by David Archer
“Going to interview a potential witness. Can't talk now, I'll call you later!” Sam hung up and jumped out, almost forgetting to open Indie's door. Before he could turn around and get to it, she had it open and was climbing out.
“Never mind me,” she said, “I wanna see what you’re about to do! Go, I'm right behind you!”
Sam got inside, found the cashier and had Indie pay the bill. It wasn't as bad as he'd expected, only six hundred dollars, and Sam figured that if this worked, it would be worth every penny. The vet came out and took them back to where the animals were kept, and Freddie, still bandaged but fully operational, looked up at Sam with a curious expression on his face.
“Hey, boy,” Sam said. “Wanna help Sam nail a killer?”
The dog woofed and Indie gave Sam a look that said she was amazed. Sam grinned and hooked the leash the vet handed him to Freddie's collar. “Come on, boy, we got work to do!”
Sam and Indie led him out to the car and he hopped through the window into the shotgun seat. Indie gave him a look, and said, “Oh, no, hot shot, wife gets the good seat. You get to ride in the back!” Freddie made a low growl, but went between the buckets to get into the space behind them, and it was Sam's turn to look at Indie in awe.
“It's a gift,” she said and got in, so Sam stopped worrying about it and got behind the wheel. He fired the big four twenty-seven up and wheeled out of the lot, headed for Animal Partners' offices.
When they got there, Sam saw that there were only two cars in the lot, and Indie followed as he led Freddie inside. Janice was there with Carla, in the front reception area, and they both brightened when they saw Sam leading Freddie. The dog trotted right up to them, and both women gave him attention for a moment before looking at Sam and Indie.
“Mr. Prichard?” Janice asked inquisitively. “What can we do for you?”
“Freddie's been here a lot, right? And he likes everyone?” Both women nodded, looking at Sam as if he'd lost his mind.
“Freddie loves everybody here,” Janice said. “He used to run to get to Max…”
“I'm thinking he might notice something we've all missed. Okay if I let him run loose a bit?”
She looked confused, but nodded. “Sure.”
Sam unhooked Freddie's leash and knelt down beside him. “Okay, boy, here's the deal. Somebody came in here and killed your pal Max. We need to know what happened. Something here might tell us, and we need you to find it! Go find it, boy!”
Freddie looked at him the same way the women had, but after a second, he got up and started walking slowly toward the office door. He paused at the entrance, and sniffed around in the air for a moment, then turned his head and looked at Sam. Sam took a step toward him, and he went on inside.
Sam got to the doorway in time to see Freddie sniffing around where Max's chair had been, and it was obvious he was a little confused. Sam had counted on him expecting to see his old buddy, and when it was clear that Max wasn't there and even his chair was gone, Sam thought he might get a reaction that could help him form some kind of idea. He didn't know what it would be, but he was grasping at straws.
Freddie sniffed the floor under where the chair had been, and then he whined. Sam would bet that a dog who'd been in combat would know that a lot of blood meant someone was dead, and he could almost certainly tell that it was Max's blood he was smelling. It had been cleaned up, but there was no way to get it all; his keen nose would find it.
He looked at Sam again, and then stood up to put his front paws on the desk. He sniffed all over it, and something on the right side of the desktop was getting his attention, Sam could tell. Just behind him, Indie whispered, “Look at that!”
Freddie moved to the side of the desk and sniffed that spot again, and then a low growl came from down deep in his chest. He dropped back to the floor and started smelling the carpet, then began following a scent. He walked back toward the doorway. Sam moved so he could get through unimpeded, then followed again as he walked out to the reception desk. Once again he got up and sniffed the top, and again one particular spot caught his attention, almost dead center. He dropped back onto all fours, and began tracking again, and this time he went down a hallway to where the dogs were kenneled during their training. Sam had to help by opening the door, but the dog didn't hesitate once it was open. He went through, still tracking something on the floor.
