Bold and Blue in Dog Town: (Dog Town 9)

by Sandy Rideout

  “I know everything about everything,” someone said behind them. “At least everything that matters.”

  Kinney turned to see Cori Hogan, a petite powerhouse who looked like Audrey Hepburn in her heyday—if Audrey were in a motorcycle club. She was wearing jeans, a white T-shirt and a biker jacket that was too warm for the late May day. As usual, her hands were covered in black gloves with orange neon middle fingers. They were her trademark, and she displayed them now by planting her hands on her slim hips.

  “We all count on that,” Kinney said. “Even the black sheep dog cop.”

  Cori’s dark eyes narrowed. “Why are you being so nice? And humble? What are you hiding?”

  Kinney gestured to the car. “It’s hard to hide an 80-pound German shepherd.”

  Cori moved swiftly to release Whiskey from the Prius. The big dog jumped out and immediately bared his teeth at Prima, who was jumping in his face. “Leave it,” she said, and the dogs deflated instantly. Cori might be prickly with humans, but she was the calm eye of the storm when animals were around. She watched Whiskey sniff around for a minute or two and then turned to Kinney. “This is the reactive dog you seized last night?”

  “I didn’t seize him.” Kinney didn’t bother asking Cori how she knew; she had feelers all over town. “The owner surrendered him because he didn’t want to do the hard work of rehabilitating him.”

  “Most people don’t,” Cori said, eying the dog critically. “Especially if the dog has bitten someone.”

  “He didn’t bite, exactly. He was going for a garden hoe and caught my arm. It was just a few small punctures.”

  Cori pinned Kinney with a glance. “Evie sent me the clip. The first step to recovery is admitting your dog’s aggressive. Denial helps no one.”

  “He’s not my dog. I can’t keep him, Cori. Sheltering an aggressive dog is definitely a fireable offence with the CCD.”

  Bridget Linsmore had come out of the barn to join them. She was tall, with long sandy-blonde hair. The dog perpetually at her side was also tall and elegant, but his shiny fur was black. Beau held his ground as Whiskey ran toward him, tail erect. The shepherd veered off at the last minute and circled back to Kinney, who grabbed his leash.

  Evie filmed the short scene and when the camera panned to Cori, the trainer presented an orange flipping finger to the lens.

  “Don’t you have a job, Evie?” Cori asked. “Swinging that camera around is going to get you shot one of these days. Figuratively.”

  “Now that you mention it, I don’t have a job,” Evie said. “But I do have a mission: to get the mayor ousted.”

  Cori offered a rare smile, revealing perfect teeth. “That’s a worthy mission. But Kinney has a real job. She can’t be out gallivanting with you and your pet camera all the time.”

  “Real job?” Kinney asked. “You hate my job. In fact, you wouldn’t return my calls for two months after I accepted it.”

  “Water under the bridge,” Cori said. “I’ve realized how valuable it is to have someone on the inside. Especially now that Evie got herself fired from the mayor’s office.”

  “Correction,” Evie said. “This is the first job I actually quit.”

  “You say tomato, I say whatever.” Cori waved a dismissive glove. “My point is, the mayor is up to something. I can smell it from way out here. And we need Kinney to keep her job long enough to figure out what that something is.”

  Kinney laughed. “Evie has a lead on what’s currently rotting in City Hall. The mayor told her at Easter that several pedigreed pups went missing. But when she followed up with him later, he denied ever saying it.”

  “He blamed it on my concussion,” Evie said. “But weirder still, none of the breeders he mentioned have reported a stolen puppy.”

  Cori’s delicate eyebrows rose like swallows. “Are you sure it wasn’t the concussion? No breeder would keep quiet about a stolen puppy. I would most certainly have heard about it.”

  “I’m sure,” Evie said. “At least, sure enough that I want to dig deeper. I think it’s a cover-up.”

  “Huh.” For once, Cori was virtually speechless. She hooked her thumbs into the pockets of her jeans and turned to Bridget. They’d led the Rescue Mafia together for so many years that much went unsaid.

  Bridget met her eyes and nodded, as if they’d exchanged words. “Let’s look into it. For the moment, however, why don’t we talk about rehabbing Whiskey?”

