No, Ned hadn’t arrived alone. Hovering behind him, and apparently itching to be allowed into the room to arrest me, were the two detectives first assigned to the Dorgan pet-napping: Mabel Madero and Domenic Flagsmith. Both appeared to have arrived after color-coordinating with Ned. Or maybe it was a requirement this week that all LAPD detectives wear dark suits with white shirts and blue ties. Even women, although the blue scarf around Mabel Madero’s scrawny neck was a little fuller and lighter in shade than the male neckties.
“Who are you?” Tom asked. “And what are you doing here? This is a private area.” He might not have known who these people were, but he clearly sensed the immediate animosity. He stepped in front of me, as if for my protection.
A private area? Because of our kiss, or because Saurus and other nonmammals were housed here and could be contaminated by cooties from irritable cops?
“I don’t suppose you’ve solved the burglary from the Dorgan home, have you, Kendra?” Ned continued, his arms folded so tightly against his chest that I suspected he held them there to save himself from sailing around Tom and strangling me. “I mean, you do that so often with homicides. Do you have a suspect picked out, and have you obtained sufficient evidence to be used in court to convict him or her?”
I was uncertain whether the snort from over his shoulder came from the him or the her who glared from behind Ned.
“Kendra recovered the animal victims,” Tom said from in front of me. “She brought them here so I could make sure they were all right. That’s not obstruction of justice. That’s saving lives.”
Detective Madero elbowed her way past the obstruction of Ned. Didn’t the woman ever eat? She looked so thin it was painful. And cops were supposed to be trained in self-defense stuff, weren’t they? I didn’t observe even a hint of what could be muscle beneath her somber black suit.
“How can we be certain she didn’t steal them in the first place?” she demanded, her wrath so directed at Tom that I had an urge to step in front to protect him.
Instead, he held out a hand as a signal to me to stay still. Not that I had to obey, but I didn’t move—for the moment. Meantime, Tom didn’t budge an inch as he faced this woman and prevented her from drawing closer to me. Sweet man.
“It’s awfully convenient that they were stolen when she was their caretaker,” Madero continued, “and now she’s returned them.”
“Isn’t it interesting,” I said to no one in particular, “that cops who attempt to cover up their own ineptitude are prone to accuse others of crimes without a shred of evidence?”
Ned’s arms uncrossed in time to block Mabel’s charge toward me. Good thing. Otherwise, I might have been taken into custody for breach of California Penal Code, Section 0.00: telling an ill-tempered officer the insulting truth. After being roughed up a bit by that same skinny hen of a cop.
And who knew how the glass animal enclosures along the wall might fare in a female fistfight?
“Let’s not make accusations . . . for now.” This was the soft voice of reason from the third detective in the compact room, Domenic Flagsmith. He had struck me before, with his thick, black-rimmed glasses and calmer attitude, of being much more reasonable than his rash lady partner. Now, he bolstered that initial impression. Of course, this could just be an example of a habitual good cop-bad cop routine.
“Great idea,” said Tom. “Can I get you all some soft drinks? Coffee—although I think there’s enough energy in this room without adding more caffeine hype. There’s also dog fitness water in the back room, if you’d rather have some of that.”
“What I’d rather do,” stormed Detective Madero softly, “is interrogate Ms. Ballantyne to find out exactly how she located the missing animals and whether there’s any evidence left to indicate who stole them in the first place—assuming, of course, that it wasn’t Ms. Ballantyne herself.”
“We’ve been through that part already, Mabel,” I said in an equally quiet tone that I hoped came across as firm without threatening an officer of the law . . . much. “I did not steal the pets. I did, however, help to get them back. Ask Saurus.”
I pointed briefly toward the small habitat that now housed the retrieved iguana. Saurus gently gestured with his long and dinosaurlike tail, but clearly wasn’t talking.
“You want evidence?” I continued, barely taking a breath. “Fine. The place to look is the picnic area at Sepulveda Basin, on the way into the wildlife viewing area. That was where the thief left the animals, and—”
“How did you know they’d be there?” Ned interrupted.
