Beaglemania (34 page)

“He’s the dog who was stolen in Palm Springs?” Si asked. “Wow! How do you know that?”

“Because that dog—whose name is actually Bubba, by the way—is an educational film star of sorts. He’s a poster child—er, dog—for having a split personality under some circumstances. When he was a pup, he got sick and was given the drug Prednisone. Instead of getting the usual sedative effect, he had a rare, opposite reaction that made him highly aggressive—so much so that he’s almost unique. His owner keeps Bubba off the stuff most of the time. But the extent of his reaction is so unusual that Bubba is used in films sometimes to demonstrate how vicious dogs can be if mistreated or trained to fight or whatever. The drug isn’t administered often, and always under a vet’s auspices. And most of the time, as long as he’s not under the medication, Bubba is nice and mellow.” I looked straight into Matt’s face. “Those training films have been made available to Animal Services groups all over Southern California.”

“And you’re accusing me of finding out about this Bubba, stealing him, and bringing him here?” Matt was standing now. “Why would I do that?”

I stood, too. So did Si. He and I faced Matt over the table. “I’ll tell you my thought process. And I warn you, it’s so complicated that it makes my brain turn flip-flops. But as you knew, there were three situations that occurred here at HotRescues, and they’ve all got to be related. You agree, right?”

I looked from one to the other. Both nodded. The look on Matt’s face was speculative. Si’s expression was even more curious.

“The person who killed Efram was angry about the puppy mill situation and that Efram had been released from jail,” I began. “That person followed Efram and saw him come here that night. Or, possibly, he hid his anger, pretended to be chummy and on Efram’s side, and accompanied Efram here, where Efram could have shown him how to get by the security system. In any event, once they came in our gate, I believe they got into a nasty altercation. My assumption is that Efram grabbed one of the knives we use to open bags of food and started to attack, but that person used it on him instead. Or maybe the killer grabbed the knife in the first place. Either way, end of story—of Efram, anyway.”

“Interesting.” Matt’s expression had turned as cold as the face of a glacier.
That
was interesting. “Go on.”

“Sure. So, I was accused, since I was physically present, and I certainly wasn’t quiet about disliking Efram. The person who killed him might even have wanted to frame me in the first place to keep him from becoming a suspect. I believe he was also angry with me for something, like accusing him of doing a shoddy job with his own responsibilities.”

I hoped that Ed Bransom was listening . . .

“Or maybe he had another motive for wanting me to take the rap. But the cops didn’t arrest me, so he took the next step, making it appear even more like I tried to lay the blame on someone else—the reason for the setup with Honey in our storage shed. I claimed it wasn’t me but the killer who did it. Poor little me. I was even stabbed. The cops didn’t buy it. They still liked me for Efram’s murder but needed more evidence. Plus, something was done each time to foul up the security cameras, at least temporarily, so there was no proof that another person was even around here during either situation.” Some of that was guesswork on my part. I’d asked EverySecurity and gotten excuses. I’d asked Detective Garciana and gotten evasions. In any event, no one was depending on the security cameras for answers.

“This is pretty damned twisted,” Matt growled.

“So’s the killer. But even the Honey situation didn’t get me arrested. One final scenario was devised: stealing Bubba, giving him Prednisone, letting him attack me. Once again, everyone was supposed to believe I had set it up myself to throw suspicions elsewhere. I know dogs and their personalities. I could have found a vicious dog somewhere—like after the dogfighting scheme that occurred right around the same time—and brought him here to attack me, or at least appear to. Although that was my first thought about you, Matt, since you had access to those rescued dogs. In any event, our security company couldn’t even tell whether the person who brought the nasty dog here was male or female—wearing my hoodie, or one like mine. But no one around here, except whoever brought the dog to HotRescues, knew the vicious pit bull mix was actually fairly mild-mannered Bubba. That was the killer’s mistake: assuming no one would ever learn about that. But you knew about Bubba in the first place, didn’t you, Matt?”

“I could have,” he admitted.

“So, end of my story. I’d like yours now. Will you confess and make it easier on all of us?”

Silence. Matt said nothing.

Ed Bransom didn’t appear, although I half expected him to rush through the door and take Matt into custody, thus exonerating his security company from its former negligence.

Although, of course, everything I’d accused Matt of could just as easily have fit Bransom.

“Hey, this is supposed to be the time that the villain stands up and confesses,” I asserted brashly—to hide the insecurity fluttering inside me. What if this didn’t work? “Don’t you watch cop shows?”

Matt shrugged.

I turned to Si. “What do you think? Does that scenario make any sense to you?”

“Sure,” he said. “Come on, Kingston. Tell us why you did it.” He came toward me, apparently ready to put his arm around me. Instead, I backed away to face these two men.

And then I turned toward Si.

“One thing really troubles me about that conclusion,” I said. “Maybe you’ll be able to shed some light on it, Si. You told us how much effort you put into retraining the dog you called Perry. It didn’t surprise you that he became such a model animal in less than ten days?”

“I was amazed, too,” Si said quickly. “He just seemed so smart, so willing to change.”

“I know you considered that he might already have known some of the lessons you taught. With your background in dog training for shelters, did you ever try to find out if anyone had lost a smart, already trained dog like him? Did you check him yourself for a microchip before taking him to the vet?” I paused. “Or maybe you knew about Bubba. And maybe you changed the information tied to his microchip from the get-go.”

Si’s turn to become silent. He just looked at me. For a moment, the sweet, caring expression I was used to seeing him aim at me turned as vicious as the pit bull mix who had attacked me. Then it disappeared.

“Why don’t we get the cops here now, Lauren?” Si said. “You can tell them your suspicions about this Animal Services freak.”