  The dog was sitting quietly at Kinney’s side. “He looks like the bronze German shepherd in Bellington Square, doesn’t he?” she said. “So handsome.”

  “Except he’s a Belgian shepherd,” Cori said.

  “Really? I guess I should have known that. But they’re pretty much the same, right?”

  “Not to the owner and operator of said dog. The Belgian is the premier working breed in the world, in my not-so-humble opinion. These are the dogs they train to take down criminals. He’s a powerful weapon, Kinney.”

  Swallowing hard, she stroked Whiskey’s ears. They were large, pointy and deceptively soft. “I just need to find a place for him until his owner gets back from her music tour.”

  Cori shook her head. “This dog has issues. Passing him around like a used book is only going to exacerbate his insecurity. He needs stability, and someone who’s willing to work hard to correct his aggression.”

  “I can’t take a dog with issues onto the streets of Dorset Hills. What if he bit someone for real next time?”

  Cori waved her arms around like a conductor. “Time to face the music, Kinney. This dog did bite you. It wasn’t a catastrophic bite, but it was dog teeth on a human arm. Rule number one in rehabbing a dog: accept the problem. You can’t fix what you’re denying.”

  Sadness clogged Kinney’s throat for a few seconds. “He was a sweet dog when I met him. Such soulful eyes. He reminded me of Kali.”

  “He’s still a sweet dog,” Evie said. “He’s just got problems. Like all of us.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Cori said. “Well, I’ve got problems, most of them caused by City Hall.”

  Bridget came over and touched Kinney’s arm. “I know it’s daunting. Honestly, if I could take this dog for you, I would. But a dog that’s bitten someone needs focus and special care. It’s hard to manage for someone with multiple dogs, and most people with the skills for it do have multiple dogs, like Cori and me.”

  “But I can’t do it. I barely got Kali trained properly and she was a retriever—the pleaser breed. Cori said I was soft. How could I manage an aggressive dog?”

  “You were too soft on Kali,” Cori said. “You treated her like a child and that rarely ends well.”

  “Cori, she needs a pep talk, not a takedown,” Evie said. “This all sounds so complicated. That’s why I’m still on the fence about adopting Ari’s dog, Thurston Howl. And he’s already trained.”

  Hands back on her hips, Cori glared at Evie. “I don’t coddle people with pep talks. You know why? The dog pays. And then I end up having to fix other people’s mistakes.”

  Evie raised her camera. “Could you just preach one more time? Use more glove.”

  Cori treated her to a double serving of flipping fingers before turning back to Kinney. “Kinney, you have access to the best trainer in Dorset Hills—possibly North America. What are you so worried about?”

  “That he could bite someone else? That he could end up getting shipped to a neighboring town or even put down? That I could lose my job and fail this dog?”

  “Oh, ye of little faith. Buck up, little dog cop, and commit to Whiskey. If you don’t commit, he’ll know it. Belgian shepherds are the Ferrari of dog breeds. They’re smart and hardworking. If you put in the time, he’ll turn into the best dog you could ever ask for.”

  “But I don’t want one at all.” Kinney’s voice rose. “He’ll only break my heart.”

  “No man would dare to break your heart,” a deep voice said.

  Everyone turned to see James Pemberton, Hannah’s brother, get
ting out of his car. His blue eyes were light and radiant, like a Siberian husky’s. His dark hair had grown out a bit and he was sporting a hint of stubble. When they first met, he’d looked like an executive—stiff and formal. Now, despite his navy suit, he was softening around the edges. Dog Town was taking hold of him.

  She smiled at him. “The potential heartbreaker is a dog.”

  “You could do better,” he said. “I guarantee it.”

  He turned to the car and opened the rear door. A tan and black Tibetan mastiff jumped down. Rocky was massive, fluffy and dour-looking.

  Kinney felt a sudden jerk and Whiskey pulled the leash out of her hand. He covered the few yards to James’ car in a few bounds and got into Rocky’s face. Whereas Beau and even Prima had simply held their ground, Rocky took issue. Serious issue. He grabbed Whiskey’s neck and tossed him to the ground like a stuffed toy. Jumping up, Whiskey tried to return the favor and soon they were nearly 200 pounds of rolling fur.

