Lost Dog (A Gideon and Sirius Novel Book 3)

by Alan Russell

  “I’ve had visits from animal control before,” she said, “but never from a detective.”

  “Just think of me as animal control for the two-legged. How’s our patient?”

  There were two IV tubes feeding into Angie. She was sprawled on a table, and her eyes were closed. An oxygen mask covered her muzzle, and misted up with every breath she took.

  “She’ll live,” said Dr. Green.

  I moved closer to Angie. One of her floppy ears was no longer as floppy. Half her left ear had been cut off.

  “What the hell?” I said.

  “My words exactly,” said the vet.

  “What happened?”

  “I’d be guessing,” she said.

  “Guess away.”

  She pointed to a series of indentations around Angie’s neck. “I’d say these are ligature marks.”

  “From what?”

  “They likely came from an animal-control pole.”

  I caught myself reaching protectively for my own neck. It hadn’t been that long ago that I had found myself on the wrong end of one or two of those poles.

  “So someone tried to strangle Angie?”

  She nodded. “But that’s not all. I’ve identified a possible puncture mark on her body. Based on her condition, I believe Angie was drugged.”

  “Any guess what kind of drug was used?”

  Dr. Green raised her glasses from her nose and nested them in her hair. “Based on Angie’s respiratory depression, overall sedation, and muscle relaxation, it was likely some kind of barbiturate. My best guess would be phenobarbital.”

  Doreen entered the conversation. “I probably should have mentioned this before. There were some cubes of meat on the ground near to where I found Angie.”

  “I hope the other dogs didn’t eat them,” I said, “or are in danger of eating them.”

  Doreen shook her head. “As soon as I noticed them, I rounded up the troops and locked them inside. I can’t be sure, but I don’t think Angie ate any of the meat.”

  “Whoever did this was likely counting on Angie bolting down the food,” said Dr. Green. “When that didn’t happen, her attacker likely shot her up with phenobarbital. If you can bring me the meat, I’ll have it tested.”

  “If I know Angie,” I said, “putting the bite on the trespasser interested her a lot more than the food did. So that’s when the bad guy went to plan B with his animal-control pole, but Angie fought him so hard he had trouble injecting her with anything. And she raised such a ruckus, he couldn’t stay around to make sure she was dead.”

  “Why would he cut off part of her ear?” asked Doreen.

  “It might have happened during their struggle,” I said. “Or maybe this guy is just a sick psychopathic scumbag who got pissed off by Angie’s will to live.”

  I reached out and stroked the unconscious dog. Against all odds, Angie kept surviving.

  “Do you have home-surveillance cameras?” I asked.

  Doreen shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”

  “What about your neighbors?”

  “I don’t think they have them either. Until now our neighborhood has always been very safe.”

  “Why would anyone want to hurt Angie?” asked Dr. Green.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know why. The only thing I can think of is that there’s a tie-in with the case I’m working.” Then I offered an abbreviated explanation: “Angie’s owner is missing under suspicious circumstances.”

  “But how could anyone have known where Angie was to target her?” asked Doreen.

  It was a good question, and I didn’t have a good answer. “Did you tell anyone that you were boarding her?”

  “Not a soul,” she said.

  “I didn’t either.” The only other person who knew where Angie was being boarded was Lisbet, and I knew she wouldn’t have passed on that information.

  “So maybe it was the act of some crazy,” said the vet.

  “Maybe,” I said. But I didn’t believe it.

  CHAPTER 31

  WHEN TO HOLD THEM, WHEN TO PHO’LD THEM

  On doctor’s orders, Angie had to stay over at the clinic. I was reassured that there was someone on staff twenty-four hours a day, and Dr. Green agreed that only Doreen and I would be allowed to visit with Angie.

  “I’d like to be the one Angie is released to,” I said. “With everything that’s gone on, I think it’s best that she be under my protection.”

  “I’m afraid you might be right,” Doreen said.

  Hector was called to accompany Doreen and me out, and I was glad to hear him lock the door behind us. I walked Doreen to her car, but it was clear she was still spooked.

  “How about I give you a police escort?” I said. “I’ll meet you at your house and make sure everything is fine there.”

  “That’s silly,” said Doreen, but I could hear the relief in her voice.

  “You’re going to have to humor me,” I said. “I’ll be waiting for you out front of your house.”

  She took a little more cajoling before getting into her car and driving off. As planned, I arrived at Doreen’s house before she did. That gave me time to scout her neighborhood. From what I observed, there were no security cameras in the four other homes on the street.

  Flashlight in hand, Sirius and I walked around Doreen’s front yard. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. Our scrutinizing roused the pack of dogs inside, and a lot of excited barking.

  At the approach of headlights, Sirius and I moved toward the driveway. I signaled with my flashlight, and then shone it on my face so that Doreen could see it was me. She turned into the driveway and parked in the garage.

  “You really should get home,” she said. “As you can hear by the ruckus, my Praetorian Guard awaits me.”

  “I need to look around your backyard,” I said. “And since Sirius and I are already here, we might as well make sure your house is secure.”

