by Tim Downs
As the adults conversed, Callie stared at the dogs in fascination; the largest dog seemed to hold her entranced. The dog was taller than she was, even seated. Callie’s eyes were at the same level as the dog’s thick snout. As the little girl stared she suddenly started forward, raising both hands and reaching for the dog’s soft fur.
Kathryn grabbed her daughter’s arm and pulled her back. “Be careful, Callie.”
Alena glared at her. “Why does she need to be careful?”
“Your dog is very big,” Kathryn said.
“You’re pretty big. You don’t hear me warning my dogs, do you?”
“He looks a little scary.”
“To you or to her? I thought you said you owned a dog.”
“Did you ever have a daughter?”
Nick interrupted. “Look, we can chat all day, but we’re losing our daylight. Can we get to work?”
Both women were glaring at him now.
“Please?”
9
A lena walked beside Nick across the grassy clearing to the workers’ cottage while Kathryn held Callie’s hand and walked a short distance behind them.
“I’m really glad you called, Nick,” Alena said. “It’s been a long time.”
“I’m glad you were available on short notice,” Nick said. “Not much going on?”
“I had to reschedule some things, but I was glad to do it for you.”
“I’ll make sure the Sampson County guys know you went to some trouble—they might throw a few extra bucks your way.”
Alena shook her head. “So what are we looking for here?”
“Drugs. There was a murder here a few days ago and the police think it might have been drug-related.”
“Who was the victim?”
“Kathryn’s husband.”
Alena glanced back over her shoulder. “She’s not married?”
“Not anymore.”
Alena paused. “It’s tough to lose someone like that—someone you’re really close to. It can take a long time to get over it.”
“Not this guy. He walked out on her a year ago.”
“Terrific,” she mumbled.
They arrived at the workers’ cottage and Nick tried the knob; it was locked. They turned and waited for Kathryn and Callie to catch up. The dogs were lined up behind them three abreast.
Nick looked at the largest dog. “Hey, big fella—remember me?” He held out the back of his hand and the dog made a rumbling growl. “He remembers.”
Alena snapped her fingers and made a dividing motion with both hands. The dogs moved aside and sat down.
Kathryn took out a key and opened the lock. She looked down at the three dogs seated on either side of the door. “Which one is the drug dog?”
“The little one,” Alena said.
“Can that little dog smell?”
Alena narrowed her eyes. “Can your little girl talk?”
“Of course she can talk. What’s that supposed to—”
Nick stepped between them and opened the door. “Why don’t we all go inside?”
They entered the small cottage—first Nick, then Kathryn and Callie, then Alena. The house was not much larger than a trailer, and it was laid out like a one-bedroom efficiency, with a kitchenette and table directly in front of the door and a queen-sized bed immediately to the right.
Kathryn shuddered. “I haven’t been in this place in months.”
The cottage was a shambles. There were pots still on the stove and dishes piled in the sink. On the table was a cereal bowl half-filled with curdled milk and a juice glass lying on its side. There were articles of clothing strewn around the floor and the covers were thrown back from the bed.
“Your husband lived out here?” Alena asked.
“Whenever he stopped by.” Kathryn started to gather a stack of old newspapers from the table but stopped and looked at Nick. “Maybe I shouldn’t touch anything.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Nick said. “Detective Massino said his forensic people were done with the place. I wouldn’t waste any time cleaning up, though.” He turned to Alena. “Let’s get started.”
Alena stepped to the open doorway and snapped her fingers; all three dogs came to attention. She pointed to the smallest dog and drew an imaginary line into the house. The little dog trotted silently into the kitchen and sat down. She looked at the other two dogs for a moment, then motioned as if she were tossing a horseshoe; they turned and trotted off into the yard.
“Break time already?” Nick asked.
“It was a long drive down here. They told me they needed to stretch their legs.”
Kathryn looked at Alena. “They told you that?”
“That’s right.”
“They . . . talk to you?”