  “Rocky!” James tried to move between them unsuccessfully. Whiskey’s leash wrapped around James’ legs and his arms pinwheeled as he tried to keep his balance. He lost the battle and fell backwards into the dusty gravel. The dogs kept their show moving, and literally dragged James along like a trussed sheep. His suit jacket rode up and over his head, and pinned his arms. His yell was muffled in fabric.

  Cori signaled Bridget and moved in to grab Whiskey’s hind legs. Bridget grabbed Rocky’s and they backed away from each other, walking the dogs like wheelbarrows. Kinney ran over to James and helped him to his feet. She tried to straighten his jacket and brush off the dirt, but he stopped her. When she glanced up, she saw his hair was nearly white with dust, making his light blue eyes eerie.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, backing away. If any more heat surged into her cheeks, her head would explode.

  “It’s nothing a shower and dry cleaning won’t fix,” James said, recovering his almost perpetual smile. “But who’s this hooligan that attacked my delicate Rocky?”

  “Delicate my ass,” Cori said. “Tibetan mastiffs are bred to guard. Whiskey might have started the trouble but he wouldn’t have ended it.”

  James shook his head, scattering fine dust molecules into the air. “It wouldn’t have come to that. Rocky’s never been in a fight before.”

  “This is the heartbreaker I was talking about,” Kinney said. “Meet Whiskey, my new dog.”

  Cori released Whiskey, grabbed his leash and backed the dog over to Kinney. She pressed the leash into Kinney’s hand as if passing the torch. “This is going to be fun,” she said. “There is nothing more satisfying in life than helping a troubled dog. Trust me.”

  “Oh, I trust you,” Kinney said. “It’s myself I don’t trust.”

  Chapter 7

  Cliff Whorley looked up from his paperwork and grunted as Kinney walked into his office. The former state trooper’s bushy salt-and-pepper mustache and florid face made her shrink a little. When she’d first met Cliff, she’d been willing to stand up to him because Marti Forrester, then-judge of Dog Court, had cherry-picked her for the dog cop job. Now, however, she had no one backing her. What’s more, she had an aggressive dog at home that should have been surrendered to Animal Services. It was enough to suck the sass out of anyone. Anyone except Cori Hogan, perhaps.

  “Sit down, Butterfield,” he said. It seemed like he placed undue emphasis on the “butter” to make her feel soft.

  “Morning, sir,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  He crossed his arms over his belly. “We haven’t had a chat in a while. What’s new?”

  All the other dog cops had regular one-on-one meetings with Cliff that produced hearty laughter behind closed doors. Kinney only got called in when needed and there had never been a chuckle out of either of them.

  “Nothing much, sir. You know I’ve mostly been taking the nuisance calls. Maybe you have something bigger for me today?”

  “I do, actually.” His mustache twitched as if he were supressing a grin. “A dog nipped one of the mayor’s neighbors recently and he wants us to issue a fine to the owner.”

  She kept her eyes down and her voice calm. “Did it break the skin?”

  “Luckily, no. Just ripped the woman’s sleeve. She was taking a stick out of its mouth.”

  “Maybe she shouldn’t have tried to take a stick out of a strange dog’s mouth?” Kinney said, leaning back in the chair. There had to be more to the story. Something was making Cliff simmer with glee.

  “There’s zero tolerance for a dog nipping ever. You know that, Butterfield.” He leaned back, too. “Don’t you? It’s dog cop 101.”

  His piggy little eyes bored into her and she took a deep breath. Everything depended on her staying cool. Luckily, there was still a block of ice in her chest that she’d built up during her stint as a social worker. Confronting abusive or neglectful parents required nerves of steel.

  “Of course, sir. You’ve got an address for me?”

  Cliff pushed a file folder towards her. “The mayor wants this done at the owner’s worksite. The dog is always with him.”

  “In other words, the mayor wants to make an example of him.”

  “It’s not for us to question the mayor’s motives, is it?”

