Lost Dog (A Gideon and Sirius Novel Book 3)

by Alan Russell

  My ulterior motive for staying at the repast was to have the chance to talk with Savannah Walker. As I sat there second-guessing my strategy, the decision was taken out of my hands. In her time of grief, Mrs. Walker had taken it upon herself to go from table to table thanking people for being there. She began her rounds at the table two down from where we were, and then she continued to the table right next to us. Even before she reached us, everyone at our table got to their feet. Grace remembered her promise to me and came to my side.

  Most at our table seemed well acquainted with Mrs. Walker, and before she reached me, everyone offered her words of sympathy and hugs. Grace embraced her, then introduced me as if I were an old friend.

  “This is Michael Gideon,” she said. “He knows Langston from the force.”

  I had assumed Savannah Walker wouldn’t know my name and was surprised at her recognition of it.

  “You’re the detective who just spoke at the club,” she said. “Langston said you brought your dog to the meeting, and then to the dinner. My husband told me your dog kept looking at him with these beseeching eyes, and he found himself throwing him more and more of his dinner.”

  “He’s quite the expert at getting handouts,” I said. “And your husband had a great big heart that he showed to both the two-legged and the four-legged. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how much I respected him, and how I’m sorry I never got the chance to know him better.”

  “He came home in a wonderful mood after the two of you had dinner,” she said, “so I know he enjoyed getting to know you as well.”

  As we nodded and smiled, I knew the moment had come when Savannah Walker was ready to move on. There was a room full of people waiting to offer her their condolences and their love. I almost let her pass by, but I reached out with my hand, gesturing for her to bear with me a little while longer.

  “In only two short hours, it seemed as if Langston and I discussed just about everything,” I said. “But since hearing about his death, there’s one thing I keep thinking about: his ghost.”

  I thought I’d have to explain further, but Savannah was nodding. “I’m surprised he opened up to you about the ghost. I could tell something was bothering him this last week or so, and I kept pressing him to tell me what it was. He told me about a closed case that was haunting him.”

  “So he was actively working the case?”

  “For most of this week, he was holed up in his office. Langston would only say he was ‘doing some chewing.’”

  “I hope you don’t think it’s presumptuous of me, but I’m wondering if I can pick up on this case where Langston left off.”

  She squeezed my hand. “I’m sure Langston would have liked that, but I don’t know much more than what I’ve already told you. Tell you what, though—why don’t you stop by the house? Maybe you can make sense of what he was working on from what’s on his desk. I learned not to touch his desk and upset his system.” She smiled. “Of course, I always thought his system looked more like clutter than anything else, but maybe you can decipher what’s there.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I promised.

  I knew better than to tell her my suspicions that her husband’s death might be anything but accidental. In the days to come, there would be a better time to discuss that with her. For now she had to deal with more pressing obligations.

  It was only as Savannah moved on to the next table that I noticed a lot of curious eyes watching us. Those at the nearby 187 Club table looked particularly interested. They were certainly close enough to have heard our conversation.

  I wondered what they thought of Langston’s ghost. And I wondered if Langston’s spirit still cared now that he himself had given up the ghost.

  CHAPTER 27

  VENI, VIDI, VICI, AND VENTI

  I drove home in silence. Sometimes even the best music can’t improve upon that. I could still hear the church music in my mind, and I wanted it to keep playing in my mental background while I thought about the odd couple I was obsessing over: Langston Walker and Heather Moreland.

  It was time to work Heather’s case. I put in a call to Sergeant Reyes, hoping he’d had time to red-flag cases that might have some similarities with ours.

  “I was just going to call you,” he said.

  “I’m hoping that means you have something.”

  “Negative,” he said. “Over the last year there have been a few abduction attempts, but they were vehicular related and not home invasions. The suspects tried to snatch the women off the street.”

  He heard my sigh, interpreted it correctly, and said, “La compañía en la miseria hace a ésta más llevadera.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Basically I’m saying we’re companions in misery.”

  “Misery loves company?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “We share in the failure.”

  “I’m not a fan of that expression in either language.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Lots of body shops are open on Saturday. I’m going to find out if Emilio is working, and try to get him to talk to me.”

  “You want company?”

  “I think we’d be better served by your looking at suspicious break-in cases. Besides, I’d stay off that foot of yours. But I will bring my partner along.”

  “You think Emilio likes dogs?”

  “I’m hoping he’s scared of them.”

  I called Emilio Cruz from the driveway of my house. He answered on the fourth ring. The background sounds told me he was at work.

  “Emilio, this is your favorite cop, Detective Gideon.”

  “I don’t have a favorite cop. In fact, I’m still waiting to meet the first one who isn’t an asshole. And I thought I told you not to bother me anymore, especially at work.”

  “I just need a few minutes of your time, Emilio. There are some loose ends that need tying up. How about I buy you a cup of coffee so that we can have a chance to chat?”

  He didn’t answer for a few seconds. If not for the noise of grinding metal, I would have suspected he’d hung up on me.

