“Why…?”
Harrison interrupted, “Look, these dogs are trained on a reward system. His work is also his play. If he does good, he gets a treat, which in his case, is a stuffed figure of a prince. It’s his chew toy shaped like some cartoon prince from a Disney movie, only we call it a ‘Duke.’ Get it? As in Dukes of Hazzard.”
Trakes couldn’t help smiling.
Harrison continued, “In this case, he didn’t work, so not only does he not get the Duke, I more or less ignore him. The worst punishment a dog can suffer is to be ignored by their pack leader. He knows he did wrong, but he doesn’t know what he did.”
Trakes looked again at Rosco.
“I won’t put him in that position again,” Harrison continued. “I’ll sit here with him until you release us. We’ll go home, and I’ll set up a training practice for him. We’ll find what he’s sent to find and then I can reward him. He’ll finish his day with positive reinforcement, not negative.”
“I see,” Trakes said, then turned to leave.
“Excuse me,” Harrison called, and she turned back.
“I don’t suppose you’d be interested in stopping by the kennels and watching him work some time?”
Trakes looked at Harrison, shifted her eyes to Rosco, then back at the handler.
Harrison stood and shifted his weight uncomfortably, “I mean if you’re interested in how the dogs are trained. You might want that information in your report.”
She rewarded his efforts with a small closed-lipped smile, then shifted her eyes, again, to Rosco and told him, “I think I’d like to watch you work old, guy. I bet you can put on a show. But you need to tell your human I make it a point not to date men who carry badges or shields, sorry.”
Harrison hid any disappointment and nodded, “I suppose a play date for the boys would be out of the question?”
“Play date?”
“Yeah,” he explained. “We’d take Rosco and Kelsey to the dog park. Let them off their leashes.”
She widened her smile, “I appreciate your persistence, but no.”
Trakes turned away from the man and his dog, but Harrison called her back again.
“Is it okay for me to take Rosco home? Are you in charge?”
“No, I’m not in charge, but I think you’re free to go. If the dogs aren’t able to work, there’s no reason for them to be kept here.”
Harrison nodded his gratitude and reached down to scratch the top of Rosco’s head, “Hear that? We’re out of here.”
Rosco wagged his tail.
“Hey,” the K-9 officer called yet again, and Trakes, again, turned back.
“I was serious about you stopping by the yard and watching them work. I think you will learn something, and I’m not trying to pick you up. Not yet, anyway.”
He grinned, and she thought he had a nice smile.
“I think I will, but it will be all business.”
She turned away and trudged back to Meeker.
“Did you talk to the K-9 people, about how their dogs wouldn’t work the scene?” she asked him.
The big detective had not moved from where he leaned against the front fender of the crime scene van as he watched her interaction with the K-9 handler and the dog.
Meeker canted his head to look at her and replied, “Talk to them? I was here. I watched the fiasco.”
“Was it as bad as Harrison made it sound?”
“It was,” Meeker nodded. “The dogs almost pranced their way to the body, they were so ready to work. But when they got close, they just shut down. In truth, it was a little weird. I’ve never seen dogs act that way before.”
Trakes turned and the two watched the dog retreat into the darkness.
“Did you release them?” Meeker asked.
“I did. It seemed there was no reason for them to stay.”
He nodded, “Good call.”
After a few moments of silence, Trakes asked, “Who’s the lead crime scene technician?”
Meeker scanned the crew, “I believe that would be Carson.”
He pointed to a black woman covered from her head down in a cap, mask, impregnated paper coveralls, gloves, and boots.
“I honestly don’t know how you tell all those techs apart,” Trakes said.
“It’s a gift. What do you want with her?”
“Nothing,” Trakes shook her head, “I want you to tell her to collect seven strips of turf from around the body.”
“Seven strips of what?”
“Turf.”
She motioned for him to follow and crossed to stand next to the body. There, she demonstrated with her hands while he watched.
