When Day Breaks

by Mary Jane Clark

  Boyd shrugged. “Too soon to tell. But I do know there’ll be no lack of media. The press information department tells me the calls are coming in nonstop from every possible news and entertainment outlet.”

  “Entertainment, huh?” said Annabelle. “What does it say when funerals are featured on entertainment shows?”

  “I don’t know what it says,” Boyd answered. “But their viewers want to see that stuff, and the producers are eager to give them what they want.”

  “Will cameras be allowed in the funeral parlor?” asked Eliza.

  Boyd shook his head. “No, but they’ll be swarming all over the place outside.”

  “Constance would have liked all the attention,” Annabelle said quietly.

  After Annabelle and Boyd had departed, Eliza turned to her assistant.

  “Paige, will you please call and order flowers to be sent for Constance’s funeral and order another arrangement and have it sent to Constance’s sister in New Jersey,” Eliza instructed. “Boyd can give you the addresses. And see if you can track down Margo Gonzalez for me, will you please?”

  Ten minutes later the intercom in Eliza’s office buzzed. “Dr. Gonzalez is on line two, Eliza.”

  “Thanks.” Eliza picked up the telephone receiver. “Hi, Margo. How are you?”

  “Fine, Eliza. But I just got a phone call inviting me to Constance’s funeral tomorrow morning.”

  “Will you go?”

  “If I can move a few things around, I guess so,” said Margo. “But to tell you the truth, I’m surprised I’m being invited. I haven’t been working at KEY very long, and I didn’t know Constance all that well—in fact, I never felt she cared to give me the time of day. If this funeral is by invitation only, I don’t think I really qualify as one of the attendees.”

  “I’m going to let you in on something,” said Eliza. “I gather that pretty much anyone who worked on KTA with Constance is receiving an invitation.”

  Margo laughed. “Ah, now I get it. They want to make sure there’ll be enough people to fill the seats.”

  “Something like that, I think,” said Eliza.

  “Okay,” said Margo. “I’m going to try to be there.”

  “That would be good of you,” said Eliza. “But that’s not really why I wanted to reach you, Margo.”

  “What is it?”

  “Actually, it’s about my little girl.” Eliza described the conversation she’d had with Janie at the breakfast table that morning, Janie’s fears, Eliza’s reassurances.

  “It sounds like you handled it very well,” said Margo.

  “I hope so,” said Eliza. “You’re never sure with kids.”

  “Here’s what I’ve found over the years, Eliza, and what many studies have proved. Children don’t need to have two parents to be emotionally healthy. And parents don’t need to be perfect in their actions and responses, and that’s a good thing, because none of us are perfect.” Margo continued, “But they do have to be dependable and consistent for the child to feel on solid ground. I have the feeling from what I know of you, and what you’ve just told me, that Janie feels secure in your love and devotion to her. With that as a basis, it’s likely she’ll be able to handle whatever life hands her.”

  “God, you don’t know how much I needed to hear that, Margo. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Margo. “It’s not easy being a single parent. I hope you’ll call me anytime you want to talk.”

  CHAPTER 49

  The Great Dane lay on the examining table. Before he began any cutting for the necropsy, the veterinarian waved a wand over the dog. The wandlike scanner emitted low-frequency radio waves that picked up on a tiny transponder, the size of a grain of uncooked rice, implanted under the loose skin on the Dane’s shoulder.

  The microchip supplied a number, displayed in the scanner readout window. The number would lead to the dog’s owner, someone who had thought enough of the Great Dane that he’d gone to the trouble of having the microchip implanted so that he wouldn’t lose the animal. How had that same animal, which had, at one time at least, clearly been prized, end up dead in Constance Young’s swimming pool?

  The veterinarian wrote down the number on his report sheet, then picked up a scalpel.

  CHAPTER 50

  The police called Constance Young’s assistant, wanting to know if there was someone named Graham Welles in her Rolodex or her computer address book. Boyd checked.

