by MCCOY, JUDI
Screw women and screw the ditzy dog walker, too.
His gaze landed on the magazine in question, and he refocused, searching for the connection in this case. What did the publication have to do with Albright’s death and the other missing canines? And what the hell had scrambled the professor’s pacemaker? Dr. Bridges thought the killer had used an electrical device, but had no idea what it was.
Frustrated, he thumbed the pages, sizing up the photos of dogs available for stud and the bitches looking for service. Most of the ads instructed interested parties to call for pricing and details, but there were a few that posted their rates. As Ellie had explained, the more championships a dog had behind them, the more their value as a breed specimen. Depending on the animal’s ranking and number of awards they’d won, the fees ran anywhere from a couple of hundred to thousands of dollars.
He flipped through the articles until he found one on breeding and showing dogs in other countries. After reading it carefully, an idea began to gel. Pushing from his desk, he stuck the magazine in his coat pocket, strode through the precinct, and headed for the Manhattan bookstore that carried the dog magazine. If he didn’t have luck there, he’d strike out for Brooklyn.
Ellie made a point of having another talk with her street pals, Marvin and Pops, about Buddy. She then spoke to a few of the friendlier dog walkers, and even asked Sean Turner, a guard who worked at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, if they’d seen the bichon or knew of anyone who had.
In return, she’d gotten nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch.
Dejected, she shared her usual hot dog lunch with Rudy, then leaned back in the bench and let the spring sunshine warm her face. Taxis flew past while tourists on the way to the museum walked by, gazing at the huge high-rises on Fifth Avenue. Most of the visitors were so entranced with this part of the city they didn’t notice her or her little pal, but a few smiled when they saw her feeding Rudy, as if they, too, knew how great it was to have a dog.
Clouds gathering in the east signaled an upcoming thunderstorm, a change from the mild weather that had blanketed the area for the last week. She didn’t usually wear a rain slicker, but she always kept one in her bag, just in case. Summer would soon arrive, which saddened her because it meant time was passing at an alarming rate. The longer it took to locate Buddy, the less likely it was they’d find him alive . . . or not.
She heaved a sigh. So what if Sam hadn’t thought to call her immediately with the ME’s report? He had a lot on his plate. He’d warned her that he didn’t want her meddling. But would it have killed him to try to reach her?
He and Vivian were probably right. It wasn’t her responsibility to locate Buddy, and it definitely wasn’t her job to find the professor’s killer. Still, Professor Albright had been her first official client after Viv. It didn’t matter that the man’s bichon was a champion; she would have fallen for him, anyway. Dogs like Buddy, Rudy, and Twink were special. They only came into a person’s life once in a great while, which was doubly important to her now, because she’d just started enjoying her new career and her freedom.
Aside from this mess with the professor, her world couldn’t get much better. Being a dog walker allowed her to make her own hours while she interacted with animals she loved. Her circle of friends, once dictated by the D, was now her own, and included only those with whom she had a bond. She had a mother she cared about . . . most of the time. And her standard of living would rise as she expanded her customer base. Someday she might actually welcome another man in her life, if he could accept her feelings for Rudy.
She smiled at the dog dozing at her feet. To top it all, she had a unique best friend, who understood her, who listened when she talked and offered his own quirky guidance, who cheered her up when she was down.
Who loved her no matter what she thought or said or did.
“I hear the wheels turning.” Rudy’s voice echoed in her mind. “It’s frightening, what sometimes goes on in that brain of yours.”
“I have a lot to think about. It’s nothing you need to focus on.”
“This thing with Buddy’s really got you down, huh?”
“I’m annoyed more than despondent. I’m an intelligent woman, so what have I missed? There has to be something I’ve failed to recognize where Buddy is concerned. Even the big, bad detective can’t figure it out.”
“The big, bad butthead is a jerk. You said so yourself.”
“I might have been too quick to judge him. Sam’s not such a terrible guy. He’s just like most men used to being in charge. You know, brash, bossy—”
“Bullheaded, belligerent—”
She tapped his rear with the tip of her shoe. “Stop. You haven’t seen his other side. He can be funny—and kind when he remembers. He has a crappy job, nothing like what people see on television.”
“How would you know? You don’t watch those shows.”
“I can imagine. Just one look at the professor lying dead in his hallway told me I never want to see that kind of thing again. How would you act if you had to deal with violence and death on a daily basis? From what I can tell, murder isn’t exciting or mysterious, or anything it’s cracked up to be in books or on TV.”
“Maybe we should watch a few episodes of CSI and check out what really goes on in the police business.”
“No, thanks. I’ll pass.”
“So do you want to know what I saw today, while we were rumbling with that dope Rude-gene?”
“Ugh! Don’t remind me. What a horrific experience. How could I let myself bump into him like that, then allow all of you to get tangled with his dogs? I’m lucky none of you got bit. And that poor sheepdog. He could have gone up in flames.”
“But he didn’t. And it’s stupid of that idiot to smoke around canines, anyway.”
“Next time I see him, I’ll tell him what you think.”
