Dangerous to Touch

by Jill Sorenson

  “They can’t fit any worse than yours,” he countered. “Breakfast is almost ready.” He gave her a mildly insulting swat on the behind.

  “Hurry up.”

  In the master bath, she took a quick shower, using his masculine-smelling soap and shampoo sparingly. She wrapped a towel around herself and opened the door to let out steam as she rifled through the contents of the cabinet for toothpaste. When she found his deodorant, she pulled off the cap and inhaled, delighted to have found his scent.

  “You can use that if you want,” he said, standing in the open doorway.

  She applied the deodorant to her underarms nonchalantly, as if that had been her intention all along.

  With a slight smile, he pulled one of his T-shirts out of a drawer and handed it to her. “All I have is large,” he said, getting an eyeful of her bare legs beneath the hem of the short towel.

  “It’s okay,” she said, hugging the shirt to her chest. “I can wear it with my jeans from yesterday.”

  She got ready quickly before joining him downstairs.

  At the kitchen counter, there was an abundance of scrambled eggs, coffee, orange juice, whole wheat toast and fresh fruit. “Did your mother make this?” she asked.

  “No, I did. She’s at church.”

  “Hmm.” Taking the plate he offered, she piled it high and sat next to him at a small table overlooking the backyard. “Who takes care of the lawn?” The grass looked freshly clipped, if a bit dry in places, despite the recent rain.

  “Me. Why? Can’t you picture me engaging in domestic duties?”

  “Cooking, maybe. Cleaning, definitely. Mowing a lawn? No.”

  “I think you just offended my masculinity,” he said dryly.

  “You know what I mean. You aren’t the power tools and monkey grease type.”

  He smiled. “And yet, you are. I’m having a wild fantasy about you tinkering around under the hood of my car.”

  “Is that some kind of innuendo?” she asked.

  “No,” he said with a low laugh.

  “You know what you need?” She gestured with a forkful of eggs. “A dog.”

  “I suppose you have a candidate in mind?”

  “Yes,” she said in triumph. “Blue.”

  His smile disappeared. “Even if I wanted a dog, which I don’t, I wouldn’t take that one. He’s a maniac.”

  “I think he could get over his aversion to men, if he found a trustworthy one.”

  His expression was bland. “If you think I’m trustworthy, you don’t know me very well.”

  “Maybe not with women, or relationships,” she conceded. “But you take care of what’s yours.” When he didn’t argue, she knew he wasn’t interested in pursuing the conversation. “Tell me why you hate dogs,” she continued anyway.

  “I don’t hate dogs,” he said after a pause. “I just never really understood their…appeal.”

  “You never wanted one, as a boy?”

  “I suppose I did.” He paused, as if remembering something. “I fed a stray once. Several times, actually, behind my mother’s back. I thought if I kept feeding him, he’d stay. He didn’t.”

  What he’d said was so incredibly revealing that for a moment she couldn’t breathe. It embodied every childhood wish, every lost hope, every unfulfilled dream he’d had growing up. The stray dog was a metaphor for his absent father, whether Marc realized it or not.

  Then he continued, having never known how much he’d given away. “In Saudi, there were strays everywhere. I hated the sight of them. They were mangy, ill-bred and ill-kept, like the dogs that roam the streets in Mexico. I couldn’t understand why people with so little to spare would feed an ugly mongrel instead of their own children.”

  “I thought Saudi Arabia was a wealthy country. Oil-rich.”

  “It is, for the minority elite, but most people just scrape by. In the refugee camp next to the base where I was stationed, the residents were dirt poor.”

  “Go on,” she urged.

  “There was one dog the other soldiers took a liking to. He was always getting into the chicken coop, making a nuisance of himself, stealing hens. But he was so sneaky and clever he gained their respect. They called him Houdini because they couldn’t figure out how he was getting in and out. I caught him once while I was on night watch, skulking away with a dead bird. I could have shot him then, but I followed him instead, just to see where he was going.”