  “There’s an Alexander Wells, W-E-L-L-S, at 79 Gleason Court in Westwood, New Jersey, “Boyd offered.

  “No,” said the detective. “W-E-L-L-E-S. Graham Welles, middle initial P. as in Peter. And the address is 527 East Thirty-seventh Street in Manhattan.”

  “Would it be all right if you told me why you wanted to know?” Boyd asked as he scribbled down the name and address and continued to search. He felt he and the detective were almost friends by now. They’d had so many conversations over the last few days, and Boyd had answered so many questions. Had Constance had any fights with anyone lately? Did Boyd know if she had any enemies? Who had she been dating? Was there anyone Boyd could think of who would want her dead? Boyd had answered at length, wanting to help as much as he could, hoping to stay on the good side of the police by cooperating.

  “The dead dog that was found on the property was registered to this guy, but he’s no longer at the address listed on the database,” the detective said. “We’re going to the postal service to see if he left a forwarding address, and there are things we can do beyond that to track him down, but I just thought I’d run it past you first.”

  “Sorry, Detective,” said Boyd as he finished his search. “I wish I could be of more help.”

  Boyd hung up the phone, wondering if he should tell Linus or somebody from KTA about the conversation with the detective. But Boyd didn’t trust Linus enough to be certain he wouldn’t use the information in some way that would come back to haunt him. Besides, Boyd rationalized, the Evening Headlines would be the next broadcast to air. Any new information should be passed along to them, and Boyd felt that he could count on Eliza Blake to protect her source if it should come to that.

  “Back so soon?” Eliza asked when Boyd walked into her office.

  Boyd recounted his conversation with the detective and held out the piece of paper on which he’d written the name and address of the dog’s owner. Eliza took it from him.

  “I’m going to give this to Annabelle and see what she can find out,” said Eliza. “Thanks so much for the tip, Boyd.”

  “No problem, Eliza,” said Boyd. “But I hope I won’t get into any trouble for telling you about this.”

  “You mean with the police?” asked Eliza.

  Boyd nodded. “Or with Linus. I don’t know which one scares me more.”

  CHAPTER 51

  Mr. Welles? Mr. Graham Welles?”

  “Speaking.”

  Yes. Annabelle pumped her free hand in the air in a fist as she held on to the telephone receiver with the other. She had found him.

  “Hi, my name is Annabelle Murphy. I’m a producer with KEY News. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.”

  “Yes?” Graham Welles answered cautiously.

  “I was wondering if you owned a Great Dane,” said Annabelle.

  “Who is this, really?” asked Graham.

  “I’m Annabelle Murphy, and I’m calling from KEY News in New York City. I understand you once lived in Manhattan?”

  “What show do you work for?” the man asked, still unsure.

  “Key to Amer—” Annabelle caught herself. “Excuse me, KEY Evening Headlines with Eliza Blake.”

  “Oh, I’m a big Eliza Blake fan,” said Graham. “I watch her every night.”

  “She’ll be glad to hear that, sir.”

  “That place of yours must be in quite an uproar, huh?”

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “Constance Young. Such a terrible thing to happen to such a young woman,” the man mused aloud. “Does any
body know exactly what happened yet?”

  “No, not yet.” Annabelle patiently answered the man’s questions, wanting to build up as much connection as anyone could in a short, transcontinental phone call.

  “I watched Constance Young all the time, too,” said the man. “To tell you the truth, I was going to follow her over to Daybreak. But I guess I’ll stay with KEY to America now.”

  “Mr. Welles,” said Annabelle, “I’m hoping that you might be able to help us with a story we are doing on Constance’s death.”

  “Me? How could I help you?”

  It was obvious now to Annabelle that she had beaten the police in tracking down the Great Dane’s owner. Inwardly she congratulated herself on using the available technology and following through faster than law enforcement.