Rudy rose on his hind legs and put his paws on her knee. “I’m trying to clue you in on something, Triple E. I don’t know if it’ll help find Buddy but—”
She scratched his ears. “But what? I’m listening. You know you can tell me anything.”
“It’s about that water guy—Gil.”
“You mean the man who delivers Liquid Ice?”
“Yeah, him.”
“What about him?”
“This morning, in the middle of the fracas, he walked by pushing one of his carts.”
“He was probably making a delivery to the building. It was so crazy, I doubt I’d have noticed Georgette if she’d walked past wheeling the judge.”
“Probably not. But guess what he had sticking out of his back pocket.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“A copy of that magazine.”
“Breeder’s Digest?”
“One and the same.”
“Are you sure?”
“I can read, can’t I?”
“You can? Since when?”
“Since forever. There’s a lot of things I can do.”
“Such as?”
“Never mind. What do you think it means?”
“It means I have a very intelligent dog. Maybe we could make some money from those skills you say you have.”
Rudy stuck his nose between her knees and moaned. “Forget about my talents. Why would the water man have that magazine? Does he have a champion dog?”
“When I ran into him at the PetCo, he told me he has one or two, but they’re mixed breeds. Heinz Fifty-sevens he called them.”
“You ran into him at the PetCo? Doing what?”
“Buying food for his dog . . . er . . . dogs.”
“What kind of food?”
“The same brand I buy for you. Why?”
“Don’t you think it’s funny that he never mentioned owning a dog when we met in the freight elevator?”
“He did tell me, at the PetCo.”
“So why did he wait until then?”
“I saw him buying the kibble and I asked, you goose.”
“What kind
of dog food did Buddy eat?”
“The same kind you do,” she told him. “I started using it because the professor recommended it. He said it was the only chow Buddy would—”
“I rest my case.”
Three hours later, Sam ground his back molars in frustration. So far, not a single clerk remembered which customers, if any, had bought a copy of Breeder’s Digest. They sold a flotilla of pet periodicals to hundreds of people, and the staff worked in shifts. Any one of them could have sold the magazine. He’d have to return to each store and speak to every cashier individually, and even then chances were slim that anyone would remember ringing up the publication.
First thing tomorrow, he was going to Kennedy and LaGuardia. With any luck, the airlines would give him access to their flight manifests for animal shipments. Never in a million years would he have believed foreigners paid big bucks for AKC-REGISTERED champions until he’d read that article while flipping through Breeder’s Digest, but according to the magazine, wealthy Japanese and Brazilians ranked owning a Westminster winner right up there with owning a horse that had won the Kentucky Derby.
When his phone rang he checked the caller ID, sighed, and pulled the phone from the dashboard stand. No point in putting it off. He might as well speak to her now instead of later.
“Ryder.”
“Sammy? It’s me.”
“Hey, Ma. What’s up?”
“They buried Frank Jeffers a few mornings ago, and Tricia stopped by today.”
Crap. He’d forgotten about the funeral. “Did you go?”
“Of course. Someone from the family had to be there. Your sisters barely remember the man, and I knew better than to ask you, though Carolanne seemed to think you’d show up.”
He’d kept his promise to his ex and made the wake. What more did she expect? “I suppose the two of you talked.”
“Carolanne is a wreck, and so is her mother.”
“Of course, they lost a family member.”
“Unfortunately, over coffee, Tricia told me more than I wanted to know. It seems Carolanne and her mother were listed jointly on Frank’s life insurance policies, so your ex is already spending her share of the money. Can you imagine?”
He could. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”
“She told Tricia to ask me to ask you if she was still the beneficiary on your policy. Can you believe it?”
“Don’t worry, Ma. I changed them over before the divorce was final. You, Sherry, and—”
“I don’t want to know! Nothing’s going to happen to you, and if something did, we wouldn’t want your money. Besides, when you marry again, you’ll leave everything to the new Mrs. Ryder.”
“I told you that won’t happen, Ma. I don’t plan on making another woman worry the way you do.” And Carolanne didn’t. “It’s not fair.”
Lydia made a rude noise. “Someday you’ll find a girl who deserves you, and you’ll think differently. Mark my words.”
“I gotta go, Ma.”
“All right.” Her sigh echoed over the line.
“Did you need something else?”
“A visit from my boy might be nice.”
“We had dinner a couple of nights ago. Remember?”
“I do, but all this talk of death makes me miss your father. I could use some cheering up. Are you coming to dinner this Thursday?”
“I can’t commit so early in the week.”
“I’ll take that as a no.”
He glanced at the magazine on the seat next to him, a reminder that he had yet to stop at the stores in Queens. “I might be able to drop by later.”
“Really? What time?”
He checked his watch. Traffic was a bitch this late in the afternoon. “Give me a couple of hours.”
“We’ll have dinner. It’ll be just the two of us.” Her voice quavered with anticipation. “I’ll make stuffed pork chops and glazed carrots. Your favorites.”
“Don’t go to any trouble. I might not be able to stay.”
“Of course, you will. And I’m saying good-bye. I have to start the stuffing.”
