Missing Pet
James Brogan was nursing a lukewarm coffee and a fresh bruise on his left knuckle when the woman walked into his office. She looked like money that had been left out in the rain: expensive coat, cheap nerves.
“Mr. Brogan, I need you to find Mr. Whiskers.”
Brogan raised an eyebrow. “That’s a cat name if I ever heard one.”
“Persian. Long white fur. Blue eyes. Answers to Mr. Whiskers… sometimes.” She slid a photo across the desk. The cat looked like it had opinions about tax policy.
He leaned back in his creaky chair. “Lady, I find missing people, not furballs. Try the pound.”
“My husband thinks I’m crazy,” she said, voice cracking. “He says the cat probably just ran off. But Mr. Whiskers never leaves the sunroom. Never. And last night the back gate was open. I know someone took him.”
Brogan studied her. The kind of client who’d pay well and cause maximum headaches. Perfect.
“Two hundred a day plus expenses,” he said. “And if I find out this is about your marriage instead of the cat, I’m billing double.”
She wrote him a check for the first three days without blinking.
The trail started at the upscale neighborhood on the east side. Mrs. Eleanor Hargrove’s mansion had more security cameras than a casino, but somehow none of them caught the cat disappearing. Convenient.
Brogan talked to the neighbors. Most of them hated the Hargroves on principle. Old money with new attitude.
The retired colonel two doors down was blunt. “That cat’s a menace. Shits in my rose bushes. But stealing it? Too much effort.”
The college kid house-sitting next door was more interesting. Nervous. Kept glancing toward the Hargrove garage.
“You see anything strange last night?” Brogan asked, lighting a cigarette.
The kid swallowed. “Not really. Just… a white van parked weird for a minute. But it left.”
“Plate?”
“Didn’t get it.”
Brogan smiled the way that made people uncomfortable. “You’re a terrible liar, son.”
Ten minutes and one twisted arm later, the kid confessed he’d seen Mr. Hargrove himself carrying a cat carrier out to a waiting car around 2 a.m.
Brogan found Hargrove at his country club, halfway through a scotch.
“Mr. Hargrove. Interesting hobby you got. Cat kidnapping.”
The man didn’t even flinch. “You’re wasting your time, detective. The cat’s with my mistress. Eleanor’s been unbearable since the prenup talks started. I needed leverage. She loves that damn cat more than me.”
Brogan chuckled. “So you stole the cat to force her to sign?”
“Exactly. She gets the cat back when she agrees to reasonable terms.”
Brogan lit another cigarette. “Here’s the thing, pal. Your wife already paid me. And I don’t like people treating animals like bargaining chips.”
He found Mr. Whiskers in a luxury pet boarding facility across town, living better than most humans. One discreet conversation with the night manager (and a hundred dollar bill) later, Brogan was carrying the furious Persian out in a carrier.
He delivered the cat personally at 11:47 p.m.
Eleanor Hargrove cried when she saw Mr. Whiskers. Actual tears. The cat immediately started purring like a broken engine and butted its head against her chin.
“You found him,” she whispered.
“More like recovered him,” Brogan said. “Your husband’s the one who took him. He wanted leverage in the divorce.”
Her face hardened. “That bastard.”
“Yeah. You might want to mention that to your lawyer. Also, I’d change the locks. And maybe the security codes.”
She wrote him a bonus check. A big one.
As Brogan walked back to his car, the Persian watched him from the window with those judgmental blue eyes, like it was sizing him up for future employment.
Brogan shook his head and muttered, “Next time someone asks me to find a missing pet, I’m saying no.”
He knew he was lying.
The city was full of missing things. Sometimes they even had fur.
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