  Finally he said, “I’ll call you back in a little while after I decide if we should meet.”

  I assumed he was blowing me off, and tried to stop that door from shutting on me. Unfortunately, I only had words and not my foot.

  “I am available to meet anywhere, anytime . . .”

  The noise from the body shop was no longer on the line, and neither was Emilio Cruz.

  I was making Sirius a meal when my cell started ringing. I looked at the display, surprised to see that Cruz was actually calling me back.

  “I’ll meet you at three thirty at the Starbucks on Sherman Way and Sepulveda,” he said. “There’s a strip mall there with a bunch of Asian restaurants, but usually it’s not a problem getting parking during the day.”

  “Three thirty,” I said, repeating his words so that I would remember them. “Starbucks on Sherman Way.”

  “I’ll take you up on the coffee,” he said. “I’ll have a soy caramel macchiato with four shots.”

  There was no way I was going to remember his order. “Let me get a pen and write that down.”

  I grabbed a piece of paper and had him repeat it. “And I want a venti,” he said.

  I didn’t know what that was, but I wrote it down as well. The problem with taking down his order was that I had forgotten the street address, so I asked, “So is this the Starbucks with the charter school across the street?”

  “No. That’s the reform-school Starbucks on Van Nuys Boulevard.”

  “Reform school?”

  “Try waiting behind those kids and tell me differently,” he said. “They’re the reason I go to the Starbucks on Sherman.”

  Sherman Way, I remembered, writing it down.

  “Four shots,” he said once again, and then hung up on me.

  Construction and detours forced me into taking a roundabout route to coffee. I turned on Cedros Avenue and drove by Van Nu
ys High School, one of the schools used as a setting for the movie Rock ’n’ Roll High School. I probably should have found a Ramones song and cranked it up, but I resisted. During the movie’s filming, the band had visited the high school. Of course, lots of other famous people had actually gone to the school. Norma Jeane Baker—also known as Marilyn Monroe—had spent most of her sophomore year there.

  After turning left on Sherman Way, I drove a few blocks west and found the strip mall. There was plenty of parking available, but nothing near the Starbucks. Sirius and I set out across the parking lot. One of the outdoor tables was unoccupied, so I had Sirius snag it. I made it official by offering up my commands in German and telling him, “Sitz! Bleib!” Like almost half the residents of L.A., Sirius had been born in a foreign country. You wouldn’t know it by his accent, though.

  A friendly barista took my order: one small black coffee and one venti soy caramel macchiato with four shots. Over the years I’ve had enough coffee in Starbucks to know that “tall” means “small.” No barista has ever had a problem with understanding my order of a small coffee, however. From the signage I learned that “venti” meant twenty-four ounces. I wondered if it also translated to insomnia.

  The barista pointed outside to the waiting Sirius. “Does your dog want a puppuccino?” she asked.

  I’m sure her intentions were good, but I was afraid to find out what a puppuccino was.

  “He’d like an ice water, please,” I said.

  I waited for our orders and then carried them out to the table. “Thanks for keeping democracy safe from the squirrel invaders,” I told my partner.

  Sirius modestly accepted my thanks. I probably should have gotten him a puppuccino.

  I sipped my coffee; Sirius sipped his water. After fifteen minutes I began wondering if Cruz was a no-show, or whether he liked the idea of keeping me waiting.

  Five more minutes passed before Cruz appeared. He had changed out of his work uniform into a cotton oxford shirt and designer jeans, the kind of look you’d expect from an off-duty lawyer. He took his time approaching our table, his leisurely stroll demonstrating that he was the one in charge. When he noticed Sirius, he came to an abrupt stop, and then cautiously took a seat at the table as far away from my partner as possible.

  “I wish you hadn’t brought your mutt,” he said. “I’m allergic to pet dander.”

  The nickname for German shepherds is German shedders. I had never appreciated all their shedding until now.

  Cruz picked his coffee up and acted like an oenophile, swirling the brew, then sniffing it, and then taking an exploratory sip. One of my father’s favorite expressions was, “He acts as fussy as El Exigente.” My dad had explained the meaning of his words to me, saying his phrase came from years of watching coffee commercials that featured a white-clad, linen-suited character known as “El Exigente—the demanding one.” As Cruz took another sip of his coffee, I could hear my father’s phrase in my head.

  El Exigente nodded. The coffee passed muster. Strangely enough, his approbation wasn’t enough to make me feel as if I could die happy.

  “Before I came here,” said Cruz, “I decided to write up a statement. I expect it will answer all of your questions.”

  He reached into his shirt pocket, unfolded a piece of paper, and handed it to me. I read what he’d written:

  I had nothing to do with my wife’s disappearance.

  I don’t know anything about my wife’s disappearance.

  I can’t direct you to my wife’s whereabouts.

  Up until now I have cooperated with the police and answered all their questions. Any future inquiries will be considered police harassment. As I’ve already requested, I want all future communication to go through my lawyer.

