“I thought they were deer,” North said again, but he was grinning now. “I hate little dogs, by the way. If this thing starts yipping when we rescue it, I’m going to punt it into the next county.”

“You’d look good with a dog.”

“No dogs, Shaw.”

“You could keep a little teacup Yorkie in your purse and carry him to work every day. The other guys on the job site would love it.”

With a sigh, North set out following the fresh golf cart tracks. “Maybe a dog wouldn’t be so bad.”

“See? I knew you’d like the idea.”

“It couldn’t be half as yippy as you are.”

They followed the tracks, easily visible in the manicured grass, around the lake for perhaps a quarter mile. Another mini log mansion stood here; North counted four chimneys, a three-car garage, and a dock with a jet ski, a paddleboat, and a pontoon all tied up and ready to go. The wind had picked up, flattening the rushes and cattails along the shore and stirring wavelets against the dock, rocking the floating wooden platform with increasing violence.

Shaw raised an arm, ready to point out the obvious: the golf cart that had ripped chunks of sod from the lawn and that now was parked across half of a flower bed. Before Shaw could say anything, though, the front door to the mini mansion flew open, and a stocky, middle-aged man chugged out onto the lawn. He looked at them. His thick neck flushed red, and he wiped his forehead and squinted, as though trying to spot them across an incredible distance rather than a mere thirty yards. Under one arm, he carried a beautiful white and gray Löwchen, its mane trimmed into a lion cut.

“Brickle,” North said.

“No, thanks,” Shaw said. “Maybe after dinner.”

“After dinner, all you’re getting is a red ass from being so fucking smart all the time.”

“Hold on,” Shaw said. “I don’t understand. Why do you get to be a smart-aleck, but when I’m just being clever, all of a sudden I’m—”

Donovan lowered the Löwchen and kicked the dog, launching it forward a few feet before the dog crashed and recovered. Brickle yelped and then picked himself up with a limp, barking furiously as he spun in a circle, favoring one of his hind legs. Donovan squinted, seemed to study Shaw and North again, and took off at the same steady chug in the opposite direction. Brickle just kept spinning, barking wildly at everyone.

“He didn’t seem to like the way we looked,” Shaw said.

“Really?” North said, rubbing his chin. “Maybe it’s the purple denim.”

“It’s chambray, actually. But thanks for noticing.”

“Or the child-sized joggers.”

“Oh, I don’t think they’re—”

“Yes. They are. Or maybe it’s your toe shoes. Those are about the creepiest things in the world, so maybe it’s those.”