“I want the techs to cut out seven strips of soil. I want the cuts to be grass-root deep, one-foot wide and six feet long. I want a strip from the top of the head, one running away from each shoulder, the same from each hip, and lastly, the same from each foot.”
Meeker nodded, “Okay, and why are we doing this?”
Trakes stepped close to him and shook a finger at his chest.
“Look, you and I are paid to get excited because of who this guy was, but what if it’s something else?”
“Not following.”
“We, and by ‘we’ I mean law enforcement, use dogs in all kinds of cases. We use them to curtail the shipping of narcotics, explosives, certain animals and a ton of other stuff. We use the dogs’ abilities for probable cause to search all types of vehicles, containers and buildings. The bad guys are always trying to come up with a way to throw doubt on their abilities. The courts have allowed dogs as probable cause because rarely do they make a mistake. What if the bad guys have come up with some kind of spray that shuts down the dogs’ abilities? If they can do that, we’re in trouble.”
“Are you thinking somebody dropped this stiff just to test an anti-dog spray?”
Trakes shrugged and continued, “I didn’t know Mr. Ferreira, but I’ll bet he had a habit of pissing people off. Just suppose he screwed up one time too many, and there was also a need for a volunteer to test a new anti-dog spray or droplets or whatever. People have been killed for less. Maybe he angered the wrong guy.”
“You really had to go to school to get all that from a dead body in the park,” Meeker chided her.
“You think I’m wrong?”
“I didn’t say that. I simply said that you put together a detailed guess from nothing more than a dead body and temperamental dogs.”
“It wasn’t a guess. It was a supposition.”
Meeker nodded, grinned and said, “Yeah, and I’m a meter maid.” He added, “You know the park boys aren’t going to be too happy, you ripping up and making off with their turf.”
“They can have it back once you’re done testing it, can’t they?”
“I guess that depends what’s on the grass.”
The agent nodded and muttered, “True.”
Trakes turned and started to walk away.
“Hey,” Meeker called after her, “where you going?”
She turned back, “I’m headed to the office. I’m going to try to get a little sleep and freshen up before I have to brief the SAC about all I don’t know about this case.”
“That’s why you get the big bucks,” Meeker called.
“You keep saying that, but I don’t see them. Keep me in the loop. There’s going to be interest in this, if you know what I mean.”
Meeker nodded and waved, “I will, and I do. As soon as I get anything, I’ll call you.”
“Put a rush on the forensics, please.”
“Anything for you, my princess,” he said.
She shot him a glare, then turned her back to him and started the trudge through the wet grass back to her car. Her mind vacillated between two separate trains of thought: one, her shoes, strapped dress sandals, were indeed ruined, and two, Meeker’s use of the term princess reminded her of the toy Duke and how Rosco had been stymied.
Harrison waited a few more minutes than he had planned. He watched the Special Age
nt as she moved around the crime scene. He leaned against the front fender of his K-9 unit, legs crossed at his ankles, and just watched Trakes. He liked the way she moved, with a feminine grace that seemed to smooth the edges of her authoritative posturing. He leaned slightly to one side and reached to scratch the top of Rosco’s head.
“Ain’t she something?”
The dog looked up at his human and wagged his tail. Harrison didn’t see the reaction; he was still focused on Trakes. The officer continued to watch the agent until she disappeared into the mist and darkness of the night. Even after he could see her no longer, he watched where she had last been observed. Then, with a sigh, he straightened and crossed the grass to stand next to the oversized Meeker.
“Hey, Detective,” he said, “what’s with her?”
Meeker looked down on the K-9 officer, “Whatta ya mean?”
“I mean I asked her out for coffee, and she turned me down like I was road kill. I get it, she’s a federal agent, and I’m just a city cop, but why does she have to be such a bi…”
“Careful,” Meeker interrupted.
Harrison stopped and looked at the threat in the big detective’s eyes.
“You be careful what you call her when you’re around me.”
“Look, I didn’t…”
Meeker interrupted a second time with a waggle of his pointer finger.
