Howl Deadly

by Linda O. Johnston

  Avvie had handled the businessman’s defense and had shown that the evidence pointed in a different direction—even though whoever had allegedly done it wasn’t ever identified.

  “The case had been really high profile, and the partners at this firm were impressed. They tend to take on fairly well-positioned clients in difficult cases, and they’re highly compensated for it. We’re both still weighing whether I should work there, but I’m definitely interested.”

  “Good luck with it,” I told her sincerely. “I think it sounds great. Oh, and I have a question for you. Who do you think really assaulted Ms. Crader?”

  She leaned over the table toward me. “I don’t imagine we’ll ever know for sure. My client’s fingerprints were in the apartment, but he’d been an invited guest the previous evening. And they weren’t the only prints. My vote goes to a guy who remained unidentified.”

  “The prints were there, but the cops can’t make an ID?” I asked. My interest in fingerprints had, unsurprisingly, spiked a bit lately.

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I learned that the system is far from perfect. Only … well, in this instance it may have been someone in the system deciding to protect whoever had left those prints.”

  “Really? Does that happen a lot?” Now, my interest was absolutely piqued.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I doubt it. No one admitted it in this case, and it might have been a wrong impression on my part.”

  Or not. I had my own suspicions about some prints in the national system—Jon Doe’s. Or whoever he actually was. But I figured I was heading toward a dead end. Even if there was such a thing as protecting someone’s identity by not acknowledging whose prints were whose, I could probably never prove it.

  Or who Jon Doe really was.

  I asked Avvie about Ellis Corcorian. Other than suggesting he was as much of an ass as I recalled, she hadn’t much to say about him.

  We soon finished our coffees. “Great to see you,” I said.

  “Same here.”

  “And be sure to keep in touch. Let me know what happens with the job.”

  “Will do.” She gave me a hug at the shop’s door, and we each walked our own way—me to my office, and her to her car.

  I FELT DISHEARTENED over the subject of fingerprints after coffee with Avvie. I moped as I mused about it on my walk back to the Yurick firm’s building.

  I guess, inside, I’d held out a lot of hope that there was some deep and dirty government conspiracy that had obfuscated the genuine identity of Jon Doe except for a privileged few whom the system assumed truly needed to know.

  On the other hand, Jon Doe might, in fact, never have had his prints taken. If he had, a mistake could have kept his identity secret, without anyone intending it. As with everything else in the legal system, a perfect process remained only as accurate as those who used or abused it. And whatever Frank Hura had hinted to Ned—well, it could have come from professional discourtesy, pulling one another’s law enforcement legs.

  In any event, I needed to look in different directions.

  After responding to phone messages, briefly chatting with Borden about the Corcorian case, and doing additional research into conservatorships, I decided to make one more call before leaving my office for the day.

  “Hi, Ned,” I said when he answered. “Forget, for the moment, what Frank Hura may have hinted about—or not. What’s your opinion on how much police departments can rely on fingerprint IDs?”

  I heard his snort from the other end of our connection. “Sorry I even brought up the idea of prints, Kendra. I got a call from Frank chewing me out for talking to you at all about his case, when I don’t have jurisdiction. I promised him I’d butt out. Sorry. But I gather I was all wet about my interpretation of what he said. He said his guys had done some more digging. Jon Doe was exactly who he appeared to be. No problem with his prints. No record. Nothing. My opinion of fingerprint ID is that it works—very well. And Frank kept it close to his Kevlar vest who he thinks is now his top suspect—but I gather it’s still Dante.”

  THAT SOUNDED SUSPICIOUS to me. Full of conflicting assumptions.

  If Jon Doe was Jon Doe, then why would Dante have decided to kill him?

  If he had a history under another identity, then why would the cops have determined he didn’t?

  My belief was that Sergeant Frank Hura had decided that the best way to encourage Detective Ned Noralles to keep his nose where it belonged, in L.A., was to make up his alleged facts as he went along.

  But all this was getting me exactly nowhere.