“Is there something wrong with that?”
“You never seem to talk to them.”
“Why should I?”
“Well . . . how do they know what you want them to do?”
“They know.”
“How?”
“Dogs are good at reading body language and facial expressions. That’s why you can look at one the wrong way and he might bite you—maybe you told him something he didn’t want to hear.”
“But how do they learn your signals in the first place? Don’t you have to—”
“Look, do you mind? Nick and I have work to do here, and you’re slowing us down. I’m being paid to find drugs—lessons are extra.”
“Sorry.” Kathryn moved off to one side. “What’s your dog’s name? Am I allowed to ask that?”
“Ask him yourself—that’s what I did.”
“The dog told you his name?”
Nick leaned over to her. “It’s kind of complicated. I’ll explain it to you later.”
Alena rubbed her hands together. “Okay—what are we looking for specifically?”
“Drugs in general,” Nick said. “No specific type. We think there was some kind of conflict just before the victim’s death—we want to know if drugs were involved. Since he stayed out here when he visited, this is a good place to start.”
“Drugs in general?” Alena said. “We can do better than that. Ruckus is trained to distinguish between heroin, cocaine, and marijuana—we don’t do meth because the ammonia burns his nose.”
“Let’s just establish presence,” Nick said. “If we find drugs present, we’ll go back and identify the type later.”
“You’re the boss.” Alena got down on all fours in front of the little dog. She stared at its face until the little dog met her eyes—then she clapped once and broke into a wide-eyed grin. The dog became excited and began to bark; she held up one finger and it instantly stopped. Then, in one continuous motion, she cupped her hands around the little dog’s sides, rolled onto her back, and pulled the dog up on top of her. The two of them began to play, rolling back and forth on the kitchen floor.
Kathryn turned to Nick with a doubtful look.
“Later,” Nick whispered.
Suddenly Alena jumped to her feet, snapped her fingers, and pointed at the ground; the dog immediately took up position beside her right foot. She waited for a moment, then snapped her fingers once more and made a broad sweeping motion, as if she were gesturing to the entire room. The dog jumped to its feet and started across the kitchen with its nose quivering just above the floor.
But the dog wandered less than three feet before it lay down again.
“Bingo?” Nick said.
“Bingo.”
“That was fast. Are you sure?”
“I’ll double-check.” Alena walked to the other side of the kitchen, summoned the dog to her side, and repeated the process. Once again the dog took only a few steps before lying down.
“Will somebody please tell me what’s going on?” Kathryn said. “Why does he keep lying down?”
“That’s his alert,” Alena said. “A dog is trained to perform a specific behavior when it finds what you’re looking for—something the trainer will recognize. Some d
ogs are trained to bark. I train mine to lie down—that’s called a passive alert. Some people like quiet when they’re working.”
Kathryn took the hint.
“Try the rest of the room,” Nick said.
Alena did. Each time she gave the dog the command to search, it alerted almost immediately. Alena pulled out a chair and touched the back of it, then the table. The dog leaped silently from the chair to the tabletop, where it immediately lay down again.
Nick wiped his fingers across the tabletop and looked at them. He pointed to the floor. “Look at all the places where the dog alerted. See that? It defines an area about eight feet in diameter around the table.”
“What does that mean?” Kathryn asked.
“It means either your husband was incredibly sloppy or there was definitely a conflict here. There must have been a large quantity of drugs present, enough to scatter around and leave a scent over this entire area—that’s a pretty sure sign he was dealing. It means something else too.”
“What?”
“It means somebody came back and cleaned up later—somebody who didn’t want anyone to know about the drugs.”
“Maybe they just wanted the drugs. Drugs are expensive.”
“If that’s all they wanted they would have just grabbed what’s on the table—but would they take the time to sweep up? Would you, if you had just shot a man?”
Kathryn suddenly looked around the room. “Where’s Callie?”
Nick and Alena looked too—the girl was nowhere in sight.
