Beaglemania (8 page)

I immediately put my hands in the air, trembling as the cops edged closer. “I’m Lauren Vancouver, officers.” I wished the usual note of decisive authority could interject its way into my voice now. “I’m director of administration of HotRescues. I just found Efram here, and—is he going to be okay?”

The female officer knelt on the ground as I’d started to do, feeling Efram’s neck. “Let’s get the EMTs here,” she said, which gave me hope that he was alive despite my initial assessment. No matter how miserable a human being he was, at that moment I didn’t wish anything too bad for him—except that, as soon as he was well, he’d spend a nice long sentence in prison after being convicted of animal abuse. “But I think this is one for the coroner.”

My optimism blew away with my audible sigh. I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding my breath.

“Come over here, ma’am.” One of the male cops gestured for me to follow. At least they’d lowered their guns, but I had no illusions. I wasn’t sure why they’d arrived at that critical moment, but they’d seen me with Efram. And Efram had apparently been killed.

I’d spotted, on the ground, under the bright, artificial lights of the shelter, what might have been the weapon used to stab him. It was one of the overgrown knives we kept in the storage building to rip open large bags of dog and cat food. I wasn’t the only one, but I did, sometimes, feed our charges. My fingerprints could be on that knife.

And I’d been arguing with Efram. These cops didn’t know that . . . yet. They’d probably find out.

But I hadn’t hurt him. I hadn’t even known he was here. Not that I was entirely shocked by his presence.

Only his condition.

I stood alongside the cop who seemed to have taken charge of me. His name badge said he was Andrews. He appeared young and gruff, or maybe that was his way of dealing with crime. I didn’t remember walking as far as the main building, but now we stood outside it. I became aware then that the dogs were still barking. Under ordinary circumstances, I’d have been fully mindful of it at all times. Would have tried to calm them. But now, with my nerves this edgy, I could easily have joined them, shouting and venting any way I could. Maybe even bawling.

Efram clearly couldn’t hurt me now. But I was terrified of the situation. Not that I’d show it.

“What happens now, Officer Andrews?” I asked as calmly as I could.

He reiterated, as his female cohort had said, that the EMTs and coroner would arrive soon. So would a team from the SID, which he explained was the Scientific Investigation Division—the LAPD’s version of CSI.

“And one of our Robbery Homicide Division detectives will want to talk to you, ma’am.”

There wasn’t much I’d be able to tell them, though. I’d try to help, but I wasn’t stupid. Efram had been stabbed. I was here. No one else seemed to be around but the cops . . . now.

Therefore, I would be a suspect.

The dogs quieted down a bit. Or maybe I was tuning them out. I hoped not. They were upset for a good reason.

I badly wanted to take another quick walk through the shelter area, make sure all the animals were okay in their enclosures despite their restlessness.

Whatever Efram had been doing here, I believed he had intended to carry through on his threats, which encompassed our residents, too.

Only . . . what person had gotten to him first?

 

 

I wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but daylight was starting to transform the black sky to light, hazy blue. Officer Andrews had allowed me to go into our main building, and I now sat on a chair at the table near the window.

Soon, people who belonged here would start arriving. What would they think? Would they assume, as these cops probably did, that I’d killed Efram?

My subordinates knew, even better than the cops did so far, the ill will I’d felt toward the man who clearly had no problem with abusing animals.

But despising him was a huge chasm away from killing him.

Officer Andrews hadn’t sat down. He seemed to be studying every inch of our reception area, as if it would provide a clue about what had happened to Efram. The place, even with its cat-print counter and happy pictures of animal adoptions, no longer seemed so welcoming, even to me.

The door opened, and a man wearing the deep green uniform of our security company walked in. I recognized him. His name was Ed Bransom, and he was a manager. He visited now and then to check out the system, make sure it was working optimally. If he hadn’t, I’d have been on the phone making a lot more demands of the company.

“Hi, Lauren,” he said now. “No alarm went off at our offices, but one of your cameras suddenly lost its picture. Per our agreed-on procedure for HotRescues, we tried fixing it remotely, then dispatched someone and called 911. By the time our guy arrived the cops were already here.”

Somewhere along the line, they were supposed to call my BlackBerry, too. Maybe they’d thought that was to happen only after they’d checked things out. I’d have to review our agreement with them.

“Is everything under control?” Bransom continued. He glanced toward Officer Andrews, who just watched silently.

“Not really.”

“Then tell me—”

“Please step outside, sir,” the cop said. “Someone will talk with you shortly.”

Ed met my eye, then looked at the officer. “A crime was committed, then?”

“It appears that way, sir.”

“We’ll talk later, Lauren,” Ed said.

He had barely left when the door opened again. The man who walked in wasn’t wearing a uniform. Or maybe he was—a suit, dark, with a blue-striped tie. And a frown.

He yanked a badge from his pocket and waved it toward Officer Andrews, who nodded, rose, and slipped out the door.

I felt like following. But I had a pretty good suspicion that this man was here to talk to me. Maybe not only me—I hoped. But I didn’t really want anyone else at HotRescues to go through this experience, either. And it was getting close to time that the gang would start arriving.

“Hello.” The man stood next to me, effectively blocking me from rising. Assuming control. I had to tolerate it, but I didn’t have to embrace it. “I’m Detective Garciana of the Los Angeles Police Department.” He held his badge out in case I wanted to study it. I didn’t.

“Hello,” I said, then cleared my throat, hoping to erase my uneasy huskiness. “I’m Lauren Vancouver, director of administration of HotRescues.”