“Ma.” He heard the dial tone and stuck the phone back in the holder. Nobody made stuffed pork chops like his mother, but if he hit a home run at one of the stores carrying that magazine, it would ruin her plans.
He headed into traffic, torn between eating a good meal and finding someone in Queens who knew about the damn magazine.
“This is the pits.”
Ellie peeked around a corner at the back of the Liquid Ice distribution center. From the front, the building appeared modern and the parking lot neat, but the rear was a different story. Empty containers stacked a mile high abutted the walls, while pallets with refuse and overflowing Dumpsters abounded. A chilly rain drizzled, adding to the misery.
“I know,” she said. “But what was I supposed to do—call the delivery station and ask for Gil’s address? I don’t even remember the man’s last name.”
“We could go home.”
“I’m not leaving until I find out where he lives.”
“You’re not going to do that back here. The employee cars are in the side lot.”
“Then I guess I’d better get another taxi and have the driver wait until we spot him leaving, huh?”
“That would be my advice,” Rudy answered, lifting his leg on a pile of soggy cartons.
She waited until he finished his business, then hoisted her tote over her shoulder, tugged up the hood on her rain gear, and returned to the front of the building. At the curb she raised a hand, shivering when a trickle of freezing water dribbled down her wrist and inside the slicker sleeve. After fifteen minutes of frantic waving, a taxi pulled over. Rudy scrambled inside, and Ellie climbed in after him.
“Where to?” asked the female cabbie as she peered into her rearview mirror.
“I’m not sure. We need to hang out here until the person I’m waiting for leaves the Liquid Ice building.”
The driver, an attractive middle-aged woman, grinned. “You a stalker?”
“A stalker?”
“You know, one of them women who follows people around, spyin’ and stuff.”
“Why would anybody stalk someone who works at Liquid Ice?”
The driver raised a shoulder. “People got their reasons. A spurned lover, maybe, or a cheating husband? I had me one of those once, and I made him pay, the bastard.”
The D rose to mind, and Ellie nodded. “I know exactly what you mean. Cheating husbands deserve to be strung up.”
“By their balls,” the cabbie added. “So you just tell me when you see the bastard, and I’ll stay on him. Won’t even charge you for the wait time.” She turned in the seat, snapped her gum, and held out her hand. “Names Marta, by the way. Marta Cruz.”
“I’m Ellie, and thanks for the freebie.”
“Hey, us girls, we gotta stick together.” She gave Rudy a once-over. “Cute dog.”
“Thanks. Without him, I wouldn’t have gotten through the last couple of weeks.”
A few minutes passed; then people began leaving the building. “So what’s this creep of yours look like?”
Ellie could barely remember Gil’s face, let alone give a description. “Um . . . he’s tall and on the thin side, and he has brown hair.”
Marta scanned the crowd of mostly men. “That covers about half the guys out there. What’s he driving?”
Driving? Ellie gazed at Rudy.
“Tell her you don’t know. He sold the family car and got the money.”
“I’m not sure. He took the car when he left, and a . . . a friend told me he sold it and kept the money for himself.”
“Bastard. You got kids?”
“Three,” Rudy answered.
“Three,” Ellie parroted. “Two girls and a boy.”
Another group trundled from the building, and she spotted her target. Ducking down, she said, “There he is, the guy coming this way in the plaid jacket . . . wearing the baseball cap.”
“Got him.�
�� Marta started the engine. “Looks like he ain’t found a replacement vehicle yet. He’s heading for the bus stop. Hang on while I go to the next street and find a spot to wait.”
A moment later she steered into traffic. “Okay, he’s on. It’s an express, so it probably won’t make too many stops.”
Now what? Ellie mouthed to Rudy.
“Let Marta do her thing. She can handle it.”
Ellie peered over the front seat. “Where are we going?”
Marta stayed a car length behind the bus. “Looks like we’re on our way to Queens. You good with that?”
Ellie had been to Queens maybe twice in her life, with the D, who had a big-shot client in the borough. “A time or two. Is it nice?”
“Depends on what part you’re goin’ to. Sunnyside’s good.” Up ahead hung a green sign directing them to the Queensborough Bridge. “I got the toll. Pay me when we settle, and sit upright. The bus won’t be stoppin’ for a while.”
“Thanks,” Ellie mumbled. Climbing on the bench, she gave Rudy a pat.
“Why’d you bring the dog?”
“He doesn’t like my ex much, so I thought he could help with . . . protection.”
“Smart. Who’s watchin’ your kids?”
“Ah . . . my mother,” Ellie answered with a roll of her eyes. Yeah, like that would ever happen. “Little Gil is two. Janie is three, and Vivian is five.”
“Now you’re catching on,” said Rudy.
“Nice. Me, I got two. Carlos is in eighth grade and Chulo’s in sixth. Lucky you got your mom. I got family, too, but my bum, he’s always late with the child support, so it’s really tough.”
“Oh, that’s terrible,” Ellie commiserated.
“How about yours?”
“Mine? Oh, mine. He doesn’t pay when he’s supposed to, either. The bastard.”