Beaglemania (28 page)

Yet not impossible. There had been the case of an athlete a few years ago who’d been sent to jail and an animal sanctuary, Best Friends, had taken in the dogs. Many had been rehabilitated, thank heavens. But what would happen to the dogs here in LA who’d been caught today?

Impulsively, I called Matt. The Animal Cruelty Task Force was probably involved, but not necessarily the teams reporting to him, including SmART and D.A.R.T. Even so, he might know.

“Oh, yeah, I’m aware of it,” he responded to my question. “I’m on my way there now.”

“And the dogs? What will happen to them?” I cringed as I waited for his answer.

“As far as I know, they’ll be taken to the South Los Angeles Care Center for evaluation. Then we’ll see.”

Which meant that, if they were too damaged, too vicious for rehabilitation, that would be the end of them.

As a private rehoming facility, HotRescues was not equipped to help in that kind of situation. The official shelters would not have the staff or mandate to do anything different.

I could only hope that another private group could step in to help.

 

 

Fortunately, the kids returned to the main office, which immediately cheered me—as long as I directed my thoughts toward them and not what I’d just heard.

They were joined by Bev and also by Angie, who’d come to check on our newest residents, and Si, who’d additionally dropped in. We had an upbeat conversation about how Missy and Sweety were acclimating to their non-puppy mill existence here, and how they seemed to be growing stronger already.

“They’re not completely out of the woods yet,” Angie cautioned, “but I’m really optimistic.”

“I’m looking forward to the day they’re ready to get out of quarantine and start some training so HotRescues can find them new homes,” Si added.

I wanted to hug them all. But I didn’t get the opportunity to. My cell phone rang.

I excused myself and answered it. This time, the caller ID was clear. “Hi, Matt.”

“I’m here now,” he said. “Awful situation, but fortunately the dogs seem to be in good condition. Some are pretty young and I have the sense they haven’t been subjected to much of the training yet. The older ones . . . well, we’ll just have to see.”

“How many are there?”

“Maybe a dozen total.”

“Thanks for letting me know,” I said softly. And then I looked up. I wasn’t about to explain the conversation. Fortunately, no one asked. I stood. “It’s time for me to drag Tracy and Kevin away from here. Or for them to drag me away. Same difference.”

We headed for home.

 

 

The rest of my day was bittersweet. I had my kids with me until evening, when both left to return to their schools.

But before they did, we went through some old pictures, and the nostalgia nearly made me cry.

They’d grown up so fast. They were adults now, worried about their old mom and her new public persona.

As well as her private nonlife.

“What you’re still doing at HotRescues is really cool, Mom,” Tracy said as we sat at the retro glass-topped table in the dining room, passing around old-fashioned photo albums. “But are you becoming . . . I mean, getting on YouTube and in the news about animal rescues and things that happen to you because of them . . . well, I’m worried about you. That’s why I came home.”

“Yeah,” Kevin agreed. He’d always let his big sister be his mouthpiece whenever they were on the same page. That happened now and then, although not often.

“I’m fine,” I reassured them. “The whole situation about Efram Kiley’s death will blow over, and once the person who harmed him is caught and put on trial I’ll feel a lot better.”

“But he was killed at HotRescues. And you were hurt there afterward. Can’t you go get a job at some other, safer place?” Tracy had stopped pretending to concentrate on the photos and was staring at me, her green eyes overflowing with tears.

That was the crux of why both of them had come home. I knew that, and I loved them all the more for their worry about me.

It reminded me of all the worry I’d lavished on them forever, especially since their father died.

“I like it where I am,” I told them. “I don’t intend to make any changes in my life. HotRescues is part of who I am now. And I’ll be fine there. I promise.” I spoke in a tone that they hopefully recognized from their childhoods. Mom was issuing an edict, and there would be no contradiction.

I only hoped I was making a promise I could keep.

Apparently they decided to buy into what I said. Or at least they realized that any argument would be futile. Silence reigned at the table where we’d celebrated holidays and family events for years.

Then Kevin pulled one of the albums toward him again and started thumbing through it. I watched him, glad not to meet either one’s eyes. He stopped and pointed at a picture. “There the three of us are with Bosley. He was a great little dog.”

I smiled and pulled the album over. Sweety, the rescued Boston terrier now at HotRescues, resembled him. “He sure was,” I agreed.

“Have you considered adopting a dog yourself, Mom?” Kevin asked. “I didn’t try to figure out which one there now might be a good match, but I’ll bet—”

“I’m fine with things as they are, at least for now.” This sounded like an ongoing litany, nearly a repetition of what I’d said before. In this, though, I was a little less certain.

Did I want to adopt a dog?

It wouldn’t be good for the dog.

But—

“How about taking on a bigger dog?” Tracy sounded excited. “A watchdog. A guard dog. You could take care of each other.”

I smiled. “Maybe someday,” I said, again a repetition of something they’d heard many times before, which always meant no. But in this case, it was a definite maybe.

 

 

The next morning, I awoke alone in my bedroom. My house.

My kids had left, and somehow I’d managed to sleep.

But the silence, and the knowledge that they were gone once more, squeezed my heart as if I wadded it in my hands to still its motion for a while.

They were young adults now. They would visit when they wanted to and could manage it. That was how it should be.

I had a life, too. I showered and dressed quickly, then headed for HotRescues.

Nina was already there, in the reception room. “You’ve done it again, you star, you.”

