“Dog fighting,” Michael said.

“What?”

“Maybe he’s investigating dog fighting. He’s got that show he’s working on about cock fighting—maybe he’s expanding it to include dog fighting. Illegal animal fighting in general. Was the dog a pit bull or a bulldog or something?”

I shook my head.

“Big, friendly hound dog,” I said. “The kind that just looks puzzled when Spike runs up and tries to pick a fight.”

“Still, if Blake is showing an interest in ordinary domestic dogs, you can bet it’s some kind of animal welfare issue,” Michael said. “And the show on cock fighting hasn’t aired yet, so maybe they’re still doing some filming.”

“That would make sense,” I said. “Of course, there’s another explanation.”

Michael cocked one eyebrow.

“He could just be trying to take an interest in what I’m doing,” I said. “Trying to build a relationship. You know what he’s like—brilliant as hell, but with absolutely no social graces. Maybe it’s not his fault that he does the whole relationship-building thing so oddly that I react with suspicion. Maybe I’m just too hard on him.”

“Maybe you are,” he said. “But much as I like the old guy, he has pulled some crazy stunts. Like that whole cock-fighting raid that landed him and your father in jail. Here’s a deal for you—you keep an open mind on whether Blake’s got an ulterior motive when he interrogates you. And I’ll see if I can use my irresistible charm to find out what he and your dad are up to.”

“Deal,” I said. “And if he is investigating dog fighting, or more cock fighting, see if you can get him to at least consider working within the system this time.”

“Definitely. Meanwhile, I’m supposed to tell everyone that dinner will be on the table in five minutes.”

“While you’re at it, remind Dad and Dr. Blake about the snakes.”

Since we were eating rather late, I took Timmy up to bed as soon as he’d finished dessert. We only had one difficult moment, when I had successfully wrestled him into pajamas and picked up the toothbrush to begin the battle over brushing. He suddenly stopped fighting and just looked at me.

“Mommy not coming back?” he asked.

“Of course Mommy’s coming back,” I said. “Soon. Just not tonight.”

He nodded, and didn’t put up much of a fight about brushing his teeth. Was he really reassured? Or had he given up on his mommy? Surely kids didn’t give up that easily? If this went on much longer, maybe I should find a child psychologist to help Timmy cope with it all. For that matter, if this went on much longer, I might need a shrink myself.

I shoved the thought away to concentrate on Timmy. I read him a story. Handed him a sippy cup of milk. Maybe I was starting to get the hang of this parenting thing after all. I tucked him in, turned the night-light on and the main light off, tiptoed toward the door, and was just stepping into the hall when he sat bolt upright again.