  Yet each time before, when I’d stuck my nose into a murder investigation, the parties under suspicion had needed me. Relied on me. Cared about my solving the killing.

  And Dante only wanted me to butt out.

  “What do you think about that?” I asked Beauty, the golden retriever, as I took her on a long walk in her northern San Fernando Valley neighborhood a while later. She was my first pet-sitting visit of the evening, before I picked up Lexie at Darryl’s.

  Beautiful Beauty did take the time away from sniffing some grass at the edge of a lawn to look at me sympathetically, as if sensing my angst, but she gave me no answers.

  I next headed to Harold Reddingham’s home. A long-term pet-sitting client, he had gone out of town for two days, so I had to peek in to ensure his kitties, Abra and Cadabra, were okay. When they deigned to show themselves as I checked their food and water supply, I considered asking them their opinion, but figured I’d only get their typical tail-in-the-air stares.

  There was at least one human opinion I valued that might be given readily at my request: Darryl’s.

  When I was nearly done with my pet-sitting stuff for the evening, I called Doggy Indulgence to ensure that my dearest buddy was still indulging doggies. He was, and he promised to wait for me.

  I soon parked and rushed inside the building, where some of his human staff members were still signing doggies out and into the custody of their owners. Lexie leaped toward me from where she had probably been sleeping—on one of the people-type furnishings at one side of the large play facility.

  I picked her up and walked toward Darryl, who was just saying farewell to a cute cocker mix and her middle-aged owner. He lifted his hand in greeting, and in a moment motioned me to follow him to his office.

  “You look awful, Kendra,” he said without preamble, which made me feel even worse. “What’s going on?”

  Lexie lay down in my lap as I sat facing Darryl’s desk and let him know how frustrated I’d become. “It’s hard to look into a murder from an hour or more’s ride away. And when the suspects I want to prove innocent remain uncooperative, it’s even worse. Plus, what little info I’ve learned is likely to be inaccurate, but even if it’s true, I’m not in the inner circle to be able to understand what it means.” I explained the fingerprint fiasco.

  My loving, lanky friend peered at me over his wire-rims. “I see two options, Kendra. Number one, go to HotWildlife for a week or so, do your investigation, and see if you can figure out who killed Jon Doe. For your own satisfaction, if not Dante’s and Brody’s. It’s something you’re good at, like it or not.”

  I let my mind swirl around that possibility, watching my friend for a sign of sarcasm. None. “But my law work. And my pet-sitting.”

  “You’ll need to figure out if you can afford the time from your attorneying. I’m sure Wanda would be glad to continue helping on the pet-sitting front. She’s doing fine with her own clients, but she’s always willing to help a friend.” The sweet and sappy expression on Darryl’s face confirmed how proud he was of her, and how much they were in love.

  Which made me utterly happy for him … despite my ugly jostle of jealousy due to my current Dante-related predicament.

  “And door number two?” I inquired.

  “Just drop it,” he said. “One way or another, the authorities will decide who killed Jon Doe, and why. They solve a lot of situations. And I gather Dante and you are c
urrently not quite as close as you’d seemed, so even if they zero in on him, that might be the long-term answer for you.”

  “I can’t say I like that alternative,” I grumbled.

  “I doubted you would—but you don’t have to decide now. Think it over. And be sure to let me know the way you go.”

  I gently set Lexie on the floor, stood, and hugged Darryl. “Thanks for always being there for me,” I said.

  “Even if you don’t like my advice,” he responded with a grin.

  BY THE TIME Lexie and I Escaped to our home, I realized Darryl was right. There were only two possibilities: dig in and find the killer, or get out of it and stop stewing.

  As if I could do the latter. Stop stewing, I mean. But the idea of butting out had started to sound pretty good.

  Except … When I pushed the button to open the security gate outside my driveway, I felt my jaw drop nearly to the floor.

  Dante’s silver Mercedes was parked inside.

  Not that it had never happened before. Rachel knew Dante, and had sometimes let him in so he could wait for me, but not for the past few weeks.

