by Clea Simon
“What, this?” Stu reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of blue towel. “I just use this on my own dogs to get ’em started,” he said. “It’s got a mix of my own on it. Fox urine, basically.”
“He—” I stopped myself. It was pointless. In the few minutes since Jim’s arrival, he’d had a chance to ditch the white cloth, and the smile he now turned on me looked less ingenuous than smug. This round went to the mysterious stranger.
Creighton knew it as well as I and dismissed the crowd with a general warning about “taking matters into your own hands.” When I started to protest, he raised one hand, ever so slightly. It was a gesture I recognized from my own training, and I shut up. No sense in getting reprimanded in front of this crew; my status was tenuous as it was. Besides, they hadn’t planned on the weather. As far as they were concerned, it could have been a hurricane. It was definitely Miller time.
Using Spot as an excuse, I wandered over to the edge of the clearing. Spot’s nose was on alert as we approached the hedge, but all I got as he sniffed the ground was the usual local fauna: squirrels, a raccoon. Two opossum, half asleep and stumbling. Spot was interested, but only reflexively. We were both hoping for something more. I was about to take Spot off the lead again, to let him go into that hedge, when Creighton called to me.
“Pru, a word?” The last of the hunters were dispersed. I waited, standing to the side. He watched, hands on hips, as they got into their vehicles. When they were gone, he moved closer. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier.”
It wasn’t what I’d expected. “You’ve got your hands full,” I said. I didn’t add the obvious—that he was also grieving the most recent murder victim. “You don’t owe me any explanations.”
“I think I do.” He was looking down the lane, as if he expected one of the hunters to drive back. Could be he was just avoiding my eyes. “You see, about me and Laurel…”
I didn’t wait for a pause. “Jim, you and I never had any agreement. We were what we were.”
“No, Pru, wait.” He looked down at the mud, where a puddle was forming. No help was coming from there, either. “Laurel and I, it wasn’t what you think.”
“Oh?” I couldn’t help the ice that dripped from that one syllable. I knew he was in mourning. I needed him to know I’m not an idiot.
He laughed. That was a good sound to hear. “Pru, I’d give good money to know what makes you tick sometimes.” He stopped himself. Motioned to his cruiser. “Want to come in out of the rain?”
Without answering, I walked around to the other side and got in the passenger side, letting Spot in the back. It wasn’t cozy, exactly. But, well, any shelter in a storm. After a moment, he started talking again, answering the question I hadn’t asked.
“Yeah.” He stared straight ahead at the windshield. “Laurel and I went out a few times. You’re a—You can be a maddening woman, Pru. Sometimes a man wants something simpler.”
“And Laurel Kroft was simpler?” I couldn’t help the smile that was making the side of my mouth twitch. I hadn’t realized that Jim Creighton was so clueless about women.
“No.” He sounded quite clear on that point. “But what she wanted was. And I…”
“You thought it might be nice to be housebroken?” I visualized Creighton in that sunny sitting room. His sandy hair would go so well with the white sofa and all that blond wood. The ultimate fashion accessory.
“Laurel didn’t want a serious relationship either.” Even in profile, I could see his own grin had twisted, acknowledging the irony of the situation. “Not with a small-town cop, anyway. And I realized, well…”
“Yes?” I drew it out. A girl’s allowed.
“I guess I realized that if I’m not going to be taken seriously, then I’d rather be not taken seriously by you.”
“Better a pizza delivery man than a rich lady’s boy toy, is that it?”
“That’s one way to put it.” He turned toward me now and had the decency to look a little ashamed.
“Well, I’m glad that’s settled.” A girl doesn’t want to think she’s only won by default. “But last night, I assume…”
He nodded. “We were over. She and I had talked, oh, a few days ago.” I thought back to his last nocturnal visit, only two days before. He hadn’t spoken much, driven more, I thought, by straight-up desire rather than a longing for any kind of emotional connection. At the time, I’d thought he was cooling on me, indulging a generalized hunger with a willing partner. Now I saw his silence in a different light: he’d come to me out of need. Knowing him, he’d felt bad, and that had prompted him to end it with Laurel. Well, I’d give him his little fiction about the date.
