Red Sole Clues

by Liliana Hart

  “I notice,” she said, “you didn’t give yourself an assignment. What are you up to, Detective?”

  He smiled down at her. “Remember the Dachshund?”

  “The one Joey worried would knock Otis’s limbo out of the winning spot?”

  “Yep. He found that woman’s scarf.”

  Tim whipped a plastic baggie containing a nasty, half-chewed dog bone from his jacket pocket. “This is Otis’s. I took it from his crate before I went to security. I’m gonna hunt down the show’s organizer and see if she can hook me up with that Dachshund’s owner. Maybe they’ll let us use him to track Otis.”

  Genius! This was why he was the detective and the rest of them were…well…whatever it was they were. She gripped the front of his jacket, yanked him down a foot so they were face to face, and hit him with a lip lock. Mashed her lips against his, throwing everything she had into it and running her tongue along his bottom lip. Something she’d figured out he liked. They’d spent the last six weeks exploring each other. Kisses and some wandering hands, but that was it. No home plate.

  Not yet.

  Soon.

  But whenever she ran her tongue along his bottom lip, he let out a moan that only made the going-slow more torturous.

  Tim backed away, blinking. “Wow.”

  “We find this dog and there’ll be more. A whole lot more.”

  With that, he smacked her on the rear and pointed. “Go. Before I haul you into a closet and have my way with you.”

  Lucie scooted off to her assigned search area. If she weren’t so darned worried about Otis, she’d take him up on that closet thing.

  Right now, she needed to put her arms around Otis, that lug of a dog with the mushy face and crazy jutting bottom teeth. He’d stolen her heart the first day she’d walked him. Was he a noodge sometimes? Yes. Did he refuse to poop in the rain? Absolutely. But the love he had to give? Amazeballs.

  She swung into her designated hallway to begin her search and found it relatively empty. Three groups of about half a dozen people each huddled around vendor booths. She’d start there. Just whip into the middle of the groups and check them out. After that she’d peek in the doorways. One, two, three of them that she could see.

  They’d find him. They would. Whatever it took.

  She weaved through the crowd huddling in front of an organic dog food booth, her eyes sweeping side to side.

  Otis, with that mug, would be easy to spot. If the thieving witch of a blonde had half a brain cell, she’d have hightailed it to the parking lot.

  Or hidden him somewhere.

  So, barring Otis and his Hawaiian print shirt hopping up to shout “Here I am,” she needed to focus on the woman.

  And of the dozen or so females in Lucie’s sightline, only two were blondes. But not only were they not wearing boots, the hair wasn’t right. The woman in the photo had shoulder length hair while the two blondes Lucie spotted wore theirs short.

  Minor set back. She moved through the crowd, found a serious lack of blondes and forced herself to not dwell on it.

  Just past the first vendor booth was a door. She jiggled the handle.

  Locked.

  Hmm…. She knocked then stuck her ear against it just in case Otis was whimpering inside. Noise from one of the chattering groups drowned out anything she might hear, and she stuck her finger in her left ear to block the ambient noise.

  Right ear still pressed to the door, she used her free hand to knock again, a quick, triple-staccato that would send Otis into a mindmelt.

  Silence. Dammit.

  A few feet in front of her, a small crowd surrounded something—probably another vendor—Lucie was too short to see. She nudged in behind a woman—a brunette—and went up on tiptoe.

  “What’s going on?”

  “A reporter doing interviews. She has a cameraman and everything.”

  Ah. Lucie scooted around the crowd and spotted the cameraman standing near the back entrance to the auxiliary gym.

  Where the dogs were housed.

  Half the doorway was roped off and the cameraman stood inside the cordoned area. The reporter, a blonde—not wearing boots—finished with her interviewee.

  If someone leaving the gym via this door wanted to steal a dog, they’d probably choose the closest exit to the parking lot. Which would be the west exit. Barring that, the next closest would be the north exit.

  Otherwise, they’d have to walk clear around to the opposite side, bypassing the security guard who’d stopped Lucie and Tim earlier.

  All that, with a stolen dog.

