Lost Dog (A Gideon and Sirius Novel Book 3)

by Alan Russell

  Even though I made it clear to Dr. Wolf that I had no intention of keeping Annie, she warned me that hounds were susceptible to GDV—gastric dilation-volvulus—and what to watch out for. I was also warned to keep water out of her long ears, as the breed was prone to ear infections. Her final piece of advice was to not leave Annie alone in my house unless I wanted to return to a scene of devastation. Hounds needed lots of exercise and definitely didn’t take to being cooped up, she said.

  “I’ve set aside the day to find the owner,” I told her, “and if that doesn’t work, I’m afraid I’ll have to take her to the shelter. I’ve heard most dogs are found within four blocks of their home, but I’m guessing Annie traveled a lot of miles, which is going to make finding her owner harder. Of course I’m going to put posters up in the neighborhood and call the local shelter and—”

  “Before you go to the trouble of putting up posters,” said Dr. Wolf, “I’m hoping Annie has a microchip in her.”

  I had put that possibility out of my mind when I hadn’t found a collar on her, but that was before hearing about hound behavior. From the first, I’d assumed the worst about Annie’s human, but Dr. Wolf seemed to think Annie had been well taken care of until recently. Sirius had a microchip embedded between his shoulders; maybe Annie did as well.

  “This is a universal scanner,” Dr. Wolf said, showing me a handheld device. “If Annie’s carrying a chip, the scanner will reveal it.”

  As she turned on the scanner, I was reminded of the way Dr. McCoy scanned patients on the original Star Trek series. Dr. Wolf ran the scanner between Annie’s shoulders, holding it about an inch above her fur. It took her only a few seconds to find pay dirt.

  “Eureka!” she exclaimed.

  “As in the California city?” I asked.

  “That remains to be determined. The microchip isn’t a transmitter. It’s a transponder that emits a radio frequency signal. The scanner picked up that signal, and what I now have is a unique identification number provided by the chip’s manufacturer. All I have to do now is call the microchip company and give them that number, and they’ll consult a national pet-recovery database. Let’s hope our luck continues and that the owner is up to date with contact information.”

  “You ever hear of Murphy’s Law?” I asked.

  “Don’t be such a pessimist,” she chided.

  Dr. Wolf had her cell phone in hand and was already making the call. She put her phone on speaker. After providing the identification number and satisfying the service of her status as a pet professional, she began jotting down the information given to her. I listened to the owner’s name, the dog’s name, two telephone numbers, and an address.

  When I heard the location of Angie’s home, I softly whistled. She lived in Burbank, a city that was about a ten-mile drive from Sherman Oaks; that is, if you traveled along the Ventura Freeway. Angie wouldn’t have been able to do that, of course. I tried to imagine all the side streets that she would have needed to walk along in order to make it to my neighborhood. At a minimum, I imagined she must have walked twenty miles, but it was more likely she’d traveled thirty or forty miles. Making it through that urban jungle couldn’t have been an easy journey for her.

  Dr. Wolf finished her conversation. The microchip service said they would also be contacting Angie’s owner with Dr. Wolf’s information.

  Annie was no longer an orphan; she was also no longer Annie. Angie, I said to myself. I wondered if it was short for Angela. In the City of Angels, an angel had come to me.

  Dr. Wolf handed me the owner’s contact information. In a much-too-sweet tone, she asked, “Would you also like a half-empty glass of water with that, Detective?”

  “Being a vet’s office,” I said, “I would have thought you’d want me to eat crow.”

  CHAPTER 8

  MY LITTLE RUNAWAY

  From Dr. Wolf’s office I called the first of the two telephone numbers that the microchip service had provided. I even gave Dr. Wolf the opportunity for another “I told you so” by making the call on my speakerphone. Unfortunately, we got the home answering machine and not a live person, denying us the happy ending we both wanted.

  A pleasant-sounding female voice said, “Hi, this is Heather. And this is Angie.”

  On the recording, Angie barked.