“Mrs. Dorgan received a ransom note, apparently in the mail. It said to leave a cell phone number to receive a text message about where the pets would be once the ransom was received. She paid the ransom, and sure enough, she received a text message some hours later directing her to that particular picnic area. The animals were already there. End of story.” Almost. I didn’t want to tell these detectives, particularly not Ned Noralles, that Jeff had been involved and had attempted to identify a suspect both at the ransom drop point and the pet drop point, since the intent of his assistance was foiled both times.
Which would cause Ned no end of pleasure, and, consequently, Jeff no end of embarrassment.
Besides the fact that I didn’t want to bring up my P.I. sometime lover in front of the guy I’d just kissed so heatedly and would join for dinner that night.
What if Ned latched on to my mention of Jeff and began gabbing about my relationship with him, and how I’d helped clear not only him, but his ex-wife, too, from separate murder allegations?
“You lost both my card and Detective Flagsmith’s so you couldn’t call when you became aware of Mrs. Dorgan’s receiving the ransom note.” Detective Madero was speaking, and what she said wasn’t a question but a snide placing of words in my unwilling mouth. She had maneuvered her skinny bod between Tom and me, and she clearly angled to get in my unenthusiastic face. “And you didn’t think of calling Detective Noralles to get that information. I don’t suppose you told Mrs. Dorgan what to do with the note to preserve any fingerprints that might be on it.”
“Sure I did,” I contradicted. “I’ve seen enough of this game to know how it’s played.”
“Someone who knows how this game is played would also know to let the authorities in on it from the first.” There was a snap to her tone absent an instant earlier. But her next words were again coolness personified. “Okay, you couldn’t contact us then, so you allowed Mrs. Dorgan to pay the ransom, and she didn’t know how to contact us, either.”
“Hate to disappoint you, Detective,” I said, savoring every word, “but no one tells people of the Dorgans’ wealth and power a whole lot of anything. They do pretty much as they please.”
“But you, Ms. Ballantyne, are an officer of the court, are you not, as a currently practicing attorney?”
Oh, shit. Was my law license being threatened yet again? Could this be changed into a claim of a new breach of ethics?
Hell, no!
“I most certainly am,” I said sweetly. “And that’s exactly why I had to maintain client confidentiality.” Okay, so I exaggerated a little. The Dorgans were my clients—pet-sitting type instead of law clients. “They wanted their pets back without intrusion by awkward and difficult law enforcement sorts who might scare the pet-napper away and prevent the return of their beloved animals. I wasn’t about to contradict their wishes. But I’m more than happy to cooperate now and give you what limited info I can.”
“Are you claiming that you represent them as their attorney?” I’d never seen someone both sneer and drool at the same time, but Detective Mabel Madero appeared to do both. She was clearly attempting to goad me into a misstatement that would allow her to arrest me for something. Maybe even the obstruction of justice that Ned had previously suggested.
“My relationship with them is confidential,” I said, my tone chiming a whole lot more confidence than I felt. “In any event, Detective Madero, I would think the LAPD would give kudos instead
of threats to someone who did their job and helped to retrieve stolen property of some of the area’s most prominent citizens.”
Surely, someone assisting in a situation like this should get pats on the back, not up the legs or other strategic areas where strip searches were conducted during an arrest . . . right?
I looked at Detective Flagsmith for support, but he regarded me sternly. No help there.
Ned Noralles? He looked more amused than authoritarian, and I didn’t think he’d step in to assist me, either.
Tom Venson would. He stood off to the side, in front of the glass enclosure containing Saurus, his arms crossed as Ned’s had been before. He scowled darkly in his white lab jacket, and I was certain he’d do something rash should the cops decide to take me into custody for . . . well, whatever it was that the nasty Detective Madero had on her mind.
I didn’t want Tom in trouble, too. “Look,” I said. “If I could have done things differently and still gotten Saurus and Zibble back, I would have. But if I’d stepped in and tried to involve the authorities—”
“I wouldn’t have my dear pets back and ready to bring home,” inserted a chilly voice from behind the bevy of irritating and irritable detectives.