  I had to talk loudly over the noise of the waiting dogs. “Behave, everyone!” Doreen yelled through the closed door, but the clamor continued. When she opened the door, the dogs streamed out into the garage. Two sniffed me while the rest took stock of Sirius. He stood there imperiously, letting them get their sniffing in while ignoring their yips and growls.

  “Stop that, Wilbur!” shouted Doreen, directing her words at the smallest but most aggressive of the dogs. The pug-mix backed away with a last growl at Sirius.

  “Wilbur has a Napoleonic complex,” said Doreen.

  “Sois sage!” I told him. My one year of taking French in school finally bore fruit. Of course I only remembered those words because my poor teacher, Miss Durand, had found it necessary to keep directing them at me.

  After Sirius and I passed the inspection of the guard, we followed Doreen into the house, and then went about examining every room and closet. The six dogs followed us everywhere and double-checked everything we did.

  When we gave the house the all clear, Doreen turned on the backyard lights and took me for a tour. Much to their disappointment, all the dogs were left inside, including Sirius.

  “Here’s where I found Angie,” said Doreen, pointing to a spot near the wrought iron fence.

  The vegetation around the area had been disturbed, with most of the ground cover dug out. I imagined Angie being suspended with an animal-control pole and desperately looking for any kind of purchase with her hind legs. I shone my light on the wrought iron fence. There were visible scratch marks in the posts and pickets, and I felt the anger spreading from my chest into my body. Angie was lucky to be alive.

  I took pictures with my cell-phone camera. The ground outside the fence was compacted, probably from the intruder’s effort in trying to strangle a sixty-pound dog, but there were no visible footprints.

  On our side of the fence were two cubes of meat about a square inch around. Sandwiched inside the cubes, I could see white tablets. I bagged the meat as evidence, and then Doreen and I carefully searched the area looking for any more. Another doctor
ed two cubes turned up that must have scattered during Angie’s struggles.

  “That poor dear,” said Doreen, shaking her head at the signs of the fight that had taken place.

  After securing the evidence, I arrived home with dawn about an hour off. The Sunday paper was already in the driveway. I’ve joined the digital world, but I still like reading my Sunday newspaper the old-fashioned way. Normally once I’m awakened, I’m up for the rest of the day. I took the paper and a cup of coffee to the sofa and did my reading and sipping. I was halfway through the sports section when I fell asleep.

  Four hours later I woke up with Sirius conked out on the floor next to me. I managed to move through his obstacle course without stepping on him, and from the kitchen called Lisbet’s home number. After half a dozen rings, I was forced to talk into her message machine.

  “I’m just making sure you’re coming over for dinner tonight. Seven-course meals take time to prepare, you know. It takes a lot of thought and effort to get a six-pack and takeout. Actually, I was thinking of getting us some pho to go. Does that work for you? There’s a place nearby that’s un-pho-gettable. I kid you not, it’s pho-nomenal.”

  I smiled at the thought of Lisbet’s groaning. My tone became more personal. “I miss you,” I said.

  But I could be neither romantic nor serious for long, and finished my message by saying, “Pho sure.”

  My next call was to Savannah Walker, where I got another message machine. I also got a bit of a jolt. It was Langston Walker’s voice I heard asking me to leave a message at the beep.

  I debated over hanging up or leaving a message, and then found myself trying to say something intelligible: “Mrs. Walker, this is Michael Gideon. I know this is probably a terrible time to be disturbing you, but I’m wondering if you could give me a call back.” Then I left her my home and cell numbers.

  By that time Sirius had joined me in the kitchen, and I decided to make us some eggs and hash browns. Because that’s my go-to breakfast, I had boiled potatoes earlier in the week, and they were waiting for me in the refrigerator. I heated up a little olive oil, grated two potatoes, and threw them in the pan. After browning the hash browns for about a minute, I turned them over, and then cracked three eggs and added them to the hot skillet. Then I applied a little salt and pepper to everything. When I have the time and I’m feeling particularly creative, I whip up a side of homemade salsa, but since I didn’t have the ingredients, I opted for ketchup. My healthy cooking wasn’t only for me: Sirius got half of what was in the pan, minus the ketchup.

  After breakfast I went back to reading the newspaper and hoping for returned calls. Lisbet was the first to ring me back. “Isn’t it a pho-ntastic day?” she said.

  “You very pho-nny,” I told her.

  “I wish you’d been able to come with me to the Earth Day sunrise service at Eagle Rock Park. It was beautiful.”

  “You were up with the birds,” I said. “I was up with the dogs.” Then I told her how I’d spent half my night.

  “Are you sure you’ll even be awake when dinner rolls around?” she asked.

  “I actually took a nap.”

  “Well, at the risk of prompting another one of your puns, pho sounds great. What time should I be over?”

  “Unless you hear differently from me,” I said, “why don’t you come over at pho thirty?”

  Savannah Walker called me back a little after one. Like Lisbet, she told me that she’d been attending a church service.

  “I’m hoping you can forgive my timing in all of this, Mrs. Walker,” I said, “but I want to pursue your husband’s ghost as soon as possible.”