“When she called,” he was still talking, “she said she suspected something. Something that I should hear. She didn’t say anything about Mariela, but I had a feeling—and it wasn’t good. I pushed her to tell me what she had, what she thought, and to let me do the follow-up, but she wouldn’t. Said she needed to check it out herself. Then, when she didn’t show, I checked her calls. That’s why I confronted you. Not because…” His voice trailed off.
I got it. It was reasonable that he’d be worried about her. After all, Creighton is a decent guy. And, yeah, he’s also a cop. On occasion interests overlap.
Sometimes not. He was looking down at his hands now. We were sitting side by side, and I thought he was as aware of me as I was of him. Thought he was wondering if he should take my hand. Reach over and touch me. The parking lot had emptied out. The rain was likely to keep any other adventurers away.
But I am who I am, too. And I had information to share.
“I think I may know who she was checking in with.” He sat up straight again, which reminded me to tread carefully. “Look, Jim, I told you about Benazi. That I think she was meeting with him?” I hadn’t told him why. He didn’t ask again, however. He only nodded. “I’m pretty sure Benazi is doing some kind of deal with the Haigens. That’s his circle, and I’m wondering if Laurel was trying to get some information out of him.”
“You’re thinking he killed her?” He was watching me, gauging my reaction. “Is he capable of that?”
I shook my head, more because I didn’t want to answer than because I didn’t know.
“Is he capable of mutilating a body to try to disguise the cause of death?”
That was a harder one, as Creighton well know.
“I don’t know.” I did know I didn’t stand a chance of finding out what Jim thought, so I took his question at face value. The silver-haired gangster was capable of murder—and he wasn’t squeamish about gender. I was pretty sure that one woman had already disappeared because of him. True, she had deserved it, but then, I didn’t know Laurel that well.
“Could Laurel have been involved in anything shifty?” Maybe I was falling prey to my own prejudices, but I thought the old man probably had a code of honor, and that Laurel would have to have fallen afoul of it to meet her end at his hands. “You know, a black market deal or some kind of financial scheme?”
He did me the courtesy of considering it. After a few moments, however, he shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. She was honest. More than that, she thought she was smarter than everyone, and that she’d come out on top because of her intellect and education. You know, the rest of us were just animals.”
I nodded and held my tongue. I’d already won, and besides, my rival was dead.
“I’m going to bring this guy in, though. As soon as—” He didn’t have to finish. He held out his hand. “Your phone, Pru?”
With a twinge that felt suspiciously like disloyalty, I handed it over. Benazi had done nothing but scare me. Then again, he did so in the most courtly manner. I watched as Creighton scrolled through my calls.
“You did call Laurel several times.” I nodded. He looked up from the phone.
“About the dog, Jim. About Spot.” At the sound o
f his name, Spot wagged his tail, making a thumping sound against the car seat. He’d been very good, sitting silent while we spoke, but now I found myself looking back at him and wondering. “What are you thinking?” The question was formed almost before I realized.
“She’s gone.” The phrase I’d heard before. Only this time I noticed something strange. Spot wasn’t sniffing at the air. He wasn’t looking for the potent traces of Laurel’s blood—or her car or any other trace of the fallen women. He was staring back at that hedge. And the sadness I felt, the regret? It was more akin to longing than the grief that an animal can feel.
“What is it, boy?” I twisted in my seat. I felt Creighton start slightly beside me. I didn’t care. “What are you picking up?” It wasn’t what I meant, not exactly. But it gave me an excuse. Just in time, too.
“Uh, Pru?”
“Wait a minute, Jim.” I got out of the car and let Spot out, too. He was instantly on alert, and I put one hand on his back, my eyes on his quivering snout. “Spot’s gotten a scent.”