The wave of detectives parted as Hillary Dorgan entered the room with Zibble still on his leash.
“Ms. Ballantyne did an admirable job of helping me. I suggest that the LAPD commend her, rather than attacking. I’m sure my husband will so inform the mayor—you know we see him socially, don’t you?—who will undoubtedly let your chief know what a fine job you are doing in this matter, too.”
The three detectives exchanged glances, and for the first time Mabel Madero appeared appalled.
“And now, Kendra,” Hillary continued, “I would appreciate it if you would drive Zibble, Saurus, and me back home.”
WHICH I DID. Pronto. As soon as Tom gave the go-ahead to depart with Saurus. Zibble, as we’d anticipated, was given pretty much a clean bill of health. As long as he ate, peed, and pooped okay over the next few days, and didn’t show any other signs of a change in well-being or personality, there was no cause for further concern.
With Saurus, Hillary would need to take special care, keeping close watch on where he hung out in his habitat, whether he ate and drank sufficiently, and whether he, too, acted any differently from the way he normally did. Assuming one could observe any differences in such an inscrutable creature.
On the drive to the Dorgan home, Hillary expressed indignation over the way the cops had acted not only toward me, but also—and mostly—over her actions to retrieve her animals. “What was I supposed to do—contact the authorities and let them insinuate themselves so intrusively into the situation that the thief killed my pets while the cops scratched their butts over how to get them back?”
A colorful way to put it, one I liked a lot. “They have their procedures,” I said mildly, “even if civilians don’t find them the best way to achieve what everyone wants.”
“That’s for sure.”
I certainly understood her ongoing rants, but I admit my relief to reach her home. I helped her move Saurus back into his habitat. As I left his presence, he seemed to watch me, perhaps thanking me in his own inimitable, incomprehensible manner.
Hillary was less subtle. “I really appreciate all you’ve done, Kendra,” she told me. The check she handed me for my pet-sitting was way above my standard fee, and I attempted to return it in its entirety.
“I still feel terrible about all that happened, Hillary.” Yes, by now, we were genuinely on a first-name basis—both of us. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“You helped me get Zibble and Saurus home safely,” she contradicted and refused to shred the check.
I decided to keep a minimal amount and send the rest to a pet rescue organization, although I wasn’t sure yet which one. I’d give it some thought and get advice from Darryl.
Or maybe I’d use it to further the senior citizen pet-visit program that Rachel had become involved with.
Guess I had some pondering to perform before making a decision.
Good thing it was still Saturday, but almost half the morning had passed. I felt terrible about leaving my pet-sitting charges alone for so long.
I determined to spend much longer with them than usual.
After, of course, taking care of my own prized puppy, Lexie, who remained home alone.
And so I didn’t take the time to report in to Tracy or any other Pet-Sitters Club of SoCal members about my triumphant retrieval of my missing pet clients until way into the afternoon.
Tracy was, of course, the first I called. When she didn’t respond on the first ring, I had a fleeting wonderment about whether she had been arrested for Nya’s murder. Followed by a feeling of deepest guilt. Over the last many hours, I had barely spared a thought for my murdered compatriot or the friend whom the cops apparently thought had killed her.
Well, I’d remedy that as soon as—
“Hello, Kendra?” Caller ID is a wonderful thing, I thought as Tracy immediately knew who I was.
“Hi, Tracy,” I said. “Guess what!”
“Oh, you already know? I meant to call you earlier about it, Kendra, but so many members of the club are already aware, and I’ve been getting one call after another.”
“Really? I wonder how word got out so soon, and—”
“They’re so scared,” she interrupted. “Maybe you could give another talk about how to cope with it.”
What the heck was she saying? Everyone who knew what had happened with the Dorgan pets should be celebrating, not scared or coping.
“I don’t understand, Tracy,” I said. “The Dorgan pets are back home, safe and sound. Isn’t that what we’re talking about?”
There was a moment of silence, then she said, “Apparently that’s what you’re talking about. And that’s a good thing, Kendra. But what I’m talking about is the other two pets stolen on our members’ watch yesterday and today.”
