Kidnapped ik-10

by Jan Burke

  “I wonder why she didn’t just tell me the truth….”

  “Some people have a constitutional dislike of it.”

  “But it would have been so much easier. Why not just come here legitimately, saying she inherited the dog?”

  A shout from the City Desk interrupted us. “Is Mark here? It’s that Sheila Dolson again.”

  John started to answer, looked at me, and shouted back, “Tie her up on hold for a minute, then transfer the call to Kelly.”

  To me, he said, “Go ahead and find out what you can, but keep anything about Ben out of it. I’ll still send Mark by to talk to her, so don’t ruin that if you can help it.”

  “John, how the hell am I going to not ruin it if I tell her what I know?”

  He frowned, then said, “Okay.” He looked around the newsroom, and with his unerring eye for this sort of misery, spotted the one person I really didn’t want to work with: Hailey Freed.

  I said, “Oh, no…” just as he shouted to her.

  “Take Ms. Dolson’s call,” he said to me. “If she wants to talk to you in person, tell her you’re bringing another reporter.”

  “Just send her, why don’t you?”

  John looked at me in totally faked amazement. He leaned close to my ear and said in a low voice, “Why, Ms. Kelly, you’re Hailey’s mentor, and last I heard, you don’t think she’s ready for anything big.” He straightened up and smiled as Hailey approached. “I think the story of a search dog handler faking her credentials — and perhaps her finds — could be big, don’t you, Hailey?”

  She glanced at me and warily agreed.

  If nothing else, maybe she was learning that John’s smile is not necessarily a sign of goodwill.

  CHAPTER 17

  Monday, April 24

  8:40 P.M.

  717 POPLAR STREET

  LAS PIERNAS

  “THIS neighborhood gives me the creeps,” Hailey said.

  We were sitting in Hailey’s Toyota Camry at the curb in front of Sheila Dolson’s house, neither of us too eager to walk through the downpour between the car and the house. This was Hailey’s work car, as she had once told me. Her other car was a BMW.

  “Not everyone can live on Rivo Alto,” I said. Hailey resided in a million-plus-dollar house — owned but not occupied by her parents, who just wanted to make sure baby was safe — in one of Las Piernas’s most pricey neighborhoods, a man-made island with canals and private docks.

  She always hates it when I mention this, which means I feel obligated to bring it up at least three times a week.

  Sheila Dolson didn’t yet know that we were on to her. Despite the rain and wind, her front door was open behind the white steel security screen door, and I wondered if she was watching for our arrival. Lights were on. She was in that house, probably feeling pleased with herself, and ready to both brag to us about her “record” as a SAR handler and complain that she was abused by the LPPD. We might even let her do that for a while, if Hailey didn’t get too antsy about being in a neighborhood that wasn’t all white, light, and uptight. At some point, Hailey would ask her something like, “How well did you know Derek Mansfield?” or “Do those letters praising Altair also mention the late Chula Dolson?”

  “Deadline’s not getting any further away,” I said to Hailey when it seemed as if she wouldn’t be able to summon the will to open her car door.

  I opened mine. Over the noise of the storm, I could hear Altair barking. I pulled up the hood of my raincoat and stepped out into a rainy blast of wind that flipped the hood right back down again. By the time I pulled it up again, Hailey had decided to join me, and together we made a dash to the front porch, zigzagging to avoid puddles — not entirely successfully.

  The porch, at least, was deep enough to provide some shelter. Altair barked all the more loudly. Hailey rang the doorbell, which seemed redundant to me.

  We waited. Somewhere in the house a television was on, the volume up fairly high. Between Altair’s barks, I could hear the familiar theme of a twenty-four-hour news station.

  I heard a door close. Maybe we had arrived while she was in the bathroom.

  We called her name.

  Altair’s barking increased in ferocity.

  We waited.

  The next sound I heard was a car starting, and I ran across the porch and peered out along the side of the house. I heard an engine roar as someone drove off down the alley beyond the backyard. Although I didn’t see headlights, it sounded to me as if it had pulled away from the house.

  “What are you doing?” Hailey called to me.

  “I have an awful feeling our interviewee just left,” I said. “You keep trying the front door. I’ll go around back and see if her car is still here.”

  Hailey was more than happy to let me be the one to go back out into the rain.

  Altair’s barks changed as I cautiously opened the unlocked gate and made my way along the side of the house. He sounded frantic. Not a comforting sound. I hoped to God she wasn’t about to let him loose on me. I almost turned back but decided that if she wanted publicity, then even she would foresee that having her dog attack me would not be a good way to end up on the front page.

  The back half of the house was dark. I started to make the trip across the big backyard toward the little garage off the alley, to see if her SUV was gone, but I glanced back at the house and got a surprise: The back door was wide open. I cautiously walked toward it.

  “Sheila?” I yelled.

  Altair’s barking suddenly took on a sharp, distressed sound that made me quicken my steps. I wondered if he was in pain. Probably not any smarter to approach him if he was, but the sound was heartrending, and I wasn’t about to leave him without at least trying to find out why he was so distraught.

