Lost Dog (A Gideon and Sirius Novel Book 3)

by Alan Russell

  Emilio reluctantly agreed. “She’s a workaholic. We had fights over that. She put her job ahead of our relationship.”

  “You have any idea what could have happened to her?”

  “Maybe she has the flu or something. Maybe she went to the hospital.”

  “I’ll look into that. Any other ideas where she might have gone?”

  He thought about it, then shook his head. “She’s usually doing something with that stupid dog of hers.”

  I asked him a few more questions and took down some personal information. He said that he would call Dr. Barron as soon as we were done and give him permission to talk freely with me. While we spoke, Emilio ran a finger along his tattoo. I wondered if it was a habit, or a nervous gesture.

  And I wondered if he was telling me the truth about not knowing anything about Heather’s disappearance, or whether he was a snake-oil salesman.

  CHAPTER 13

  FELIZ IF YOU PLEASE, FELIZ IF YOU DON’T PLEASE

  When I called Dr. Alec Barron, I was told he was with a patient, so I left a message asking him to call me back as soon as possible regarding Emilio Cruz. After that I called Sergeant Reyes to see if he had any updates on Heather’s disappearance. His voice mail suggested I leave a message, and I did.

  From the car I worked on my case notes. It was midafternoon when Dr. Barron’s receptionist called me back. She said the doctor could see me at six o’clock after he finished with his last patient, and provided me with the address.

  I’d had my fill of paperwork, so I announced to the dogs, “We’ve got about two hours to play.”

  Sirius wagged his tail. He was well acquainted with the word “play.”

  “How about we all go for a walk?”

  I got a bingo out of Angie as well. Suddenly my passengers perked up.

  Dr. Barron’s office was in Los Feliz, so I thought about dog-friendly spots nearby. I decided on the Bronson Canyon Trail in Griffith Park. I always think of Griffith Park as the lungs of Los Angeles, with its more than four thousand acres of greenery and green spaces providing oxygen support to a city that needs it. Griffith Park is an oxygen canister tied to a patient with chronic emphysema.

  The back windows were open enough for both dogs to stick their muzzles out. I think dogs believe cars were invented for just that purpose. After driving into the park, I lucked into a parking space not far from the trailhead. Then it was a matter of hitching up the team and taking to the trail. Normally taking Sirius on a walk is a straightforward enterprise, but entering Angie into the equation threw my partner and me off our stride. The two of us had worked together for so long we were attuned as to what to expect from the other. Angie was captive to her nose, which meant we were as well. She liked to abruptly stop and start, as well as meander at will. Sirius understood that you keep to the trail. Angie didn’t feel bound to the confines of the trail. She wanted to go where her nose told her, and that meant my partner and I felt like we were in a tag-team wrestling match.

  We weren’t alone walking the Griffith Observatory Loop. Most of those we met up with appeared to be tourists intent upon getting the best possible photo of the Hollywood sign. Lots of selfies were being taken with the sign as a backdrop. Nothing had changed. Everyone wanted to be in pictures.

  The farther we walked, the more the dogs and I had the trail to ourselves. I kept taking deep breaths, enjoying the aroma of the coastal sage. Walking the park allows you to get a glimpse of what the L.A. area looked like a century ago. There were shrub oaks and coast live oaks, as well as toyon with its red berries, which early settlers mistook for holly. Hollywood owes its name to toyon.

  I was mindful to take it easy with Angie. Her recovery from the night before was nothing short of amazing, but I didn’t want to put any more wear on her pads. That didn’t seem to be Angie’s concern. She acted as if she was on a mission, taking in smells as if cataloging them. Occasionally she came to a full stop to see what the breeze was bringing to her. It might have been my imagination, but it looked as if she was intent on finding one particular scent.

  “You are a rather single-minded sort,” I told her during one of her sniff stops.

  But what was it, I thought, that she was so single-minded about?