Kathryn hurried to the door and looked out. Her eyes widened in horror; halfway across the clearing she saw Callie with her arms wrapped tightly around the huge dog’s neck. “Callie! Get away from there!”
Alena stepped into the doorway beside her and looked. “She’s fine. Leave her alone.”
“What? How can you be sure?”
“Because I trained him, okay? Phlegethon won’t do anything unless I tell him to.” She snapped her fingers once and the dog became perfectly still; she turned her right hand palm-down and the dog dropped to the ground with Callie still hugging its neck.
The little girl swung her right leg up over the dog’s haunches and pulled herself onto the middle of its back. She lay there, burying her face into the soft fur as if it were a bear rug.
“She likes him,” Alena said.
“It must be the fur,” Kathryn said. “Callie likes certain textures.”
Alena grinned. “Watch this.” She snapped her fingers again and turned her hand palm up this time; Phlegethon snapped to his feet as if Callie weighed no more than a handful of fleas. Alena wiggled one finger and the dog came bounding toward them with Callie hanging on by two handfuls of thick black fur.
“Make him stop!” Kathryn said.
“Why? She’s having fun.”
“Make him stop! ”
Alena made a quick “stop sign” gesture, and the dog skidded to a halt. Callie slid forward, flipped over the dog’s head, and landed on her back on the ground. She lay there giggling and staring up into the sky.
Kathryn ran over to Callie and helped her to her feet. “You did that on purpose!” she shouted.
Alena shrugged. “You told me to make him stop.”
Kathryn stood up and glared at Alena. “Let me explain something to you, in case you’re not bright enough to figure it out for yourself: I just lost a husband, okay? Somebody shot him in the back and left his dead body for me to find. See this little girl? She’s the only thing I have left in the world, and it’s my job to make sure she grows up—got it? So don’t you come around here with your three-ring circus and start—”
“Three-ring circus! Are you talking about my dogs?”
“What would you call them? That one is the size of a bear, and that one has only three legs, and that drug-sniffing Chihuahua has got to be the homeliest animal I’ve ever seen.”
“Ruckus isn’t a Chihuahua! Don’t you know anything about—”
“Would you look at that,” Nick said.
Both women stopped and looked at him. Nick was pointing to the edge of the fields, where Ruckus was lying quietly with his nose pointed at the base of the first tomato plant in a long row.
“Why’s he doing that?” Kathryn asked.
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Alena said. “In Spanish.”
The three of them converged on the little dog.
Nick knelt down at the base of the tomato plant and adjusted his glasses; he saw small piles of what looked like grass clippings scattered over the soil. He picked up some and sniffed. “Marijuana,” he said. “A lot of it—it’s scattered all over the place.”
“Why would somebody dump marijuana in a tomato field?” Alena asked.
“Good question.” Nick went down on all fours to take a closer look. Mixed in with the marijuana cuttings he saw hundreds of little round dots. “That’s strange.”
“What?”
“Insect eggs—quite a few of them.” He looked around; the eggs seemed to be in the marijuana but nowhere else. “This doesn’t make sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“One of the things forensic entomologists do is help identify the source of a seized drug shipment. Marijuana is commonly contaminated by insects—you can almost always find a few insect parts mixed in with the cuttings. All you have to do is identify the insect and find out where the species originates. Bingo—you know where the shipment came from.”
“What doesn’t make sense?”
“I’ve never seen insect eggs in a drug shipment before. Legs, mandibles, antennae—but never eggs. This stuff looks like it’s loaded with eggs—hundreds of them.” He squinted hard for a moment, then rocked back onto his heels. “They’re definitely not fly eggs—they’re the wrong shape and size. But there’s not enough daylight left to identify them. I need to collect some specimens and take them back to NC State. I’ll get a sample of the marijuana too—I want to send it to the DEA to see what they can tell us about it.”
He got up and turned to Alena. “I’m going to need you to search the rest of these fields,” he said. “I need to know if there’s any more of this stuff out there.”
