by Alan Russell
Before we started, I had Sirius do a few more exercises. It was the beginning of snake season, with young rattlesnakes hatching. I tossed a ball on the ground, and with Sirius heeling at my side we walked toward it. As Sirius was about to pick up the ball, I yelled, “Leave it!” He immediately jumped back.
“Good dog,” I said.
He’d earned his Frisbee time; maybe we both had. My best throw is the overhand, which somewhat resembles a discus toss. My high release consistently sends the disc fifty yards or more, and the hang time allows Sirius enough time to get under it. Today there was little wind, so Sirius wasn’t having to make any drastic last-second lunges. We were like a dad and son playing a game of catch.
For fifteen minutes I threw and Sirius mostly retrieved. It’s always easy to tell when he’s tiring. He still wants to catch, but he’s not so keen on providing the retrieving.
I waited until he made a particularly good catch, cheered and clapped for him, and then yelled, “Winner, winner, chicken dinner!”
Then I called him in. Both of us sat next to one another and had a long water break. My partner was panting but happy. He was delighted to be sharing the perfect moment with me. I tapped into his contentment and we let the sun warm us and the slight breeze cool us. His eyes closed, and so did mine. We shifted a little, finding that sweet spot in the universe.
Usually, I’m too preoccupied with cases to dwell on the past, but a memory of another dog and another time came to me. I must have been nine or ten. Earlier that day I’d had a falling out with Donald Baldwin, my sometimes friend and sometimes enemy. We’d been squabbling when Donald pronounced, “Well, at least I have a real family. Your real mother didn’t even want you. You’re adopted, Gideon.”
He said the word like it was something ugly; hearing it spoken like that made me feel dirty. When I went home, the only thing that made me feel not quite so miserable was Roxy, our family dog. She knew I was upset from the moment I entered our house and stayed with me, doing what she could to make me feel better, but even her licks and nudges weren’t quite enough to stave off the blues. My mom eventually noticed my doldrums and got out of me the story of what had happened. I repeated Donald’s words about my “real” mother not wanting me.
“It’s true I’m not your birth mother,” she said, “but I love being your mother more than anything.”
That took some of the sting out of what Donald had said, but not all. My mom took notice of Roxy’s repeated attempts to jolly me out of my mood.
“Do you think Roxy is a part of our family?” she asked.
“Roxy, foxy, moxie, boxy,” I said. I was going through a phase where it was rare that I didn’t refer to Roxy by multiple rhyming names. “Of course she is.”
“Well, if you think about it,” my mother said, “Roxy was adopted as well.”
Hearing that resonated with me. In my mind there was no doubt that Roxy was part of our family. If that was the case, then I was also part of the family. I wasn’t the only one who had been adopted.
Those were the thoughts of a long-ago boy. They were also my thoughts as a man. Some things don’t change.
Almost four million people live in the city of Los Angeles. On most days that’s something I am only too aware of. But for a few moments at least, it felt as if Sirius and I had the whole city to ourselves, and all was well in the world.
Detective “Bud” Bennet called me while Sirius and I were walking toward the car. “Good timing,” I said. “Sirius and I just finished our workout at the K-9 field in Glendale.”
“I miss those times,” he said, “but my joints don’t.”
“I’ll be popping two ibuprofen as soon as I hit the car.”
“You want me to call back in a few?”
“Now is fine.”
“Our discussion yesterday has generated a lot of excitement,” he said. “The two Lous were all for doing the commercials.”
The two Lous were the two lieutenants under which Bud worked.
“There’s only one thing, though. They think Sirius should be part of the casting.”
“What about Emily?”
“We’ll still use her in the context of animal abuse. But the Lous are all for using the resource at hand. Did you know your partner’s Q-Rating is still off the charts in the LA area?”
I turned to Sirius and said, “Did you know your Q-Rating is off the charts?” Then I said to Bud, “What the hell is a Q-Rating?”