  Sirius and I usually made it around the entire trail, but because of Angie we took it easy. A half hour into our walk, we took a water break. The dogs lapped away while I took a few long pulls from my insulated water flask. I wiped the sweat from my face and then gave the dogs a little love. Angie tolerated my attention but remained independent. She’d given her heart to another, and I respected that. As I was thinking about Heather Moreland, my phone rang. The display told me the caller was Sergeant Reyes. I was glad there were no walkers in the area; I always hate it when others carry on phone conversations in spots where silence should be the rule.

  “Gideon,” I said.

  “This is Reyes,” he said. “I thought we’d agreed Heather Moreland was Burbank PD’s case, and not LAPD’s.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me. But there’s still the matter of Heather’s dog.”

  “If that’s the case, why is it that you talked with Heather’s coworkers?”

  “I talked with one coworker hoping she would take Heather’s dog.”

  “I suppose that’s the same reason you talked to Heather’s husband?”

  Sergeant Reyes had been busy.

  “As a matter of fact, it is. He said the dog was crazy, and wanted nothing to do with her. So far no one wants to take her. What about you?”

  “You can keep your dog, and your dogshit.”

  “Some days you’re the dog,” I mused, “and some days you’re the hydrant.”

  “Hey, if I toss a stick, will you go away?”

  “No, but if you tell me what’s going on with Heather’s disappearance, I might.”

  “The operative word regarding her disappearance is that it’s ‘suspicious.’ She’s been categorized as a missing person.”

  “Has there been any credit-card activity on her accounts?”

  “Nothing since last Saturday,” he said.

  “Have you narrowed down a time frame for her disappearance based on messages left on her home phone and cell phone?”

  “What’s this got to do with finding a home for her dog?” he asked.

  “Throw a bone to this dog,” I said.

  “I’ll tell you what Old Mother Hubbard told her dog, ‘Tough shit.’”

  “That’s not how I remember the poem.”

  “The end result is that the dog didn’t get no effen bone.”

  I let him get the last word in, which might be why he opened up. “Messages were left beginning Monday morning. As for phone activity, her last outgoing calls were on early Sunday evening.”

  “Was Heather’s purse inside her house? And did it look undisturbed?”

  “Yes and yes,” he said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I wouldn’t want to keep you from finding a home for that dog.”

  He clicked off, and the dogs and I continued with our walk. By the time we made it back to the car, I figured we’d gone about two miles, which was as far as I wanted to push Angie. The three of us took another long water break. Angie seemed less restive than she had before the walk, but still didn’t look like she was ready to circle around three times and drop down for a long nap. I watched her sampling the air and wondered what it would be like to have her sense of smell. I thought of my favorite scents, and a memory stream came wafting my way: the aroma of brewing coffee, the ozone announcement of an impending desert rain, jasmine, a balsam pillow, buttered popcorn, a baby’s head, a McIntosh apple, the brine of the ocean, coastal sagebrush, a freshly peeled orange, honeysuckle, the temptations of cinnamon rolls, a pine forest. Nothing transports us like certain aromas. With the right bouquet, you travel through time and space.

  “Come on, Snuffles,” I said, lightly tugging on Angie’s leash.

  I must have found that portal to travel through time and space,
because my reference was to one of my favorite childhood cartoon characters. Snuffles was a bloodhound who appeared with Quick Draw McGraw. He would do anything for a dog biscuit. After eating one, he would hug himself, and then float rapturously in the air to the sounds of “Um, um, um.” There was something about seeing that floating dog that always made me laugh. Whoever created Snuffles knew about dogs and how they happily get lost in the moment.

  My own version of Snuffles was still searching for a scent. I bribed her away from her vigil with a dog treat, and she settled next to Sirius in the car.

  I’ve always liked Los Feliz, probably because my favorite movie theater in the world is located there. The Vista is one of the oldest theaters in Los Angeles. It has a Spanish Colonial exterior, but its interior is pure Egyptian kitsch. When the theater was being built in the early 1920s, the King Tut craze was sweeping the country. That national mania was put on exhibit inside the building. Everywhere you see hieroglyphics, faux gold, pyramids, mummies, camels, and Old World décor. And unlike modern movie theaters, the Vista offers plenty of legroom.