“I don’t care what you didn’t. That girl is like a niece to me. I served with her dad in the Navy. After we were discharged, he went to college and then to work for the FBI. He was killed when Timothy McVeigh and his band of fools dropped the Murrah Building in Oklahoma City.”
“Okay, I get that,” Harrison argued, “that still don’t give her no reason to shut me down just because I carry a badge.”
Meeker shrugged, “Ever think she was just being nice? Maybe the girl just doesn’t like you. Maybe she doesn’t like the way you smell.”
Harrison scowled but said nothing.
Meeker walked away.
Trakes drove south to the FBI United Nations Field Office, located on the United Nations campus. Upon arrival, she returned in the car to the motor pool and walked to the elevator that would lift her to her office. Trakes didn’t own a car. Insurance rates intimidated her, and finding parking spots would be a never-ending hassle. Most days, she preferred the walk of only a few blocks to the subway station close to her apartment. One transfer, and she arrived at the stop on the United Nations campus. Returning home was a reverse trip. Walking with the current of pedestrians, she experienced the vibrancy of the city. She passed street musicians, sidewalk artists, and people exhibiting talented pets. Along her way, street merchants offering everything from pretzels to miniature Empire State buildings competed for a space to conduct business. The sounds of the city, mixed with the smell of the foods from the various cultures, excited her as no other location had. If she needed transportation in the course of her duties, the motor pool had plenty.
Trakes stepped through the door into the office she shared with another agent, stopped and sighed. Any description of the workspace had to begin with functional. She looked around the drab office and decided the description could end with functional as well. The room was a square, more or less, with two desks, two chairs, two side chairs and a sofa along the rear wall. A cork bulletin board and two white boards shared the side wall without windows and a small coffee table held an industrial looking lamp next to the sofa. Both desks were covered with manila files, fax copies, and post-it notes. Functional.
She closed the door behind her and leaned back onto the slab that separated her from the rest of the building. She allowed her shoulders to sag and relished in her tiredness for a couple of moments. Only dim security lights illuminated the space, and she stretched her arm to reach for the switch. Before she felt it, she changed her mind. The semi-darkness was soothing.
From her jacket pocket, she fished out her cell phone and looked at the screen. Digital numbers told her it was 0517 hours. She had been up all night and sighed as that realization washed another wave of tiredness over her. Her gaze fell on the utilitarian sofa at the back of the office, and she stumbled toward it.
After removing her jacket, she sat down and set the alarm on her phone for 0830. She’d have enough time to wake, shower, dress in the spare outfit she saved for such times and be on hand to brief the boss by 0900. She’d met her supervisor only once, and that was the day the man welcomed her to the posting. His demonstrated level of enthusiasm left her wondering if he thought she was infected with some horrible disease.
Trakes leaned to her left and allowed herself to fall onto the sofa. She pulled the jacket up and over her head in an effort to block the subdued light from the security lights that could not be turned off. She inhaled a deep breath and caught her own odor. She lowered the jacket.
“At least I’m sleeping alone,” she groaned. How long had it been since she had slept next to another person? Before she could focus on the answer, she fell asleep.
Chapter 2
Arthur H. Hubbard, Special Agent in Charge of the FBI field office attached to the United Nations, was not happy. This was not unusual; he was a glass-half-empty kind of guy. But today he was especially displeased. He again gazed at the newspaper positioned on his desk and again scanned the headlines of the lead story:
“Son of Diplomat Killed in Central Park.”
He didn’t read the story. He didn’t have to. He knew it would be full of inaccuracies, rumors, speculations and innuendos. He had held his posting for several years and knew the death of someone, anyone, deemed important by the media was a windfall. The stories churned up this soon after the killing were intended to generate revenue, not provide information. Papers would be sold today.