Alena looked out over the fields that were already deep in shadow. “All of it? How big is this place?”
“A little over five acres,” Kathryn said.
“That’ll take days. Where am I supposed to stay?” She looked hopefully at Nick.
Kathryn pointed to the cottage. “How about right here? I happen to have a vacancy.”
“That’s a great idea,” Nick said. “That way you can get an early start in the morning.”
Alena frowned at the tiny cottage. “That place is a dump.”
“It looks better than my place,” Nick said.
Kathryn smiled. “Hear that? That’s practically a five-star rating. I’ll even help you clean the place up—and your dogs can sleep in the barn.”
“My dogs stay with me,” Alena replied.
“Then it’s all settled,” Nick said. “I’ll get my gear from the car and collect some specimens before it gets any darker, and you two can get Alena settled in.” He started back across the clearing toward the driveway.
Kathryn turned to Alena and smiled. “Well, what do you know? It looks like we’re roommates.”
10
A cheer went up from the stands. Pasha turned and looked at home plate and saw the batter staring into the sky above left field as he jogged leisurely to first base. Pasha followed his eyes just in time to see the tiny white ball clear the left-field fence and disappear into the parking lot.
Americans, he thought. So easily impressed.
He searched the stands for his two colleagues. They were easy enough to spot—their seats were in the highest level and no one sat around them for at least five rows. Why would they? The little Carolina Mudcats park was never filled to capacity, and there were always open seats closer to the field. But just to ensure that their conversation remained private, Pash
a had taken the precaution of purchasing five rows of tickets; it cost him less than a private box at Luzhniki Stadium.
His colleagues sat side by side and stood out like two walruses on an ice floe. Pasha had to smile. An Arab and an African—not a common sight in this backwater American farming community. The African was easily distinguished from his American relatives in the stadium; his skin was as black as coal and his features clearly reflected his ancestral bloodlines. He was above average in height and lean in build, with high cheekbones and a slightly receding hairline that gave him a thoughtful brow. The whites of his eyes always seemed to be tinted slightly red, and as for his teeth—Pasha had no idea. In six months of acquaintance he had never seen the man smile.
Jengo Muluneh was from Ethiopia, the son of a maize and pulse farmer in the western region of Gambela near the Sudan border. Jengo grew up on a farm and had expected to become a farmer himself, but someone in the government thought Gambela might possess significant oil reserves. The farmers of Ethiopia do not own their land but lease it from the government, and in 2003 the Ethiopian government signed an agreement with Petronas of Malaysia to develop Gambela’s oil reserves. It was the perfect excuse for the government to cancel the lease on Jengo’s family farm, and Jengo soon found himself eking out an existence with his family in a crowded corner of Addis Ababa. He excelled as a student, especially in the sciences, and he would have gained easy acceptance to the university there—but his family had no money.
Dedushka provided a scholarship, and Pasha delivered it.
The Arab was shorter in stature and not as lean. He had olive skin and coarse black eyebrows that made his brown irises look almost as dark as his pupils. Unlike his clean-shaven colleague, the Arab sported a mustache and a chin beard that was just beginning to show gray. The Arab often smiled, but then he had reason to; his country had much better prospects than Jengo’s did.
Habib Almasi was a citizen of Qatar, a hundred-mile-long sliver of sand jutting into the Persian Gulf from the Arabian Peninsula. He had been a young executive in the Qatar Financial Centre, offering financial services to the foreign energy companies that flocked to Qatar like sand fleas—because Qatar, an otherwise unimpressive stretch of sand and limestone, happens to be situated atop fifteen billion barrels of oil. Qatar’s economy was exploding and its people prospered; the country now possessed the largest GDP per capita on earth. Habib had enjoyed the good life in Qatar, but he was wary of the fickle affections of Western investors. He believed that his nation’s good fortune could be quickly reversed, and he wrote articles for financial journals recommending aggressive action to protect the Qatari economy.
