THE CANINE CAPER, by Michele Bazan Reed“I tell you, Art, this is somebody’s idea of a sick joke.” I slammed the letter down onto the polished oak, wetting the paper with the ring from my glass. “And it’s all because of that ad.”
Business had been slow lately, so I’d used some of my reward money from the case of the Lady in Black to purchase an ad in the local rag. Two inches on page 14 of the Syracuse Herald, touting the services of Harry Jerome, Private Investigator.
“Missing relative? Purloined pearls? Precious cargo need guarding? Call ‘The Hound’ at JEfferson 3828. Harry Jerome, P.I., is on the case.” I included the address of my fourth-floor walk-up on the city’s main drag.
Back when I was on the force, I’d earned the nickname “The Hound,” as the best tracker in four states. It was