  “Please leave a message at the beep. Or at the bark.”

  The recording concluded with another of Angie’s barks.

  Dr. Wolf and I watched Angie’s response to the sound of Heather’s voice. Her head swiveled around and her tail wagged. I felt bad for inadvertently making her think her beloved human might be nearby.

  “This is Detective Michael Gideon of the Los Angeles Police Department,” I said. “I have Angie in my possession, and she’s doing just fine. Please call me on my cell so that we can make arrangements to hand her off.”

  I provided my number and then tried Heather Moreland’s cell phone. Once again I reached a recording. This one wasn’t cute like the other, but businesslike. I didn’t put this call on speakerphone; it wouldn’t have been fair to Angie.

  For the second time I provided my name and number. I could tell the outcome was anticlimactic for both Dr. Wolf and me, but it was even worse for Angie. It was almost as if we’d offered her a treat and then pulled it back from her.

  “I guess this will be a case of delayed gratification,” said Dr. Wolf. “That’s supposed to be one of the things that separate Homo sapiens from other animals.”

  “I can resist everything except temptation,” I said, not crediting Oscar Wilde.

  It took Dr. Wolf a second to realize I was joking, and then she laughed.

  I promised to call Dr. Wolf as soon as Heather Moreland contacted me. Both of us hoped that would be sooner rather than later. That’s why I was slow to pull out of my parking space; I kept expecting, or at least kept hoping, that my cell phone would ring. I knew if Sirius was missing, I would have been sitting on the edge of my seat hoping for a call telling me he’d been found. Even without knowing Heather Moreland, I was sure she was the same way. So why wasn’t she calling me back?

  My impulse was to drive directly to Heather Moreland’s house. After all, I did have her address. But seeing as it was a weekday, the odds were that even though her dog was missing, Heather was at work. It was certainly possible the demands of her workplace had kept her from picking up my messages.

  Since my phone stubbornly refused to ring, I decided to follow through on my promise to contribute clothing and household goods for an upcoming rummage sale at the Blessed Sacrament Church. Most of the clothing wasn’t mine. I’d been a widower for more than four years now, but I was just getting around to parting with Jenny’s clothing.

  I opened the windows several inches for the drive, and that perked Angie up. She immediately began testing the air. I wondered if she was looking for one scent in particular, or if she was just seeing what was out there.

  “This one’s for you, Angie,” I said, synching my phone to the car’s sound system and making my selection.

  The notes from Max Crook’s so-called musitron filled the car. Crook’s musitron was an early version of a synthesizer; to build it, I had read, he cannibalized parts from televisions, stereos, and early electronic equipment. Then Del Shannon began singing “Runaway,” one of the all-time classic heartbreak songs. It was no wonder that groups like the Beatles credited Shannon with helping them find their sound.

  If Sirius hadn’t been there, I’m sure I would have joined in Shannon’s falsetto chorus. Each time he sang why, it sounded like a sad cry of “wah.” He was a grown man coming as close to crying in a song as a grown man could.

  Like too many great musicians, Shannon had taken his own life, putting a bullet in his head.

  “Why?” I asked.

  And, like Shannon, I wondered about my own little runaway. Why had Angie run away? Or what was she running to?

  I’m nosy. That’s why I’m a cop. I like getting to the bottom of things. I had th
e who, what, when, and where, but I still didn’t have the why, and that made me wonder. I why, why, why, why, wondered.

  I drove to the place of my birth, the Blessed Sacrament Church on Sunset Boulevard. More than forty years ago, Father Patrick Garrity had heard the cries of a newborn coming from the church’s parking lot. It was a good thing Father Pat had such acute hearing back in those days.

  In the years since, I’d never tried to track down the identity of my birth mother. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’d delivered me while strung out on drugs. I knew nothing of my ancestry, so I’d taken on the ways of my adoptive parents. The woman I considered my mother was still alive, and for that I was grateful. Sirius and I had visited with her before my talk the day before. We hadn’t been able to leave without taking home three containers of food she’d made specifically for me. Mom still seems to harbor doubts as to whether I’m capable of looking after myself. She couldn’t understand why I hadn’t already married Lisbet, and why the two of us weren’t providing her with grandchildren.