“It’s what marketers use to rank the appeal of celebrities and products. If you have a high Q-Rating, it means people know and like you.”
“How did Sirius even get a Q-Rating, seeing as I nixed either one of us doing any commercials?”
“The two of you did that one LAPD promo,” said Bud, “and lots of people still remember the time when the chief draped the Liberty Award over Sirius, and he stuck out his paw and the chief shook it.”
For a few days it had been a ubiquitous image replayed by the media.
“In fact,” said Bud, “we were thinking it would be best if Sirius could do the commercial wearing his Liberty Award. Selena Gomez has already expressed interest in doing the spot with him. We’re thinking a great ending is having Sirius shake her hand.”
“And how will that help us nail Tito?”
“This commercial is the PR piece for ACTF. It will be running for the next year. We’ll also be doing a second commercial specific to what occurred and where it occurred. It will be made for Crime Stoppers.”
“That needs to be the priority; not some commercial with Selena Lopez and Sirius.”
“Selena Gomez,” he corrected me. “And I can understand your thinking, but since the stars seem to be aligning for us to get her, we have to act now.”
“You’ll get Sirius and his medal,” I said, “after the Crime Stoppers commercial begins airing.”
“I agree with you that’s the way to go,” Bud said, “but the two Lous aren’t going to be happy. I think both of them have a crush on Gomez.”
“Tough,” I said. “Emily might not have your star’s Q-Rating, but I know her survivor story will get a lot of attention. And people will want to nail the sick prick who left Emily for dead.”
“Especially with a five-thousand-dollar reward,” Bud said. “We’ve got a dog food company that’s agreed to sponsor the reward.”
“Money talks,” I said, “and in this case that’s just what we need.”
I decided to visit Angie’s Rescues. Heather Moreland needed to be told what I was plotting for Emily, and for her shelter. There was also the matter of my keeping up with my volunteer hours.
When I told Heather I needed a few minutes of her time, she suggested we combine our talk with our walk. I walked with a shepherd mix named Waldo, and Heather had a chow/retriever named Oprah. Along the way we coached the animals to heel and sit, and rewarded good behavior with Charlee Bear treats.
I expected Heather to be taken with the idea of publicizing Emily’s survivor story, but she surprised me by having qualms.
“I don’t want it to look like the shelter is benefiting from Emily’s tragedy,” she said.
“If you hadn’t footed her bill, she would be dead,” I said.
“That’s our job.”
“Fundraising is also part of your job,” I said. “You have a lot of animals counting on you, not to mention staff.”
Heather was still shaking her head. “I told my own story in the hopes that I wouldn’t have to exploit the animals.”
That was the core of her reluctance, I thought. Heather’s tell-all had required one painful recollection after another. The brutality of Emily’s situation was probably bringing up hurtful memories.
“Emily’s survival story isn’t yours,” I said. “Four dogs were dumped. It’s likely someone saw something. If we can get someone to come forward and identify our suspect, we might be able to substantially reduce dogfighting in Southern California.”
That possibility, more than anything else, brou
ght Heather around. “Okay, then,” she said. “I’d prefer not to be interviewed for this commercial. If they need a human, perhaps Dr. Misko might consent to talk about Emily’s condition when she was brought in. As you pointed out, though, it’s hard to imagine a more poignant story than Emily’s.”
“I’ll tell them that,” I said.
“And I’d prefer the shelter not be mentioned by name,” Heather said, “even though I’m not above product placement. They can shoot our sign if they want.”
“Are the St. Francis statues okay to shoot?”
“Just as long as no one is expecting a miracle.”
I put in a few hours’ work at the shelter, although once again I spent a disproportionate amount of time with Emily. She was wearing her Elizabethan collar, better known as a cone-head or pet cone.
When I entered her cage I asked her, “How is the reception with that thing?”
Luckily, Emily was a mellow dog. A Pekingese probably would have bitten me if I’d asked that question.