  “There was a dog found on Ms. Young’s property,” said Annabelle. “A dog registered to you.”

  “Marco?” asked the man.

  “A black Great Dane?” asked Annabelle.

  “Yes,” said Graham. “But how could that be? Did Constance Young adopt my Marco?”

  “I don’t understand what you mean,” said Annabelle.

  “I had to give Marco up when I moved out here to the West Coast to live with my daughter and her family. I put ads in the paper and called everyone I knew, but nobody would take him. He’s such a big fella, you know.”

  Oh, crap. In her eagerness to follow the lead on the dog’s owner, Annabelle hadn’t given any thought to the fact that she was going to have to break the news that the Great Dane was dead.

  “When I took Marco to the animal shelter, I was praying someone would adopt him.” Graham Welles sounded relieved.

  “What animal shelter was that, Mr. Welles?” asked Annabelle. As she wrote down the answer, Annabelle knew she was being careful to get the information she wanted before risking upsetting her interviewee.

  “I’m so glad they found a home for Marco,” said the man. He paused as a thought occurred to him. “But if Constance Young is dead, what will happen to Marco now?”

  Annabelle braced herself. She could fib with some vague reference to the Westchester County animal authorities taking care of the dog, or she could avoid the question altogether and let Graham Welles hear from the police, when they inevitably contacted him, that his beloved Great Dane was dead. Either option wasn’t really playing it straight.

  “I’m afraid I have some very sad news, Mr. Welles. Marco is dead.” No response came from the other end of the phone connection. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Welles. I really am.” As gently as she could, when the man began to ask questions, she told him an abbreviated version of what she knew. The dog had been found in the woods near the pool. The veterinarian had found the identifying microchip while examining the dog, which had led her to call. She didn’t mention that Marco’s body had been thrown into the dump or that the vet was dissecting Marco’s carcass to figure out how the dog had died.

  “Again, Mr. Welles, I’m so very sorry,” said Annabelle. “But thank you for talking with me. Now I know which animal shelter to check to see who claimed Marco.”

  “You mean, you don’t think Constance Young adopted him?” Graham sounded puzzled.

  “I’m not quite sure what to think,” said Annabelle. “But if Constance had gotten a dog, I think her assistant would have known about it. As far as I know, he didn’t.”

  “So you think Marco might have been with somebody else?” he asked. “Somebody else brought him to that house? Do you think that somebody might have killed Marco?”

  “I’m afraid that’s a possibility,” answered Annabelle. “We are going to keep looking into this. But, Mr. Welles?”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you be willing to go on camera and talk to us for the story we’re doing tonight? We could send a producer and camera crew from our Los Angeles bureau to your house.”

  Graham hesitated. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

  “It might help us find out what happened to Marco,” urged Annabelle. “If somebody knows something that could be helpful and hears you talking about him, it might prompt them to come forward with their information.” Annabelle took a deep breath, knowing how much she was asking.

  “Well, all right,” Graham Welles agreed. “I’ll do it.”

  CHAPTER 52

  Oh, my God, you’re not going to believe this, guys,” said Annabelle, as she walked into the Fishbowl, where Eliza, the senior producers, the director, and production assistants were going over what would be on the Evening Headlines that night.

  “Try us,” said Range Bullock.

  “I just got off the phone with the animal shelter that took in the Great Dane that was found dead on Constance’s property. One of the shelter attendants was found murdered this morning.”

  Range emitted a low whistle.

  “And what about the dog?” asked Eliza. “Did they tell you anything about the Great Dane and who adopted him?”

  “They’re checking their records,” answered Annabelle.

  “We should go over there and get some pictures and see who’ll talk with us,” said Range.

  “I’ve already asked for B.J.,” said Annabelle. “He’s loading up his gear now.”

  “I want to go with you, too,” said Eliza.

  There was yellow police tape blocking off the entrance to the animal shelter. B.J. leaned in to try the door. It was unlocked.

