Beaglemania

by Linda O. Johnston

  I was shown by a woman in uniform—probably a rookie, judging by her apparent age—into a room no larger than a closet, with nearly all its space occupied by a large table. Used to seeing interrogation rooms on TV shows, I looked around. Sure enough, there was a camera. Would I be recorded? Probably, but I didn’t intend to say anything incriminating. I was there to learn all I could.

  Detective Garciana entered a minute later, wearing—of course—a suit. A dark one. He looked even more rested than the last time I’d seen him. Maybe more intimidating, too.

  But I wasn’t intimidated easily. Although I might allow him to think so, if it made it easier to get what I wanted from him.

  “So,” he said, “did you come here to confess, Ms. Vancouver?” His Hispanic features seemed more pronounced than I’d seen before, here under the artificial bright lights. His eyes glowed, too, as if in anticipation. Or glee. If he really thought I’d ventured here to confess to something—Efram’s murder or feigning the situation with Honey at HotRescues last night, or both—he’d undoubtedly feel pretty cocky, as if he had won a game that had been in play for over a week now.

  “Actually, no,” I replied. “I’m here for advice. Research, really. One of my kids is doing a paper at college on law enforcement and asked me to do some research at the LAPD.” I’d considered how to approach this and decided that some semiwhite lies were in order. Garciana would certainly not be pleased to tell me how I could do his job since he obviously wasn’t doing it right.

  “Do you always do your kids’ work?” His tone was dry, and the pleasantness had all but disappeared from his expression.

  “Only when it sounds interesting to me. What I’d like to find out is the kinds of things you look for during a background check on a suspect. Also, which of those things are the red flags that make you believe you’ve found the perpetrator.”

  “Those are pretty broad questions.” He’d been leaning toward me over the table, but now he moved back and crossed his arms—his body language pronouncing his lack of enthusiasm over how this conversation was going. Maybe because he wasn’t controlling it . . . or me.

  “I know. But my child will really appreciate any input you can give me.” I shifted in my seat, too—not because I was uncomfortable with our discussion, but because my injured leg hurt.

  “Your child . . . or you? Are you trying to figure out what makes me so sure you’re a primary suspect in the Efram Kiley murder? I’ll bet your lawyer wouldn’t be happy to learn you’re here. You shouldn’t feel happy to be here, either.”

  “I’m not. But I’m looking for information anyway. So . . . what makes you decide someone’s a viable suspect?” A lot of possibilities came to my mind. Would he confirm them?

  For example, opportunity had to be high on his list. Efram Kiley died at HotRescues, and I happened to be there that night. I figured that’s why he’d zeroed in on me. That, plus I’d been arguing with Efram—motive.

  I wasn’t going to voice my thoughts aloud, though. I wanted the detective to tell me what was on his mind—hopefully, beyond the obvious.

  “You know, I took time from a busy afternoon to talk with you. I’d hoped we’d make some progress in the Efram Kiley situation, if not the incident in which you were hurt last night. You don’t strike me as stupid, Ms. Vancouver. I think you know why you’re an obvious suspect. The basics of police investigation—motive, means, and opportunity? You could learn them all on the Internet or TV. In both of these matters, you had them all.” His voice grew louder and more irate the more he talked. Obviously, he was practicing those intimidation techniques of his on me, just as I wanted to use him to practice my inquisition skills.

  Neither of us was getting anywhere.

  Then he finally said something helpful. “You want to know how I conduct an investigation? Very methodically. By the book.” He leaned closer again. “I also think a lot about it not by the book. My SOP isn’t exactly like the standard operating procedures of my fellow detectives.”

  “What do you mean?” I suddenly felt as confused as if he’d sent me home with a free pass, deleting me from the suspect list.

  “I like to think way outside the box. Even as I’m focusing on the most probable suspects, I also spend time doing the same analysis of the least likely. Just in case, I spend nearly as much time and energy looking into their backgrounds, their MM and O, and anything else I think could be helpful in each case.”

