman came in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. “Where’s Rachel?”
“Um…in the bathroom.” Rigger looked at the stairway, then at the hall. “It’s down there.” He pointed toward the hall on the right side of the fireplace, where the downstairs bathroom was.
“Well, I probably need to do that next anyway.” She started for the hall.
“Wait!”
She stopped and stared at him.
“How did you do in the kitchen?” He went to inspect her work. She followed.
“Oh, man,” she mumbled loud enough for him to hear. “I hope this isn’t going to be one of those kind of jobs.”
After a cursory inspection of the kitchen, he glanced over the woman’s right shoulder, watching the stairway. “Looks pretty good.”
Her face took on a quizzical expression.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I never asked your name.”
“Katrina. Katrina Raider.”
He held out his hand to her. She took it. Her hand was limp and cold in his. He let go.
“I’m Rigger.”
“Glad to meet you. How many bedrooms you got in this place?”
He regarded her, wondering why she asked that.
“It’s a professional question. I’ve got to clean them, you know.”
“Oh. Three.”
“You