  Lucie watched the man who’d just been interviewed push through the west exit, then swung back to the reporter and the cameraman standing near the gym door.

  From that vantage point, they’d see anyone leaving.

  And heading for either exit.

  The reporter sliced her hand across her throat. “Let’s see what we’ve got, Glen.”

  Yes, let’s see what you’ve got.

  “Excuse me,” Lucie said. The cameraman glanced over at her and she held up the photos of with Otis and the blonde. “I’m Lucie. I don’t know if you heard the announcement, but our dog is missing.”

  Maybe Otis wasn’t exactly hers, but she loved him enough that the lie would be forgiven.

  “This is him. And the woman we believe took him from inside this room. Did you see them?”

  The cameraman studied the picture, narrowing his eyes. “Well, they weren’t interviewed on camera. I’d have zoomed in on the dog in that shirt.”

  The reporter eyed Lucie then wandered over. At this distance, her make-up appeared heavy—caked on. “Hi. I’m Melanie Schaefer.”

  “Hi. I’m Lucie Ri—”

  Oh, no. Not going there. Years of experience had taught her where it would lead. The second she said Rizzo, all attention would wander from Otis to the fact that Lucie was a real, honest to goodness, mob princess.

  Lucie shook Melanie’s hand. “I was just wondering if your cameraman might be able to help me.”

  “What’s up?”

  “She owns the missing dog.” Glen handed the reporter the photo. “This is him.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I watched him do the limbo. So cute! I was hoping to get a shot of him performing.”

  “Well,” Lucie said, “if we find him, I can make that happen. I think the woman who took him left via one of these two doors. And from where you’re standing, you probably caught both on video. Any chance I can get a look at your footage?”

  Chapter Three

  Lucie stood beside Melanie, flanking the cameraman as he flipped up the eyepiece on the camera to reveal a small viewfinder. He scrolled through the video for a few seconds. “How long ago did this happen?”

  “We have her taking him out of the auxiliary gym at 9:42.”

  “So she would have walked right by us?”

  “Yes. But there’s a blind spot on the security footage and once she leaves the room, we can’t see her.”

  “Where’s the blind spot?”

  Lucie pointed to the gym wall. “That side of the hallway.”

  “Ah. But if she was against the wall, I may not have caught her.”

  He pressed a button on the camera. “I can’t tell the exact time on the footage, but we’ll rewind and see what we’ve got.” He pressed another button and the video rolled. “It should be sometime after this.”

  On the viewfinder, the reporter spoke with a woman holding a pure white Bichon Frise, groomed to perfection with an Afro that buried her ears. The dog wore a plain pink bow—Ro would have complained about the lack of flair.

  They were at a dog show for heaven’s sake. Put a little sass in that bow. Make it a leopard print or bling it out with some rhinestones. Something.

  After the interview, the woman set Fluffy down and the two of them scampered off. The images widened and revealed the lobby area filled with milling patrons and vendors.

  All Lucie needed to confirm was which door the thief—that evil
witch—had gone out of. Then she could have Kurt pull the outside security footage and maybe, hopefully, they’d get a description of the getaway car. Or even a license plate.

  “Wait!” Lucie said.

  The cameraman froze the screen. “You see her?”

  “I’m not sure.” She tapped the corner of the screen where she thought she’d spotted someone weaving through the crowd.

  A blonde.

  Walking what looked like Otis. Because let’s face it, Otis’s body was hard to miss. Big chested but skinny in the back, he had a distinctive walk that Lucie would recognize a mile out. Throw in the nub of a tail and she had her Otis. Really, for many reasons, this chick had picked the wrong dog to boost.

  “Can you go back a little so I can see this woman and the dog? I think that’s her. I just need to check which door she leaves through.”

  He hit rewind then paused the shot, not perfect, but enough that Lucie could clearly see that, yes, it was Otis.

  The woman led him down the hallway, just trotting along without a care, to the north exit. The one at the far end of the building.

  Where she marched right out into the parking lot.

