Contents
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Excerpt from A Dog and His Girl Mysteries #1: Play Dead
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Copyright
By the time I figured out what was happening, it was too late. The crime had been committed and the perp had escaped. On my watch. Woof.
It was a hard, cold fact that K-9s lost criminals from time to time. Even well-trained ones like me. Still, it was enough to make my ears lay flat.
The problem? My senses were working overtime.
I had one eye on my girl, Cassie, and her friend Taylor, the cool kid from Pet Rescue. They were working to bring in strays. I had one ear on the puppy in the crate next to me — the dog Taylor had already caught and was calling Daisy. The little pit bull smelled nothing like a flower. She smelled like motor oil and garbage and neglect.
My nose was ignoring Daisy’s stink and inhaling the smoky, juicy, beefy smell of Smokehouse burgers. Burgers Cassie and Taylor were using to bait the strays. Burgers still hot from the Smokehouse. Dripping with meaty goodness. Sitting in a bag right next to me.
I might have been drooling. I might have been a little distracted. But that was no excuse.
I was on the job, on a Sit Stay. Just far enough away from the desperate dogs we were trying to capture not to scare them. Just close enough to the loading dock to watch for quivering noses. I was watching and waiting and smelling and staring. And yes, drooling and dreaming of leftovers.
That was how the perp pulled off the burger heist. And he never would have gotten away if the bag had been on my good side — the side with the ear that still worked. I knew better than to keep precious goods on my bad side. But even a dog can make mistakes.
When I heard the crinkle I whipped my head around. Fast. Only not fast enough. The dog was gone. And so was the bag of delicious. We’d been burger burgled!
There was no point in barking out the alarm for Cassie and Taylor. The four-footed thief had already hightailed it out of there. And like I said, I was on a Sit Stay. A dog like me knows that a Sit Stay also means “quiet.” Civilian dogs didn’t understand the importance of a good command. A well-trained K-9 did. I was well trained.
Also, barking would have scared the street meats. A big, loud bark could send the homeless pups running far and fast. A dog didn’t have to be on the streets for long to learn. Out here everyone and everydog was against him. Every meal could be his last. Just the mood down here on the waterfront was making me feel a little rattled. A little worried about losing my soft bed. My bowl. My Bunny.
I was glad when Taylor tapped Cassie’s shoe. “It’s getting late,” he said. “I think we’d better call it.” The day was darkening.
Cassie stood up and brushed herself off. She looked droopy-eared. She was a girl who liked to get her dog, and she was good at it. But today she’d come up empty-handed. I wagged, and she almost smiled. Then she noticed the missing burger bag. I stopped wagging. Her eyes asked me a question, and my eyes answered. Sometimes that was all Cassie and I needed: eyes. She knew I hadn’t eaten the bait, but Taylor was suspicious.
“Dodge, you devil,” he scolded playfully.
I let out a bark to tell him I was innocent, but he was already getting on his bike. He waved good-bye and headed out, pulling a little trailer with Daisy’s kennel behind. The pit bull was still shaking in her crate, but was going to Pet Rescue, the shelter where Taylor worked and Cassie volunteered. She’d get a bath, a real dinner, and a warm place to sleep. She didn’t know it yet, but she was on the road to home. Maybe even a forever-home.
Cassie pushed her bike into a roll before swinging her leg over the seat. I was right with her, ready to go. She pedaled fast and I broke into a run, feeling the wind in my ears and fur and nose. I let my tongue loll out of my mouth, just a little. I tasted the air. It felt good to run, to be on the move. To be running away from the warehouses. This neighborhood was no friend to dogs.
I had a great pace going when Cassie squeezed her brakes. I slowed, smelling warm rubber and something else. We were still near the water. I sniffed. Seaweed. Gasoline. Vegetables?
I followed Cassie’s gaze to see why we’d stopped. She was staring at two men outside a vegetable-scented warehouse. They were shouting and posing like circling dogs.
One of the men had on a white apron. He puffed his chest and stuck out his chin as he howled out angry words. The other man wore a coat and the kind of special collar men wear around their necks to look fancy. Only the cloth seemed to be choking him — his face was all swollen. The shiny car behind him matched his shoes. It had to be his. And next to the car was an even larger man who was hiding his face under a hat.
I stifled the growl in my throat. I smelled lies. Or maybe horseradish.
The man in the collar put his hand on the apron man’s shoulder. It might have seemed easygoing, like a pat. But it wasn’t. It was more like a nip at the back of the neck. A signal to let the other guy know that he was in charge. He chuckled, but not in a friendly way. Then he took his hand off the other man, turned, and got into the shiny car. In the back, where the criminals sit. The hat guy got in front and they drove away.
Apron man watched them go. His hands were balled into fists. The tang of frustration and anger reached my nose, making me want to chase the shiny car. Maybe even bite its tires.
Cassie watched. She drummed her fingers on her handlebars as the taillights faded in the semidark. “Interesting,” she said, and we pushed off.
I ran faster but didn’t enjoy the run — just the idea of being home. For dinner. Dinner, dinner, dinner. I loved dinner. Dinner was my favorite.
