Chapter 2
A young policeman sat at the front of the station, filing forms on the computer. It had been fairly quiet so far in his shift, if you discounted the usual late-night vagrants. It was therefore with a fair degree of interest that he addressed the aging, obviously law-abiding man who had just walked in with the leash to his dog and a crumpled hat in each hand. "How may I help you this morning?"
The older man looked up at him with a slight amount of bewilderment--perhaps he was expecting someone else. "Er, yes. I have an appointment with Detective Chenture. My name's Don Drake."
The man at the desk looked through his online appointment book for a moment before catching the name of the man before him. "You're Detective Drake? Wow, I...I should have known--you look just like your description. It is such an honor to finally meet the legend in the flesh!" The man tried to rush over to his hero's side, but managed to trip twice on the way. The retired detective tried his best to keep a straight face, remembering a time long past when he had been the tongue-tied admirer.
Finally, the young man ("Sean", as he managed to introduce himself at least four times) finished pumping Drake's hand up and down (the hat had been transferred to the dog's head) and telling him about his greatest cases, and turned his attention to the dog. "And this must be the equally-famous Plato! Do you still do the 'crime bite', big fella?" The overdressed dog looked like it was considering an impromptu demonstration before the star-struck fan turned back to its owner. "I've always wondered, Detective, how he came by a name like that--it's kinda unusual."
Drake had established eye contact with his niece further back in the stationhouse, so he felt he had the time for a yarn. Removing the hat, he answered. "Well, Sean, I met Plato here when I was helping the fire department investigate a series of suspicious fires in the warehouse district. One fire claimed a warehouse watchdog and his family, but one whelp survived, only a few weeks old--this dog here--and he got a good look at the arsonist. Without him I never would have closed the case. We worked well together right from the start, so there was no question that I'd adopt him if no one turned up to claim him, and no one did.
"He didn't have a name. My fiancé at the time had a cat named Socks because he was black with white feet. He looked like a little philosopher, so Liz decided that 'Socks' was short for 'Socrates'. My dog always followed Socks around, so she named him 'Plato'. That was twenty years ago." His eyes lost focus for a moment as his mind summoned forth the face of his long-lost love.
"That's not the way we heard it," announced a pinched voice at the front door of the station.
"The way we heard it," continued a deep voice next to him, "your niece was the one who named him 'Play-dough', 'cause his face was so squishy, and you changed it to save the poor dog's dignity."
Drake spun around, a broad grin on his face. "Muldoon and Kirby! How are my favorite beat cops?"
"Still working the beat," answered the tall and thin Muldoon in a depressed tone.
"Wouldn't have it any other way," added the broad and nearly-as-tall Kirby, as if his comment was the natural follow-up to his partner's.
"It's great to see you guys," exclaimed Drake, crossing the waiting area to join them. Sean managed to find his way back to his desk, largely unnoticed. "Say, have you seen Detective Chenture yet? He wants to meet with me very urgently, but he refused to tell me what he wanted."
Muldoon and Kirby shared a significant look in silence.
"I'm sure he's not in yet," Muldoon stated rather rapidly. "We were just getting off the graveyard shift, so why don't you join us for breakfast?"
Drake's eyes swept suspiciously across the faces of the pair. "So you know what Chenture's up to?"
"We have our suspicions," rumbled Kirby.