by Karen Rose
There Tala stood, barely visible behind the line of trees where she waited, poised to flee. She wore a white polo shirt and jeans, just as she’d worn today. At her side was a tall white standard poodle, cut the fancy way, with rosettes on its hindquarters, puffy pompons around its ankles and a topknot on its head. It was groomed like the dogs she’d seen on that famous dog show that came on TV on Thanksgiving Day, right after the Macy’s Parade.
Putting ‘Ave Maria’ from her mind, she focused on the dog. A dog that fancy would have to be groomed frequently, she thought – and had an aha moment. Groomers would probably be more inclined to answer questions than vets would. Asking a vet about an animal’s owner was an interrogation. Asking a groomer for the names of owners of poodles he or she had groomed – that was getting a reference. She’d written ‘groomer’ on the notepad on her desk when Marcus began to sing again, and all thought fled.
This time he did choose Vince Gill’s ‘Go Rest High On That Mountain’, catching her unprepared. Her stuttering heart rose to fill her throat and tears flooded her eyes as the memory of funeral after funeral flashed through her mind. Michelle’s. Then the one for the best friend of her oldest brother, killed in Iraq. A colleague, shot in the line of duty. A firefighter she’d grown up with, killed in a blaze. So many others that it hurt to recall. And, of course, the funeral of Marcus’s brother. Whoever had planned Mikhail’s funeral had hired the star tenor with the Cincinnati Opera to sing the song, and he’d done a commendable job. But Marcus’s version . . .
It broke her heart, but it also soothed it.
Tala, too, had been drawn to Marcus’s song. On the video, she moved slowly but carefully through the trees until she came to a path that met the small clearing where Marcus remained seated on the bench, turning only his head to follow her progress. Tears ran down the young woman’s face unchecked, one hand pressed to her mouth, muffling the sobs that shook her slim shoulders. Her other hand stayed fisted around the dog’s leash.
She stood like that until he’d sung the last note. Marcus’s microphone picked up his very audible swallow, then his cleared throat.
‘Why are you crying?’ he asked so gently that Scarlett found herself pressing the heel of her hand to her heart to alleviate the ache there.
The camera jostled as he started to rise, but an instant later Tala took off through the trees, the white of her polo shirt and the white of the dog visible until she turned a corner, taking a path out of the park.
At least we know which way she ran. It would give Scarlett a place to direct the uniforms who were gathering at this very moment to canvass the neighborhoods around the park, showing Tala’s photo to the residents. And the dog’s too. That dog was so distinctive that it must be well known in the neighborhood where it lived.
She backed up the video to the point where Tala and the dog appeared, then went frame by frame until she found the clearest image from which to pull the still photo. Zooming in, she checked out the shiny stones on the poodle’s pink collar – she counted at least six that were so large they had to be rhinestones. But if Marcus was right and they really were diamonds? The very notion made Scarlett’s blood boil. How dare they? The couple who owned Tala and her family threw away hundreds, even thousands of dollars on a damn collar for a dog.
Still, it was a feature most people would remember. That would be a plus in identifying the dog, which should then lead them to the dog’s owner – and hopefully to Tala’s killer.
Needing a break before starting the next video, Scarlett opened the contact list on her phone to the Ks. Delores Kaminsky. Shot by a madman and left for dead under a van in a grocery store parking lot nine months before, Delores was a medical marvel. She’d taken a bullet in the back of the head at point-blank range, but she’d survived against all odds.
Before being shot, Delores ran an animal shelter and operated a brisk mobile grooming business. Now, post-incident, she had restarted her shelter services. Once she was further along with her therapy, she’d resume her grooming business as well. That was her plan, anyway. None of her friends had any doubt she’d succeed. Scarlett had met her only a few times, but she believed in Delores too.
It was coming up on six thirty, but Delores had told Scarlett that she was an early riser. She’d probably be feeding the dogs by now. Scarlett dialed, hoping to at least leave a message if Delores was still asleep. But the phone was answered on the second ring by a voice that sounded surprisingly wary.
‘Patrick’s Place Animal Shelter. How can I help you?’