When we walked in, I smelled two things: bacon frying and that something wasn’t right. The Dad was in the kitchen, cooking the bacon. “Hi, guys,” he greeted. But he barely looked up. Cassie hurried to set the table. I started to pant, just a little. And pace. Click, click, click, click. In front of the door.
Cassie put the plates out and dropped napkins on the dining table. I could tell she was feeling what I was smelling. Something not right. The napkins weren’t landing in their usual places. Her eyebrows were low. She wasn’t smiling. Not even close. She looked out the window at the setting sun. She looked back at the clock in the kitchen. Then she looked at me, still pacing. I sat.
Cassie patted her leg and I followed her into the kitchen for kibble. But even as I crunched down my dinner, I kept my good ear cocked. Listening. Waiting to hear a car or footsteps or the phone.
The Dad was draining a pot of steaming spaghetti. He was making pasta carbonara, aka pasta deliciousness. What could be better than pasta, bacon, eggs, and cheese? The smell alone was usually enough to keep me drooling under the table. But not tonight. Tonight the smell of worry was ruining everything.
When my bowl was licked clean, I started pacing again. Back and forth. Dining room to front door. The Sister carried plates of hot pasta to the table. She practically knocked
into Cassie.
“What are you doing?” Cassie barked. She and The Sister didn’t always get along. “Mom’s not even here yet.”
The Sister didn’t reply; she just stared. I stopped in my tracks. Cassie’d said it. She’d said what the not-right feeling was about. The Mom wasn’t home, and she hadn’t called. It was late. Dinner was ready. And The Mom wasn’t home.
Sure, sometimes The Mom worked late. She had a big job. She was the top dog — The Chief — at the Bellport Police Station, where I used to work. And she was good at it. Very good. So sometimes she stayed late. Sometimes she traveled. Sometimes she missed dinner. But she always called.
Dinner was a big deal with the Sullivan Pack. You weren’t allowed to miss it without a good excuse. The whole family was trained to be home for dinner, even The Mom. Only tonight she hadn’t called. That meant something was off. Way off.
“Shouldn’t we wait?” Cassie asked. She gave The Sister the kind of look I generally reserve for The Cat. The girls glared at each other. It was a standoff. Neither of them looked away, even when The Brother slunk into the room and plopped down in his usual spot. There was no way I was going to sit in my usual spot, which was under the table. Not without The Mom here. I needed to pace.
“Dad said to go ahead and serve,” The Sister snapped. She smiled with her mouth, but her eyes were growling.
“It’s true, I did.” The Dad ended the stare down when he set two more steamy plates on the table. He tried to sound calm but looked twitchy. Tired. He didn’t have much fur on his head, and what was left was sticking straight up. He’d been running his fingers through it. The way some dogs lick themselves hairless when they get anxious. “We can’t wait any longer. Carbonara’s only good when it’s hot.” His shoulders went up and down.
I’d heard The Dad say this before. Carbonara was his specialty. He liked to howl about the “beauty” and “economy” of using the heat of boiled pasta to cook the eggs. I had no idea what any of that meant. I just loved carbonara. So did the rest of the Sullivan Pack. The only dependable leftovers on carbonara night were the bits that Cassie saved for me, which were a sacrifice.
Tonight, though, there’d be plenty of leftovers. I heard forks on plates, twirling the eggy noodles. But nobody was eating.
“Maybe she just forgot to call,” Cassie said. “Maybe she’s just having a bad day.” My girl was always hoping for the best. Just like a dog.
“Maybe,” The Dad said. “It’s weird she didn’t answer her cell, though. That’s not like her.” He ran his fingers through his hair again, then stopped. He smiled at his kids. He didn’t like to bring up the dangers that came with being Chief. He thought worrying was his job, and he worried enough for the whole pack. Right now it looked like he was going to worry away what was left of his fur.
The Dad opened his mouth but stopped when lights flashed through the front window. Two lights. Headlights. The Mom was home!
I listened at the door for footsteps outside, but all I heard was a car door and the engine of a patrol car. Still running. Why was the engine running? The car door had already closed….
Finally Cassie caught up to me and turned the latch. I pushed with my front feet, and swung the door wide so I could jump down the front steps. But I didn’t see The Mom on the doorstep, waiting to hang up her badge for the day. No. I saw Hero — my replacement on the force. He was hanging out the front squad car window in our driveway. I wanted to whine. Or run. I braced myself instead.
Hero leaped out of the car window and bounded toward me like a rabbit. Ears straight up and mouth wide open. He was a German shepherd, like me, and had also been trained to work with police. But that was where the similarities ended. Hero was all enthusiasm, no discipline. And he was approaching at top speed.
There was no place to hide. All I could do was stand there while the green K-9 wagged and drooled all over me. He bowed, paws out, begging me to play. He clearly had no idea what it meant to be on duty. I ignored him as best I could while his officer, Hank Riley, tried to calm him down.
I focused on The Mom. She was there, pulling her stuff out of the backseat of the patrol car. Wait. The backseat! The backseat was for criminals. The Chief never rode there.