Leaning over the leopard-print counter, I stared at her. “What do you mean?”

“Your statement about dogfighting has been played a lot on
National NewsShakers
,” she said. The expression on her face wasn’t particularly thrilled. I wondered why.

I asked her.

“No big deal,” she said. “I’m just a bit concerned about the kind of publicity HotRescues is getting lately, what with the puppy mill and Efram and the attack on you—and now this. Is it in the best interests of our animals?” I must have looked affronted, since she raised her hand and said, “I’m just asking.”

“Like I told my kids, more or less, ‘this too shall pass.’ Most of it isn’t negative publicity for HotRescues, and our being in the news tells people we’re here and have animals waiting for adoption. The bad stuff will fade away with time—hopefully sooner rather than later.”

“Right,” Nina agreed, although enthusiasm seemed distinctly lacking in her tone.

She was right, though. So were the kids. The sooner things calmed down and returned to normal, the better.

I wouldn’t give any more quotes to Corina Carey or any other media sort, even to publicize HotRescues.

And I’d be working harder on my files of information to figure out who killed Efram.

I did my first walk-through of the day, stopping to say hi to each of the dogs and pet a bunch of them when they stopped barking. Then, into the center building to visit the animals there, including Sweety and Missy.

Finally, I secluded myself in my office—in time to take a call from Carlie. “Okay, news lady,” she said. “If you’re going to get yourself on TV, make it my show from now on, not that tabloid stuff.”

“Got it.”

I became so occupied with some potential adoptions—yay!—that the only thing I got around to doing regarding Efram’s death was to follow up on a new lead suggested indirectly by attorney James Remseyer. I called Efram’s former employer, the air-conditioning repair company.

His immediate supervisor was named Pedro Suarez. I donned a pseudonym to talk to him. He had a thick Hispanic accent but I had no problem conversing with him. My story: my air-conditioning was acting up, and I needed a repairman. I claimed that the last time, the guy who’d been sent was named Efram, and he’d done such a great job. Could they send him again?

Not talking to Suarez in person, I gleaned no body language or facial expression. But he sounded sad, as if he genuinely mourned his employee, when he told me that Efram was gone.

“Oh, no!” I exclaimed. “What happened to him?”

“Long story,” he said. “But he was murdered.”

“How awful. What happened? Who killed him?” Like, did you do it?

“It had something to do with volunteer work he was doing on his own time.” Sounded as if the guy was discreet.

“Then it had nothing to do with his air-conditioning repair work?” Like, once more, did you do it? “He did a good job at my place, but . . . well, you know, I thought I saw him looking into some of my jewelry. Could one of your customers . . . I mean . . .”

I allowed my voice to drop off, waiting for him to respond. He didn’t immediately jump in to defend his subordinate. He also issued no criticisms of his own.

“Did anyone complain about him?” I prompted. “Did you think he did a good job?”

“I’m sorry, but I must get back to work. If you would like, I can send someone else to look at your air-conditioning unit. What did you say your name was?”

“Thank you,” I said without answering, and hung up.

And added a page devoted to Pedro Suarez to my file of murder suspects. Where would he fit, in the order of most likely killer to least? Probably somewhere lower than the middle.

 

 

I decided to work late that night. I’d been spending too much time on my obscure suspect file, and I needed to work on some bookkeeping issues.

Nina popped her head in to say goodbye. So did Bev and a few of the others. I was distracted but managed, I hoped, to be cordial.

It was dark out by the time I left—but I was only away for a short while to pick up a salad that I brought back.

By the time I pulled my car back into its slot, no other vehicles were in our parking lot. My entire staff should be gone by now, and our security company should be on duty.

I turned off the alarm and walked through the main building at the entrance, wanting to go right into the shelter area and visit with our residents before I went back to concentrate on paperwork.

I went outside, onto the path where dog enclosures were on my left. Honey was still there, and she barked. Of course.

Other dogs nearby joined in. Also of course. Only . . .

I’d been around animals for a long time now. They had, if not a language of their own, certain nuances in how they barked or what other noises or moves they made. Somehow, this wasn’t a normal greeting plus watchdog kind of bark that surrounded me.

It was more frantic. More of a warning. But of what?

I stopped walking, only one enclosure down from Honey’s. Inside it was Hannibal, a Great Dane mix, whose loud, anxious bark sounded like a harbinger of something frightening. What was going on?

And then I heard it. A low growl, vicious and disturbing and very, very nearby. But where . . .

Suddenly, an animal emerged from behind our center building.

A pit bull I hadn’t seen before ran toward me, teeth bared, seemingly prepared to leap on me, at my throat.

Ready to kill.

“Hi, there, fella,” I said in a soft, soothing voice that I might use on a shrieking human infant. “How did you get here? What can we do to get you calm?”

His growl only rose, like a revved engine. He stood half crouched, his forepaws stretched out with his head nearly to the ground. It was those rear legs I had to watch. He looked ready to spring.

“How about a treat?” I continued. “Are you hungry?” I glanced around from the corner of my eye. Fortunately, I didn’t see any of our inhabitants running around loose. That rarely happened, but obviously one had managed to get out of his enclosure. Only, I didn’t recognize this guy. We get a lot of pit bulls here, and pit bull mixes, but the dog facing me was nearly all white, with a black circle around one of his eyes. The only dogs of similar heritage I was aware of that were currently our residents had more black on them.

If this wasn’t one of our rescue animals, who was he? How had he gotten here?