Still, the son of a diplomat, albeit a low-ranking diplomat, was found dead in Central Park. A family had lost a member. They’d be grieving, and they’d expect answers he wouldn’t have. The media would ride this story as long as it gave them traction. Reporters would demand information he couldn’t give them. He’d, once again, be the man in the middle, and that position was uncomfortable but necessary. Hubbard had no vested interest in the family of the dead man, past the obligatory condolences expressed. He certainly didn’t care if the news outlets were financially impacted by the story, positively or negatively. Hubbard found himself staring at the headline again, and the sadness that crept over him was not for the son, nor the son’s family, nor even the job he had to do. The sadness he felt was for the other involved party in this bloody mess. Central Park. The killing would no doubt smear the image of the grand lady of public areas.
Hubbard, like many people, was a collector. He didn’t collect baseball cards, nor did he collect stamps or coins. Hubbard collected city parks. He didn’t actually possess the parks, of course, but he collected artifacts from the city parks he visited. He might purchase a postcard from one park and a snow globe from another. His interest was limited to municipal parks, and he shunned state and federal parks. Hubbard prided himself on the number of parks he had visited over the years, and his tally was in the three-digits. Many of the parks were small, but he prized them all the same.
Of course, as with all collections, he had his prime jewels. He had visited Hyde Park in London, and he had wandered through the Luxembourg Garden in Paris. But they were mere patches of grass compared to Central Park, his park. Now, as he studied the paper, he felt his park had been stained. The actions of a malcontent had scarred the reputation of the park as surely as the blood of the victim had stained the grass. He looked again at the headline. “Son of Diplomat Killed in Central Park.” Did they have to say where the boy was killed? Did that really matter?
The SAC was not, by nature, a rude nor obnoxious man. But on this particular occasion, he kept Special Agent Trakes waiting an additional fifteen minutes. He sat in his office, sipped his chamomile tea and tried to soothe the sense of dread that enveloped him. Hubbard did not place faith in premonition, nor did he believe in fo
resight. Yet he could not still the feeling of foreboding. He kept Trakes waiting as he tried to work through the unfamiliar expectation of doom.
His worry was more than just the location of the crime. True, the Ferreira family was powerful, as most families that rose to their level in society were. It was more than that too.
Hubbard focused again on who would be in charge of the investigation, Special Agent Trakes. By all accounts, she was a solid field agent, but she was untested in the field she would be playing in now. Was that why he was unsettled? Did he lack faith in the woman?
He closed his eyes and tried the deep breathing exercise his yoga instructor had taught him. He was unable focus. He saw the headline in his mind and opened his eyes. He looked at his wall clock and recognized it was time for Special Agent Trakes to brief him. She could wait a little longer. He knew it wasn’t her fault, of course, but he also knew she would have nothing of value to tell him, not this early in the investigation. No, her lack of meaningful information would just deepen his depression over the whole matter, and so, she could wait. He scowled, shook his head and wondered, “Why didn’t they just dump the body off the pier?” He wished he hadn’t stopped smoking.
Trakes waited. She sat on a side chair in the outer office and watched Hubbard’s administrative assistant. After a few minutes of watching the woman work, Trakes decided she was more than efficient. She seemed to be constantly on the move and yet the telephone earpiece allowed her to answer incoming calls from anywhere in the office.
What was her name? Trakes tried to remember. From where she sat, she could not see the woman’s name plate, and she had been introduced to her only a few weeks earlier. What was her name?
After her phone alarm woke her, she had showered, combed her hair and tucked it into her trademark ponytail. She applied just enough makeup to hide the circles under her eyes. She pulled the spare outfit from her office closet and tore it free of the plastic laundry bag. She frowned when she saw the only pair of spare shoes she had were black four-inch heels. The shoes had been perfect with the gown she’d worn at a party given by a diplomat three weeks earlier, but they were so uncomfortable, she had swapped them for the flats normally kept for moments like this. She’d worn the more comfortable flats home that night and forgotten to return them. She shook her head and muttered, “It’s going to be one of those days.”
Shadow of the Moon: A Fantasy of Love, Murder and Werewolves Page 2