  Probably because Dante hadn’t shown up on my doorstep, except in my company.

  But now … What was he doing here?

  Guess I had to go in to find out.

  I parked in my usual spot at the side of the garage. Dante was with Rachel, both of them watching Beggar and Wagner romp on the roomy lawn of my rented-out mansion. Lexie joined the pups as the humans both approached me.

  “I hope it’s okay that I let Dante in,” Rachel said anxiously. “I saw him waiting outside.”

  “It’s fine,” I said, hoping it was true. My eyes were glued to Dante’s chiseled features and his dark, unfathomable eyes. He had put an office-type white shirt on over his tight, casual jeans. Was this visit business or pleasure or both?

  “See you both later.” Rachel hastily made her getaway. Guess she had sensed the tension in the air.

  She went into the main house with Beggar, while Lexie joined Wagner on the lawn.

  “So, what brings you here, Dante?” I asked oh, so casually. Not that we’d actually been arguing, but the tension that had somehow grown between us seemed to be reaching a palpable crescendo at this moment. I considered clapping to see if the air would explode around us.

  “I think you know, Kendra,” Dante responded, his sexy voice in a quite canine growl. “We need to talk.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  HE’D BROUGHT THE fixings for dinner! How could I refuse?

  He had done that before, when he’d initially intended to impress me: acted as top chef right in my own kitchen, more than once. As if someone of his wealth, power—and sexiness—needed to do more to be impressive.

  And he’d succeeded.

  I helped him retrieve a couple of grocery bags from the trunk of his car and carry them upstairs. I unlocked my apartment door, and we all went in—Dante, our doggies, and me.

  We put the stuff on the kitchen counter—what little there was of it in the small room in which I cooked and ate at a tiny round table.

  “So what’s on the menu?” I inquired.

  “Entirely up to you,” he said, and suddenly I was in his arms—and the subject of one really hot, sexy kiss.

  “Oh,” I eventually whispered. I wasn’t sure I could say anything more.

  “If you meant,” he whispered against my lips, “what food we’ll be eating tonight, I’m making beef stroganoff and a nice salad.”

  “Oh,” I said again.

  “And we’ll talk over dinner, okay?”

  I thought about saying “oh” again, but decided against it. “Sure,” I said instead, attempting to put some nonchalance in my tone.

  For a while, all we talked about was who was boiling the water for the pasta, who was stirring the stroganoff sauce, who was cutting which fresh veggies for the salad. Since this had been his idea, I suppose I could have adjourned to the living room and watched TV news while Dante did it all.

  But staying in his company at this moment, with no nasty comments, innuendoes, or unanswered questions shouting between us … well, for now, it was bliss.

  After checking with Dante, I fed Wagner along with Lexie—a whole lot more for the German shepherd than the sleek Cavalier. We both fed our babies nutritious stuff—from HotPets, of course, and I had plenty.

  Dante had also brought wine—a nice Chianti that didn’t have to be refrigerated. And soon, we sat down at my tiny table, with our salad bowls and wineglasses before us, the scent of a potentially delicious dinner hovering in the air.

  We looked at one another.

  Lord, that man was one handsome dude! I still couldn’t believe someone so suave and rich could seem so attracted to me.

  And I still didn’t know whether he’d murdered Jon Doe.

  I suppose that reflection must have shown in my eyes. “Time for our discussion,” Dante said, the suggestive sexiness in his gaze suddenly replaced by total shuttering.

  He was good at that, too.

  “Sure.” I attempted to sound eager. “What are we talking about?”

  He hesitated for an instant—not something Dante did often. “You know how I feel about you, Kendra,” he began, sounding simmeringly angry about it.

  “Maybe,” I responded cautiously. He’d acted attracted to me since the instant we’d met, but was only sometimes happy about it. And the last few days, since the Jon Doe incident, he’d seemed withdrawn, perhaps because of my suspicions about him.

  Although I hadn’t exactly vocalized them.