All of Emily’s stitches were driving her crazy. The cone on her head and the cast on her leg were preventing her from scratching or biting. That tough love was necessary, but it made for one miserable dog.
I ministered to Emily’s itchy skin, scratching around her wounds and stitching. She made a series of appreciative sounds and shifted her body to make sure I found one sweet spot after another. After a time, she grunted contentedly, and even seemed to fall asleep. I kept up my finger massage, and her breathing became deeper and more settled.
There was a bandage covering the side of her head, and I wondered if her wound was still bothering her. The last time I’d visited, Emily’s temperature had been on the high side. I felt her ears and paws; it might have been my imagination, but both seemed warm.
“Sweet dreams,” I said to Emily, and I tried to move away as quietly as possible.
She opened one eye at my escape. Even the poor dog’s docked tail had suffered bites during her ordeal, but that didn’t stop her stub from wagging at my departure.
If a dog could bestow a blessing, she had.
Chapter Thirteen
The Opposite of What We Now Know to Be True
I had warned Lisbet I needed to get up early. When my alarm sounded I crept around in the darkness, trying to not awaken her.
The night before, she’d prepared a breakfast to go for me: Greek yogurt with blueberries, topped with wheat germ. The other choice she had offered me was steel-cut oatmeal with bananas. None of the above hadn’t been an option.
I ate the yogurt because a woman who cared about my welfare said the food was good for me. Her love was my spoonful of sugar. Of course, I hadn’t been as amenable the night before when she had offered me my morning menu choices. At the time I had paraphrased from Woody Allen’s Sleeper: “Wheat germ? Why yes, years ago it was thought to contain life-preserving properties.”
In a different voice, I responded in surprise: “But what about deep fat, and steak, and cream pies, and fudge?”
And then I returned to my voice of medical reason, and not a little condescension, and concluded: “Oh, those were thought to be unhealthy, which is the opposite of what we now know to be true.”
Lisbet had listened to my little show, smiled, and said, “Keep talking and I’ll add castor oil to your breakfast.”
I don’t think I’ve ever had castor oil, but the threat was enough to shut me up.
It was also enough for me to redirect my first spoonful of yogurt Sirius’s way. He sniffed it, and then licked the spoon clean.
When he didn’t start frothing at the mouth, I said, “Thanks for being my taster.”
I finished the rest of my breakfast, and then the two of us jogged out to the car. My goal was to make it to Woodland Hills at six thirty, while the day laborers were still showing up. Having already observed how the operation functioned, I knew who I wanted to question and what I wanted to ask. My targets were the de facto labor bosses.
It wasn’t quite dawn when we set out. We had left early enough to beat the morning commute traffic, but there were still plenty of cars on the road. Every driver seemed to have one hand on the wheel and one hand on a coffee cup.
“A day in the life,” I said to Sirius.
My day in the life, I thought, was to try and investigate the last day of Mateo Ramos’s life.
I didn’t want to stop for coffee, so I chose music as my caffeine. My earlier pronouncement dictated my selection, and I called up “A Day in the Life.” The piece runs for about five and a half minutes, and every time I listen to it I’m grabbed in its spell. The last piano chord is like a long cry of “Om.” The sound continues until you’re not sure if you still hear it. It’s like one of those vibrating tuning forks.
The music started, transporting me in time. When the last piano chord finally played itself out, I said, “‘Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string.’”
Sirius wagged his tail. I didn’t credit the quote to Ralph Waldo Emerson, and there was no tip of my hat to the philosophy of transcendentalism. I’m okay with letting my partner think I’m a genius.
“If you’re good,” I told Sirius, “later I’ll play you ‘Martha My Dear.’”
McCartney’s ode to his English sheepdog Martha isn’t much of a song, but the words are sung with love, and that’s what a dog wants to hear more than anything else. Come to think of it, everyone wants to hear that more than anything else.