  “Really? That’s fascinating,” I said, meaning it. I jotted notes on a memo pad I’d brought along, ostensibly for my kid working on a paper. This was something I could use in my own computer files on everyone I suspected.

  “But you know what?” I had a feeling Garciana was about to burst the little balloon of possibilities he’d just inflated in my mind. “That’s all just an exercise to keep my mind open as long as it needs to be. Because . . .”

  He paused dramatically. I was fairly sure I knew what came next.

  “Because?” I prompted anyway, waiting for the theoretical knife stab that might feel nearly as bad as the real thing.

  “Because reality is almost never like the garbage you see on TV or read in books, where the cop, or viewer, or reader, doesn’t really know till the end who did it. Reality is that the person most likely to have done it, judging by their motive, means, opportunity, and attitude, is the actual culprit.”

  His fiery expression segued into blankness—except for his eyes, which seemed to reach over to pinch me.

  “Like you think I am,” I said very softly, not actually wanting him to respond.

  “Like I know you are,” he responded with a grin.

  I returned to HotRescues both exhilarated and disheartened. I liked Garciana’s way-out-there concept of an investigation. But if, in his experience, it was mostly an exercise in futility and eliminating false possibilities, how could it really help me save myself?

  For it was clear that, no matter who else he looked at, how deeply he considered unlikely murder suspects, I was the one he intended to arrest eventually for murdering Efram.

  Which made my own probe even more critical.

  Volunteer Ricki was our greeter this afternoon when I returned to HotRescues. A good thing. I didn’t want to run into Nina while I was in the middle of evaluating her position in my suspect files.

  Garciana had said he put time and effort into the least likely suspects, just in case. To me, that included Nina. And Matt.

  “Hi, Lauren,” Ricki said as I came in. I glanced at the desk behind the counter. She’d been reading a textbook I knew from my days as a veterinary technician. She’d start school soon, and I heartily encouraged her. “Pretty quiet day today, although there are some phone calls for you to return. Also, a couple of people in the back said they’re interested in maybe adopting a dog. Their answers to our initial questions sounded fine.”

  “Thanks. I’ll go check them out in a minute.” First, I stopped in the office and exchanged the blouse I’d worn to my thought-provoking discussion with Garciana for a blue employee HotRescues shirt that contrasted with the yellow volunteer one Ricki wore. I also checked the wound on my leg. It was still bandaged but was healing well.

  I soon headed into the shelter area. The folks who had come to visit had either circled back to the entry or hadn’t gotten beyond Honey’s enclosure in the first place. A twenty-something man and woman both knelt on the pavement, hands inside the fencing, petting the Westie mix. I noticed that Si Rogan watched from just outside the center building, a good thing. I preferred that a close watch be maintained on visitors, especially now. I was still knotted up inside after what had gone on the night before last.

  Plus, there had been some news coverage—not a lot, fortunately, but I suppose something as offbeat as a landslide of dog food plus a knife injury got some tabloid sorts’ adrenaline flowing. Honey hadn’t been identified, at least, either by breed mix or name, so her involvement couldn’t be the reason for this couple’s interest.

  Fortunately,
I’d remained anonymous, too, this time—although HotRescues hadn’t. People who’d seen earlier reports on the puppy mill rescue and on Efram’s death might infer my connection anyway.

  “Hi,” I said to the visitors petting Honey. “Isn’t she sweet? She was left at a high-kill shelter about six months ago. It’s beyond me why no one has adopted her by now . . . although maybe she was waiting for you.”

  The young Asian woman rose. She had a glow on her face that suggested she’d had the same idea. “Maybe so. We . . . we didn’t intend to adopt today. I need to check at our apartment building, make sure it’s okay to bring a dog in.”

  “But we really like her,” said the man with her, short and stocky and also of Asian heritage. “We’ll be back just as soon as we can, if we’re able to take her home.”