‘Delores, this is Scarlett Bishop.’
‘Scarlett,’ the woman replied on an exhale. ‘I saw Cincinnati Police on the caller ID and I thought . . . Well, I’m just glad it’s you.’
Scarlett frowned. ‘I called from the office. My cell only gets two bars here and I didn’t want to lose you. I didn’t mean to scare you.’ It had been nine months since Delores’s assault, and while her body’s rehab was coming along, Scarlett questioned how well she was dealing with the emotional trauma of being left for dead.
‘You didn’t really scare me. I mean, the guy who attacked me is dead, so what can happen, right? I was just . . . Never mind. I’m just being foolish. So what can I do for you this morning? I hope Zat’s working out all right for you?’
Scarlett wanted to press for more details about what had scared Delores, because clearly something had. But the woman deserved her privacy, so Scarlett simply answered her question. ‘Zat is wonderful,’ she assured her. ‘He seems to have made himself at home.’
‘No shoe-chewing?’ Delores asked, amused.
‘Not even one. That’s Deacon’s complaint, not mine. I was smart enough not to choose a puppy.’ Choose, nothing. Scarlett hadn’t chosen Zat. The three-legged bulldog had chosen her. ‘I’m actually calling to pick your brain about—’ Scarlett stopped herself, wincing at her poor choice of words. Delores had been shot in the head, and while the bullet hadn’t pierced her brain, her skull had suffered trauma when her attacker had thrown her to the pavement, kicking her under a parked van to hide her body. The woman’s brain had been badly bruised. ‘I’m sorry, Delores. I can’t believe I said that.’
The snicker on the other end untangled the knots in Scarlett’s gut. ‘It’s okay. Really. It’s actually pretty funny. So you want to pick my poor addled brain about what?’
‘Groomers,’ Scarlett said, relieved.
‘I’m not doing any grooming yet. I haven’t built up enough strength.’
‘I don’t need you to groom an animal, but I do need to know about the area groomers, especially those that might cater to wealthy clients with expensive dogs.’
‘Okay,’ Delores said slowly. ‘I don’t know everyone, of course, but I have lots of friends in the business who might be able to help you. Any specific breed?’
‘Standard poodles.’
‘I know several groomers who do standards. But . . .’ A hint of fear edged into her voice. ‘They won’t know I gave you their names, right?’
‘No, they will not know. But listen, if you don’t feel comfortable working with me, I can find another groomer. It’s okay.’
‘No, no. I’m just being silly.’ She laughed self-consciously. ‘If you tell me what you’re looking for, I may be able to help you. I’ve groomed quite a few standards in the past. I had three who went Best in Show.’
Scarlett’s ears perked up. ‘Would you know if a dog was a show dog by looking at a picture of it?’
‘It depends on the quality of the photo. I could certainly tell you if it’s not. Did a standard poodle commit a homicide?’ The lightness of the question was a bit forced. Delores was nervous, but still willing to help them. Scarlett respected that.
‘No,’ Scarlett said, keeping her tone equally light, then let her seriousness return. ‘But I need to find its owner.’
‘I’ve taken hundreds of pictures of dogs at shows. You can take a look through them, if you think it will help. Kind of like a mug-shot book.’
‘I can after eleven. I have a PT appointment this morning and won’t be back till then. If it’s urgent, I can cancel my appointment.’
‘Tell you what. You keep your appointment, but also keep your phone with you. If I need your help earlier, I’ll call you.’
‘Sounds perfect. Take care, Scarlett.’
‘Delores, wait. Did you have a chance to call that friend of mine? Meredith.’ Her new friend Meredith Fallon counseled mostly children and adolescents, but occasionally took on adults.
I should know. She’s taken me on, whether I like it or not. But Meredith did it in a way that made Scarlett know it was because she cared. Scarlett wasn’t sure Meredith even knew how to flip her therapist off-switch, even in a casual setting. So Scarlett watched what she said, not ready to reveal the full extent of her inner turmoil. Not yet anyway. Maybe not ever. The risk to her career was too high.