  While growing up, I always heard Los Feliz pronounced either Lohs-Fee-Liz or Loss Fee-lus. Neither of those names took into account the Spanish pronunciation of Los Fay-lease. You say toe-may-toe, I say tah-mah-toe.

  A Disney song from Lady and the Tramp took hold in my brain: Peggy Lee singing “The Siamese Cat Song.” Today many consider the lyrics racist. They don’t like the singsong cadence of the two cats singing about being Siamese, whether you please or whether you don’t please. The word “please” was pronounced pleez, which rhymed with Los Feliz depending on how you said it. I suppose I was thinking about Disney because of Heather Moreland, or maybe it was because Walt Disney’s first studio was in Los Feliz. The space is now a copy shop.

  All around L.A. you’ll find Spanish names that have been Anglicized, or more accurately, that took on a definite Midwestern form of speech because of all the heartland transplants that came to the area in the twentieth century. While the Midwest intonations of Los Feliz still hold sway for the most part, it’s only a matter of time before its Spanish roots take hold. One thing is for sure: in Spanish, feliz means “happy.”

  Our destination was on North Vermont. I’d been told to look for an office building down the street from the Hollywood Presbyterian Medical Center. As we neared the building, Angie sat up. I drove down into the subterranean parking and stopped to collect a ticket at the garage entry dispenser. Angie raised herself up and stood with straight legs and a vigilant posture. The hackles on her back rose, and a growl came to her throat.

  “It’s all right, Angie,” I said.

  She wasn’t at all sure about that. There was something about our being in the garage she didn’t like. There was something I didn’t like either: the price of parking. Angie continued growling.

  “Does something wicked this way come?” I asked. She seemed to think so.

  We made a few loops, and by the time I found a parking space, Angie had settled down. My partner had a lot to do with that. He rested his head on Angie’s chest, acting as a reassuring presence and clearly putting her more at ease. It always worked on me as well.

  I offered the dogs water again, but only got a polite lick or two from each of them. After making sure the air-conditioning and the Hot-N-Pop were working, I set out in search of Dr. Barron’s office.

  In the building’s lobby, an office directory told me he was located on the third floor. I punched a button and waited for an elevator. Only a few days ago, I’d read a magazine article on ways to achieve “easy fitness.” The writer had said it was a no-brainer to always walk up and down the stairs if your destination was five floors or fewer. Feeling virtuous after my walk with the dogs, I made a promise to myself that if the elevator didn’t appear in the next ten seconds, I would take the stairs.

  As it turned out, the elevator car opened on my count of nine. Of course I chose not to count “One Mississippi, two Mississippi,” nor did I do as the Brits did and count with “One Piccadilly, two Piccadilly.” I went with another word count, namely “One pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanokoniosis, two pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanokoniosis.” It was pure happenstance that I chose to count with the longest word in the English language.

  Like at the offices of most shrinks, I found that Dr. Barron’s patients were afforded separate entrances and exits. Mental-health professionals say this is for the privacy of patients. I think it might be that therapists are afraid of what kind of conversations their patients might have with one another.

  I approached a bored-looking dyed-blonde receptionist who was fighting back a yawn. She was sitting behind a plexiglass window with an opening in the bottom, much like a teller in a security-minded bank. The setup didn’t make for a very welcoming office. It wasn’t too removed from prison décor; all it lacked was a phone on each side of the plexiglass.

  “Detective Michael Gideon here to see Dr. Barron.”

  I could tell by her voice she was the one I’d spoken to on the phone. “He shouldn’t be very long,” she said.

  As I took a seat, my hope was that the doctor didn’t count by pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanokoniosis.