  He had signed his statement and noted today’s date. I nodded to show that I’d read it, and then I did my best to ignore what I’d read.

  “Did Heather ever mention someone threatening her, Emilio?”

  “Not that I recall. And I’ll refer you to what I wrote on point number four.”

  “Did you write this up yourself, Emilio?”

  My question seemed to catch him off guard. “That’s my handwriting you’re looking at.”

  “I’m sure it is. But you didn’t answer my question.”

  “Look at point four.”

  “I don’t know you that well, Emilio, but it’s pretty clear you’re not the sharpest knife in the drawer. You understand what I’m saying? And your being slow couldn’t have been much of a turn-on for Heather. Looks only go so far. You know what they say about the brain being the most important sex organ. That sort of suggests you’re impotent.”

  Emilio was no longer enjoying his coffee. “Fuck you,” he said.

  I shook my head and sighed. “You’re making my point for me. You see, profanity shows a limited vocabulary. That’s why I suspect you didn’t write your letter by yourself. So who helped you?”

  “You’re full of . . . it.”

  At least I’d managed to curb his swearing.

  “It seems like I hit a sensitive spot, Emilio. You overreacted when we talked about Heather growing weary of your tiny brain. I guess over time that became a turnoff for her, especially when her career started taking off.”

  “That shows you how much you know.”

  “What don’t I know?”

  “Heather couldn’t get enough of me in the sack. I was large and in charge, and she loved it.”

  “So explain to me again why it is that she wants a divorce?”

  “Number four,” he said.

  “Funny, that answer sounds more like number two.”

  He sat at the table doing a slow burn.

  “You see, Emilio, that’s how you use profanity without being profane.”

  “If you’re so smart, then why haven’t you figured out what happened to my wife?”

  It was hard to tell if his taunt implied that he knew things about that disappearance. Maybe my goading could get him to say more.

  “I’m working on that. And since I’m pretty sure you’re not smart enough to have abducted her by yourself, I’m wondering who you might have gotten to help you. Working in an auto shop like you do, I’m guessing it wouldn’t be that hard finding some muscle for hire. If that’s the case, you could have kept your hands clean and distanced yourself from Heather’s abduction.”

  “Number four,” he said.

  “Did a lawyer help you draft your statement, Emilio? Is that who you talked with before agreeing to meet with me?”

  “I didn’t talk with no one. I didn’t need to.”

  “So after Heather drops the bombshell on you, after she tells you tough luck, after she says your year of counseling and anger-management classes still wasn’t enough to cut it for her, you lost it, didn’t you, Emilio?”

  “I’m beginning to think you’re the one who can’t read,” he said. “Do you want me to read points one and two?”

  “No need,” I said. “But I’m wondering why you settled on only four points. Is it because that’s as high as you can count?”

  Cruz’s voice constricted, and his clenched fingers turned into fists. “You’re such a tough guy hiding behind your badge and gun.”

  “I’m not hiding behind my badge and gun,” I said. “I’m hiding behind him.”

  Sirius had picked up on the threat in Cruz’s voice and was raising him one. His growl was deep and his teeth were bared. Hell, even I found it scary, and he was defending me.

  “Call him off,” begged Cruz in a frightened whisper.

  “In Ordnung,” I told my partner, telling him “okay” or “enough” in German.

  Sirius stopped growling.

  Cruz got to his feet, albeit a little unsteadily. He backed away from us until he’d retreated to what he must have thought was a safe distance, and then quickly began walking to his car.

  “Let’s do coffee again soon!” I shouted.

  He flipped me off.

  “I guess that must be p
oint number five,” I told Sirius.

  I watched Emilio get in his car and then drive off. For once, I wasn’t in a rush to be somewhere. My coffee was cold, but I sat there sipping it anyway. I pulled out Cruz’s note and looked at it. Why he’d even bothered to meet with me didn’t make sense. He’d pretty much refused to discuss his wife’s disappearance.

  Maybe he’d just wanted me to pick up the tab for his venti soy caramel macchiato with four shots. I finished my own cup of coffee. There were no dregs at the bottom, even though I imagined I tasted them.

  CHAPTER 28

  THE SCENT OF A WOMAN

  Since there wasn’t anything I could do at the moment for Heather Moreland, I decided to do something for her dog. I called Doggy Doreen. Despite her putting a positive spin on it, she couldn’t hide the fact that Angie was still unsettled and hadn’t yet adjusted to her new situation.

  “What do you think about my coming over and taking her somewhere for a walk?” I asked.

  “That would be wonderful,” she said. “If you get her tired, maybe she won’t be pacing back and forth all night.”

  “Is that what she’s been doing?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “A walk can’t hurt, then. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “It’s sweet of you to even ask, but there’s nothing I can think of.”

  “How about I bring some dog food to save you a trip to the store?”

  Doreen did her best to talk me out of it, but then owned up to a few favorite brands of dry food.

  For the dogs I bought a few large bags of premium kibble; for the human I brought two bottles of wine. As I began carrying my offerings inside, Doreen effusively thanked me.