  Even though I’m adopted, I have unfortunately absorbed the trait of Catholic guilt.

  Although the church doesn’t allow dogs on its premises, I like to say Sirius has a papal dispensation. Father Pat skirts the issue by saying Sirius is my service dog. He’s probably right about that. Today, though, I had two dogs. I hadn’t wanted to leave Angie alone in my car.

  “Mikey, Mikey.” Father Pat greeted me in his office with open arms. He’s the only person who calls me “Mikey.” The name sounds right coming out of his lips.

  Sirius also got an enthusiastic greeting. As for the third in our party, Father Pat took a good look at Angie and then gave me a questioning look. “What are you doing with a bloodhound?” he asked.

  “A madman escaped from the local mental institution,” I said. “Angie led me to this office.”

  Father Pat smiled. “Thank you for your donation to the education fund being supported by this weekend’s rummage sale.”

  I could only blame myself for that hundred-dollar fine. Father Pat always keeps my irreverent comments in check by imposing “donations” of one hundred dollars whenever I cross the line, of which he is the arbiter.

  I’d tell him the real story of how Angie had come into my life when there was more time.

  “I just dropped off my donations for the rummage sale,” I said. “Or maybe I should say Jenny did. Most of the items were hers.”

  “I imagine that it wasn’t easy for you to give them up.”

  “It wasn’t,” I admitted, “but it was time. Sirius did a lot of sniffing of the clothing I brought out. The two of them only had a few months together, but he grieved when she was lost to us. Jenny actually named him. She couldn’t abide his German name of Serle, so she renamed him Sirius.”

  Father Pat smiled. Like Sirius and me, he had loved Jenny, although he always called her Jennifer. Father Pat had officiated at our wedding. He’d even surprised us and everyone in attendance by singing “Ave Maria.” No one had ever suspected what a good voice he had. Of all the presents we’d received at our wedding, Jenny and I agreed that was the best.

  I didn’t tell Father Pat that I’d contributed a number of our wedding gifts to the rummage sale as well.

  My phone still hadn’t rung. Heather Moreland hadn’t called. Rather than wait any longer, I decided to go and visit her home in Burbank.

  “I have to go look for Angie’s owner,” I said, rising from my chair.

  Father Pat stood up and gave me a hug. “Seek and you will find,” he whispered.

  I wished it was that easy.

  CHAPTER 9

  LOST HUMAN

  Heather Moreland’s home was located in the central part of Burbank. The city is probably best known for the forty years it was home to the Tonight Show, when it was hosted by Johnny Carson and then Jay Leno. Carson especially made Burbank a nationwide punch line, including it in many of his monologues. Now that the Tonight Show is filmed in New York, Conan O’Brien is the sole Burbank talk-show host.

  As I drove along the Burbank streets, I couldn’t help but wonder how Angie had survived her journey to my neighborhood. Most of Burbank is paved with busy residential streets. Angie’s home was just a block away from Burbank Boulevard, one of the most active corridors in the city.

  Still, nature has a way of surfacing even in urban jungles. The most famous resident of Griffith Park, home of the Hollywood sign, is P22, a mountain lion believed to have somehow survived crossing the 101 and 405 freeways before he took up home in and around the park’s six square miles. In 2015, P22 was discovered in the crawl space of a residential house nearby. In the dark of the night, the six-foot, 130-pound lion made his escape from the home. Although P22 is the undisputed king of the Griffith Park jungle, his is a lonely kingdom. There are no female mountain lions anywhere nearby. And though he survived one encounter with L.A.’s freeways, it is doubtful he could survive another. Even humans in big cars are grateful whenever they make it through L.A.’s freeway gauntlet.