  “After you,” he said. Eliza and Annabelle bent down and slipped under the tape. Inside, there were cages of animals, some barking, some sleeping, some pacing back and forth, but no police in sight.

  Eliza went up to the counter and introduced herself.

  “I know who you are,” said the woman who staffed the desk. “This day couldn’t possibly get any more surreal.”

  “Well, this is Annabelle Murphy, our producer, and B.J. D’Elia, our cameraman,” said Eliza. Hands were shaken all around.

  “Can you tell me what happened?” said Eliza.

  “I guess so. The police have already come and gone,” said the woman. “It’s probably just another New York City homicide to them, but Vinny was the world’s nicest guy.” Her eyes filled with tears.

  “Would you be willing to talk with the camera rolling?” asked Eliza.

  “All right,” said the woman. “I suppose so.” B.J. looked around the room. “Maybe we could do the interview closer to the cages,” he suggested. “It would make the shot more interesting to have the animals in the background.”

  After B.J. miked the two women and made all the necessary adjustments to his camera gear, the interview began.

  “Okay, let’s start with what happened,” said Eliza. “What can you tell me?”

  The woman took a deep breath. “Well, I came in this morning, and the minute I opened the door, I really had a feeling that something was wrong. The dogs were all staring at me and barking like crazy. It was like they were trying to tell me something.”

  Eliza nodded and waited for the woman to continue.

  “So I put my stuff down on the counter, and then I started walking to each of the cages, talking to the dogs, trying to calm them down, you know?”

  “Yes,” said Eliza.

  “But they didn’t calm down. They went on barking and yelping, and I was getting a creepy feeling, but I kept on going. And then I got to the back.” The woman pointed to the rear of the spacious area.

  “Could we walk back there together?” Eliza asked.

  “I suppose so,” said the woman. “But I wouldn’t want to go back there by myself. Not for a while anyway.”

  B.J. followed them with his camera. The woman stopped in front of a cage that housed a black Labrador retriever.

  “This is where I found him,” said the woman, her voice shaking. “This is where I found Vinny. He was just lying there. I could tell right away he was dead.”

  “So then you called the police?” asked Eliza.

  “Well, I called 911. They sent an ambulance anyway, but that didn
’t do any good. They couldn’t bring Vinny back. The police came and searched around. Look at the mess they’ve made.”

  “Did the police speculate on how Vinny was killed?” asked Eliza.

  “Yes.” The woman lowered her voice. “I overheard one of the detectives talking.”

  “What did they think?”

  “Sodium pentobarbital. We keep some in the back to put down animals if we have to.”

  “And the police think that Vinny was injected with it?”

  The woman nodded. “And some of the vials are missing, too—which is really scary.” Her mood brightened a bit when she thought of her coworker. “As for Vinny, he was the loveliest, most sensitive guy you’d ever want to meet.” She looked around the room. “He was so committed to finding homes for these animals. He didn’t deserve what happened to him. Not at all.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Eliza.

  “Thank you,” the woman said with a sniffle.

  “Let me ask you about something else,” said Eliza.

  “What is it?”

  “Well, you’ve probably heard that one of our colleagues, Constance Young, was found dead at her county house over the weekend.”

  “Who hasn’t heard?” the woman said with a sarcastic tone. “That’s all that’s been on the radio and television.”

  “And did you hear mention of a dead dog found on her property as well?” asked Eliza.

  “I think I heard something about it, but to tell you the truth, I started not paying much attention after the first ten stories I listened to.”

  “Well, it turns out the dog was once here,” said Eliza. “We know who brought it in, but we want to find out who took it out.”

  The woman hesitated. “Why haven’t the police questioned me about this?” asked the woman.

  “I don’t know why,” said Eliza. “But you can bet they will. Maybe the county police haven’t been talking to the city police. Maybe they haven’t made the connection with the dog and this shelter.”