  Most of the office walls were taken up by poster boards displaying affirmations and quotations. After being burned in the fire set by Ellis Haines, I’d gone through physical and mental therapy. My therapists also believed in offering up positive, pithy statements. Clever phrases, I knew, were shorthand for their longer sermons. Still, I found all the poster boards overkill. I guess I’m too much of a skeptic to accept easy bromides.

  With nothing else to do, I studied Ben Franklin’s picture and words: Anger is never without reason, but seldom with a good one.

  Ben had never driven in L.A.’s rush-hour traffic, I thought.

  The music coming out over the office intercom was Karen Carpenter’s “Top of the World.” I wondered if that was a coincidence.

  I took in another wall, and another poster, and whispered what I read: “Holding on to anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.”

  The words seemed deeper than the others I’d read, almost Zen. I thought about which quotation I’d want up on the wall if I had an office, and decided on Mark Twain’s words: Be careful about reading health books. You may die of a misprint.

  “Detective Gideon?”

  I turned my head toward the receptionist’s voice, and she pointed to the entry door. “The doctor will see you now.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  The buzz of a security door allowed me access to the inner sanctum. The hallway led to an office with an open door. Dr. Barron was talking on the phone, and I hesitated at the doorway. He motioned for me to sit in a chair. I was glad he didn’t direct me to a couch, but then I saw there wasn’t one.

  He quickly finished up his conversation. At its conclusion I stood up and extended my hand.

  “Michael Gideon,” I said.

  He made it about halfway up, and we shook. “Dr. Barron,” he said.

  “Emilio Cruz promised me he would contact you today,” I said.

  “He did,” said Dr. Barron, drawing out the word and then making a little grimace.

  “Is there a problem?”

  He did some finger tapping as if to show me his dilemma. The doctor looked to be in his midthirties, but tried to assume the gravitas of someone much older. He wore glasses, but they looked more like a hipster’s eyewear than Sigmund Freud’s. His frames were rose-colored, and his curly dark hair fell in ringlets toward his lenses. You don’t see perfectly disheveled hair like his except on shows like Game of Thrones. He wore his professional credentials in the form of a stylish linen sports coat and a yellow oxford shirt with blue stripes, but showed his supposed rebel side with a one-day stubble look and 501s.

  “Mr. Cruz did call me and tell me I was free to discuss him with you,” he said. “I said I didn’t think that was a good idea. He didn’t seem inclined to listen, so
I said that I would need him to sign a release giving me permission.”

  Dr. Barron looked at the screen of his new iPhone and read the text that was there: You have my consent to talk with Detective Gideon and answer any of his questions about me.

  He looked up at me and said, “That text was sent by Mr. Cruz.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “It feels wrong. It feels like I’m violating my professional ethics.”

  “I’ll note your qualms,” I said. “As you probably heard, Emilio’s wife, Heather Moreland, is missing. Have you ever met her?”

  He nodded and said, “She came in on one occasion. Unfortunately, Ms. Moreland wasn’t receptive to reconciliation.”

  “When did this session take place?”

  “Several months ago. If you need an exact date, I can look it up.”

  “Maybe later,” I said. “Right now I’d like to hear about their session together.”

  Barron made a small grimace. “You put me in a difficult position. Ms. Moreland might not approve.”

  “Emilio is your client, not Ms. Moreland.”

  He moved his head to the right and left as if to show his inner debate, then conceded, “I suppose you’re right. Besides, there’s not that much to tell. Emilio apologized and promised that he would never again be physically or verbally abusive. Ms. Moreland said she accepted his apology.”

  By his tone, it was clear he didn’t believe that.

  “You don’t think she was sincere?”

  “I think she had already decided to go through with the divorce no matter what Emilio did.”

  “What were your impressions of Ms. Moreland?”

  “I was in her presence for less than an hour. That really isn’t even enough time for a thumbnail sketch.”

  “I’ll take that digit anyway. Was she likable? Did she have much to say, or was she closemouthed? Was she guarded? Did you get a favorable impression of her?”

  “It’s likely my opinion was colored by what Emilio has long been telling me.”