  As we drew closer to Angie’s house, it was clear she knew exactly where we were. I could see her trembling with anticipation in the backseat. Her enthusiasm could also be heard in the sounds she was making—little woofs followed by the unmistakable baying of a hound.

  The entire neighborhood, and the surrounding blocks, consisted of tract homes built in the forties during the World War II housing boom. Most had originally been two bedrooms with one bathroom, constructed on a little more than an eighth of an acre. In the years since, many of the homes had seen the addition of a third bedroom. Heather Moreland had made sure her home had high gates on all sides. Somehow even those hadn’t kept Angie in.

  Sirius made it clear he didn’t want to be left behind. I put a leash on him, even though that wasn’t necessary. On Angie it was absolutely necessary, but it didn’t exactly rein her in. Even though I kept a tight grip on her leash, she all but dragged me to the front door. My commands to “Heel” worked on Sirius; they had absolutely no effect on Angie.

  I rang the doorbell; it was a signal to Angie to start barking. When no one answered, I knocked. Apparently Angie thought no one could possibly hear my knocking; she began loudly baying.

  “No,” I told her.

  She wasn’t deterred. German shepherds want to please their handlers. It’s in their DNA. Angie didn’t feel that need. Maybe she was considering the source, deciding she didn’t have to answer to me.

  “Shush,” I said, tugging on her leash. She didn’t completely stop barking, but she did humor me by taking it down a few notches.

  As I stood waiting on the porch, I took in the eye-level motion detector to the side of the front door. There was something about the two spotlights that didn’t look right. The lights had been unscrewed to the point where their threads were showing. In fact, they looked as if they were almost ready to fall out of the sockets. I doubted whether the lights were operable and suspected they’d been tampered with. Out of habit I pulled out my cell phone and began taking pictures.

  I opened the mailbox; it was half-full. As I started examining the postmarks on the letters, an older man emerged from the neighboring house to the west and stared me down from his front pathway, glowering eyes, arms folded across his chest, his expression sour. It was a shame I didn’t have a copy of The Watchtower to wave his way. Instead, I decided to annoy him by smiling and waving.

  “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” I said.

  He grunted, and looked that much more annoyed.

  “Do you know when Heather will be back?” I asked.

  “Do I look like I’m her secretary?”

  “I came here hoping to drop off Angie,” I said.

  He didn’t look thrilled by that prospect, nor did he seem pleased to see Angie. She didn’t appear any happier seeing him. Both of them were exchanging glances bordering on the baleful.

  “I’m not about to take her into my home, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said. “I have nice, quiet cats. Th
at dog is a nuisance.”

  His arms remained folded; his expression still looked as if he was getting by on a diet of lemons. I pulled out my wallet badge and flashed it.

  “I’m Detective Gideon,” I said. “I wonder if I might ask you a few questions.”

  He sighed loudly, and with undisguised reluctance took a roundabout route over to me. Instead of cutting through his neatly trimmed front lawn and following a dry creek bed that ran along Heather’s xeriscaped front yard, he went down his walkway and then up hers. The man struck me as someone who didn’t like thinking outside the box, or walking outside it.

  The neighbor stopped about five feet from me, keeping his distance from the dogs. That gave both of us an excuse not to shake hands. Between holding both dogs’ leashes, I managed to pull out a notepad and pen. “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Commander Reinhard Becker. Retired, US Navy.”

  At least he didn’t give me his serial number. Becker seemed to want to establish that he outranked me.

  “And you live next door, Mr. Becker?”

  “Commander Becker,” he said, correcting me before he offered a nod.

  “I assume you’re acquainted with this dog,” I said, jiggling Angie’s leash.

  “Unfortunately,” he said.

  “Has the mail come today?”

  He seemed surprised by my question, but it did give him a chance to provide another sour editorial. “We’re lucky to get our mail by four o’clock,” he said. “I’ve complained to the postal service. They say their studies have established the most efficient routes. What should I expect from an inefficient bureaucracy that’s losing millions and millions of dollars every year?”

  “When was the last time you saw Heather Moreland?”