  Sidney nodded, finding the sound and cadence of his voice wonderfully pleasant.

  “He was taking the chicken to a little girl. A family, I suppose, although I only saw her. She plucked the bird right out of his mouth, and he gave it up so easily. I couldn’t believe it.

  “After that, I looked at the camp dogs differently. Not all of them were loyal and selfless, like the chicken thief, but the people who tossed them scraps were genuinely fond of them, and I finally realized why they did it. It was just basic human nature, to give. To share. To see something hungry and feed it.”

  “This is a nicer story than I thought it would be.”

  He laughed harshly. “No. It isn’t. We’d all grown fond of the dog, had taken to giving him our leftovers in hopes that he wouldn’t raid the coop. I didn’t see him around for a while, but one afternoon I spotted him walking down the deserted dirt road next to camp.

  “It was clear something was wrong with him by the way he was moving. Unsteady, and sort of convulsing every few steps. When he got closer I saw the foam around his mouth.”

  “Oh, no,” she whispered.

  “I didn’t have any choice but to shoot him. But just as I raised my rifle, the little girl came running out to him.”

  “My God.”

  “I walked toward them, shouting at her to get away, to get out of the line of fire. She only understood that I was going to kill her dog. Even half-crazed with rabies, he was protective of her. When he lunged at me-” he stared down at his open palms “-I broke his neck.”

  She raised her hand to her mouth, speechless with shock.

  He was silent for a moment, then he arched a brow at her. “What do you think? Was it as good as the ones Daddy told?”

  “No. Although I don’t doubt he had some similar tales, being a veteran himself.”

  “That’s what your sister told me. Right before she took off her clothes.”

  She bristled at the provocation, which was too strong to ignore. “I know you didn’t sleep with her.”

  He smiled smugly, telling her he could have if he’d wanted to. “And who would you be mad at if I did?”

  “You. She probably considers it her sisterly duty to test you.”

  “To see if I’ll cheat?”

  “No,” she said. “To see if you’re any good.”

  He studied her face. “Did you two compare notes about Greg, as well?”

  “You’re not fooling me,” she said, tamping down her anger.

  “You didn’t want to expose yourself emotionally by telling that story, so now you’re pushing me away.”

  “Honey,” he said, his expression one of great pity, “I don’t have any emotions to expose.”

  “You saved a girl’s life,” she argued. “Why did the dog’s death affect you more?”

  A light flickered in his wary brown eyes, but his voice remained flat. “The dog meant more because he represented compassion, a phenomenon I’ve rarely encountered in life and scarcely understood. And when I found it, I killed it with my bare hands.”

  As warnings went, his couldn’t have been clearer. He substituted sex for intimacy because he had nothing more to offer, although he was so skilled at what he did, women probably didn’t complain.

  And if they did, he moved on.

  Her heart began to beat a rapid tattoo in her chest, and she turned her back on him, afraid her face would reveal her feelings.

  This was not a man to fall in love with, logic warned.

  Too late, fate replied.

  Marc left a note for his mother before he took S
idney to work. She’d be disappointed if he couldn’t accompany her to the San Luis Rey Mission that afternoon, as planned, but she wouldn’t be surprised. His work often superseded all other aspects of his life, and attending religious gatherings had never been high on his priority list.

  It wouldn’t be the first time Alma Cruz had only her faith to keep her company.

  “You don’t have to stay,” Sidney insisted.

  “Yes, I do.”

  Alone at the kennel, she was just as vulnerable as she was at home, but instead of dogging her footsteps, he retreated to her office to make phone calls.

  “Gina’s got a match on your reefer,” Lacy reported. “Stomach contents from the stray cat and the joint you gave her are consistent. Homegrown, high THC level, same basic color and maturity. Tests on the dog were also positive, but inconclusive for a specific strain.”

  He sat back in his chair, letting the ramifications of her words sink in. If the man who broke into Sidney’s house was the killer, Marc had discovered an indirect link to his identity: his friend and neighbor, Tony Barreras.

