Beaglemania (3 page)

It was certainly disturbing me. Especially since I’d been involved before in situations where choppers arrived, and not only those from the LAPD. I doubted any today were from D.A.R.T. The other Animal Services rescue group—Department Air Rescue Team—came in when large animals like horses needed help, not abused puppies. Had the media gotten wind of this operation?

Probably. News traveled fast. Hadn’t I heard about it myself in an unauthorized manner?

I saw Ralph Alazar come through the gate, accompanying Efram. I knew better, but I approached them.

“Thanks for letting me know when the SmART folks arrived, Ralph,” I said, not looking at Efram. “The rescue was amazing. And successful, thank heavens—assuming there weren’t more puppies down there than the four brought to the surface. There weren’t any more that washed away before help arrived, were there?”

That last was snapped directly at Efram. I watched his face. He gave a small shake of his head before he apparently caught himself, and I compressed my mouth into an ironic grin. I had my answer.

“So what’s the official theory?” I addressed my question to Ralph. “I suspect it was my buddy Efram, here, who tossed those puppies into the drain. I know word got out before you arrived that you guys were coming. Was he planning to protect his butt, intending to toss every one of those poor animals down there, so they’d drown?”

I turned my gaze back onto the man I’d once thought had come around fairly well in his treatment of animals. His mouth was open, his expression startled, as if I’d read his mind.

He didn’t say anything, though. I continued, “I’ll assume you’re admitting it, Efram, since you’re not denying it.” And I’d seen his reaction. “Your effort at getting the animals out of their cages while I stood there was pitiful. Did you really think you’d convince me you gave a damn? I’m not sure whether you’ll be prosecuted as an animal abuser, but I know the truth and so do you. You can bet I’ll tell Dante, make sure you don’t get another dime of settlement money, at least until you’re proven innocent. Which you won’t be.”

Dante DeFrancisco was the wealthy benefactor of HotRescues. Efram had threatened him with the rehoming lawsuit, too. Dante had helped to work out the settlement by funding our attempt to rehabilitate this abusive S.O.B.

“That’s not the way the legal system works, bitch,” Efram growled.

“It’s the way
I
work. And I’m the one with Dante’s attention. Maybe we’ll even sue to get back the money you didn’t earn. You certainly didn’t learn how not to harm animals.”

“You’d better keep that ugly mouth of yours closed,” Efram demanded. He suddenly feinted one way, causing Ralph to grab at air instead of Efram’s arm, which he’d aimed for. Instead, Efram grabbed my arms and started shaking me. Hard.

Painfully.

“Hey!” Ralph again tried to take control of Efram, who planted himself behind me, still holding on.

I’d had enough. I was sorry I wore soft-soled, comfortable shoes along with the jeans and the HotRescues T-shirt I’d put on in anticipation of working at my sanctuary later that day. Shoes with more substance—too bad I owned no stiletto heels—would have been more effective. Even so, I prepared to kick backward, hoping to collide with his groin. Of course, I’d be satisfied with bruising his shins if I did it hard enough.

Instead, he was suddenly lying facedown on the ground, being handcuffed by Captain Matt Kingston, with Officer Ralph Alazar’s help. My arms were free.

So were my legs, but I resisted kicking him.

“Thanks,” I said to the animal control officers. To Efram, I said, “Don’t bother coming back to HotRescues. Ever. Even if you somehow manage to avoid getting prosecuted for animal abuse—I’ll make sure you’re arrested for assault. Next time you see me, I’ll be testifying against you in court.”

A short while later, I drove my car—a dark gray Toyota Venza crossover equipped with a bunch of pet-friendly accessories—into the HotRescues parking lot, off Rinaldi Street in Granada Hills. I pulled into my reserved space.

This wasn’t quite the northernmost part of the vast city of Los Angeles, but it came close. It definitely wasn’t far from Pacoima, where Efram lived, and also where the puppy mill was located. And where my mind remained, at least for now.

How could Efram? How could
anyone
?

I entered the main building through the side door, right into the back of the cheerful room where we greeted visitors. Bright lemon yellow walls displayed photos of happy pets with their new adoptive humans. In fact, most of HotRescues was designed with happiness in mind—for the sweet animals waiting for their perfect forever homes, and even more for potential adopters, to put them in the right frame of mind for picturing themselves bringing home a new addition to their families.

The most eye-catching piece of furniture in the welcoming room was a waist-high reception counter of leopard print veneer—a new addition, after Dante sent a friend, CEO of a renowned furniture company, here to adopt a dog. This was how he’d shown his appreciation, including a full redecoration of this room.

Nina Guzman, in charge that morning in my absence, sat at a table behind the counter, answering phones and working on a laptop computer. Walking in from the side entrance, I saw that Nina was online, scanning a Web site that described local animals available for adoption at a high-kill facility run by a neighboring city. One of our favorite sites . . . not. But we visited that shelter often, bringing back as many dogs and cats as we could to ensure their continued longevity. And, hopefully, quick adoption.

I was glad Nina staffed the welcome room that morning. She was one of the few people I wanted to talk to just then.

“Trawling for new residents?” I asked before she noticed me.

“Lauren!” She stood immediately and rushed to where I stood near the door. “Tell me what happened. Was it really a puppy mill? Was Efram there?”

“Yes to both, as if you didn’t know.”

Nina was taller than me, a bit more curvy, and over a decade younger. I could have been jealous of even one of those features, and all three, blended together, might have made a less tolerant person in charge want to fire her perfect butt right out of there.