  Kinney leaned forward and flipped open the folder. On top of a small pile was a photo of a man with a large, gorgeous black-and-tan dog. Her ribs seemed to close in around her heart and the ice melted a bit. “It’s James Pemberton, sir. And his dog Rocky.”

  “Correct. You know James, if I’m not mistaken. We figured it would be easier coming from a friend.”

  That was a lie. Cliff knew it would be far more embarrassing for James coming from someone he knew. Perhaps Cliff even knew about Whiskey already and was punishing her, too. She wouldn’t put it past the City to “have eyes” on Runaway Farm. Any of the handsome construction workers could be taking a bribe to report in on suspicious activities. Technically, the City had no jurisdiction over the farm since the land was transferred to Wolff County. But that wouldn’t stop the mayor from suspecting unlawful plots to arise there. And he wouldn’t be wrong. It had become the de facto headquarters of the Rescue Mafia now.

  “Rocky is a lovely dog, and James is a prominent property owner and developer in Dorset Hills now,” Kinney said. “I can understand giving him a warning, but why make a big show of this?” She held up a photo of the slight tear on a woman’s coat sleeve. “It could well have been an accident.”

  Cliff grabbed the folder out of her hand, leaving her with a bleeding paper cut on her index finger. “We need to keep the mayor happy, Butterfield. In fact, our jobs depend on it.”

  There it was: the implied job threat. He probably didn’t even know how much she needed the income. Or maybe he did. It would be easy enough to check her credit.

  “Understood, sir.” Standing, she leaned on his desk and splayed her hands. “I’ll head down to the jobsite right now and take care of this.”

  “Butterfield, off. Off!”

  She shook her hair in front of her face to hide her smile as Cliff tried to blot the blood from her papercut that now spotted his calendar.

  “Sorry, sir,” she said. “I guess that proves I’m willing to shed a little blood for my job.”

  Kinney found her Prius idling by the front doors of the CCD building. Behind the wheel was Wyatt Cobb, the CCD’s latest hire as a canine corrections officer. He was just like all the rest: as handsome and plastic as a Ken doll. Kinney was one of only three women on staff in the CCD’s complement of 40, and the only female dog cop. The old boys’ club had come as a shock after the female-dominated department of social work. She hadn’t fit in particularly well there, either, however. The clients were overwhelmed and her co-workers usually were, too. Locking down her emotion was the only way she could survive.

  She walked around the car to the driver’s side. “What gives, Wyatt?”

  “Boss wanted you to have backup, Butterfield,” he said, with a perfect, p
lasticky smile.

  “Cool. But you can back me up from the passenger seat. No one drives me around, Cobb. You can monitor my actions even more easily when you don’t have to mind the road.”

  Wyatt shrugged and opened the door. “As you wish, Butterfield.”

  She winced before climbing inside. The use of surnames hadn’t been part of the corporate culture in social work. Here, her feminine name was being used against her. Pulling out of the parking lot, she headed toward town. The CCD was housed in the old legion hall on the outskirts. That didn’t stop people from regularly coming out and tagging the building with graffiti or defacing the bronze Bernese mountain dog statue with toilet paper or costumes. New security cameras hadn’t stopped the defilement so Cliff was considering spending tax dollars on an overnight guard.

  Wyatt kept up a constant stream of chitchat as they drove, to which she responded with the occasion murmur of agreement.

  “I’ve never worked so hard to make pleasant conversation,” he said at last.

  She turned to stare at him. “We’re on our way to ticket someone and you’ve been assigned to make sure I do it. Forgive me if that makes small talk challenging, Wyatt.”

  He held up his hands. “I’m doing my job, Butterfield. Just like you’re doing yours.”

  “Fine,” she said. “But small talk isn’t in my job description.”

  Weaving through town, she noticed a big crowd around the new bronze puppy statues outside the community center. City Hall had made the right choice on this one; it was good to know that still happened sometimes.

  “So this guy we’re targeting has a Tibetan mastiff, right? Isn’t that the most expensive breed on the planet? He must have a huge ego.”

  Kinney pressed her lips together and said nothing.

  “I mean seriously, who’d spend 10 grand on a dog? The guy is obviously compensating for something.”

  She turned and gave him a cold stare. “You do realize this is the brother of one of my good friends?”