Rob saw him bounce behind the patrol car as it drew up with its lights flashing. Towser lifted his leg on the left rear tire, sniffed Rob’s ankles, and gave a soft woof. All along the street, front doors opened and citizens peered out. The window of the patrol car slid down. “Hiya, Neill.” Dave Meuler, bald, fifty, and steady. “Teresa said you called.” Teresa Morales was the 911 night dispatcher. “I ain’t getting out of this car with that hound on the loose.” “Sit.” When the ridgeback squatted obediently on its haunches, Rob grabbed its collar. He peered down the block. A rectangle of light shone from the house at the end. “Commissioner!” he roared, projecting his voice like a ham actor. “Get your butt down here or the dog dies!” Dave chuckled. “Bastard’s too damned lazy to take his dog walkies.” Rob scratched Towser’s big, square head. The dog licked his free hand. “It’s a matter of principle.” “My ass.” It took Harold Brandstetter five minutes to walk the short distance.
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