  * * *

  After hunting down the dog show’s event manager, Tim flashed his badge and ten minutes later was on his way to the auxiliary gym to meet the owner of the wiener dog about to become a hero.

  As much as Tim didn’t like to rely on his badge to get things done, it sure saved him a ton of wrangling.

  Just as he reached the eastside door to the auxiliary gym, his phone rang. He stepped back from the doorway to avoid getting clobbered by people coming out of the gym, and leaned against the opposite wall. “Hey, Luce. Everything okay?”

  “Oh my God,” she shrieked. “He’s out of the building!”

  Whoa now—what? Pressure exploded from the center of his chest, radiating out into his arms and legs. He stood straight, spun right and stopped. Tearing through the hallway wouldn’t help. One of them had to stay calm.

  Clearly that wasn’t Lucie.

  “Wait. Honey, slow down. Who’s out?”

  “Otis! I found a reporter doing interviews. They had the blonde on tape. Walked him right out the exit to the parking lot. I’m on my way back to Kurt’s office. Where are you on the sniffer dog?”

  The gym door opened and out came a guy with a German shepherd, a burst of mingled voices and barks following them. The man nodded and escorted the dog to the end of the hallway.

  “I’m about to walk into the aux gym,” Tim said. “The event manager hooked me up with the Dachshund’s owners. They’re willing to help. Let me get in there and I’ll call you back. Call Ro and Joey and have them search the parking lot. And when you find Kurt, tell him to pull video from the lot. If we’re lucky, we’ll see where she took him. Have you seen any cops yet? They should be here.”

  “No. Not yet. I’ll check with Kurt.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  Tim punched off and whipped open the gym door. Once again a burst of voices and fast, sharp barks erupted. Unlike earlier, something had riled these dogs because they’d suddenly gotten antsy. A couple hundred dogs lined up in crates like parked cars was no joke in the noise department.

  He pushed through the crowd, to the end of the second row and found the Dachshund’s assigned “parking” space.

  A middle-aged couple stood in front of the crate. The woman spotted Tim and leaned into the man, his arm instinctively coming around her and gently landing on her shoulder. Probably one of those couples who’d been married twenty years. Their bodies seemed to move in sync after years of practice.

  Tim stopped about two feet from them, giving enough space that he wouldn’t be crowding, but close enough to be heard without hollering.

  He flipped his badge up—a whole lot of that going on today—and gave the couple a second to study it. “I’m Detective Tim O’Brien. The event manager called you about Marlowe helping out.”

  “Yes,” the man said. “I’m Hal Pickney. This is my wife, Joy.” He waved to the wiener dog sitting in the crate behind him. “And this is Marlowe.”

  The dog looked up at Tim and his floppy ears twitched. Crazy looking dog with that long snout and even longer body, but hell on earth, he was damned cute.

  “Hi, Marlowe,” Tim said. “You wanna help us find Otis?”

  “He sure does.” Mrs. Pickney flipped her hand out. “Let me see what you’ve got?”

  Tim handed over the baggie with Otis’s half-chewed bone. “Will this work?”

  “Normally we use a piece of fabric, but we can try. You never know.”

  “The family would appreciate it. This thing just got a little more complicated because the perpetrator was seen taking Otis out of the building.”

  Mrs. Pickney’s eyes bulged. “Oh, no. Let’s get moving then.”

  Squatting to open the crate, Mr. Pickney hooked on Marlowe’s leash. “Okay, boy. Time to work.”

  The dog stepped out of the crate, stuck his snout in the air and damned if it didn’t look like some kind of salute.

  “This is just awful,” Mrs. Pickney said. “I’d be insane if someone took my Marlowe.”

  She slid Otis’s half-chewed and fairly nasty bone from the baggie and held it up. “Go to work, boy.”

  Marlowe’s ears twitched again.

  It’d be a miracle if the dog didn’t snatch that bone. If it were Tim, he’d grab it and haul ass.

  But, would you look at that? No snatching. Just intense sniffing as Marlowe ran his nose down one side of the bone and then the other.

  “Go to work, Marlowe,” Mrs. Pickney repeated.

