Hounds Abound (11 page)

I took a sip of coffee as I pondered how to respond. The noise in the shop seemed to grow louder, a Greek chorus of voices underscoring the battle going on in my mind, or maybe I was just more conscious of it.

Bella and I weren’t yet the closest of pals.

But we had started to cultivate a real friendship. We definitely had a lot of interests in common.

Bella wouldn’t be able to focus on rescuing special-needs animals if she was busy fighting to stay out of prison.

But I’d already told myself not to get involved.

“You realize, of course, that I’m not a detective.” I stared right at her. “My success in those instances you mentioned could just have been flukes.” Or maybe not. I had developed plans, done research, conducted my own
investigations that didn’t only rely on where the police were looking.

“I know you can’t guarantee anything. That’s not what I’m asking. But, Lauren, I’m so afraid. Weren’t you scared when you thought the police were sure you were a murderer?”

I took another sip of coffee. It was growing cooler. Or maybe my blood was thinning as I considered how I had felt back then.

Scared? I didn’t like to admit to being frightened, even to myself. But I had definitely been uneasy. Worried. Really anxious. And … Yes, I had been scared.

“It doesn’t matter how I felt but yes,” I told Bella. “I can understand what you’re going through. And from what I saw, the police, although fairly competent, like it when they think they’ve zeroed in on the most likely suspect. Although …”

“Although what?” Bella leaned closer, as if I was about to tell her something really important.

In a way, I was.

“One of the detectives who came to Save’Em to work on the investigation was the head detective when I was a suspect. We talked quite a bit then. He admitted to me that he also liked to identify the least likely suspects, just in case. Then he would eliminate them if he could.”

“He sounds smart. And fair.”

“Anyhow, that’s what I considered when I got involved with helping in the last investigation. I’ll do it now, too, if I decide to help you.”

Bella’s smile was uneven yet sure. “You’ve already decided, haven’t you?”

My laugh sounded rueful, even to me. Even as I’d told
myself to stay out of it, I’d already been considering who could have killed Miles.

I am not an indecisive person. Which told me: Yes, I had already determined I’d help Bella.

“Maybe,” I told her, not quite ready to commit to her, even though I’d made a commitment to myself. “But if I say yes, you’ll have to help me, too.” I removed the strap of my purse, which I’d slung over my chair, then reached into the bag and extracted a small notebook and pen. “Let’s talk about who you consider the most—and least—likely suspects.”

Bella didn’t hang around after I drove us back to HotRescues, but said, as we exited my car, “Thank you so much, Lauren. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

I had agreed. And I never second-guess myself.

I therefore had to ponder how I would go about clearing her and come up with an investigative strategy.

Zoey immediately greeted me as I entered the welcome area. “Hi, girl,” I said as I bent to pet her and get a doggy kiss.

Bev was behind our desk. That was a good thing. Nina knew me well enough to read from my demeanor that something was up. Bev just gave me a rundown about a family who had come in, filled out our paperwork, and visited our available pets.

“They seemed most interested in cats,” she said. “Maybe two. I told them you would look over their application and call to find out when they could come back to talk to you about adopting.”

“Sounds good,” I said.

I took my usual walk around the facility with Zoey, greeting staff, volunteers, and, most important, our residents.

But my mind wasn’t entirely on what I was doing.

Returning to my office, I brought up, on my aging but stalwart computer, the files I had put together for both of the cases I had already worked on. I had maintained a separate computer page for each suspect, then kept rearranging them in the order I thought was correct, from the most likely to least. I pulled the notebook out of my purse and started files on the people Bella and I had discussed. There weren’t many, but she promised to come up with more.

I had to put Bella herself on my list. Then there was Kip Schaley, the Save’Em accountant who had a crush on her. She hadn’t liked considering him a suspect, since if he’d killed Miles he had undoubtedly done it for her.

Bella had given me a rundown of some of the people who worked with Miles in his cosmetic surgery office. One was the woman, Dr. Serena Santoval, who had cried for him on TV. There were a couple of other doctors, too, plus his assistant.

I couldn’t tell from this who was most, or least, likely to have killed him.

But as I copied the names into the files I had created, I realized what my next step had to be.

As ridiculous as it felt, I was going to look into having my face lifted.

I spent some time that afternoon visiting homes of people who had recently adopted pets from HotRescues. As I’d anticipated, they all seemed to be good fits. Always a relief,
of course—even though I wouldn’t permit an adoption that I thought might not work. Of course a few didn’t and pets were returned to us. That was a requirement in our contract—that we get the animals back if any issues arose. Fortunately, that seldom occurred.

That evening, I called both of my kids. Not that I was about to tell them what I was getting involved in for Bella.

But I wanted to hear their voices. Catch up with them. They had each just started a new year at their respective schools, and I missed them—both had stayed around their campuses for most of the summer for jobs and more classes.

Maybe that was why I missed them so much.

I sat on the sofa in my living room, settling myself on its blue upholstered seat and leaning back against one of its many fluffy pillows. Across from me was the huge big-screen TV that my son Kevin had chosen, but I didn’t turn it on.

I called my daughter, Tracy, first. Twenty years old, she had just started her junior year at Stanford.

“Hi, Mom,” she said, answering at once. “Everything okay?”

“Sure,” I said, hugging Zoey, who had joined me on the couch. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you don’t usually call on a Thursday evening.”

No, I didn’t. I called my kids anytime I felt like it, but had gotten into a habit of usually making it Sunday, Wednesday, and Friday, unless there was something special to discuss.

“Consider this a special occasion,” I told Tracy.

We didn’t talk long. I chose not to mention anything at
all about visiting Save’Em and what a great rescue facility it was, in case she Googled it and learned what else had gone on there.

