Beaglemania (13 page)

As far as I was concerned, they were still on probation.

I slipped inside and flicked on the lights, since dawn was just starting to rip nighttime’s blackness from the sky, turning it gray instead. Not much light filtered into our welcome room, especially since I had been careful to close the narrow slats on the rust-colored window blinds when I left the night before.

Usually, I appreciated any solitude I could get in the HotRescues admin building. Not now. I kept thinking about the eeriness of staying there the other night. How startling the dogs’ barking had jarred me in the wee hours of the morning.

How I’d shaken in fear when I’d discovered Efram—and been confronted by the cops.

Okay, so my nerves were still on edge. Too bad. I had animals to check on.

I headed for the shelter area—and rehashed my drink with Matt Kingston last night. What would he think of HotRescues?

Unsurprisingly, the dogs began greeting me aloud from their enclosures, all of them in the outdoor portions to see what was going on. “Hi, Honey,” I said to the adorable Westie mix who was now in the first pen on the left as soon as she grew quiet. She all but purred when I reached in to scratch behind her ears.

I stroked each dog in turn, including Elmer, as I headed toward the rearmost enclosure along this path . . . and kept maneuvering so my back faced the place on the ground where Efram had lain. Even so, I glimpsed his outline—but, fortunately, his blood had been cleaned up.

The camera facing that area was no longer covered. I waved at it. I turned the corner at the back of the shelter, heading along the storage building toward our next doggy row. When I reached it, its inhabitants, too, barked in acknowledgment of my presence. I laughed aloud. Nothing like an enthusiastic welcoming committee.

Not that I’d directly encourage their barking. It could make them less adoptable.

As I knelt to say good morning to the now-silent Babydoll, a shepherd mix whose coat coloration suggested that she wore a skirt, something grabbed my shoulder. I gasped, stood, and pivoted.

Pete stood behind me, his features startled and his face ashen. “Are you okay, Lauren?” he asked.

I glared. “I was till you grabbed me.”

“Sorry. I called out but guess you didn’t hear me with the dogs barking. I didn’t expect to see you here so early. Is . . . is something else wrong?”

I all but hugged him. His aging face seemed braced to handle anything I might tell him. “Just my worry,” I said. “After yesterday, I needed to get here early to reassure myself everything was okay now.”

“Same goes.” He looked a lot more at ease now. “Do all our residents seem okay?”

“I’ve only checked the first row of dogs,” I said. “I’ll help you look in on the rest.”

“Great. Don’t suppose you’d want to give me a hand cleaning kennels, too, would you?” His lopsided grin told me he was kidding.

“Nope. Good try, though.”

But as I continued down the next row of dog enclosures, I couldn’t help wondering if there was another reason for Pete to show up here half an hour early.

Okay, I was getting paranoid. Reading things into signs that didn’t even exist.

Pete was a sweetheart. He’d been here helping out from the very first, when HotRescues had opened. He had no reason to harm anyone—not Efram or the animals or me.

Even so, I temporarily locked the center building’s door after going inside to check on the animals housed there. I took my time, enjoying my visit. A couple of volunteers always showed up a little while after Pete did. I’d feel more at ease when there were a bunch of us here today, keeping close watch on each other.

But the rest of the day was uneventful. It was Sunday, after all. We didn’t have many visitors, although those who came were great! With the diligence of my staff looking into the Tylers, their home, and the other information they’d supplied, we approved their adoption of Elmer, and they returned for him almost as soon as I’d hung up the phone. As they left, I felt like waving a sad goodbye, although my usual personal heartache at losing a resident to adoption was always countered by sublime happiness for the animal I might never see again—if I sent someone else to do the follow-up at the new home.

Two cats and another dog had visitors who fell in love and applied to adopt them that day. We’d see if they worked out, but I felt optimistic.

With all that had happened, I’d been neglectful in the situation with ailing Brooke Pernall and her golden mix, Cheyenne, but I finally remembered to call her from my office and obtain the information Dante had requested about her health condition and lender.

“I’ve been working to get someone’s attention at the bank to try to negotiate something, but no one will talk with me.” Her defeated tone suggested resignation to the inevitable.

I wished I could reassure her, but I couldn’t . . . yet. I had seen how Dante’s strengths often included achieving the impossible in his business and charitable endeavors, but I couldn’t guarantee his success this time.

“It won’t hurt to try,” I told her. “Give Cheyenne a hug for me.” When we hung up, I realized that her sense of futility had somehow traveled over the phone connections to perch on my shoulders, and I shrugged it off.

I called Dante’s cell and relayed the information to him. “Anything you can do would be great,” I told him.

“We’ll see.”

I kept busy at HotRescues for the rest of the day, refusing to dwell on that sad interlude. Later, though, when I left for home, it vaulted back into my mind, once more sharing space with the Efram situation, which had never left. That night, I talked to my kids before calling my friend Carlie, who was still out of town. I’d have liked Carlie anyway, just because she was a veterinarian, TV star, animal lover, and genuine all-around nice person. But since she had given the first forever home to an adoptee when we opened HotRescues six years ago—a Cocker mix named Max—I especially cherished her friendship. She answered right away, sounding harried but cheerful. At least reaching all of them helped to uplift my mood.