  “I care about you a lot!” he all but shouted, as if he instead was chewing me out for some infraction of the man-woman rules. On the tiled floor below us, the dogs shifted and even cowered a bit. “Sorry,” Dante finished, aiming his apology at me—or the dogs?

  “I … care about you, too,” I said in a much more subdued tone.

  “I knew, during the last murder you investigated, that you thought for a while I could have killed our Animal Auditions judge Sebastian. But I didn’t, and I also didn’t take your suspicions very seriously. You kept them discreet, and didn’t let them interfere in our relationship. But now—”

  He stopped, and a slew of unspoken words seemed to swirl around my head.

  He knew I suspected him in Jon Doe’s death. What could I say to that—except, perhaps, to admit it?

  “Now,” I said softly, “there’s another murder on my radar—someone else we were both acquainted with. You, perhaps, better than I … ?”

  Okay, there was his opening, if he intended to confess all. Or even part.

  “Because I care about you, Kendra, and because I don’t want you getting hurt due to things you don’t know about, I’m going to violate all sorts of oaths I took years ago and tell you a few things tonight—as long as you take an oath of your own, to me, that this will go no further. No matter what happens. Not even if I’m arrested for this murder. Or if Brody is. If that happens, we’ll take care of it. Got it? And also, you absolutely may not discuss it with Ned Noralles, or even your buddy the private investigator.”

  He knew Jeff’s name, but who cared? He was going to entrust me with some secret, which made my insides sing with pride.

  “I promise,” I told him. “I won’t tell anyone anything you say.”

  “Good.” He suddenly wasn’t across the table from me, but right beside me, and once more I was in his arms. “This isn’t easy to talk about now,” he muttered into my ear. “And I’m not about to tell you all the details. It’s all on a need-to-know basis. Okay?”

  “Yes,” I confirmed again, and then we kissed once more.

  But in another moment, we were back at the table, eating stroganoff. And I was spellbound as Dante revealed what little he intended to say.

  “Jon Doe wasn’t his real name,” he began. “I think you’ve figured that out. His initials were the same, though: J.D. Brody and I both knew him many years ago. We worked with him until things went south at the go
vernment agency where we all were employed. J.D. was sent to federal prison. He must have gotten out recently, one way or another, and gone undercover to get revenge against us, or at least that’s our speculation. His disguise was excellent. Neither of us recognized him, at least not at first, and we’re still looking into the situation. We’re pretty certain that the man you know as Jon Doe was determined to kill us.”

  I’D PRIMED MYSELF for a whole passel of information. Instead, as we finished eating, Dante only passed along tantalizing bits of data.

  Which I remained unsure whether to believe. At least some of it.

  Number one: Dante would not divulge Jon Doe’s real name, only confirm he’d kept the same initials.

  Number two: Dante, Brody, and the man recently known as Jon Doe did work together in the past, at a government agency, doing covert operations. Dante wouldn’t name further names, including which agency, but he revealed that Brody and he had discovered some nasty stuff going on at the top. They’d gone to other government sources and ratted out their supervisors. Jon Doe had sided with the slimeballs in authority—and those same slimeballs had repaid him nastily, by making him their scapegoat. The result: the guys at the top cleaned up their act and stayed where they were. Jon Doe got sent to a federal penitentiary for quite a few years. And Dante and Brody had been warned they were toast.

  Brody’s way of dealing with it was to live his life in the public eye. That way, if anyone went after him, all he had to do was start talking to his adoring public.

  Dante’s was to go public a different way—with lots of money and authority behind him, but with his face remaining out of the news.

  His former cronies—apparently highly placed government guys—probably knew who he was, but also recognized how powerful he had become. And didn’t want to mess with him, at least not yet.

  In any event, Jon Doe had recently weaseled his way into HotWildlife, probably seeking revenge. Had he finished serving his sentence first? Perhaps he was on parole, but Dante hadn’t been able to ascertain that yet. If he wasn’t, then he’d escaped from prison.

  Either way, was he acting on his own or on orders from his former higher-ups, who also wanted to avenge themselves on the men who’d caught and stopped them?