  Finding everyone who had access to a certain marijuana crop was like playing six degrees of separation. A local grower often sold bulk amounts to a few big-time dealers, who in turn hooked up with small-time guys like Tony, who then distributed the product to a dizzying range of nickel and dime customers.

  Still, it was worth a shot. “Let’s assume the perp is drugging dogs with marijuana. He may be hiding it in food, giving it an hour or so to kick in before he strikes. If he waits too long, the dog won’t be in the mood to go for a walk, right?” He drummed his fingertips on Sidney’s desk, considering. “Leak it to Crystal Dunn. Giving female dog owners a head’s-up can’t hurt.”

  “You really think he’ll stick to that MO?”

  “Not after it’s been all over the news. But what choice do we have? If he tried it a few times before he actually abducted a victim, maybe we could jog someone’s memory.”

  Lacy groaned, probably thinking of the task force hours that would be sacrificed to old ladies calling to say Muffy had been sluggish after her morning walk six months ago. “I’m already burning the midnight oil here, Marcos.”

  “Public service is a thankless job, Meredith,” he returned, completely unsympathetic.

  Marc hung up, no more satisfied with the direction of the case than she was. The “grasping at straws” investigative technique was rarely fruitful. Neither was sitting on their hands, however.

  He toyed with the idea of calling Tony then discarded it. His friend adhered to the drug dealers’ code of ethics, an unspoken set of rules that included being deliberately vague over the telephone and never naming names. Tony might give up his source in person, but he wouldn’t do it on a live wire.

  After spending another hour trying to piece together a puzzle that didn’t fit, Marc gave up and left Sidney’s office. He’d kept a surreptitious eye on every customer she interacted with throughout the day, studying vehicles, facial expressions and demeanors.

  If the killer had been among them, he didn’t know it, and neither did she. Sidney treated all of her clients with the same deference. Her manner was reserved and her professionalism exemplary. Owners spoke of their pets as though they were members of the family, and Sidney cared for them as such.

  It was all very bizarre.

  Confounded by interspecies dynamics, Marc wandered to the kennel and roamed the fence line, hands shoved deep in his pockets. What had drawn Blue here? The sound and scent of other dogs? Sidney’s psychic connection?

  Shaking his head, he studied the surroundings. The industrial park looked nothing like Candace Hegel’s neighborhood, or any other residential area. Pacific Pet Hotel was part of a business zone, a concrete jungle with scant vegetation and few trees.

  He flipped open his cell again.

  “What?” Lacy answered, exasperated.

  “Where did Anika Groene get her dog?”

  “At the pound, same as Candace Hegel.”

  “Follow up on the prior owners.”

  “I already have. Both dogs were picked up by animal control on opposite sides of the city during routine patrols. No tags, no micro-chip identification and no prior owners.”

  Marc mulled it over. Like Blue, Anika Groene’s dog was an odd-looking specimen. What else did they have in common? “Are Dobermans a German breed?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Check out local breeders, especially the disreputable kind, those who might sell dogs of questionable pedigrees. And trainers. Maybe Hegel and Groene used the same trainer.”

  “They didn’t. Neither dog had ever been to a trainer.”

  Marc frowned, thinking of the commands Sidney had given Blue. It wasn’t just a habit; she didn’t use them with other dogs, and half the time, she didn’t seem to have any idea what she was saying.

  “Did Candace Hegel speak German?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Find out.”

  Lacy was silent for a moment. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? You do all the thinking, I do all the legwork?”

  “Yes,” he said with a grin, and hung up.

  Whistling, he wandered over to Blue’s kennel. For once, the dog didn’t lunge or bark at him. Instead he regarded him warily through strange, colorless eyes.

  “Hey there, sport,” he said, keeping his voice amiable.

  Blue lowered his head and issued a low, rumbling growl.

  “Oh, yeah,” Marc muttered. “You’re a keeper.”