I heard him get out of the car. Heard him come up behind me, but I didn’t turn, and he had brains enough to not ask me to. Let him think I was super sensitive in a normal way. Better he should believe that I’d picked up a normal signal, rather than the truth.
“What is it?” I left the question open, and breathed in, my mouth open. My own dull senses couldn’t give me a quarter of what Spot received. Still, I was hoping to get something, thanks to our connection.
“She’s…scared. Lost.” The wet air tasted of leaves, of the last of the winter ice. A snowy landscape in the dark. Maybe I had it wrong. Maybe he was recapturing Laurel’s last memories. “She’s gone.”
“She died here.” I made the thought as simple as possible. As I’ve said, animals understand death better than most humans. It’s more present, every day, and they don’t sugarcoat it with any fables. I’d misunderstood animals before. Wallis would say I did so regularly. So maybe I was misinterpreting Spot’s thoughts, putting nice-sounding human words to a more generalized canine grief. For sure, something wasn’t right.
“She’s gone.” A low whine started in the back of his throat. “Gone.”
“Laurel is dead, Spot.” I spoke aloud, holding the dog’s head. Let Creighton think I was a little nutty. I needed to be sure of what was happening.
“Yes, her warm is cold. Feeding lady is dead.” Well, I didn’t have to worry about Spot grieving overmuch, if that was his reaction. So what? I waited. Took in the air—and got it: that heady aroma, wild and intoxicating, spiked with spices and something strong. Coming from the hedge.
“She was there, waiting. Watching. Scared.” Now that I got it, too, Spot opened up. “She was waiting there. Waiting to pounce. But she’s gone.”
Chapter Forty
“Pru?”
I looked up at Creighton. I didn’t know what he could see on my face, but I did know that I had to fake something fast. “What is it?”
“Spot is responding as he would to recent markings by a large predator.” It was true, all except for the slight ambivalence I’d inserted. She’s gone, Spot had said. Now that I knew what he meant, his message was crystal clear. “Some animal, possibly whatever killed Mariela, was here.”
Creighton shook his head. The rain had faded back to mist again, but his hair had darkened, gathering into little spikes of wet. “I don’t know, Pru. Despite what Albert and his buddies are playing at, we have no proof that she was killed anywhere near here.”
I looked up at that, wiping my own wet locks from my face. “What aren’t you telling me, Jim?”
For a moment, he eyed me, tight-lipped and appraising. I could almost see the decision being made. “We know she was moved, Pru. You know that already. I have people on that, but now that we have another homicide—”
“Another?”
He looked confused. “I thought you knew. Laurel wasn’t…” He paused.
I had no time for niceties. “Yes, I know she was killed. That someone tried to make it look like a mauling. But you said ‘another.’” He was silent. “Jim?”
“That’s not an official ruling, Pru. Not yet.” He ran his hand over his face, and I could see what this was costing him. Two deaths by any means—two women, one of whom he knew—it was a lot. “But I’m working on the assumption that there was a connection. That Laurel was following up on something.”
That was it. He felt guilty. “What can I do, Jim?”
A hint of a smile. He had played me, a little, but right now I didn’t mind. He held out my phone.
“You can make a call for me, Pru,” he said. “Your Mr. Benazi is a bit of an elusive character. See if he wants to get together for lunch or a cocktail.”
Now it was my turn to be taken aback. “You want me to set him up?”
“I want you to talk with him.” Creighton eyed me, and I could almost see the gears moving behind those blue eyes. He thought I was weighing loyalties, considering his decidedly irregular request.
I was, but not the way he thought. “I won’t wear a wire.” I licked my lips, which were suddenly dry. I couldn’t explain what I suspected of Benazi’s sensitivity. I could let Creighton know I was afraid. “I don’t know if he’s involved with any of this, Jim. But he’s not someone I want to mess with.”
He got it. “I wouldn’t ask you to,” he said. “In fact, I was considering calling him in. Just for informational purposes. But he’s not directly connected, at least not by anything substantial just yet. And if his residence is over in New York, and I have to reach across state lines, well…”
I nodded. It would mean a delay, as well as paperwork. And I could easily see someone as slick as Benazi managing to evade even the most polite invitation from an officer of the law. Meanwhile, Spot was getting agitated. Probably picking up the conflict between us.