  “Sounds good,” I said. “In the meantime, why don’t you fill out the paperwork so we can check on some background things? That way, if you come back, we may be able to handle an adoption more quickly. And be sure to bring a copy of your lease to confirm whether you’re allowed to keep pets. Photos, too, of where she’ll sleep and get her walks.” Were they on record in the system we used to keep track of animal abuse, or did they have other black marks against them? I suspected that wasn’t the case here . . . but like in investigating Efram’s murder, I had to consider all possibilities.

  Including Matt Kingston. That was why I was doubly glad to show up the next day at the Animal Services shelter in the northern San Fernando Valley that was still waiting for funding to open—the one where the puppy mill rescuees were taken.

  I’d fortunately slept well the previous night, since all adrenaline that had resulted from the Honey attack had worn off. I had even arrived at HotRescues a little later than usual, and left after lunch.

  That Friday afternoon, Matt was there at the unopened shelter to greet me, as we’d planned. He now occupied a page in my file of murder suspects, and I intended to check out all details relating to his MM and O as carefully as I would someone I really wanted to believe was guilty.

  But mostly, I was there to see how the puppies and their moms and dads were doing now, nearly two weeks after they’d been saved from that hellhole where they’d been living.

  There weren’t many cars in the parking lot in front of the smooth beige stucco facility that resembled a Spanish mission, with a peaked tile roof and arched, paned windows. The walkway was charming, decorated with poles on which pictures of dogs, cats, and horses were hung, and others had decorative bells on them.

  When I reached the front entrance, everything appeared to be locked, so I called Matt. He came nearly immediately and held the door open for me.

  “Glad you could make it.” His smile reminded me why I found him one attractive example of masculinity when I thought about it. Today, he wore casual clothes, not an Animal Services uniform, and his knit shirt hugged a muscular build that I’d already figured let him scale cliffs and pull himself out of storm drains, all in the name of saving animals.

  It would also make stabbing someone who tortured animals a lot easier.

  “Me, too,” I responded.

  Matt led me along pathways between enclosures, most of which had no animals in them. We reached a populated area—one filled with a lot of young dogs of breeds that were highly familiar after the puppy mill rescue. Including little beagle pups.

  “They’re so adorable!” I exclaimed. I looked at Matt. “Are they all still healthy?” They looked it, at least.

  “Like I told you, we didn’t lose any.” His proud smile made me grin in return. “Of the pups.”

  I felt my smile disappear. “The parents?” I braced myself to hear the worst.

  “Most are fine. We’ve completed our photographs and documentation for the puppy mill owners’ prosecution and started distributing adults to public shelters. A couple were already adopted. But a few here need a lot of medical attention. They may make it, or not. We’ve got them under veterinary care, but unfortunately, in a public facility, we may not be able to do all that’s necessary to save them. Two are on the list to be put down, maybe in a day or so.”

  I grabbed his arm. “How bad are they?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “May I send a vet here to check them out?” Today, if Carlie was available. If not, I’d twist her arm so she’d come no later than first thing tomorrow. With me. Even though it would be Saturday and my kids were coming home from college this weekend. “If they’re suffering, I won’t get in the way. But if there’s a possibility of saving them, giving them a good life ahead, I’d like to take them to HotRescues to get them the care they need.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.” To my surprise—and unexpected delight—he bent toward me and kissed the tip of my nose. “Let me introduce you to them.”

  Chapter 23

  This was one of those days that I was thrilled I’d chosen to buy a Toyota Venza with its variety of dog-friendly accessories.

  My gray crossover was attractive enough, but I liked it mostly because I had it equipped to be one of the most practical vehicles on the road for the chief administrator of an animal shelter on days that the regular shelter van was just too big.

  It was Saturday morning. I had just pulled my Venza into the area behind HotRescues where deliveries were made. I glanced into the rearview mirror to look at the wire crates I’d positioned in the back, behind the removable pet barrier, after flipping down the rear seats automatically.

  Inside the crates were the two dogs whom Matt had said were not well enough to be kept alive at city shelters. The little beagle and Boston terrier would require more individual attention than official care centers could provide.