He paused at one point, and Sam thought he was lost, but he cast about for a moment and picked up the scent he was looking for once again. He went back to following a trail only he could detect, and the women and Sam went back to following him as quietly as they could.
He came to a back door. Sam fumbled with its deadbolt for a moment before getting it open, and Freddie let him know with a growl that Sam was taking too long. Once it was open, he went through and into the alleyway behind the building.
He stopped again, and sniffed about for a moment before choosing a direction and heading east. He was staying close to the wall on the right and moving a bit faster, out there in the open, so Sam and the women had to hurry to keep up. By the time they’d gone half a block, Sam's bad hip was complaining, but he forced himself to ignore it. Freddie wasn’t going to stop and wait for them, so they hustled to keep close to him.
Another block, and the dog was getting anxious, Sam could tell. He was growling, and it was obvious he was onto something that he thought was important. When he stopped at a dumpster, Sam thought he was done, but he only sniffed at it and then went on past.
Suddenly, Sam had a hunch what he was after, and he silently thanked Supernatural’s writers for the idea that would prove Jack innocent. As far as Sam knew, there was only one thing that he could be tracking, and if he was right, he was probably about to bust the case wide open.
Freddie continued almost another block, and then veered away from the wall and crossed the alley, still sniffing. When he came to the opposite side, he looked up at several big electric boxes, the kind with industrial-sized electric meters in them, and began sniffing at them one by one.
He sat down and looked at the one in the middle, and barked once, then turned and looked at Sam.
Sam went to the boxes looked at the one Freddie was indicating, and saw that the little metal seal that the power company put on them had been broken. Someone had twisted it off, then tried to put it back and bend it so it wouldn't be noticeable, but Sam saw it. He got out a handkerchief to wrap around his fingers, pulled the broken seal off and moved the little latch that held the cover closed, then lifted it up and out of the way.
There, in the bottom of the box, right next to probably a million volts of electric wiring and relays, lay a .40-caliber Glock.
Indie got out her phone and took several pictures of it where it lay, while Sam got down on one knee and told Freddie what a good dog he was. He called Hobson and told him he had found the murder weapon, and that he wanted it fingerprinted as soon as possible. Hobson acted as if he didn't believe it, but agreed to come out.
Just to be safe, Sam called Karen, too. She agreed to ring the county crime lab and call in a favor to get someone out to them immediately. Sam didn’t trust Hobson to do his job, but Karen said she'd get some people Sam could count on, and he definitely trusted her.
Thirty minutes later, Sam watched as County CSI carefully spread powder over everything, including the inside of the box and its cover and seal. The prints their super digital cameras got were clean, and some of them appeared to be the same on both the cover and the gun, according to the techs.
Hobson had arrived after the CSI team, and stood there fuming because they wouldn't let him touch anything until they were done. By the time he got the gun, it was bagged and tagged, and all he could do was escort it to the lab for ballistics testing.
All Sam could do now was wait, at least on this case. He was confident the crime lab would find that the fingerprints they had discovered were Nadine's, but nothing would change for Jack until Hobson saw that for himself.
Meanwhile,
Sam had another case to wrap up.
9
With everything going on, Sam and Indie decided it would be best for Kenzie to remain with her grandmothers for another day or so. Grace and Kim were delighted, because it meant they had more time to spoil the child.
With that covered, Sam got dressed while Indie went to pick up the chauffeur’s outfit and rental car. She was back by the time he was ready at just after noon.
They arrived at Roseblood at one, and the guard stepped out as they approached the gate, waving for them to stop
“Good afternoon,” he said, and Sam leaned out the window he'd rolled down. “How can I help you this afternoon?”
“Hello,” Sam said crisply. “My name is Stan Phillips, and I'm a guest of Mr. Gaines.”
The guard nodded once, then scanned a list he held on a clipboard. He smiled.