The dogs outside, previously quiet for a minute, now rent the air with a volley of barking. I wondered what was happening but suspected I wasn’t welcome to go out and see.

“I’m here to help figure out what happened tonight,” the detective continued. “Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

I did mind but said nothing. The more I pondered the situation, the more concerned I got. Any attempts on my part to help the cops could ricochet back and slam me in the gut. Efram was at least badly injured, probably dead. I’d been found with him. And I’d had a damned good motive to harm him: his threats and his animal abuse.

What could I say to get me out of this mess?

The best I could do—maybe—was tell the truth. Some of it.

“Go right ahead,” I finally said, trying to sound as if I meant it.

He sat in the chair the police officer had just vacated. I leaned on my arms on the table as I waited for him to start, trying to hold back my body’s quivering. So what if I had nothing to hide? I was as nervous as if I’d stabbed Efram. Which I hadn’t.

Detective Garciana had straight, dark eyebrows knit nearly together as he watched me, giving his deep brown eyes an air of sincerity that I didn’t trust. His complexion was dusky, his black hair long enough to show its waviness. I wondered if he liked animals.

“You were here when the first officers arrived, correct?” After laying a recorder on the table, he extracted a small notebook from an inside pocket and poised a pen over it.

“That’s right.” I considered giving him a blow-by-blow of all that had occurred, but I watched enough TV cop shows to know better. I’d just wait for his questions.

And tell the truth. Carefully. I wondered if I should ask for a lawyer, but that might make me look like I had something to hide. I wasn’t in custody, and cop shows indicated that an imminent arrest was what triggered Miranda rights and lawyering up.

But, damn, I was churning inside like a smoothie machine. I leaned back, in a futile attempt to calm down a little.

“Do you know the victim’s identity, Ms. Vancouver?” he asked.

“His name is Efram Kiley.”

“How do you know him?”

I explained only that he volunteered sometimes at HotRescues. No need to mention that his work here had started as the result of settling a dispute.

“He was arrested earlier this week because of his alleged affiliation with a puppy mill,” said Detective Garciana.

That wasn’t a question, but I still nodded. “That’s my understanding.”

“And according to news reports, you were also at the rescue of those puppies.”

“Yes.”

He eyed me with what could have been amusement—or irritation. Was he used to those he questioned blurting out their entire life histories?

If it helped to get him to believe in my innocence, I’d do that. But who knew what he was really thinking?

“So . . . Mr. Kiley helped out here. Was he usually around late at night?”

“No,” I answered.

“Are you?”

“When I believe it’s in the best interests of our residents.”

“Did you arrange to have Mr. Kiley volunteer to help out tonight?”

“No.” The vehemence in my tone got a surprised blink out of the detective.

Maybe it wasn’t wise, but I decided I’d had enough of Twenty Questions—or A Hundred Questions, the way this was going.

“Here’s how it is, Detective Garciana. I was definitely unhappy with Efram and his apparent work with that puppy mill. He and I had a disagreement about it, and he threatened me, my staff, and our residents here at HotRescues. I decided to sleep here because I was concerned about those threats. I didn’t actually expect Efram to show up tonight, but I’m not surprised he came. I’d even asked our security company to keep close watch on us.”

The detective seemed to relax, as if my outburst put him at ease. Did he believe he would get my confession any minute? My assumption was bolstered by his next words. “So, you heard him here, maybe saw him, and feared for your life?”

“If you’re asking if I stabbed him in self-defense, the answer is no.”

Those dark brows raised in obvious interest, and I realized what he might assume from what I’d said.

“And don’t think I’m confessing to stabbing him
not
in self-defense, either,” I asserted, feeling my hands ball into fists in my lap. “I didn’t stab him at all. I heard the dogs barking, worried about what was going on, and came downstairs to find out—and found him lying there.” I closed my eyes as I felt tears rush into them. Mistake. The image of Efram, bloody and still, popped into my head, and I again opened my eyes to find the detective still watching me keenly.

“So . . . you were staying here all night. Did you lock all the doors and gates?”

The way he looked at me I guessed that was a loaded question. I mentally started going through all entries. I’d certainly checked the ones in front, and into the parking lot. There was a fence around the perimeter of the entire site, with a couple of gates here and there, including one leading to an alley from which we brought in the heaviest bags of food since it was closest to the storage shed. It was always kept locked, and I’d checked it. Had Efram nevertheless sneaked in through there? Did he have a key made for that or any of the other locks while he was volunteering here?

He’d obviously gotten in somehow and turned off the alarm. And whoever killed him must have accompanied him.

But his being on the premises at all was another strike against me, most likely, in this detective’s eyes.

Worry coursed through me in an ever-increasing stream. Would he arrest me?

What was the evidence against me? Possible fingerprints on the knife on the ground beside Efram. My animosity toward the guy. He was here, and he shouldn’t have been. I was here because of him. And he had threatened me.

But—

As I’ve said before, I’m not a killer . . . of animals.

And even though he’d been a terrible man, I hadn’t hurt Efram for any reason, self-defense or otherwise.

Somehow, I had to convince this skeptical detective of that.

I’d been surviving on adrenaline for what seemed like hours. Probably
was
hours. But fatigue eventually trumped all other sensations.

The detective hadn’t eased up. Wasn’t he tired, too? Hard to tell. His questions were sounding familiar, so maybe he was. More likely, he was hoping I’d begin spouting inconsistent responses to prove his assumption that I was lying.