A small pause. ‘Not yet,’ Delores admitted. ‘I’m not ready yet. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry. I can respect not being ready.’ Scarlett had to, or she’d be a total hypocrite. ‘When you are, she’ll be waiting. For now, you do what you need to do to make it through each day.’
A long, long pause. So long that Scarlett thought the connection had been lost. ‘Delores? You still there?’
‘Yeah. I guess I was just wondering if . . . I mean if you . . .’ A sigh of frustration. ‘You just sounded like you understood. I was wondering if you’d ever been, you know, a victim?’
Scarlett’s lungs began to burn and she realized she’d been holding her breath. She didn’t want to answer that, but Delores had been through hell and deserved an honest response. ‘No. I’ve never been assaulted. I’ve been smacked around from time to time, but that’s in the line of duty and the smackers usually ended up in cuffs with my knee in the small of their back. I’ve guess I’ve just seen too much.’ Way too much. ‘Contact me when you get back from PT, and I’ll meet you at your shelter at eleven.’
She hung up and stared at her screen, still frozen on the enlarged still of the poodle. She needed to go through all of these videos. Starting with the one in the alley.
But I don’t want to. Which was ridiculous, wasn’t it? She was a homicide detective and saw death every day. But seeing a victim already dead was far different from seeing her die. And sometimes one victim’s pain cut more deeply than others. She had the feeling that Tala was going to be one of the hard ones. The girl’s pain had hurt Marcus too, even before he’d been shot. She knew that about him.
So do your job. Get her justice. Knowing that Tala’s killer had been punished wouldn’t ease her pain, or Marcus’s, today, but eventually it might.
But Scarlett’s hand guiding the mouse didn’t cooperate, switching to her email instead of opening the video file. There were no new emails from Marcus. No sign of the list of threats that he had promised. Maybe he forgot. Or he said his assistant kept the list. Maybe she hasn’t sent it to him yet. But he did say he’d have the list to her within the hour. Maybe he sent it and it got lost in the ether somewhere.
Okay, that last one was reaching.
Why don’t you just ask him? Her phone’s two bars would be enough to send a text.
Scarlett Bishop here, she typed. Just wondering if you’ve sent the file with the list of threats against you. I got the video files but haven’t received the list. She stared at the message for a moment. She should probably have said ‘Detective’ instead of using her first name. It would be more proper. But she didn’t want to be proper. She’d had Marcus O’Bannion on her mind for nine months. He may have been making the first move when he’d called her, or he might just have been asking for her help. She’d never know unless she made the next move. Without overthinking it any more than she already had, she pressed SEND.
Now do your damn job.
She returned to the list of video files, resolutely clicked on the one taken in the alley, and prepared herself to watch Tala die.
Cincinnati, Ohio
Tuesday 4 August, 6.20 A.M.
Deacon Novak took a tentative breath as he entered his house, then huffed it out in relief. Not only had the new puppy not had an accident on the kitchen floor, cause for celebration in and of itself, but the air was full of the aroma of breakfast. Standing at the stove, looking all soft and sleep-rumpled, was the woman who still made his heart stop each time he saw her.
Two dogs sat on the floor at her feet. One was a full-grown Lab they’d named Zeus, the other a golden-mix puppy with enormous paws that they’d named Goliath. Both dogs were rescues from an animal shelter, and Deacon was glad they were there, even if the puppy routinely chewed his shoes. He didn’t like leaving his woman alone when he was called away to crime scenes in the middle of the night, but knowing she had protection made him feel a bit better.
Both dogs got to their feet when the door opened, Zeus growling impressively until he saw who it was. Then he curled back up at Faith’s feet while Goliath loped clumsily across the floor. Deacon dropped to a crouch to scratch the puppy’s ears. He might grumble about his shoes, but he really liked the dogs.
Faith looked over her shoulder, her mouth curved into a smile of welcome even as her eyes gave him a quick head-to-toe assessment. She worried about him every time he left the house, but she never said a word.
Straightening, Deacon held out his arms obligingly. ‘Look, Ma, no blood.’
She laughed, shaking her head. ‘Always a good way to start the day. Hungry?’