  “That’s his command phrase,” Mr. Pickney said. “We only say it when we want him to search.”

  “I’ve only seen our tracking dogs at the PD do this. It’s cool to see a civilian do it.”

  “It’s a ton of work for Joy. She trained him so we always have her do the commands.”

  And then Marlowe stuck his snout to the ground and took off. Talk about hauling ass. That wiener dog dragged—as much as a wiener dog could drag—Mrs. Pickney behind him as he bounced from side to side in the row, checking crates, dodging fascinated people on his way to the door.

  Holy hell, this might work.

  Unfreakingbelievable.

  * * *

  Kurt was nowhere to be found.

  Gah!

  After a trip to the security office—the very empty and locked security office—Lucie ran through the hallways accosting any male with dark hair wearing a beige shirt. Every man thought her psychotic, but they hadn’t seen the worst of this mental breakdown yet.

  That would come if they didn’t find Otis.

  After whipping through the main gym, she sprinted back to the makeshift security office. Still locked.

  Nobody home.

  She pounded on the door, waited three seconds, pounded again.

  No. Flipping. Answer.

  She turned, kicked the hard cement of the wall and pain shot through her big toe, straight up her shin.

  “Ooh, ow.” She hobbled in circles. “Ow. Ow. Ow.”

  Tears bubbled up and she blinked, shoved both palms against her eyes. Crying. Please. Who had time for that?

  But she needed to find Otis. To get that sweet lug of a dog back. And nothing, nothing was going her way right now. The longer it took to find Kurt, the farther away that evil witch got with Otis.

  And all Lucie could do was run around this damned athletic center searching for someone to help.

  She curled her hands into fists, felt the prick of her nails against her palms. Dammit. She shook her fists in front of her, that fierce anger waging war against her nervous system and needing some kind of release.

  Then she started swinging. Maniac that she was, she stood in the empty hallway, drumming her fists against an imaginary wall. One that wouldn’t give her a few broken digits. A few seconds in, her heart rate kicked up and her mind zoomed in on an image of Otis.

  Yes. Get a
ll those endorphins working.

  She stopped swinging, closed her eyes and took an enormous gulp of stale air. Sucked it all in as her body hummed and the panic scouring her mind subsided.

  “I’ve got this.”

  She opened her eyes and studied the chipped paint along the edge of the security office door.

  Forget Kurt. If she couldn’t find him, she’d find someone else. The event organizer even. Anyone who could locate him, make an announcement, whatever, to get Kurt back to the office.

  She hobbled along on her maybe-broken toe, doing a goofy limp-run-walk routine until she reached the main hallway and mowed through clumps of people. “Pardon me, excuse me. Injured person coming through.”

  An older man about her father’s age with dark wavy hair came toward her holding his hands up in the classic stop signal. “Are you all right?”

  No time for that, Mr. Good Samaritan. She had a missing dog to find.

  “I’m fine. Thank you.” She kept moving and the man fell into step beside her.

  “You appear to be upset.”

  Old man, you have no idea. She let out a harsh, painful laugh. Upset might be the understatement of the decade.

  “My dog is missing. A woman stole him. Walked him right out of the building. Now I need to find security and I just kicked the stupid wall and broke my stupid toe and Otis is still gone.”

  Lucie stopped, lowering her hands to her knees, because—holy cow—that rush of words and the huge burst of oxygen it took combined with her throbbing toe sent the room spinning.

  Don’t pass out.

  “Who?” the man asked. “Kurt?”

  Lucie lifted her head. “You know him?”

  “I should hope so. He’s my son.”

  Chapter Four

  Kurt’s father may have just saved the day, and Lucie contemplated smacking a big wet kiss on him.

  “Thank God I ran into you,” she said, following the older man and Kurt into the security office.

  “I was coming to tell my son goodbye and saw you. The way you were limping, I figured you needed help.”

  She needed help all right.

  Moments later, Kurt showed up and slid into his chair, nudging the computer’s mouse to fire up the system. “Thanks for calling, Dad.” He pecked away at the keyboard. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”