Not me. I really liked Nina. She was conscientious and energetic, and one of the most pet-oriented people I’d ever met. On top of everything else she did, she helped to coordinate our volunteers. Plus, our divorces gave us something in common. But as much as I now despised my ex, he was only a fraction as appalling as Nina’s. She’d been divorced now for about eighteen months—and had a restraining order against the jerk who’d abused her before she’d finally gotten the nerve to walk out.

“Okay, I want to hear all about it.” Nina headed back to the table, where she pulled out another chair in invitation for me to join her.

I complied and sat, but still asked, “Anything I need to know about or work on first?” I doubted it. If something had come in that required an executive decision, Nina, my assistant administrator, would have gotten it started, and if whatever it was demanded my immediate input, she’d have contacted me.

“I took a call from a woman who said she was bringing her dog in later. She lost her job and can’t take care of it anymore.” Nina, seated again behind the computer, grew silent. We stared at each other. Nina’s brown hair was shoulder length, and bangs framed her waiflike, large eyes. Her skin was taut and pale, with worry lines creasing her forehead—hinting of the angst she had once faced every day of her life.

“Did she seem for real?” I finally asked.

“Who knows?”

As a private facility, HotRescues was not permitted by its LA Department of Animal Services permit to take in stray pets off the street. If anyone brought in an animal they’d found, we had to turn it over to LA Animal Services, at least temporarily. Of course, our turnovers always came with a strongly worded request—demand, really—that if no one adopted the pet within a reasonable period of time, they were to let us know. We’d take it back.

Assuming custody of endangered pets from high-kill shelters was another story. That was how a large percentage of our wards came under our protection. We always attempted to take in animals that were suitable for adoption, and avoided those with aggressive tendencies unless we were certain we could resolve them with training.

We were also permitted to take in owner relinquishments—animals whose owners couldn’t keep them any longer, for whatever reason.

And when the reason was combined with sorrow—which wasn’t always the case—those situations became difficult not only for the person bringing in his or her baby for placement in another home, but also for us. Especially when we had to turn animals away for lack of room.

Fortunately, HotRescues wasn’t just any shelter. It had been founded by Dante DeFrancisco, the same guy who’d paid for the settlement with Efram. Dante was a wealthy business mogul who’d gotten rich selling pet supplies at the huge HotPets network of stores. He still provided most of the funds for HotRescues, a nonprofit corporation, and remained on the board of directors. Where situations could be resolved by throwing money at them, he could usually be counted on to help.

I already had to let Dante know about Efram. If the woman brought in her pet, I’d mention that to Dante, too.

Of course she could just be one of the numerous, unfathomable people who shed crocodile tears about how sad they were to give up their pets but were utterly relieved to get rid of them.

“We’ll see how that goes.” I proceeded to tell Nina about the rescue of the dogs from that hell-inspired puppy mill. “How could
anyone
throw those adorable, tiny beaglets down a storm drain?” I spat. “Let alone Efram. After all we taught him here.”

“You’re sure it was him?”

“No, but he didn’t exactly deny it.”

“What a horrible excuse for a human being.”

“Absolutely. But . . . he’ll pay.” My ire had risen enough to make it hard for me to talk. Nina obviously noticed, since she went into the small kitchen near the entry and brought me a cup from the coffeemaker we kept in there. I took a sip of the hot, strong brew as visions swirled through my mind all over again of those poor, frightened, abused dogs.

“I’ll check on the rescued doggies later,” she assured me. “I’m scheduled to volunteer this evening at the East Valley Care Center. They’ll probably be taken there. If not, I’ll find out where they are. Did all the parents look like they’d be okay?”

Typically, in puppy mills, adult male and female purebred or designer dogs were bred over and over again, procreating as fast as nature allowed, until they could no longer reproduce, and then they were adopted out, too.

Or kicked out on the street.

Or, much too often, they were in such bad shape that they had to be euthanized if taken to a vet or a shelter.

“As far as I could tell,” I said. “I didn’t see them all. I was distracted by Efram and the little beagle he handed me while I was inside, so I’m not even sure what other breeds were there. All relatively small ones, though. I saw Yorkies and cockapoos and maybe some Boston terriers, but there could have been others, too.”

“I’ll find out.” Nina’s connections had told her about the rescue in the first place. She spent even more time than I did, if that was possible, helping to care for animals. I was affiliated with only HotRescues, but she also devoted her off hours to volunteering at city shelters. She made a lot of helpful associations that way. And she’d made it known that anyone who heard of a situation where animals were being rescued, and might ultimately need someplace to go if not adopted quickly, was to tell her. She, in turn, told me.

“I know you will,” I responded with a laugh.

“So . . . I’m a little jealous,” Nina said. “You got to see SmART in action. I haven’t been able to do that yet.”

“Even with all the people you know?” I was surprised.

“Well . . . it’s partly my own fault. It’s bad enough to understand what they’re up to—SmART, D.A.R.T., and the Animal Cruelty Task Force. But bringing myself to go see the endangered animals before they’ve been rescued . . .”

I got it. As kindhearted as she was, Nina had gone through her own version of hell and didn’t need to see other creatures, human or not, in that kind of peril.

I decided to nudge the subject a bit. “You know, the whole time I was there I didn’t even think to ask who the puppy mill owners were, though I think I saw them. I was just so upset that Efram was aiding and abetting . . . Did you happen to hear more about them?”

I wouldn’t really have a hard time finding out. By the time I’d left, media vans besieged the area, with their little satellite dishes reaching way up into the ether to send whatever sensational pseudo-news stories they could to their media home planets. Between them and the vultures in the helicopters, they would either know whose property it was, or they’d find out.