  I climbed the steps to the back door. I couldn’t make out much, just that I was on the threshold of the kitchen, and called Sheila’s name again. Altair was nearby, judging from the sound. I called his name, and the barks changed to loud whimpering.

  “What did you do to him?” Hailey called from the front of the house.

  I ignored her and fumbled for the light switch. I managed to turn on the back-porch light, but that was enough to see that Altair was crated. His whimpers grew louder and more varied, as if he would do just about anything to get some point across to me.

  Over the general stale-smoke scent of the house, a different, sharp smell came to me. Someone had fired a gun in this house, and not too long ago.

  I stood frozen for a moment.

  Then I let the dog out.

  In retrospect, it was a singularly stupid risk. He could have easily attacked me. Instead, he ran toward a hallway. I found another light switch and followed. He was already at the door of a room, clawing at it as if he would tunnel through it, and then hit it hard enough to make it fly open.

  The television was much louder, the gunpowder smell much stronger. Altair was whimpering and shivering, his tail tucked between his legs, his ears flattened. He lay down beside the recliner and looked back at me.

  Sheila Dolson lay unmoving. She had been shot through the left eye. The back of her head was a bloody mess. I made myself check for a pulse, but there was none. Her hands were empty. I didn’t see a gun anywhere. I hadn’t really expected to.

  There were muddy marks on the carpet. I avoided stepping near them.

  I shakily stepped back out of the room and yelled to Hailey to call 911.

  “And tell them what?” she asked petulantly.

  “That you’re blind and suffocating because your head is stuck up your ass!”

  As much as it felt better to be angry than shaky, I forced myself to clearly and calmly add, “Tell them to come to 717 Poplar Street in Las Piernas. Tell them a woman has been shot and killed here.”

  Her mouth formed a soundless O.

  “After you call 911, call the paper. Tell John that Sheila Dolson has been murdered. Ask him if he wants us here, or if he’s sending Mark.” I waited until I saw her actua
lly pull the phone out and begin dialing.

  I found a leash for Altair hanging on a peg near the front door. I took it with me back to the den and coaxed him out of the room. He was still acting skittish.

  Hailey called out to me that the police and Mark were on the way, and asked if we could leave. I kept hold of my temper and told her no. I let her into the house by using a pen to move the latch on the dead-bolt lock, and warned her not to touch anything. “Probably would be best if we didn’t do a lot of walking around, either, just in case they can get footprints or something.”

  She looked pointedly at the damp prints I had left all over the hallway but didn’t say anything. She seemed suddenly to realize that I had a big German shepherd standing next to me. She eyed Altair a little nervously and said, “Does he bite?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. But he’s upset — even if I knew him better, that would make it hard to predict what he’ll do.”

  “I’ll just wait here by the door,” she said. “To let the police in.”

  Altair was panting, probably part of his fear reaction, so I thought I’d see if he’d drink some water. Besides, I needed to be where I could get to some air. I went into the kitchen again. I saw the light switch but left it off. If the killer had turned out the light, the crime-scene investigators wouldn’t thank me for putting my mitts on the switch.

  Altair went halfway into his crate and drank a little water. Most dogs that are used to crates feel safer in them, but when I tried to get him to step farther into it, he backed out in a hurry.

  The kitchen was neat and clean, except for the mud that I — and someone else? — had tracked on the floor. An area of one of the counters had a phone, a notepad, and some business cards next to it. I took a notebook out of my purse and copied the numbers I saw on the top few sheets of the notepad, being careful not to touch it with my fingers, and to use only my pencil to lift the pages. Sheila had written initials next to most of the numbers, but even with just the initials, I recognized two newspapers, a radio station, and the local television news. Six or seven numbers were unknown to me. I looked at the business cards, moving them with the end of my pencil. One for a veterinarian, another for a groomer.

  I could hear Hailey moving around the house. So much for waiting by the front door. She came into the kitchen and stared at me for a moment, her face pale, her eyes big and dark. She said, “I’m scared.”

  I felt sorry for her. If she were the huggable type, I would have given her one. She’s not.

  “Did you look in the den?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I know I should, but…”

  “Not necessarily,” I said. That wasn’t exactly true, but it wasn’t completely false, either. One or two of our bosses would probably have preferred that we teamed up to look in every nook and cranny of the place before the police arrived. I didn’t think Mark would get much out of the police if we did that — in fact, no one on the Express would get much cooperation if we ransacked the scene of a homicide.

  Hailey seemed relieved, but I could tell doubts lingered.

  “This story will be given to Mark, Hailey, and not to either of us.”

  “Thank God,” she said, her voice quivering.

  I racked my brains for small talk appropriate for homicide scenes. “Have you ever owned a dog?”

  “Little ones,” she said. “Two Yorkies. Binky and Boo-Boo. They live with my parents.”

  The Las Piernas Police Department arrived before she finished telling me the ninth “cutest thing” that Binky did.

  I considered it a rescue.

  CHAPTER 18

  Monday, April 24

  9:58 P.M.

  A CONDOMINIUM IN LAS PIERNAS

  TWO minutes to go.