  I’d cried on Matt’s shoulder yesterday afternoon, figuratively and literally, when he had introduced me to them. Then I’d made a frantic call to Carlie, who met me there in less than an hour, bless her. She had examined them and pronounced that, given lots of TLC, they could thrive well enough to be rehomed—most likely soon.

  “You okay, Mom?” That was my son, Kevin, who sat in the passenger’s seat beside me. He’d arrived home late yesterday evening, a blast of life into my quiet, too somber home. His university was only a couple of hours away, so he’d gotten here ahead of his older sister, Tracy, who was due into town from Palo Alto in about an hour. A friend was picking her up at Burbank Airport.

  I’d assured them that I was surviving just fine as a murder suspect and dog-food-and-knife prank victim, but they’d insisted on checking themselves.

  The thought of having both around as company . . . well, I’d been smiling a lot. Except when I’d seen the condition of the overworked parent dogs I’d just rescued from truly awful and unnecessary fates.

  Fortunately, the other rescued parents hadn’t wound up as fragile as these two and were not in imminent danger.

  “I’m doing great!” I assured my son. Looking at him as we sat there, I smiled once more. How could I help it? Kevin was so like my beloved Kerry: tall and slim, with longish, unmanageable hair the shade of a deep red autumn leaf just segueing to brown. His brown eyes were intense beneath a straight brow line, and his mouth nearly always appeared ready to burst into laughter.

  Smart kid, too. Otherwise, how could he be majoring in Science and Management at Claremont McKenna College?

  How could I afford to send two kids to college at the same time? Fortunately, HotRescues had the most generous benefactor imaginable. Knowing my financial and social situation, Dante was my benefactor, too, giving me hefty raises and occasional bonuses to help cover tuition.

  Which was another reason I had to get this whole Efram situation resolved as fast as possible. Dante had been completely understanding so far. But I was under no illusions. His largesse could evaporate as fast as it materialized, if he believed my resignation was in HotRescues’ best interests.

  I wondered if anything was happening with the Brooke Pernall/Cheyenne scenario. Brooke had called to thank me after she’d heard from Dante,
but hadn’t given any details after indicating that things might be looking up. She’d sounded almost cheerful, and I hadn’t detected any illness or despair in her voice this time. Plus, she hadn’t relinquished Cheyenne to us, which could be promising. I’d check again someday soon.

  Right now, Kevin and I both exited the car. I went around to the back and opened the rear hatch.

  Two small faces regarded me from separate crates. The mama beagle’s eyes were a massive amount more doleful than the breed standard. The brindle and white Boston terrier had her pointed ears up and moving, as if she listened to radio waves that told her whether to trust me or not.

  “You may not believe it yet,” I said to them, “but your lives are about to change a whole lot for the better.”

  “I’ll say,” Kevin seconded from behind me.

  “Can you carry this one?” I asked him, pointing to the crate with the Boston, who was smaller and lighter.

  “Mom.” He drew the word out in the exasperation only teens were capable of. He wasn’t quite nineteen, after all. “You take the smaller one. I’ll take the beagle.”

  I didn’t argue. Not when I was proud of how much of a gentleman he was. I gently slid the crates down the pet ramp that I’d gotten with the car and put them on the ground. Then I closed and locked the car. Kevin waited by the back HotRescues gate, which was locked. I got the key out of my purse and opened it.

  Almost immediately, when we went inside toting the crates, Pete Engersol met us, his well-worn features brightening. “Are these our first rescues from the puppy mill?”

  “They sure are,” I responded with pride, setting the crate I held down on the pavement. The nearest dogs became sentinels and barked a greeting and warning to the newcomers, soon taken up by other residents. I watched as the Boston cringed, then noticed the same with the beagle as Kevin put her crate down.

  The Boston. The beagle. If they’d had names before, no one had passed them along to us. We’d give them new ones soon, even if they didn’t stick.