Read Lost Dog (A Gideon and Sirius Novel Book 3) for Free Online

and I tore off a piece and tossed it in the air. Sirius made the catch and swallowed it down. Mine disappeared almost as fast. It was delicious.
    “Where do you live, Gideon?”
    “Sherman Oaks,” I said.
    “Nice neighborhood for a cop.”
    “My wife was smart enough to have us buy what was supposed to be our starter home there.”
    Walker nodded. “We didn’t give you a chance to talk much about your work tonight. I hear you and your pooch are pretty much your own bosses.”
    “Don’t tell the COP that,” I said, referring to the Chief of Police. “It was his idea to form the Special Cases Unit. I think he did it partly because of need, and partly because he wanted Sirius and me on retainer for the occasional PR appearance. By the way, I’ll be counting tonight as one of those PR efforts.”
    “In that case we’ll split the bill.”
    I wasn’t sure whether Walker was kidding. His face was deadpan, his demeanor serious.
    “Three ways,” he added, with a head bob aimed at Sirius.
    I opened my mouth to object, which is when he showed his smile. “Taking the hook was bad enough,” he said, “without your also swallowing the line and sinker.”
    “Now you know why I don’t play cards.”
    “That shows uncommon good sense for a cop. The old rule of thumb is that if you sit down at a poker table and can’t identify the sucker in the first half hour, then you are the sucker.”
    We stopped talking when Leticia appeared with our entrees. “The chef had a ham hock he’d finished with,” she said. “I had him cut it up, thinking your dog might like that.”
    “Him?” I said. “What about me?”
    Our table quickly filled with the side orders, along with Walker’s catfish and my ribs. I started with the mac and cheese; it was love at first bite.
    “This ought to be against the law,” I said. “It’s that good.”
    “You should bring your girlfriend here.”
    “I’m not sure if that’s a good idea. Lisbet might not let me order the mac and cheese. But I know she’d love the food.”
    “You know the food has to be good to get white people to come to a black part of L.A.”
    Walker made his observation with a smile, but it was clear he wasn’t joking.
    “I don’t have to tell you that cops eat at notorious holes-in-the-wall,” I said.
    He nodded, but qualified it. “Then again, cops aren’t your average people.”
    “True,” I agreed, “but you can’t blame people for not wanting to eat where they feel scared.”
    Walker nodded. “That’s not only a white thing. I live in the middle of Ladera Heights. Do you know it?”
    I shrugged and said, “Not really.”
    “The residents of Ladera Heights like to keep our three square miles a secret,” said Walker. “We’re afraid if white people find out about it, they’ll start moving in.”
    “I won’t tell any white people about it. I promise.”
    “The neighborhood’s nickname is ‘Black Beverly Hills.’ I always thought that sounded silly. Ladera Heights doesn’t have nearly the wealth, the mansions, or the pretense of Beverly Hills.”
    “I tried to call the Beverly Hills Police Department last week,” I said, “but then I found out they had an unlisted phone number.”
    Walker laughed. Hearing his deep, throaty amusement made it feel like I was being rewarded.
    It was an unhurried dinner, something that I needed to have more of in my life. Walker and I told old cop stories, and I got to hear about the goings-on at the 187 Club. He mentioned his imminent walk and elaborated on the “cactus to clouds” aspect.
    “Isaiah and I had talked about doing it,” Walker said. “When he was gone, that was one of my regrets. I wished I had just spent more time enjoying his company. To be honest, I don’t know if we ever would have done the walk had he lived. I’m no daredevil, and when I see people climbing mountains, running a marathon, or doing extreme sports, I wonder what the hell is motivating them. Let’s face it, they always