I pulled into the Home Depot parking lot and drove toward the back of the lot, where the day laborers were congregating. Just like the last time I visited, two men seemed to be running the work pool.
The smaller man, who had a mustache and slicked-back hair, was the one who engaged the gringo drivers. His bigger compadre had a square face, sturdy frame, and hard, piercing eyes that shut down conversations with just a glance. It was his job to identify which workers went with which driver.
My window was rolled down. The facilitator came over to me and, with a raised hand, asked, “How many?”
He showed me one finger and said, “One?” When I didn’t respond right away, he raised a second finger and asked, “Two?”
I signaled a goose egg and turned off my ignition. Suddenly, everyone was alert. As I stepped out of my car, most of the day laborers began walking away, including Mustache and his muscle.
“Relax,” I announced. “I’m LAPD, not immigration. And I’m just here to ask a few questions.”
My reassurances didn’t stop the exodus.
“You and you!” I yelled, pointing to the two organizers. “If you don’t get back here right now, I’ll send my dog after you, and then I’ll arrest you.”
Number One and his henchman slowed, but it looked as if they weren’t sure whether to run or come back. Sirius had his head out of the car and was watching them. Luckily, they couldn’t see his wagging tail.
“Perro vicioso,” I said in my pidgin Spanish. “Don’t make me send him after you.”
After a meeting of eyes, the two men began walking back toward me. Their return stopped the flight of the other day laborers. From a safe distance everyone gathered to see what was going on.
With one eye on Sirius and one eye on me, the two men waited to hear what I wanted. I showed them my wallet badge, gave my name, and asked them their names.
After a moment’s hesitation, Slicked-Back Hair said, “Rafe Hernandez.”
“Hugo Reyes,” said the muscle.
Both names sounded familiar, and I didn’t doubt that they had been lifted from somewhere.
“Those are bullshit names,” I said.
The two of them made momentary eye contact and seemed to accept that they had been busted.
“But I really don’t care what you want to call yourselves,” I said. “That’s the only lie you get, though. If I catch you in another one, I am going to arrest you.”
“On what charge?” asked Rafe, speaking with very little accent.
“I’ll start with pu
blic loitering. Does that work for you, counselor?”
Rafe had the good sense to look at his shoes and say nothing.
“I was here earlier this week. Do you remember seeing me?”
My presence had been noted by all the day laborers in the parking lot, even though as long as I kept my distance they had pretended not to notice me. “We remember,” said Rafe.
“I let the woman who I was with ask the questions. Her name was Luciana and she was the fiancée of a day laborer named Mateo Ramos. This woman asked you questions about Mateo.”
“We answered her,” said Rafe.
“Actually, you didn’t answer her. You and Hugo here told her to get lost.”
“We were busy,” he said.
A truck drove up. I lifted up my wallet badge and the truck drove away.
“If you want to get rid of me,” I said, “answer my questions and I’ll let you get back to work. Here’s my warning, though: if you don’t answer them to my satisfaction, I promise you I won’t be good for business.”
“What do you want to know?” he asked.
“Did you know Mateo Ramos?”
Rafe shrugged. “I knew him from around here.”
I turned to huge Hugo. “What about you?”
“Same,” he said.
“You ever talk to him?”
“Here and there,” he said. “He wanted the money jobs.”
“Why do you think that was?”
Hugo shrugged. He looked at Rafe, who also shrugged. I already knew the answer to my question but wondered if they did. Mateo had been keen on making money so that he could marry the woman of his dreams.
“You pick out the workers for the jobs, right?” I asked.
Hugo nodded.
“And if they have certain skills—for example, if they can do plumbing or carpentry—they get paid more. Is that right?”
“Right,” he agreed.
“And Mateo had those skills, didn’t he? So he was able to get higher-paying work?”
Rafe decided he should answer that question. “Sometimes,” he said. “But there are days when everyone wants the Indians and no one wants the chiefs.”