Oh, who was I trying to kid? The goddamn district attorney, that’s who. I was up against Goliath without a stone or a sling. I might as well paint a bull’s-eye on my bosom and lie back down on the couch.

Hogarth had the same idea. “Shut up!” he said, leering at me and aiming his gun at my chest. “I’m sick of listening to your whiny voice. And I’ve heard enough of your absurd and boring lies. I’m in the mood for something more stimulating. So take off all your clothes, sweetheart, and lie down on your back. I want to see you helpless and naked before I shoot you to smithereens.”

Chapter 39

THE JIG WAS UP. I HAD TWO CHOICES. I COULD strip down and try to lure Hogarth into raping me instead of killing me. Or I could shriek like a banshee, fly off the couch in a fury, kick him in the groin, and then hurl myself through the living room window-hopefully before he plugged me full of holes. In my freaked-out, stressed-out, burned-out condition, however, neither option was viable. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even breathe. All I could do was squeeze my eyes shut and pray for a miracle… or, at the very least, a speedy death.

Since my eyes were closed so tightly, I didn’t see what happened next. And since the sounds I heard were so odd and unexpected, they didn’t quite penetrate my addled consciousness. I was braced for the silenced thwack of a bullet hitting flesh and bone (my flesh and bone), but what I heard was something entirely different. It was a crazy scraping, skritch-scratching sound that took off from the rear of the kitchen, charged into the living room, and then changed into a ferocious growl.

My eyes flew open and searched for the source of the growl, which I located on the floor at Hogarth’s feet. But when I caught my first glimpse of the savage, long-nosed, short-haired growler, I thought I was dreaming again.

It was Otto! Jimmy’s brave and beloved little dachshund, Otto! The dog had dashed through the open kitchen door, scrambled into the living room, and seized one of Hogarth’s pants cuffs in his teeth. And now-judging from his fierce and tenacious gnashing, snarling, gnawing, and twisting-Otto was determined to keep his jaws clenched on that cuff forever. Hogarth was kicking and cursing and trying to shake the little dog loose, but his frantic efforts were having no effect at all. Otto was relentless.

And Hogarth was so distracted, he was no longer pointing the gun at me!

I felt a sweet spurt of relief-but it didn’t last more than a split second. Before I could gasp or even blink, Hogarth spun around, straightened his arm down toward the floor, and aimed the gun at Otto.

“Nooooooo!” I wailed, jumping off the couch and lunging forward, hoping to knock Hogarth off balance and make him miss his mark. But before I could reach him, the gun went off. And a horrible, gut-wrenching howl pierced the air. And a series of pitiful whimpers filled my ears. And my legs buckled, and my soul crumbled, and I fell to the floor in a heartbroken heap. And then I just lay there, coiled in the fetal position, sobbing uncontrollably and praying that Hogarth would kill me immediately-spare me the agony of seeing my poor little canine savior suffer and die.

Only half of my prayer was answered. Fortunately, it was the latter half. As I was lying there waiting to meet my maker, a cold, wet nose nuzzled my neck! And a warm, wet tongue licked my face! And before I knew what was happening, Otto was snuggling up next to me on the floor, curling his completely intact little sausage-shaped body into the curve of my stomach and snuffling contentedly.

It took me a few seconds to realize that the horrible howls and whimpers of pain had come from Hogarth, not Otto (thank God). But it wasn’t until I sat up and looked around, and saw all the blood in the middle of the rug, that I understood the cause of his tortured cries. Hogarth had-most effectively and deservedly (and, for me, quite conveniently)-shot himself in the foot!

I would have laughed out loud at the crazy, felicitous justice of it all, but I didn’t dare. Hogarth was still standing strong (on one leg, to be sure, but with the gun still gripped in his steady hand, one leg was one too many). Braced against the bookcase for balance and holding his mangled, bloodied foot up off the floor, the homicidal DA had stopped whimpering. Now he was actually grinning again. Eyes gleaming and teeth flashing, he raised his arm out straight, pointed the silenced pistol at my face, and said, “Bye-bye, Paige Turner. It’s been a pleasure doing business with-”

Hogarth never finished his sentence or fired the gun. He got his skull cracked open instead-by a very handsome, bearded beatnik poet (and dog owner) swinging a two-ton cast-iron skillet dripping with bacon grease. One solid whomp and Hogarth went down, crashing to the floor like a huge duffel bag full of dirt. His gun skidded under the couch and his face landed squarely in a puddle of blood flecked with bits of bone and shoe leather. He wasn’t grinning anymore.

Jimmy dropped the skillet on the floor and hurried over to Otto and me. “Are you all right?” he croaked, sinking into a squat, scooping Otto up in the crook of one arm and hugging him close to his chest. He flung his other arm around my shoulders and gave me a wild-eyed look. “What happened? Who is that creep? Did he hurt you?” He kept shifting his eyes back and forth from Otto to me, making certain we were both unharmed.

I was about to assure Jimmy that I was okay when Abby plowed through the back door and stomped into the kitchen. “Hey, Birmingham!” she squawked, spotting the top of his head above the telephone table and marching across the linoleum. “What the hell happened to you? You were out in the courtyard for ages! How long does it take for a dog to poop? And why are you-?”

The bloody scene on the living room floor stunned Abby into silence. She stopped dead in her tracks and took it all in, a look of sheer horror deforming her beautiful face. Then, when she saw that Jimmy and Otto and I were all okay-clinging to each other in a shaky huddle on the edge of the rug-she let out a yelp and leapt forward, arms spread wide enough to embrace all three of us at once.

But as her leading foot came down to the floor, it landed in a splotch of bacon grease and slipped right out from under her. She came flying toward us like an awkward angel-or, more precisely, a giant albino bat on the wing. She fell smack in the middle of our huddle and floundered around for a couple of seconds, but quickly sprang up-giggling and unhurt-into a kneeling position. Then she wrapped her wings around us, pulled us into a tight, cozy circle, and released a joyful sigh. And then Otto (who shall now and forevermore be known as Otto the Wonder Wienie Dog) poked his little head up through the center of the circle and licked all of our faces until they were shiny with slobber.

I was in Heaven-and by some incredible miracle (okay, several incredible miracles), I didn’t have to die to get there.

HOGARTH WASN’T DEAD EITHER, BUT HE WAS pretty close to it. He never regained consciousness while we were waiting for the police and the medics to arrive. Then, when they came and saw who he was and the terrible shape he was in, he was whisked away on a stretcher and rushed to the nearest hospital in a scream of sirens.

I wasn’t sorry to see him go.

I was sorry, however, to see Detective Sergeant Nick Flannagan of the Sixth Precinct come strutting into my apartment, brandishing his ego along with his badge. Abby and I had had dealings with Detective Flannagan a few months before, when he was trying to pin a gruesome murder on a perfectly innocent gay friend of ours, and my feelings about the man were not favorable.