It rose even more after I talked to the guy on duty at EverySecurity before I went to bed. No signs of problems there, he promised. I even slept a little that night.

 

 

Paranoia could become my watchword, I thought the next day. I dashed to HotRescues early once more to check on everything—and fortunately spotted no problems.

A little later, I called ahead to check with Esther Ickes, making sure we still had an appointment scheduled for one o’clock that afternoon. The criminal lawyer confirmed it, so I eventually headed in a timely manner for her office in Westwood.

It was an appropriate place for her. I’d Googled her—sure, I trusted Kendra’s referral, but being armed with information could only help. Esther had gotten her law degree at UCLA quite a few years back, and the university was located in Westwood, too. I hadn’t thought to ask Kendra about Esther’s age. Not that it mattered. The more experience, the better.

Her office was in a building on Wilshire Boulevard. Esther came out to greet me in the reception area.

Yes, she apparently had a near lifetime of experience. I guessed she was seventy or older. She looked somewhat frail, definitely a senior citizen.

Could she really do a good job representing me if I was actually arrested for harming Efram?

That paranoia swelled like a tidal wave when she ushered me into her office, with its files and law books scattered everywhere. Was she of an age that she felt more comfortable with the old-fashioned stuff like physical volumes than research done on the Internet? Even I knew there were a lot more resources available online these days. Keeping as current as the opposition was surely as necessary as experience.

Esther wore a peach linen suit. Her hair was nicely styled, but definitely gray. Her face looked grandmotherly.

I took the seat she motioned toward with her aging hands, wondering if I should instead excuse myself graciously and scurry out.

“So here’s the thing, Lauren,” she said as we faced each other. “I talked to Detective Garciana. He wants you to come in for another interrogation, and he doesn’t sound happy that you’re now represented by counsel. Tough shit, right? Anyway, it’ll be tomorrow. Right now, I want to go over everything from day one with you. When you were born. Where. When you first met the victim. Why you hated his guts and probably don’t mind the fact he’s dead, but how you happened to find his body without your actually slicing and dicing him. All that.”

My eyebrows must have raised a mile. I felt a combination of amusement, amazement, and relief.

Esther Ickes might look aged and frail, but despite her senior-citizen gargly voice, she sounded like a young, with-it defense lawyer.

Surely everything would work out okay.

But I couldn’t count on Esther, wonder-lawyer though she might be, to fix everything.

I decided to make a stop on my way back to HotRescues. Well, not exactly on my way.

I headed for Pacoima.

On the street outside the place I’d last been days earlier, when it overflowed with abused dogs and puppies, I stared. The worn picket fence around the property gave it a seedy atmosphere, but there was no overt sign of the horror that had gone on there.

Even if I’d instead driven my car onto the narrow lane perpendicular to this one and focused on the storm drain, I’d have no sense of the torture those puppies and adult dogs had suffered. But I knew.

I’d learned that the Shaheens did, indeed, live here. And they, like Efram, had been released on bail after their arrest.

I realized that I shouldn’t confront them on their own turf. That I should have an armed bodyguard watching my back, or at least be somewhere public.

But here I was. I’d been known occasionally to do foolhardy things to take care of animals under my guardianship. This time, the purpose of my foolhardiness would be to protect myself.

I got out of my car and approached the front gate. Unlike the Animal Services folks, I had no authority to enter without invitation. But my anger at what had happened here before ignited my fury all over again. The animals were gone. Well cared for now, thank heavens.

But their abusers might be lounging at home.

Seeing a doorbell-like button, I shoved it with a finger released from my fist. Near it was a worn metal gadget that looked like an intercom. In a minute, I heard a staticky female voice. “Yes, who is it?”

I hadn’t come up with a cover story. Maybe I could play the role of another reporter. Would they allow the press to interview them again about their side of what happened?

That might work. “I’m Lauren Vancouver. I—”

“I know who you are, Ms. Vancouver. Efram talked about you. He hated you, and you killed him. So what do you want here?”

“To talk to you. I didn’t think much of him, either, but I didn’t kill him. And—Look, could I just come in and talk to you for a few minutes? I’ll explain it then.” If I could come up with a good story fast. Why hadn’t I prepared on my way here?

Maybe because I kept telling myself what a bad idea this was. I still thought so.

To my surprise, the voice said, “Well, all right.” I heard a click, and the gate started opening. I stared at it. Most likely, I should run. Why were they letting me in?

They could have been the ones who’d killed Efram. Were they planning to get rid of me, too?

I made a quick call to Matt Kingston. Told him where I was and what I was doing.

“Stay right there, Lauren,” he said. “Don’t go in. I can be there in . . . half an hour.”

“Too long,” I said. “I’ll tell you later how it goes.”

“No!” he shouted. “Wait! Why the hell did you even call?”

“Talk to you soon.” I headed inside.

Worst-case scenario—I hoped—I’d be able to tell the Shaheens the truth: a captain with one of the local law enforcement agencies knew exactly where I was.