My conversation with my son was similar. Kevin was eighteen and had just begun his sophomore year at Claremont McKenna College in the town of Claremont, just east of L.A., which was much closer than Stanford. Even so, he didn’t come home often on weekends. It was better that way for him. He was mature, a good student, and didn’t need to take care of his old mama. Even though he called me more often than Tracy did.

“I’ll be coming home this weekend,” Kevin said as we ended the conversation. “A couple of guys from high school have something going on so they’ll be back in town, and I want to see them.”

“Sounds good,” I said, my heart swelling. It would be wonderful to see him. Even though I doubted he’d spend much time here with his friends around.

Feeling all wound up, I thought about calling my parents in Phoenix, or my brother, Alex, who also lived there with his family, then decided against it. All that family contact might make me feel as if I was worried, second-guessing myself about my decision to help Bella.

And, like I said, I never did that.

I got to HotRescues early the next morning—in plenty of time to see our security director, Brooke, before she and her dog Cheyenne left for the day.

I had called ahead to make sure she was awake. “Come
up to the apartment as soon as you get here, Lauren,” she’d told me. “I’ll have coffee ready.”

That sounded good to me, so as soon as I’d arrived and done a quick jaunt around the facility with Zoey, I went into the center building of the original shelter and walked up the stairs to the new apartment that was now there.

It wasn’t the most glamorous residence, but it served its purpose: a nicely furnished apartment-away-from-home for whatever security person was there each night at HotRescues so they could have a place to crash when not patrolling. It was larger than a studio apartment, with a bedroom, living room, and tiny but sufficiently equipped kitchen. The bathroom had only a shower stall, no tub. There were no laundry facilities, but when towels and bed sheets needed to be washed, the regular HotRescues washing machine was available.

It worked. And Brooke seemed pleased enough with it that she spent more nights here herself than bringing in her independent contractors who helped out.

“How are you?” I asked when she opened the apartment door to let Zoey and me in.

I always asked that, no matter how fit and rested she looked—as she did that morning. She wore her traditional black T-shirt that read
SECURITY STAFF
over matching black jeans. Her brown hair, highlighted and gleaming, framed a face that had once been pale and gaunt but now looked healthy and attractive.

The first connection Brooke had had with HotRescues was when she had attempted to relinquish her sweet golden retriever Cheyenne so we could find the dog a new home.
Brooke had been let go from her job as a private investigator and was about to lose her house. And her life. She had a heart condition, no insurance, and no way to pay for medical treatment to save herself.

She hadn’t wanted her dear pup to suffer as she did.

That turned out to be one of the infinite number of times I was grateful that our benefactor, Dante, cared about both animals and people. He had donated enough for Brooke to get medical treatment and save her house. Then, when she was well enough, he’d authorized our hiring her as the security director of HotRescues, a smart move since EverySecurity, the pricey independent security company he liked to use for his HotPets chain, had badly flubbed its job here and we needed someone to ensure that didn’t happen again.

Brooke did a superb job with that and more around here.

Now Cheyenne and Zoey sniffed each other, then walked into the kitchen together to jointly beg for treats. I smelled the coffee Brooke had promised to brew.

“So what’s on your mind?” Brooke asked as we settled down at the compact kitchen table. “Is it about the Miles Frankovick murder?”

I nodded, then sighed. “Bella asked me to get involved and help figure out who killed him, and the way she did it I couldn’t say no.”

Her grin was much too amused. “I know you better than that, Lauren. You never agree to anything you don’t want to do. Besides, you were already involved. You know, though, don’t you, that private investigators need licenses?”

I sat up straighter, practically banging my coffee mug on the table. “I’m not a P.I. And I certainly don’t want to become one.”

“Are you insulting P.I.s?”

“Do you still have your license?” I countered.

“If I say yes, does that mean you’re insulting me?”

I laughed. This was turning into a ridiculous conversation, and I was sure that Brooke had started it to help lighten my mood.

She had succeeded.

“Since you’re a P.I., I definitely think highly of the breed,” I said. “But you wouldn’t want me as your competition, if you ever go back to actively being one.”

Her turn to laugh. “You’re right about that.” Her mouth segued into a grim line. “Can I talk you out of it?”

I shook my head.

“I figured. I don’t like it, Lauren. You—All right. You already asked me to get whatever insight I could from Antonio. So far he hasn’t been very helpful. I may be able to fix that, though.” Her raised eyebrows suggested that she would find a way to get what she asked for by seduction, and I grinned.

But then I grew more serious, too. “When I asked you that, I was at the crime scene, and I was curious. I really hadn’t planned to get involved. But now …”

“You were already involved,” she countered. “How do you plan to go about your investigation?”

“The same as before. Lots of interviews and questions and notes.”

She nodded. “So what do you plan to do next?” I told her, and she shook her head as she uttered a laugh as wry as a frustrated dog trainer. “Good thing no one at those doctors’ offices know you, Lauren. For one thing, you look damned good for a forty-something woman.”

I opened my mouth to protest. She’d spoken in a tone that suggested she referred to a senior citizen, someone twice my age. She was only about ten years younger than me, so it wasn’t like she was a teen who looked at anyone over twenty-five as antique.

“For another thing,” she continued, “anyone who knows you would be certain you won’t do anything beyond maybe dressing up a little more for some occasion and adding a bit of makeup to change your looks. Nothing invasive like surgery. You’re too smart, and pretty, for that.”

I shut my mouth again. She had me pegged. Except for the pretty part. I’m not horrible looking, but I’m fairly average.

“That should be one interesting doctor’s appointment,” she finished. “Wish I could at least go along, but that might add to any suspicion. Just be sure to let me know how it goes. And Lauren?” I looked at her. “I still don’t like it.”