The Good Boy Read Online Free Page A

hearsay—and that seven times out of ten, he’s good and full of shit.
    Still, he’s here, now, so this story remains to be told. And since it’s well within the law for Butch to sniff the exterior of a vehicle, and a positive alert equals probable cause for a search, Butch’s nosing around could confirm what Pete already knows—that Ja’Kobe and his pals are up to something. Or at least buzzed up on something. And it could also provide Jetty with a reason to make an arrest.
    And that’s all Jetty wants: a reason. Then maybe he’ll have a good story, and he’ll quit being such a prick. Now or later or whenever.
    And right now, White won’t get away with being an asshole.
    So, okay. “I’ll walk him around.”
    “Do that,” Majette says, a shitty smile before he goes back to meet Bellwether.
    Pete gets into his trunk again to retrieve Butch’s leash and blue KONG—his find reward—which he pockets before he releases the rear locks and opens the back door.
    “C’mon, Butch,” Pete says, hooking the lead into a pinch collar.
    Butch sits there, his most pitiful face. It’s true, he is not a rain dog—but there’s a reason he doesn’t like rain, and that reason is thunder. And that’s because when Butch first came to the Murphy household, Sarah accidentally left him in his run during a storm. In her defense, the front came in quickly; the sun was out when she went to the Jewel. But while she was in the store comparing hot dog prices, Butch was going batshit. When Pete finally rescued the dog, he’d torn all the siding off the garage.
    “C’mon,” Pete says to him. “You won’t melt.”
    The dog looks up, blinks away raindrops, and damn if he doesn’t nearly shake his head no.
    “Fuss!” Pete commands so that the dog understands it’s time to work; there are no fear words in their shared language. “Hier!” he says, and Butch obeys, his front paws hitting the pavement just as a band of lightning cuts across the western sky. He heels to Pete’s left, hindquarters trembling.
    “Pass auf!” Pete says, demanding Butch’s attention. He shouldn’t be so skittish; Pete’s been too easy on him lately.
    “Okay, Pony,” Majette says on approach in wide steps, making room for himself while his partner trails behind, “Bellwether here hasn’t seen your magical show. So how about you and your nosy dog get on with it?”
    Pete’s neck goes tight: a nerves thing. He is so sick of the nickname, and the way any cop thinks he can use it.
    He looks down at Butch, sitting at attention, tail sweeping the rain-spotted street, an eye on Jetty. It’s as though he gets the subtext: that there’s some kind of challenge posed. But what’s he supposed to do? Of course he wants to please his master. And he won’t lie—can’t—it isn’t in his makeup. And he won’t feel bad whether he alerts or not. So why should Pete give a rat’s ass?
    He decides he won’t, and offers a hand to Bellwether. “Pete Murphy.”
    “Jim,” Bellwether says, shaking his hand and then self-consciously running knuckles over his mustache, awkward and thin and probably kept in protest of last week’s rank-wide reprimand about sideburns, beards, and goatees.
    “This is Butch,” Pete says.
    “What kind of dog is he?”
    “Oh boy,” Majette cuts in, “here we go with the questions. You bring hula hoops for him to jump through, Pony?”
    “He’s a shepherd-Malinois mix,” Pete tells Bellwether.
    “Is it true they can find things under water?”
    “Jesus, you’re a regular Jeopardy contestant,” Majette says. “Listen, you think we could do some work here? I mean, I’m happy letting these assholes squirm, but I think it’s really going to storm—”
    “Butch is trained for narcotics,” Pete says, ignoring him. “But I do know a search-and-rescue dog who found a body in a seam below the Yorkville dam.”
    “Because searching downstream is counterintuitive.” Majette again.
    “Kendall County sheriffs had been