  “Bonding?” Sidney asked, coming up behind him.

  “Best friends,” he agreed, jerking his chin toward the dog.

  Blue bared his teeth.

  She threw back her head and laughed, the same guileless, throaty laugh he’d been intrigued by from the start. He hadn’t heard it very often, because things between them had hardly been jovial, but he liked the sound. Even more, he liked the way she looked, unselfconscious and unadorned, her simple beauty complimented by his plain white T-shirt and her cap of short, black hair.

  He smiled back at her, wishing for a moment he had a fraction of her innocence. When she noticed his appraisal, the happiness drained from her face. “I’m done,” she said, stepping away from him. “I always close at noon on Saturdays.”

  “Do you think he misses her? Candace?”

  She raised her eyebrows, perhaps surprised by the sentimental question. “Yes. He mopes and sighs and takes very little joy in life.”

  “Maybe he was like that before.”

  “No.”

  “And his aggressiveness? Is that also a symptom of grief?”

  She hesitated. “With most dogs, aggression is a learned behavior, although some animals seem to be naturally more inclined to it.”

  “What is your professional opinion, in his case?” he asked, adopting her clinical tone.

  “I think he was abused or mistreated before the abduction.”

  “By Candace Hegel?”

  “Of course not,” she protested, as if defending a close friend.

  “Could he have been trained that way?”

  “I don’t know. Most formally trained dogs are very controlled, very well-behaved. Their owners spend a lot of time caring for them. Are police dogs aggressive, off-duty?”

  “No,” he admitted. Even the most vicious attack dogs were the best of canine companions, according to their human cohorts. Examining Sidney’s face, Marc shelved thoughts of the investigation temporarily. It was Saturday afternoon, she rarely had time off and she looked tired. “Would you like to go with my mother and me to the mission?”

  She rubbed at her eyes with her fists, an endearing, childlike gesture. “Actually, I’d like to go home and go to bed.”

  “That can be arranged.”

  “Alone,” she clarified.

  He bit back another smile. “I knew what you meant.” Not that he wouldn’t enjoy joining her there-when she was no longer a part of this investigation. Last night, once aga
in, he’d gone too far with her. He’d known his mother had been due back any minute, but he’d gotten lost in the taste of her mouth, the feel of her body, the scent of her skin.

  He would have her, Marc told himself. Just not yet.

  “If I go home, will you follow me?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  She sighed. “Then I’ll feel guilty for keeping you.”

  “Don’t. I’d rather work than go to church.”

  “And here I thought you were a good Catholic boy,” she teased. “Responsible, God-fearing, dutiful.”

  “I said I was responsible, not obedient.” With his mother, he’d always felt more like a parent than a child. She was emotional and reactive, all sense, little sensibility. He’d taken advantage of her fragile nature and ignored her admonishments more often than a good son should. People with weaknesses were easy to exploit, he’d discovered at a young age, and had hardened himself accordingly.

  “I’d rather commit sins than atone for them,” he added, his eyes on the curves of her body.

  “I don’t have anything to wear,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “I’ll take you home first. You can pack an overnight bag.”

  She scowled at him. “Presumptuous, aren’t you? You think I’m spending the night with you again?”

  “I’d prefer it, but don’t get any hopes up that I’ll ravish you. My mother isn’t leaving until tomorrow morning.”

  While Marc waited downstairs, Sidney packed her bag, casting a longing glance out her bedroom window. It was a beautiful day, crystal clear and not too hot, the recent rain having scrubbed away both the smog and the humidity.

  She would have loved to spend the afternoon at the beach.

  Sighing, she shoved some clothes and toiletries into a green canvas tote, then searched her closet for a dress to wear. She only had one appropriate for the weather, so there wasn’t much to deliberate over.

  Her shoe collection was also woefully inadequate. She’d never thought she needed flirty summer sandals until this very moment. Shrugging, she grabbed a pair of simple white Keds. They weren’t new, but they were cleaner than her work sneakers, so she called it good.