Hounds Abound (13 page)

Yes, I sounded like some kind of blithering, mindless groupie, but who cared? I was hoping to shock a useful response from her.

She hadn’t been looking at me when I began speaking. Now she gazed right into my eyes. Hers looked as horrified as if I’d stripped off my clothes. “I—I hadn’t heard any of that. And if anyone identified me … it was nothing like that. It was …” She pulled her wrist up in a gesture that suggested she was searching her wristwatch for an excuse to leave. “Oh, it’s time for me to meet with a patient. Dr. Renteen will do a fine job with you. You’ll see.”

But what I saw was that my made-up, pseudo-news story about Dr. Miles Frankovick being involved with one of the other doctors here had most likely not been so made up after all.

And it gave at least a couple of those doctors a possible motive to have killed him.

“You’re here early,” I said to Brooke.

It was four thirty in the afternoon, and she had just knocked on my office door.

I had returned to HotRescues after my pseudo-medical appointment and took a longer walk than usual through the grounds with Zoey. After spending so much time with people I neither liked nor trusted, I needed a good dose of animal time.

When I felt better, I worked on inputting data into my computer for most of the rest of the day. Nearly all that data involved our residents, and I smiled constantly when I added things about our most recent adoptions. This was stuff Nina usually dealt with so a lot of surface information was there, but I always liked to add things about my
personal evaluation of the adopters. Maybe it was a bit much, but I liked to justify to myself—and to our staff who might also read this stuff online—why I thought the people would be good to our former inhabitants.

Then I made myself work on the computer pages in the files I’d begun about possible suspects in Miles’s murder. I was able to add a page and a motive for Dr. Abe Renteen, as well as my impressions of Dr. Serena Santoval.

So far, though, I didn’t have enough to point to either of them, or anyone else, to clear Bella.

I hadn’t realized so much time had passed until Brooke came in. Zoey went to the door to greet her and Cheyenne, who, as always, was with her.

“I’m here to talk about your acting as a P.I.,” Brooke informed me, her tone wry.

“Do you want to handle it?” Not that I’d let her take this on by herself even if she said yes.

“No, but I may have some information you can use. Rather, Antonio may.” My door opened wider, and Detective Antonio Bautrel of the LAPD followed them inside.

As usual these days, Brooke looked amazingly healthy, all the more so, it seemed, when she was with her significant other. There was a glow in her pale amber eyes and a smile on her full—unenhanced—lips as she preceded the detective into the room.

Antonio was clad as I’d almost always seen him, in the businesslike, I’m-in-charge suit of a detective. Today’s was a light brown, contrasting well with his short black hair. He was just a little taller than Brooke, but he filled out his suit well enough to boast of all the cop training he did. Nor was
he gorgeous, but his slightly large nose and jutting brow adorned his face quite nicely. I could see why Brooke was attracted to him.

They both took seats in my conversation area, so I went around my desk to join them.

“This must be good,” I said, “for you both to be here.”

A look of triumph on Brooke’s face suggested that what they were about to impart could be more than good. “We may be saving you a lot of time,” she said. “There’s no sense in doing a lot of useless digging in a case that’s pretty well solved.”

“Meaning?” That couldn’t be good for Bella—not if she was the one the cops had set their narrow, unimaginative vision on.

“You can’t attribute anything to me, Lauren, or I could get into a lot of trouble,” Antonio said, “but I’m going to let you in on what’s currently going on in the investigation. There’s a lot of evidence against your friend Bella Frankovick.”

“That doesn’t mean she’s guilty.” I waved my hand as dismissively as if he had accused Cheyenne.

Antonio’s look was sympathetic. “It doesn’t mean she’s not, either. We have motive, means, and opportunity—you’ve heard of them?” At my brusque nod, he continued, “Motive is that he was trying to take back all the money she had removed from their joint accounts before their divorce and to keep her away from the real property he claimed should only have been his, despite it being in both names. Their divorce was final, but the judge said they could work out their settlement afterward—and they hadn’t. Money is always a good motive. Means was the knife. It wasn’t anything special, a carving knife made by a
well-known manufacturer, one that could have been picked up at any chain kitchen store. No fingerprints were found on it, nor were any besides Miles’s and Matt’s on the car, but she probably wore gloves. And opportunity was—”

I interrupted. “She didn’t have opportunity unless the timing is being ignored. She called me when she panicked about an intruder. She was still inside the house when Matt and I arrived. Miles was dead by then, in his car in the parking lot.”

“Or her plea to you could have been contrived,” Brooke said. “You already know that.”

“But I don’t buy it. I heard how frightened she sounded on the phone. No one else did.”

Antonio held up the palms of his well-worn hands. “Okay, it’s not foolproof. In fact, I’ll admit that the detectives on the case don’t yet believe they’ve collected all the evidence that will allow for an arrest and conviction. But they’re confident they’ll get it.”

“Well, they shouldn’t be.” I had folded my arms as belligerently as if I held myself back from thrashing him. “I’m not hearing anything new from you. The cops are sure it’s Bella. They already thought so. The only thing you’re convincing me of is that I’d better hurry even more to determine who killed Miles. It’s the only way I can protect Bella from a false arrest.”

“Lauren—” Brooke’s tone and expression suggested she was about to try to talk some sense into me—from her perspective.

From mine, I already knew how sensible I was.

“If I’m acting like a P.I.,” I said, “so be it. You can help me, Brooke. Or not. But I’m going forward with this.”

. . .

No hard feelings, at least. I invited Matt to join the three of us for dinner that evening. We all met up at a British pub not far from HotRescues. The place was charming—dimly lit, a television tuned to a soccer game, the aroma of baking shepherd’s pie, and a menu filled with other delights such as bangers and mash, fish and chips, and Cornish pasty.

