and a Shirley Rosenblatt in Manhattan, on East Sixty-fifth Street.”
“Is Shirley an M.D. or a Ph.D.?”
“Um — one second — a Ph.D. She’s a clinical psychologist.”
“But no Harvey?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you have any old rosters on hand? Lists of staff members who’ve retired?”
“There may be something like that somewhere, sir, but I really don’t have the time to search. Now if you’ll—”
“Could I have Dr. Shirley Rosenblatt’s number please?”
“One moment.”
I copied it down, called Manhattan information for a listing on Harvey Rosenblatt, M.D., learned there was none, and dialed Shirley, Ph.D.’s exchange.
A soft, female voice with Brooklyn overtones said, “This is Dr. Shirley Rosenblatt. I’m in session or out of the office, and can’t come to the phone. If your call is a true emergency, please press one. If not, please press two, wait for the beep, and leave your message. Thank you and have a lovely day.”
Mozart in the background
. . . beep
.
“Dr. Rosenblatt, this is Dr. Alex Delaware, from Los Angeles. I’m not sure if you’re married to Dr. Harvey Rosenblatt or even know him, but I met him several years ago at a conference out here and wanted to touch base with him on something — for research purposes. If you can help me reach him, I’d appreciate your passing along my number.”
I recited the ten digits and put the phone back in its cradle. The mail came a half hour later. Nothing out of the ordinary, but when I heard it drop into the bin, my hands had clenched.
CHAPTER 5
I went down to feed the fish, and when I got back the phone was ringing.
The operator at my service said, “This is Joan, Dr. Delaware, are you free? There’s someone on the line about a dog, sounds like a kid.”
“Sure.”
A second later a thin, young voice said, “Hello?”
“Hi, this is Dr. Delaware.”
“Um . . . this is Karen Alnord. My dog got lost and you said in the paper that you found a bulldog?”
“Yes, I did. He’s a little French bulldog.”
“Oh . . . mine’s a boxer.” Dejected.
“Sorry. This one’s not a boxer, Karen.”
“Oh . . . I just thought — you know, sometimes people think they’re bulldogs.”
“I can see the resemblance,” I said. “The flat face—”
“Yeah.”
“But the one I’ve found’s much smaller than a boxer.”
“Mine’s a puppy,” she said. “He’s not too big yet.”
I put her age at between nine and eleven.
“This one’s definitely full-grown, Karen. I know because I took him to the veterinarian.”
“Oh . . . um . . . okay. Thank you, sir.”
“Where’d you lose your dog, Karen?”
“Near my house. We have a gate, but somebody left it open and he got out.”
“I’m really sorry. Hope you find him.”
“I will,” she said, in a breaking voice. “I’ve got an ad, too, and I’m calling all the other ads, even though my mom says none of them are probably the right one. I’m paying a reward, too — twenty dollars, so if you do find him you can get it. His name’s Bo and there’s a bone-shaped tag on his collar that says Bo and my phone number.”
“I’ll keep an eye out, Karen. Whereabouts do you live?”
“Reseda. On Cohasset between Sherman Way and Saticoy. His ears haven’t been cropped. If you find him, here’s my phone number.”
I wrote it down, even though Reseda was over the hill to the north, fifteen or twenty miles away.
“Good luck, Karen.”
“Thank you, sir. I hope your bulldog finds his owner.”
That reminded me that I hadn’t yet called the Kennel Club. Information gave me the number in New York and another one in North Carolina. Both answered with recorded messages and told me business hours were over.
“Tomorrow,” I told the bulldog.
He’d been observing me, maintaining that curious, cocked head stance. The fact that someone was probably grieving for him bothered me, but I didn’t know what else to do other than take good care of
“Is Shirley an M.D. or a Ph.D.?”
“Um — one second — a Ph.D. She’s a clinical psychologist.”
“But no Harvey?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you have any old rosters on hand? Lists of staff members who’ve retired?”
“There may be something like that somewhere, sir, but I really don’t have the time to search. Now if you’ll—”
“Could I have Dr. Shirley Rosenblatt’s number please?”
“One moment.”
I copied it down, called Manhattan information for a listing on Harvey Rosenblatt, M.D., learned there was none, and dialed Shirley, Ph.D.’s exchange.
A soft, female voice with Brooklyn overtones said, “This is Dr. Shirley Rosenblatt. I’m in session or out of the office, and can’t come to the phone. If your call is a true emergency, please press one. If not, please press two, wait for the beep, and leave your message. Thank you and have a lovely day.”
Mozart in the background
. . . beep
.
“Dr. Rosenblatt, this is Dr. Alex Delaware, from Los Angeles. I’m not sure if you’re married to Dr. Harvey Rosenblatt or even know him, but I met him several years ago at a conference out here and wanted to touch base with him on something — for research purposes. If you can help me reach him, I’d appreciate your passing along my number.”
I recited the ten digits and put the phone back in its cradle. The mail came a half hour later. Nothing out of the ordinary, but when I heard it drop into the bin, my hands had clenched.
CHAPTER 5
I went down to feed the fish, and when I got back the phone was ringing.
The operator at my service said, “This is Joan, Dr. Delaware, are you free? There’s someone on the line about a dog, sounds like a kid.”
“Sure.”
A second later a thin, young voice said, “Hello?”
“Hi, this is Dr. Delaware.”
“Um . . . this is Karen Alnord. My dog got lost and you said in the paper that you found a bulldog?”
“Yes, I did. He’s a little French bulldog.”
“Oh . . . mine’s a boxer.” Dejected.
“Sorry. This one’s not a boxer, Karen.”
“Oh . . . I just thought — you know, sometimes people think they’re bulldogs.”
“I can see the resemblance,” I said. “The flat face—”
“Yeah.”
“But the one I’ve found’s much smaller than a boxer.”
“Mine’s a puppy,” she said. “He’s not too big yet.”
I put her age at between nine and eleven.
“This one’s definitely full-grown, Karen. I know because I took him to the veterinarian.”
“Oh . . . um . . . okay. Thank you, sir.”
“Where’d you lose your dog, Karen?”
“Near my house. We have a gate, but somebody left it open and he got out.”
“I’m really sorry. Hope you find him.”
“I will,” she said, in a breaking voice. “I’ve got an ad, too, and I’m calling all the other ads, even though my mom says none of them are probably the right one. I’m paying a reward, too — twenty dollars, so if you do find him you can get it. His name’s Bo and there’s a bone-shaped tag on his collar that says Bo and my phone number.”
“I’ll keep an eye out, Karen. Whereabouts do you live?”
“Reseda. On Cohasset between Sherman Way and Saticoy. His ears haven’t been cropped. If you find him, here’s my phone number.”
I wrote it down, even though Reseda was over the hill to the north, fifteen or twenty miles away.
“Good luck, Karen.”
“Thank you, sir. I hope your bulldog finds his owner.”
That reminded me that I hadn’t yet called the Kennel Club. Information gave me the number in New York and another one in North Carolina. Both answered with recorded messages and told me business hours were over.
“Tomorrow,” I told the bulldog.
He’d been observing me, maintaining that curious, cocked head stance. The fact that someone was probably grieving for him bothered me, but I didn’t know what else to do other than take good care of
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