I struggled to understand what I was seeing. It was hard with Hero circling and barking at me like I was a long-lost littermate. Oh, woof!
“That’s enough, Hero,” Riley said. The guy may as well have been talking to a cat. Hero wasn’t listening. Riley yanked his leash. Finally Hero sat, whimpering and squirming. Completely pathetic.
“Thanks for the ride, Riley,” The Mom said. I could hear the tired in her voice.
“Sure thing, Chief,” Riley said. Only he half swallowed the word “chief” and started coughing. “Anytime,” he added when he’d recovered.
The Mom raised her hand in a wave, and I walked beside her up to the stoop. The smell of worry was all over her. Stronger than bacon. Stronger than garlic. Stronger than anything. But it wasn’t just worry I smelled. There was an anxiousness to it, and anger, and worse … defeat.
The Mom waited for her pack to clear a path, stepped inside, and dropped her bag by the door. She shrugged off her coat.
“Long day?” The Dad asked, twisting his napkin.
“You could say that.” The Mom sank into her chair at the table. She stared at the bowl of pasta cooling in front of her. I wanted to tell her I’d eat it if she needed me to. She didn’t look hungry. Instead I settled under the table with my head on Cassie’s foot — my regular spot. The perfect place to watch and listen for fallen food and dropped clues. Only nobody was eating. And nobody was talking.
For a long while the only sound was the clink of forks pushing pasta. Finally Cassie wiggled her toes and took a deep breath. “Mom, is everything okay? What’s going on?”
The Chief’s fork clattered down. She cleared her throat and uncrossed her legs. Her hands appeared under the table, and she laid her palms flat on her thighs. “I’ve been suspended from the force,” she announced. “Until further notice.”
I stared at my plate and wished I could eat. I wished I wanted even a single bite. But right now my head was so full of jumbled thoughts that my stomach had gone all queasy, and putting food into it would only make it worse.
Mom. Suspended. It just didn’t make any sense. Mom was the chief of the Bellport Police Department. She had a flawless record. She was well respected, and well liked — a top-notch cop. She’d never do anything that might get her suspended.
“So what happened?” Dad asked, setting down his fork.
“What’d you do?” my older brother, Owen, piled on.
Mom sighed. “I didn’t do anything. But I’ve been accused of negligence, so they’re placing me on suspension while they complete the investigation.”
Negligence? Mom? She was the queen of the i dotters and t crossers, Captain Careful, the Ruler of Rules.
“So this is standard procedure?” Dad asked, fishing. “Just a simple investigation?” His fingers were laced together over his plate of uneaten food.
I turned to Mom, who was looking more and more like a melting snowman. “I’m afraid it’s not standard or simple,” she said. “They’re looking into the warehouse explosions. They’re investigating Mark’s death and trying to nail the responsible party.”
When I heard Uncle Mark’s name, I felt like the air was sucked out of the room — like we were in the cabin of an airplane and somebody opened the door. The five of us just sat there gasping. Dodge’s head grew heavier on my foot, and I struggled to digest what I’d just heard. Mom was being accused of killing Uncle Mark — Dad’s brother, Dodge’s police partner, Mom’s right hand on the force, and the best uncle anybody’d ever had.
When Uncle Mark died in the warehouse fire over a year ago, it left a huge hole in our lives — one that would never be filled. It took us a long time to recover from the shock and the loss, and even now it could suddenly feel as fresh and as painful as it did when it happened.
/>
I stared down at my pasta, at the pieces of crispy bacon and flecks of chopped parsley. The room was deathly silent and I wanted to throw up. My hand fell under the table. Dodge sat up and I caressed the spot behind his black ears. I knew he’d been listening to every word. He wasn’t shaking, but his muscles were tensed and he jumped at the sound of Mom’s chair legs scraping across the floor.
I hoped Mom was standing up to say something else, to tell us what her plan was, that everything was going to be all right.
All she did was pick up her plate. “I guess I don’t have much appetite,” she said quietly, apologizing. “I’ll be on cleanup.”
“No, Mom. I’ll do it,” Sam piped up. “It’s my night.”
My head whipped around, and Dodge crawled out from under the table. We couldn’t believe our ears. My ten-year-old sister was many things, but worker bee was not one of them. She usually only jumped at the chance to get out of a chore.
Mom held firm. “That’s okay, Sammy,” she said, putting a hand on my sister’s shoulder. “I want to do it. It’ll help me focus.”
Sam eyed Mom’s hand, clearly wishing she would focus on explaining how she was going to make everything better. I could relate.
I picked up my plate, too. “Sam and I will clear for you,” I said, feeling hopeful. Maybe a sink of suds would help Mom develop a plan of attack, and if Sam and I stuck close by we’d be there to hear it. “No objections, Chief!” I added a little too enthusiastically. Owen peered at me through his shaggy bangs with a look that said, “Chief? Really?”
He was right. Mom’s face wilted when she heard her stripped job title. Her stressed look slumped into a depressed look, and I wished I could yank the words back.
Dead Man's Best Friend Page 1