“I’m not going to lie to him.” It wasn’t just respect for the older man. It was also respect for his potential for danger.
“You don’t have to.” Creighton knew he had me if I was arguing terms. “Look, Pru, things are more complicated than they seem, and, well, I could use your help right now. Just make a date. Who knows? Meet him in a public place, and I may just wander on by.”
“Like you did here, today?” I still didn’t know what had delayed him, and Spot’s growing restlessness brought me back to the hunt.
“Maybe.” He wasn’t giving me anything but the phone. “Make the call, Pru.”
I took it, in the process signaling Spot to be still.
“Hi, Bill?” The voice mail message was anonymous, the voice confirming the number warm and female. “Pru Marlowe here. We need to meet.” It wasn’t smooth, and it wasn’t what I would have said if Creighton hadn’t been watching me. However, it was done.
“Voice mail,” I said, with a firm command of the obvious. “I’ll let you know if he calls back.”
“A public place.” He reiterated. “And let me know before you go meet him?”
“Of course, Jim.” I kept my eyes on his baby blues, but my thoughts went to the dog at my side. “And you’re coming, too.”
As I formed the words, I realized I had another challenge on my hands—and maybe another opportunity.
“Jim, have there been any provisions made for Spot here?” I didn’t know what legal bearing the dog could have on the case. None, I hoped.
He clearly hadn’t considered any, and stood for close to a minute before shaking his head. “Doesn’t the service group have people who can take a dog in?”
I shook my head. They did, of course. That wasn’t what I was interested in. “There’s no point, Jim. Spot here is nearly fully trained, and to re-house him when he’s only going to go to his new gig would set him back.” Mentally, I apologized to the canine for the slur. “What I’d like to do is see if I can keep working with him—only at the Haigens. I mean,
if he’s going to live there anyway.”
It sounded true. It wasn’t. What I wanted was an in. If what I feared were true, I’d do everything in my power to keep Spot from landing there permanently.
Creighton eyed me, sensing something, and I held my breath. To say any more would be out of character.
“You’ve been working with them anyway, right?” He asked finally. I nodded. “Well, you’ll have to get their permission. And Pru? You’re working with their dog. Nothing else.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Just because Mariela worked there…”
His eyes narrowed.
“Where were you anyway, Jim?” Going on the attack was good strategy. Besides, I wanted more. “You were late getting here, and that’s not like you.”
“That’s none of your business, Pru Marlowe.” He looked from me to Spot and back again. “Now, don’t you have a dog to train or something?”
Chapter Forty-one
I did have other clients, and rather than dump Spot I rushed through the rest of my rounds. The shepherd mix sat quietly while I checked in on the fish tank at the local Chinese restaurant. The tail rot was receding, and I promised Mrs. Han that I’d look into restocking her gouramis. Spot was equally calm when I left him tied to a tree outside the Paul place. Princess Ida, the Pauls’ Siamese, was most intrigued by his scent, and I was taken aback by the flirtatious nature of her thoughts, not to mention her vocalizations, as I trimmed her claws.
By the time I got back out, the rain had stopped, and I took Spot for a walk around the block. I was hungry by then, and figured he must be, too. I’d been considering how to broach the subject with the Haigens, and had pretty much decided that showing up with the dog might be the way to go. It would make me look less professional, but it could be explained away by Laurel’s death—and the ensuing crisis of Spot’s care. Besides, it’s a lot harder to refuse a dog who has already been delivered.
I’m no good on an empty stomach, though, and I needed something solid to chase the remainder of that hangover from my system. Going home was not an option. Wallis would undoubtedly love to interrogate Spot, but that would take hours. Besides, I didn’t have anything appropriate for Spot to eat, and I was pretty sure Wallis would draw the line at sharing last night’s chicken.