  “Is it only a ghost that you want to pursue, Detective Gideon?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I get this sense you’re not telling me the full story. When you’ve been married to a detective as long as I was, you pick up on undercurrents. When Langston was onto something, I could hear it in his voice, and see it in the way he was acting. He was on the scent, he said. You’re no different in that regard. But what scent is it that’s driving you?”

  “I have no proof. I only have some half-baked suspicions. And I don’t see the reason to bother you with those.”

  “I’m grieving, Detective. But I don’t want you working behind my back. I want to be involved.”

  “Then I’ll ask your forgiveness ahead of time if I’m wrong about this matter, which I probably am.”

  “As long as your heart is in the right place, there will be no need for forgiveness.”

  “I hope it is,” I said. “And I hope you won’t think I’m crazy when I tell you that I’m not completely satisfied with the explanation that your husband slipped on the trail and died of natural causes.”

  “You think someone murdered him?”

  “With your permission, I want to look into that possibility. Langston was investigating his old case, his ghost case, and I’m wondering if that investigation could have had anything to do with his death.”

  Savannah Walker didn’t answer right away, and every second of her silence made me feel worse for even having broached the subject. I said, “I’m sorry that I bothered you with such speculation—”

  She interrupted me: “Please don’t apologize. All this time I felt bad that I was thinking along those lines. Everyone assured me it was an accident. So I said nothing.”

  “It probably was an accident, but I went up the Skyline Trail with a ranger. We looked at where Langston died, and I came away with questions.”

  “And you want to look into it more now?”

  “I do.”

  “You have my blessing, Detective Gideon.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “You and Langston,” she said. “The two of you are anxious to go where angels fear to tread.”

  “It’s an occupational hazard.”

  “I’m not sure if it is. There was no stopping Langston when he thought he was onto something. He always worried that he wasn’t a very good detective, although he had one of the highest closure rates in RHD.”

  “He told me about his doubts, but said he outworked everyone.”

  “He did that.”

  She laughed softly, then sighed. “Let’s talk about what you’ve patiently tried not to ask. You want to look at my husband’s files as soon as possible.”

  “I do.”

  “I have a few dozen people coming over to the house to pay their respects. If you don’t mind the noise and distractions, you are welcome to come over now.”

  “Thank you. I’ll do my best to not impose on your gathering.”

  “Do whatever you need to do.”

  She gave me her home address, and I told her I would be there within the hour.

  I’ve always had trouble grieving, and have never been comfortable at funerals.

  “This is my way of paying respects, Langston,” I said. “This is my way.”

  CHAPTER 32

  DOGGIE BAGS

  On the drive over to the Walker house, I thought about my dinner with Langston and what we’d talked about. It was possible he’d already cued me in to his ghost and provided me with suspects for his murder. He’d referenced the Spook Town Compton Crips killing Catalina Ceballos’s husband. A spook is a ghost. The fact that Walker was trying to reopen the investigation couldn’t have made him popular with the gang. Catalina had already claimed the gang had made threats on her life. Would they go so far as to kill a cop, albeit one who was retired? And what was it about this ghost case that had haunted Walker?

  From what Walker had implied, Catalina hadn’t believed her husband was involved in dealing drugs. The two of them had been college students at the time. Was there another reason he’d died? And was it possible the gang had been set up to look like the murderers?

  I had lots of questions and couldn’t wait to look at the case notes.

  My GPS directed me to the Walker residence on South Sherbourne. During our dinner conversation, Langston had asked me if I�
�d ever been to Ladera Heights, and I told him I hadn’t. I wonder what that said about my social circle and the racial divide. This was my first foray into what he said was often referred to as the “Black Beverly Hills.”

  The houses I drove by were well kept up, and most of the residents I saw were African American. It was nice to see the American dream on display in a form that wasn’t lily-white.

  Cars lined the Walkers’ circular driveway. Savannah’s visitors had already arrived. I parked on the street and walked up a driveway bordered by rosebushes. Even though it wasn’t yet May, all the roses were in bloom, and the air was awash in their fragrant scent.

  I rang the doorbell and waited. When the door opened, I was expecting to see Savannah Walker, but instead was greeted by Catalina Ceballos. She looked as surprised to see me as I was to see her.

  “Detective Gideon,” she said, extending her hand.

  “Ms. Ceballos,” I said.

  It was clear she hadn’t expected me to remember her name.

  Her furrowed brows also made it clear she wondered what I was doing there.

  “Are you here for our meeting?”

  “Actually, I came by to have a word with Mrs. Walker,” I said. “But seeing you here, I wonder if I might also talk to you.”

  Her brows were still furrowed. “About what?”

  “I know Detective Walker was trying to help you reopen your husband’s homicide. Was he dealing with LAPD, or the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department?”

  I asked the question because LASD had jurisdiction over Compton.

  “Carlos’s murder happened just outside of Compton,” she said. “The South Bureau’s Criminal Gang and Homicide Division were assigned to it.”

  I nodded. “Who was the lead detective?” I asked.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  She didn’t try to hide being suspicious of my motives. “I know Detective Walker was advocating for you in reopening the case. Now that he’s gone, I thought I might look into the situation.”