James Brogan and the Case of the Missing Pet

 

James Brogan and the Case of the Missing Pet

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The rain was doing its usual tap-dance on the window of my office above O’Malley’s Bar when she walked in. Mrs. Eleanor Whitcomb, sixty-three years old, pearls around her neck like she was still trying to impress the country club that stopped inviting her. Her hands were shaking so bad she could barely hold the photo she slid across my desk.

“Mr. Brogan, someone took Mr. Pickles.”

I looked at the picture. A fat orange tabby cat with one ear that looked like it lost a fight with a lawnmower. The kind of cat that judges you silently while knocking your coffee off the table.

“Mr. Pickles,” I repeated, deadpan.

“He’s all I have left since Harold passed. I feed him salmon twice a day. He has his own room.”

I took the case. Not because I’m a cat person—I’m not—but because Mrs. Whitcomb offered me three grand upfront and another two on recovery. In this city, that buys a lot of bourbon and not a lot of questions.

First stop: her upscale brownstone in the Heights. The place smelled like lavender and regret. I walked the neighborhood, asking the usual questions. The mailman saw nothing. The neighbor’s teenage son was too busy staring at his phone. But the old Ukrainian lady three doors down had something useful.

“Big black van. No windows. Came at 3 a.m. Cat screamed like demon. Then quiet.”

Black van. Always a black van in this town.

I hit the streets. Called in a couple favors with Animal Control, checked the shelters, even talked to the weird guy who runs the underground exotic pet trade out of a warehouse by the river. No Mr. Pickles.

By the second night I was nursing a headache and a warm beer at O’Malley’s when my buddy Louie the Snitch slid onto the stool next to me.

“Brogan, you looking for a fat orange cat?”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got two minutes before I remember you still owe me fifty bucks.”

Louie grinned like a rat who just found cheese. “There’s this crew running a new racket. They snatch expensive purebreds and well-known neighborhood pets, then hit the owners up for ransom. Five, ten grand a pop. Your boy Mr. Pickles? They got him in a warehouse on 14th and Industrial. They’re calling him ‘The Colonel’ now. Real cocky about it.”

I found the warehouse just after midnight. The place reeked of motor oil and cat piss. Three guys inside playing cards. One of them had Mr. Pickles on a fancy pillow like he was some mafia don.

I kicked the door in the old-fashioned way.

The first guy went down easy. The second pulled a knife. I introduced him to a pipe wrench I found lying around. The third tried to run. I caught him by the collar and introduced his face to my knee.

Mr. Pickles looked at me with pure feline contempt, like I was late to his royal appointment.

I carried the fat bastard out under my coat while he yowled and tried to claw my ribs out. Mrs. Whitcomb cried when I brought him back. She paid me the rest of the money and tried to hug me. I took the cash and left before the tears really got going.

Two days later I got a thank you card in the mail. Inside was a picture of Mr. Pickles sitting on a throne made of what looked like expensive cat toys. On the back she’d written: He’s been extra cuddly since you brought him home.

I pinned the picture to my bulletin board right next to the mugshots and the “World’s Okayest Detective” coffee mug.

Another day, another missing pet.

At least this one didn’t try to bite me on the way out.