“Yes, Mr. Phillips, I've got you right here. Please follow the yellow line on the drive to the parking area, and you'll see the guest entrance. There's a chauffeur's lounge there, where your driver can wait, and they have a juice bar and other amenities for them.” He glanced at Indie. “I'm sure she'll be well entertained while she waits.”
“Thank you,” Sam said, and Indie drove through the gate as it opened. She was the perfect chauffeuse, hopping out to open his door and pulling off an adorable British accent. As Sam stepped out of the car, he said, “I'll call when I'm ready, Emma.”
She snapped back with a perfect, “Veddy good, Sir, I shall be waiting.”
While she waited, she'd also be listening for any gossip among the other drivers. There might not be any, if the place was as security conscious as it seemed to be, but if she heard anything interesting, she'd tell Sam when he returned.
The guest entrance was under a portico, and a man in a tuxedo was waiting to open the door. He smiled as Sam stepped inside, and said, “Good evening, Mr. Phillips. I am Mr. Renquist, the director. I hope you enjoy your visit with us this afternoon.” He held out his hand with a small package in it. Sam took it, thinking it had some sort of information or party favor inside, but what he pulled out was a soft, satiny mask.
Sam stared at it for a second, and then looked up at Renquist, who smiled and said, “The mask is optional, of course, but most of our guests do prefer to maintain anonymity, here. It's entirely up to you.”
Sam thanked him and put it on. It made sense; whatever it was about this place that made Gaines terrified of anyone finding out why he came, it would undoubtedly make others want to keep their involvements secret, as well, especially from other guests. That explained why Gaines wondered if Sam was into blackmail.
“In addition, most of our guests use pseudonyms; I've taken the liberty of calling you Mr. Randall, I hope that's all right?”
“That's fine,” Sam said. Renquist nodded and led the way.
The house was huge, and Sam followed him down a long hallway into a lounge area. The liquor was artfully arranged behind one of the most ornate bars Sam had ever seen, but the thing that caught his attention instantly was a set of red velvet-covered couches in the corner.
It might be more accurate to say that what caught his attention were the twelve nearly naked women who were sitting on them. There were blondes, brunettes, redheads and some with so many colors Sam got dizzy; there were small girls and big girls and some that almost looked like men in drag, and he wouldn't have taken bets that they weren't!
Surrounding these women were men, and Sam saw that almost all of them were wearing masks like his own. Some of them went even further, wearing costumes of various sorts. Sam saw a gaudy, obviously fake General's uniform, a guy dressed up like a bear, and one that was wearing almost as little as the women, and with a horse's tail hanging off his bottom end. He even had a bridle on his face, and Sam suddenly got a very bad feeling about the place.
The bartender was a tall girl with blonde hair, and like all the others, she was dressed in what amounted to a leather thong bikini. She smiled at Sam as she asked what he'd like, and he hesitated.
Sam had given up drinking when he and Indie got together, but before that he'd occasionally drunk a lot. He didn't want to get started again, and while he'd drunk mostly beer, he knew that alcohol of any kind could be a mistake.
“Virgin Mary,” Sam said, and the girl didn't even bat an eye. She passed him a glass of spiced-up tomato juice with a stick of celery for a garnish, and Sam gathered that he wasn't the only tee-totaler to patronize the place.
Mr. Renquist spoke. “If you'll follow me, Mr. Randall, I'll show you around, and we can discuss the type of servicing you might be seeking.” He led off down another hallway, and Sam followed.
They stopped at a door, and he opened it to let Sam look inside. He was suddenly very glad he was wearing the mask, because he sure his face would have been a mask of shock.
The room was a torture dungeon. There were chains and manacles along one wall, and a rack held dozens of different kinds of whips, paddles, riding crops and other devices that Sam was sure were designed to cause pain to someone. In one corner stood a large X-shaped wooden device that was obviously designed as some sort of sadistic restraint; Sam didn't even want to think about what would be happening to the person so restrained, but he was certain it would not be pleasant.
Sam looked it over and nodded, trying to give the impression that he was not surprised. Renquist closed the door, and they moved to another one.
