Years ago, my dad tried to drag my lifeless body from his car up to my condo, but it hadn't ended well. It'd taken him over twenty minutes, he'd slipped two discs in the process, and my neighbor down the hall, thinking my dad was disposing of my body, had called the cops. Since then, anytime I fell asleep in the car, he'd recline the seat, put a pillow under my head, lay a blanket over me, and crack a couple windows. And although he wouldn't admit it, I know he checked on me every couple hours throughout the day.

At 3:00 a.m., I wake up, crawl from the car, and make my way up to the apartment where my dad, Murdock, and Lassie are all spooning on the bed. Lassie and Murdock both jump off, run forward, and lick me clean.

“Hey guys, did you have fun playing?”

“They sure did,” my dad says, pushing himself up. “Long lost brothers, you'd think those two are.”

I laugh.

The four of us move to the living room.

“You gonna stick around?” I ask my dad.

“No, I think we're gonna head out. Got some things to do tomorrow.”

“Cards on Wednesday?”

“Always.”

“What are you gonna do about the watch?” he asks.

“I'm not sure. I have to do some research. But if the President's son is involved, I'm going to find out.”

In the couple of minutes before I'd fallen asleep last night, my dad had told me everything he knew about Ricky Sullivan. The President's only child made the Bush twins seem tame by comparison. He'd gotten into his fair share of trouble when Sullivan was governor — though he was never officially arrested for anything — and his father's rise to the presidency did little to quell “Risky's” insatiable appetite for fast cars and fast women. He had been likened to Prince Harry on several occasions and the two were actually close friends. In the past year, he'd kept a low profile and was said to be buckling down for his second year at Georgetown Law.

“I thought of something else,” my dad says, “about the President's son.”

I nod.

“I guess he has a bit of a gambling problem. His bookie was busted a couple years back for cocaine possession. He thought rolling over on the President's son's gambling habits would lighten his sentence. It didn't. But the story did leak to the press; Risky was into him for about eighty grand at the time.”

As if I hadn't put it together, my dad adds, “The two hundred grand that was stolen.”

“You might be on to something,” I tell him.

He shrugs and says that he'd better get going. He starts toward the door. Murdock appears to have no intention of leaving his sidekick and lowers to the ground next to Lassie.

“Say goodbye to your friend,” I tell Lassie, picking him up and making my way toward the open door.

Meow.

“No, he can't stay over.”