“If I bring them here now, Si,” I said softly, “I’ll tell them this all was a setup to see how you would react, not Matt.”

“Me?” His voice grew as shrill as a Chihuahua’s yap.

“Everything I said in accusation of Matt would fit you even better,” I said. “I suspect that you killed Efram in the first place for his showing up here at HotRescues and threatening us all. You did it to protect me, in some ways. But then you were afraid of the consequences. You knew at last that I wasn’t going to reciprocate any romantic feelings you might have for me—so you decided I was the right one to take the blame for Efram’s killing. You had easy access to HotRescues, more than any of the outside suspects I looked into. More than Matt. Maybe even more than our buddies at EverySecurity.”

Si’s glance moved toward the shelter door where we’d last seen Ed Bransom. Bransom wasn’t there. Si grabbed the nearest chair and looked like he wanted to hurl it at me.

Matt moved around, but I put my hand out, waving him back. I knew that animal control officers could carry guns for euthanizing injured animals. Probably commanding officers, too. Did Matt have his with him?

Si released the chair. I assumed his thoughts had been going over what I’d said.

The smile he leveled at me was almost angelic. “You have such a wonderful imagination, Lauren. I’m sure that’s how you dreamed up such a complicated series of events to try to exonerate yourself in the first place. But no one is going to believe you.”

“Oh, I’m not so sure about that.” A familiar voice sounded conversational as Detective Stefan Garciana entered the room from the shelter area, followed by Ed Bransom. I’d told Bransom to watch for the cops and let them in the back way.

Allowing Bransom to feel the anxiety of possible suspicion resting on him and his company was part of my scheme, of course. But I knew by then who’d been responsible for it all.

Now Si was going to realize it, too.

“You’re the police detective who’s been after Lauren, aren’t you?” Si’s tone was a friendly welcome. “I’m so glad you’re here. Did you hear all the things she said? She accused that Animal Services guy, there—Kingston. But I’ll bet all of this is just blowing smoke so you’ll get off her case. She’s such a smart lady, but I think she finally outsmarted herself.”

“Or you,” Garciana said. Tonight, he had put a suit jacket on over slacks and a white knit shirt. “I was listening out there to part of what she said. Interesting stuff. She’d told me a little about it before. And I’m quite impressed about how she used my own case-solving exercise, scoping out all possible suspects, no matter how unlikely. I think it worked well this time—even more for her than for me, although I shouldn’t admit it. But there are some things she didn’t mention, because she didn’t know them.”

All eyes were on the detective. His face was ramped up into what appeared to be a triumphant smile.

“When Ms. Vancouver told me her outlandish story, I had to check it out, of course. And guess what. The authorities in the Palm Springs area recently discovered fingerprints that they believe came from whoever stole Bubba, the dog, and assaulted his owner. This matter isn’t the highest on their agenda, so they haven’t run it through AFIS yet—the national fingerprint system—but I think I’m going to make it easy for them. I suspect they’ll match yours, Mr. Rogan. And although we didn’t make it public, there were a few partial prints on the knife used to kill Efram Kiley that hadn’t been wiped away. Mr. Kiley’s, of course, and we weren’t surprised to find that others matched employees here at HotRescues, including yours and Ms. Vancouver’s. That kept her on our suspect list. But she actually fed the animals sometimes. Why would a part-timer who only trains animals here leave prints on a knife used to open bags of food?”

Leaping sideways, Si again grabbed the chair and hurled it generally in my direction. Matt yanked me out of the way and pushed me to the floor.

I nevertheless saw Si reach the door to the parking lot and pull it open . . . only to be confronted by the uniformed officers that Detective Garciana must have called in as backup that night.

Si was busted!

The next afternoon, when things were finally settling down again at HotRescues, I took some time to hang out in the welcome room near our front door, with Carlie and Nina.

Carlie had arrived only a few minutes before and apparently talked her way past those cops who still hung around the parking lot. She had sped here, demanding the whole story, in detail, after I’d called her. Which I’d had to do, since the media had started to point their ugly, oversized noses in this direction again and were screaming all over the local news, and even networks and cable stations, about Si Rogan’s arrest. Carlie would never have forgiven me if I’d not given her a heads-up, even a slightly late one.

And, yes, I’d called both Tracy and Kevin even before Carlie. My kids would have been outraged if they’d heard about this, too, on YouTube or their favorite online news source. I asked them to tell Grandma, Grandpa, and Uncle Alex, too, since I was still too busy to contact them all. We’d talk later.

I’d stayed the night, catching quick dozes on the couch in Mona’s office. The place was still busy with cops who were looking for additional evidence in Si’s office. I didn’t think they’d need to disrupt anyplace else at HotRescues, but just in case I had put together another list of employees who needed to get in to help care for our residents. That included Nina and Pete Engersol, who had both come early, Angie Shayde, and some of our most reliable volunteers. Dr. Mona had called and promised to come and give counseling to all of us and our residents later this afternoon.

At the moment, Carlie faced me, hands on her bluejeaned hips. She cocked her head so her blond hair unevenly fringed out along one shoulder. I knew that look. She used it often on her animal health TV show when unhappy with some owner’s approach to a pet’s care. Now, she was about to chew me out. “So you set things up here last night, pretending you were sure that gorgeous Captain Matt Kingston of Animal Services first killed Efram, and then kept doing things around here to make you look bad to the police?”

“That’s right,” I answered mildly, taking a seat at the table. If she was going to ream me, I might as well be as comfortable as possible while she did it.

“Did you really think it could be Matt?” Nina, standing beside Carlie, sounded amazed. She’d just come inside from feeding and otherwise caring for our residents. “But he’s such a nice guy.”