This one held a huge, circular bed, and the entire room was covered in mirrors. There were mirrors on every wall, and the ceiling was one huge mirror; Sam was suddenly reminded of an old Dean Martin movie about Matt Helm, a secret agent who made James Bond look like a prude. He'd had a bedroom like that in one of his movies, and Sam recalled that when he'd seen it (he was about fourteen), he'd thought it was cool. Looking at this one made him feel dirty.
Renquist closed the door and they walked on. As they walked, he said, “Many of our guests enjoy spanking, some on the giving end, and others on the receiving. Some prefer more intricate fantasies, of course, such as role-playing, or pony or puppy play. May I ask your own preferences?”
One of the cases Sam had worked on during a short stint with the vice squad had involved something similar. In that case, Sam had learned quite a lot about the BDSM lifestyle, which is all about control.
Suddenly that knowledge came to his rescue.
“I'm a dominant, myself, and mostly into the physical aspects, rather than the fantasies. My friend told me I might find some interesting situations here, so I wanted to check it out.”
“I'm certain you will,” Renquist said, as he opened another door.
This room had an assortment of different clothing, most of it feminine and the kind of thing one might expect to see a little girl wearing. There was a twin bed with a frilly canopy, and it didn't take a lot of imagination to figure out the kind of games that went on there. Sam swallowed his bile. “Not my cup of tea,” he said, and Renquist nodded with a smile and moved to open yet another door.
This room was occupied, and Sam would have probably backed out quickly but for one thing: There was a nearly nude woman, in the leather bikini that they all wore, holding a leash that was attached to a collar worn by a completely naked man, and she was using a thin rod to whip his rear, yelling at him and calling him a “bad dog!” He was whimpering like a dog as she did so, but when the door fully opened, they both froze and looked up in surprise.
Renquist muttered an apology and yanked the door shut, but in that split second of shock, Sam saw that the man being whipped was none other than Daniel Rogers; but even more than that, the look of utter surprise on his face made him suddenly remember where he'd seen that face before: it was the same face Sam had seen blasted off the man on the road, a little more than two weeks earlier. That man had looked exactly like Daniel Rogers, and had worn that same look of shock and surprise, just before his face was obliterated by buckshot.
Renquist apologized to Sam for his mistake in exposing a client,
and it gave Sam the break he was looking for. He drew himself up with all the anger he could muster—which wasn't hard, considering some of the things he'd just seen—and looked Renquist in the eye.
“Mr. Renquist,” Sam said as coldly as he could, “if you can make a mistake like that when you’re showing a visitor around, then I'm afraid I would not be comfortable that you could preserve my own privacy. I'll thank you to forget that I was ever here. Would you show me out, please?”
“Oh, but Mr. Randall,” he began, but Sam shook his head.
“I'm sorry, I'd like to go.”
Renquist surrendered and led him back to the guest entrance. Sam handed him the mask, stepped outside and saw Indie standing beside the car sipping a bottle of grape juice. She spotted him at the same time. As Sam got to the car, she opened his door and held it as he entered, then got behind the wheel.
10
They didn't speak until they were off the grounds.
“So what's the big secret in there?” Indie asked, and Sam sat there for a long moment, trying to gather his thoughts and decide just how to tell her what he'd seen. He was still so shocked by some of it that he wanted to let it settle.
“I'll tell you when we get home,” Sam said. “It's too much to talk about while you’re driving, you'd wreck the car and kill us both!”
She tried to get more out of him, but Sam refused to say a word until they got to the house. Indie had left the Ridgeline at the rental place, so she'd take the Lincoln back in the morning; that left them free to go home and talk it all over. They sat down at the table and Sam looked in the refrigerator, wishing for the first time in well over a year for a beer. He settled for the root beer he'd taken up since then, and sat down in a chair beside Indie.
“Do you know anything about BDSM?” Sam asked her, and her eyes went wide.