Good venue. Great company. I like Brooke and her guy. And I’d come to care about Matt. A lot.

But it turned out to be as bad an idea as if they were there to steal from me. Which they were, in a way—my excellent plan. My confidence.

My fun, peaceful evening.

Three against one. Matt might not have bought into the current official version of what the investigation had yielded, but he clearly wasn’t happy that I remained involved.

I had met him not long before the first situation in which I’d been forced to determine the identity of a murderer or be arrested myself. He understood, I’d thought, that when I’d gotten involved in this kind of situation, it wasn’t exactly by choice.

“You didn’t make a fuss either time before when I started looking for the killer, even last time when I wasn’t a suspect,” I accused all three of them. “Why start giving me a hard time now?”

I’d just met Brooke around the time of the first situation and hadn’t even known of Antonio’s existence at the time, but was glad for his help with my next case. They’d been
helpful and even a bit sympathetic, without telling me to butt out.

“Both of the last times you could have gotten hurt,” Matt said, leaning toward me from his chair beside mine at the square wooden table. “Badly.” He took a hard swig of Newcastle ale from a filled glass. “It made sense for you to try to do something to protect yourself. I get it. And even, maybe, to help your longtime friend. But you don’t know Bella well, and you can’t guarantee her innocence. Back off now, and stay safe. Enough is enough.”

He had come right from work, wearing a khaki-color Animal Services knit shirt that emphasized his muscular build. Under other circumstances, I’d have thought about how sexy the guy was, and how nice it was that we were seeing each other. But not now.

I made myself take a long, pensive drink, too, before responding. What he said was correct. I liked it a lot that he cared. But that wasn’t the point. Responding emotionally wouldn’t help, though.

“I came out of both just fine,” I said, proud of how calm I sounded. “And I found out the truth. Besides, what you said confirms that everyone seems to be zeroing in on Bella as the killer. If it is her, she has no reason to hurt me.” I looked at them. “Or do you agree it could be someone else?”

No answer. Not till Brooke said, “If you won’t be reasonable about getting out of this, then at least promise you’ll be careful. Call on any of us anytime if you need help or backup.”

“Or for a reminder of why this kind of amateur investigation isn’t a good idea,” Antonio said. So what if I had
thought him a nontraditionally good-looking man? At the moment, he didn’t look, or act, at all attractive to me.

“But, honestly, Lauren,” Brooke said. “You should stay out of it this time. You don’t even know how dangerous it could be.”

I glowered at them all as the men nodded their agreement. They could be right. I knew that.

But all of them except Antonio knew that once I’d made up my mind, I wouldn’t change it. Period. Possible danger or not.

We fortunately got off the topic of me and onto the thing the three of us had in common: pet rescue. Antonio wasn’t as engaged as the rest of us, but he, too, loved animals, so talking about some that Matt had heard were in danger of being euthanized within the next couple of days was a topic we all could jump into with sincerity. I assured him I’d have room for a bunch at HotRescues and that I would also post a request on the Southern California Rescuers Web site for other facilities that could take some in.

By the end of the meal, and another round of ale, they were all more mellow. I was, too. No more demands about what I should or shouldn’t do.

Even so, I rode back to HotRescues almost silently with Brooke and Antonio without inviting Matt to join me that night.

Though I hadn’t had any intention to heed what those browbeaters had said to me at dinner, my own priorities limited the amount time I had that week to dig into helping Bella.

Good thing I heard that a memorial service for Miles was going to be held that Saturday. Even if I had no opportunity to do much investigating or digging before then, I’d attend.

First, though, I focused on some adoptions of particular sweetness to me at HotRescues. One was Babydoll, a loving shepherd mix with an unusual coat that suggested she wore a skirt. She had been a resident of ours for quite a while, but despite the plethora of attention she received from all of us, including our wonderful volunteers, she needed a forever home of her own. And now, she had finally found one.

Then there were Fitzwalter, a cat we had taken in when released to us after a hoarding situation, and Alta, a kitty who had been a recent owner relinquishment and obviously needed a home to lord over. Both were chosen by families who appeared to be good fits.

Of even more intensity were the visits to a couple of city shelters where some wonderful cats and dogs were in immediate danger. I hustled there with some of my staff, including Pete and Nina, to grab up as many as possible. Some colleagues who also posted on the SoCal Rescuers Web site were there, too, and we divvied up the animals graciously—and with exuberance. We were all in this together, saving as many pets as we could.

Then there was a very special day. On Thursday, I went to visit Save’Em. I was there because Carlie was coming. She was starting to film her “Hug’Em At Save’Em” episode of
Pet Fitness
here, which would be fun.

Even more important was that she was about to initiate some extraordinary veterinary help for a special-needs pet.
She was bringing a wheelchair for Nifty, the Basset hound mix with a dysfunctional hind end.

We met in the parking lot outside the front of Save’Em—fortunately not the same area where I had found Miles Frankovick’s body. I didn’t want to think about that today, though it was hard not to.

Carlie arrived with a van from the Longevity Vision Channel containing a small film crew. But I was most excited to see what she would extract from the vehicle.

Someone else removed the apparatus from the van, though. Carlie introduced Paul, a guy she’d filmed a few months ago who co-owned ProsthaPetics, a company that sold animal assistive devices and prosthetics.

“That’s it?” I looked over the contraption that I knew to be a doggy wheelchair. Basically, it looked like a
U
of small pipes, with the free end containing a halter and the base attached to two wheels.

“That’s it,” she confirmed.

A different volunteer opened the door for us that day. Her nametag identified her as Daya. Like Peggy, she wore a red shirt, but she appeared to be mid-twenties instead of a teen. She bared large, irregular teeth in a smile as she let us in. “Bella told me you were coming. This is so cool. Can I be on the show?” This, of course, was directed to Carlie.