  Cleo didn’t want to call him, but she would.

  There was no use trying to fool him. Sooner or later he would find out — his connections in this city were too many and too far-reaching. One of the ones in the police department would blab to him. Or the one in the coroner’s office.

  She lit a cigarette, hoping it would help to steady her nerves. She had never smoked to steady her nerves before in her life.

  Then again, she’d never had such a royal fucking disaster on her hands.

  Calm down. Not a disaster. You took precautions.

  Not one to fold under pressure, she had found some relief in making new decisions, taking action. She had already showered and changed and packed.

  Now she made the call, using a disposable cell phone. He answered on the third ring, something Dexter had picked up from him. It was a conceit of Giles’s, she knew. A routine. Routines could get a person killed. No one knew that better than she did.

  The routine of crating a dog. The routine of watching a certain news program at a certain time each night.

  “Yes?” he answered. “What’s the situation?”

  “Taken care of.”

  He didn’t say anything for a minute or so. That, too, was his typical reaction. She knew what he would ask next. She kept her breathing steady.

  “Thank you. Any trouble?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  She heard his sharp intake of breath. Of course. She had said something other than the expected.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “She had invited someone over.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. Two women.”

  “Did they see you?”

  “Be careful what you say on the phone.”

  “Did. They. See. You.” Every word said with his teeth closed. She knew this mood.

  “No.” She wasn’t entirely sure that was true, but she wasn’t about to let him know of her doubts.

  “Are you certain?” he asked.

  He’s not a mind reader. Stay calm. Put him on the defensive. Sound irritated.

  “I’m sure. And you are, too, or someone would have talked to you about it by now.”

  She heard him exhale in relief. “Yes. About these women?”

  “I have no idea who they are. I’d say either… one of her groups or the press. She hasn’t had time to make any other connections.”

  “Yes. We know she has been trying to get her name in the papers.”

  “Then we helped her achieve her ambition.”

  “Don’t be flip about this,” he said angrily.

  Cleo said nothing.

  Two long minutes of silence passed, then he said, “Anything else you need to tell me?”

  She was angry, too. This whole mess was his fault. She thought it would serve him right if she didn’t tell him everything. But that would cause more problems down the road, she knew. Was it smart to say this on the phone, though? She took the chance.

  “I lost a shoe.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “What the fuck are you saying?”

  “I’m saying one of my shoes got stuck in the mud.”

  “They’ll trace it to you!”

  “Now, exactly how would they do that?”

  He had no answer to that.

  “I’m going away for a few days,” she said.

  “No—”

  “Think!”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “It’s for the best.”

  “No. No, don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because… I’ll miss you.”

  She smiled and lit another cigarette.

  “Are you smoking?”

  “Yes. And I’m going away for a few days. It will be all right. It will be so good when I return. Remember?”

  “Yes,” he said slowly. A moment later she heard his breathing change and wondered if he had reached for his zipper.

  “I’ll only be a couple of hours away from here,” she said softly. “You know where to reach me.”

  “Yes.”

  “I can be back here if you need me.”

  “Come by. Come by now, before you go.”

  “Now, that woul
d be foolish. You’re going to be busy tomorrow, anyway. You have to find out who the women were.”

  “What?”

  She might as well have dropped ice water on his crotch. It almost made her laugh.

  “You find out who the women were. The two.”

  “What are you planning?”

  “So far? Nothing. But we should know, right?”

  “I guess so,” he said uneasily.

  “Be good while I’m gone,” she said, and hung up.

  CHAPTER 19

  Tuesday, April 25

  1:13 A.M.

  LAS PIERNAS

  I WAS cold, I was tired, I was hungry. And as I had warned Frank, I was bringing a dog home with me.

  I couldn’t make myself leave Altair to the tender mercies of Las Piernas Animal Control. Apparently the LPPD couldn’t, either. They handed me a form — I guess in their line of work, animals left in the homes of arrestees, suicides, and murder victims weren’t a rare occurrence. I filled it out and signed it, thereby agreeing that I understood I had only temporary custody of the animal. Then I had to verbally promise that I realized I wasn’t being given the dog.

  He had to come to the Express with me first, and although John raised his eyebrows, he didn’t make me leave the poor dog in the car. Altair was quiet — he lay next to me while I wrote my story, and otherwise followed me closely everywhere I went, but didn’t cause anyone any trouble.

  AS I pulled into my own driveway, it started to rain again. I didn’t mind so much — the lights in the house were on. The menfolk and the menagerie had waited up for me.

  My husband gave me a quick hug, while Ethan called greetings through the door of the guest room and assured me that Cody, our cat, was with him.

  I brought Altair in and spent the next few minutes making sure the dogs weren’t going to chase one another through the house. They didn’t, but this was not because there was a lack of desire on the part of our dogs, Deke and Dunk. Their manners, although improving, couldn’t match those of Altair.

  Luckily, all three dogs had been well socialized, with plenty of time around other dogs. No one was growling or nipping. Altair wasn’t as full of exuberance as our dogs were, and they seemed to quickly pick up on his mood — which, understandably, was quiet, bordering on depressed.