He waggled his brows with an evil chuckle. ‘Yes, but we don’t have time for that.’
She blushed prettily, and he didn’t think he’d ever get tired of the sight. ‘Wash up, sit down and hush.’ She put two plates filled with eggs and bacon on the table, then sat next to him. ‘What happened? Was Scarlett okay?’
He’d left the house knowing only that his partner had discovered a body in an alley, not knowing how she’d come to be there. ‘Yeah. So was Marcus.’
Faith’s brows shot up, her green eyes widening. ‘Marcus? You mean our Marcus?’
‘Your cousin,’ he said with a nod. ‘One and the same.’ He told her the basic details and watched her lips droop in sympathy.
‘That poor young woman. Marcus isn’t hurt?’
‘He was wearing Kevlar, but he was still lucky that he’s only bruised. Fool wouldn’t go to the ER.’
‘Of course not,’ she said with an eye roll. ‘Neither would you unless you were too unconscious to refuse. Damned hard-headed men. You guys aren’t really bulletproof, you know.’
‘This isn’t about your damned hard-headed fiancé,’ he said lightly. ‘This is about your damned hard-headed cousin.’
Her lips quirked up briefly before bending into a worried frown. ‘This is not going to improve the situation with his mother. Ever since she lost Mikhail, Della worries that something’s going to happen to the rest of her kids. When she’s sober. Or even awake. Which between the booze and the pills isn’t too often anymore. I’ll go out and see her today.’
Faith hadn’t met her extended family until nine months before, but she’d quickly become an honorary O’Bannion. They loved her, nearly as much as Deacon did. He’d leaned in to kiss the frown off her mouth when his cell rang.
‘It’s Zimmerman,’ he told her. ‘I gotta take it.’ He answered the call from his boss, the special agent in charge of the Bureau’s Cincinnati field office. Deacon was part of the Major Crimes Enforcement Squad, a CPD/FBI joint task force, and CPD’s Lieutenant Lynda Isenberg was his direct boss. But he officially belonged to the FBI, so SAC Zimmerman was also his boss. He didn’t tell Zimmerman everything about every case, but for this one he needed Bureau resources. ‘Morning, Andy. Thanks for calling me back so early.’
‘What’s up?’ Zimmerman asked.
‘We may have a case of human trafficking.’
‘Labor or sex or both
?’
‘Not sure yet.’ He relayed what Tala had told Marcus, watching Faith’s eyes narrow in silent anger. She’d counseled victims of sexual assault for years, guarding her clients like a mother bear. Tala would have been in good hands with his Faith, had the young woman survived. ‘Detective Bishop is tracking down her identity.’
‘We have a task force investigating trafficking at the local and state levels,’ Zimmerman said. ‘Special Agent Troy is lead investigator and we’re transferring in another agent to partner with him. That person isn’t slated to start for another few weeks, but I’ll try to move that up. In the meantime, I’ll contact Troy and get him down here ASAP. He’s been working a case in Cleveland that will hopefully close today.’
‘I’ll keep you up to date with what we find,’ Deacon promised, and hung up.
Faith covered his hand with hers and squeezed softly. ‘We used to get a lot of victims of trafficking through our office in Miami. We expected it there. Nobody really expects it here in Ohio. But I know it’s here. Unfortunately, it’s everywhere.’
Deacon thought of Tala, on her way to the morgue. ‘Unfortunately, you’re right.’
Cincinnati, Ohio
Tuesday 4 August, 6.20 A.M.
‘Holy shit, Marcus.’ Stone’s big hands dragged down his face, a weary gesture. ‘You could have been killed.’
Marcus had told his brother everything that had happened that morning – or almost everything. His fascination with Scarlett Bishop he’d keep to himself. ‘But I wasn’t.’
Stone sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. ‘I can’t bury another brother,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Please don’t make me do that.’
‘What would you have me do?’ Marcus asked, careful not to keep any sign of anger or criticism out of his tone. Stone didn’t respond well to anger, and Marcus’s criticism could cut his brother off at the knees when very few other things could.
‘Just let it go. For once in your life, don’t be a goddamn hero. Let. It. Go.’