Chapter Fifteen
SHE’D CALLED A makeshift meeting for four that afternoon. Lexie and I had to hie ourselves over the mountain to get there on time.
And, yes, this time I’d done the right thing and informed the authorities in advance. Detectives Flagsmith and Madero said they’d be there, too. They didn’t tell me till I asked, but they had also been called in on one of the new pet-nappings, since it occurred in their jurisdiction. They seemed suddenly to be the cops assigned to investigate what had become a serial crime.
I reached Rachel and asked her to meet me, but she was at the senior citizen center with Beggar again and couldn’t break away in time. She apologized, but I excused her. What she was doing was important, too, and I could fill her in on any meeting details she needed to know.
Plus, she promised to stop in at all our current Critter TLC, LLC, clients on her way home to ensure nothing had changed since our respective visits this morning—and that all our dog and cat charges remained exactly where they were supposed to be. I put the keys and entry instructions for the pets I cared for safely behind the security of my own locked gates, but a place where Rachel could access them.
Lexie and I arrived at the meeting with minutes to spare. The back room of the West Hollywood pet boutique hummed so loudly that Lexie let out a bark when we entered the shop.
“Easy, pup,” I admonished. “Let’s not get excited . . . unless and until we have to.”
At our last PSCSC meeting—had it only been four days earlier?—I’d been impressed by how many people were shoehorned into the small storage room, and now there appeared to be even more. The unfolded folding chairs arranged in neat rows remained largely unoccupied at the moment, and I wondered whether there would be a sufficient number to seat everyone.
Probably a fire hazard, but I wasn’t about to call it in. Detectives Mabel Madero and Domenic Flagsmith were already there. That would be their bailiwick, if it actually was an issue.
The crowded room smelled of people perfumes, p
et scent, and the food and stuff stored around the edges. Someday, if the club continued to grow this way, a new venue would need to be voted on. One that also allowed dogs and the couple of parrots that were also present.
Although, of course, if we stopped and solved the pet-nappings, there might be less interest in the organization afterward.
I saw Tracy in the midst of a crowd at the front of the room. Allen Smith stood beside her, holding Phoebe, the puggle. Gaunt now and pale, Tracy appeared distraught and distracted. To join her, I’d have to elbow my way past a bunch of people, pets, and chairs. Instead, I wriggled my way through the hot, heated crowd and their mostly canine companions toward Wanda.
Cavalier Basil in her arms, she stood speaking with Lilia Ziegler and a man I hadn’t met. Instead of one of her usual gauzy tops, Wanda wore a black T-shirt, but it managed to convey her usual style with its gold swirly trim at the front decorated with faux jewel-like stones.
Older Lilia appeared even more animated than ever. Her brown hair shot with gray was pulled back from her face and clipped behind her head, stressing the laugh lines around her deep-set eyes. Her wrinkled hand waved, as it often did to punctuate her sentences, and she seemed to speak in excited paragraphs.
She caught my eye as I approached holding Lexie. “Kendra, what’s going on? Tracy said you got the animals back that were taken on your watch, but two more of us—Frieda and I—had pets stolen. And Jerry, here, who’s been trying so hard to deal with losing Nya, has been all but accused by the police of not only killing her, but doing the pet-napping, too. Just because they had some spats now and then. Well, all couples do, don’t they?”
Jerry? This had to be Jerry Jefferton, Nya’s significant and live-in other. I’d been wondering why the cops chose to harass Tracy as their main suspect over Nya’s main squeeze. Now, looking at Jerry, I figured the cops hadn’t arrested either because they hadn’t yet decided on the best accusation prospect. Not that Jerry appeared to be a murderous maniac. But he was a big guy, one who could likely wield a fatal baseball bat with ease. He had shaved his head and was enough on the plump side to appear almost sumo-esque, although he wore a shirt and tie and looked more like a businessman than a wrestler. He seemed to study the feet of Wanda and Lilia, although that could be his grief, weighting his head too much to lift it to meet their eyes.
The Fright of the Iguana Page 13
