No Such Thing as a Lost Cause (4 page)

Jacob’s Place was located on ten acres of farm land donated by a local philanthropist,
in memory of his rescued Pit. The facility housed between 100-150 abused and abandoned
dogs, and, due to the rising popularity of breeding pit bulls for sport, the numbers
were growing.

I learned all this from the Facilities Director, Judy Harrison. Judy was a tall, pretty
woman in her late forties.

“These dogs are the lucky ones,” she said, stopping in front of a kennel full of canines.
“I could tell you stories that would make your hair stand on end, and then just when
you think it couldn’t get any worse, you hear about some fresh, new horror. It’s just
beyond me that people are capable of such intense cruelty.”

“How do you do it?” I asked. “How do you keep going day after day?”

Judy shrugged. “You take it one dog at a time. The reward is in helping the ones we
can get physically and emotionally healthy enough to be placed in good, loving homes.
I have to warn you, though,” she said, her look turning somber, “sometimes the damage
just goes too deep, and that may be the case with Popeye.”

“Popeye?”

“That’s what we call the little one you found. Since the operation to remove his damaged
eye, he has this funny little squint and he looks just like—”

“Popeye,” I finished for her.

Her smile was disarming. “He’s become a favorite of the staff. He’s a beautiful puppy
with the most unusual markings. Would you like to see him?” she asked.

I nodded, although I knew this was an invitation to heartbreak.

We walked up to the onsite veterinary clinic, past a long line of cages filled with
dogs in various stages of recuperation. Judy stopped in front of a small dog. He was
cream colored, with a pinkish nose and belly. On his left hind leg there was a large,
distinctive, brown spot in the shape of a near-perfect heart.

Popeye’s head was swathed in bandages. A plastic cone collar had been placed around
his neck to keep him from tearing at his wounds.

The puppy didn’t look up when Judy called to him. In fact, he didn’t seem aware of
our presence at all.

“This little guy is in bad shape. If he doesn’t start eating soon, we’re going to
have to feed him intravenously. Then there’s the risk of infection from the puncture
wounds he suffered. The saddest part,” she added softly, “is he hasn’t connected with
anyone here. We have people working with him around the clock but trust is a fragile
thing.”

Judy stopped for a moment, and when she continued, her voice was laced with bitterness.
“We do the best we can to help every dog that comes through our doors, but sometimes
it feels like a lost cause.”

I tried not to turn away, but the look on Popeye’s face was too much to bear.

On my way out I stopped to make a donation. I didn’t think I’d be back. I just didn’t
have the stomach for it.

*****

“Somebody’s here to see you, Ms. Alexander. Says he’s a friend of yours.”

I was at work, looking up information on dog fighting when Al, my buddy from security,
called. “He looks like a gangster,” Al whispered into the phone.”

Well, that could be anyone. I had an eclectic mix of friends, some of which were,
in fact, actual gangsters. “What’s his name?” I asked.

“Alphonso Jackson.”

Alphonso
. I smiled to myself. “Send him up.”

Five minutes later there were audible gasps from my co-worker, Shelley, as Alphonso
entered the room. Tall, dark and gorgeous, in a totally gang-banger kinda way, Alphonso
epitomizes the word cool. He freelances for Nick and is a sort of Jack of all things
bad-ass Trades.

He cut me a full-watt smile. “Hey, Sweetcakes. Nice digs.” Then he turned a smoldering
gaze on Shelley, who didn’t know whether to run for her life or drop her drawers.

“Okay, rein it in there, cowboy.”

Alphonso let out a full throated laugh and settled into the chair opposite my desk.
The
Alphonso Show
over, Shelley made a wobbly exit.

“So what are you doing here?” I asked. Alphonso and I are friends, but not the “Let’s
do lunch” kind. If he showed up at my work, it was for a reason.

I started to get nervous. “Is Nick okay?” Nick was away on business, and was
in communicado
—at least with me. He says he doesn’t like mixing business with pleasure, but I suspect
it’s his way of keeping me safe. The less I knew about his business dealings, the
less likely I could be used as a pawn somewhere down the line.

“Relax. Santiago’s okay.”

“Do you know if he’s up on the local news?”

Alphonso peered at me over his shades. “If you’re asking does he know about you almost
getting taken out by that fuckwad, dog-abusing tweaker, he might’ve heard something
about it.”

“Oh,” I smiled. “That explains it. You’re here to check up on me. Well, I’m happy
to report I’m fine. So when you talk to Nick, tell him there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Ah, how do I put this gently, Sweetcakes? You’re not fine. Not by a long shot.”

“Well, that’s a little judgmental,” I sniffed.

Alphonso leaned in close and tapped my computer screen, leaving a thumbprint on Mario
Lewis’s acne-scarred face.

“I’m not talking about your mental health here, although that may be up for debate.
Word on the street is when you shot this asshole, you pissed off about thirty of his
closest friends, AKA The Junk Town Gang. Ring any bells?”

“Aren’t they the ones who trashed a Seven-Eleven last month, because they ran out
of Big Gulp cups?”

“And set the clerk on fire. Listen, Santiago thinks it might be a good idea if you
stayed at his place—just until things settle down.”

“Oh, c’mon, Alphonso. You really think the Junk Town Gang is going to come after me
just because I shot one of their own? What babies. If they can’t stand the heat, they
should stay out of the kitchen.”

Alphonso shook his head. “Nick said you’d start talkin’ crazy. You always do when
you’re scared. Don’t give me a hard time about this, okay?”

I was about to go round two with him when my phone rang.

“Brandy Alexander,” I said tersely. “Oh, hi…uh huh… yeah, okay then…thanks for letting
me know.”

I turned back to Alphonso. “So, on a scale of one to ten, how pissed off do you think
the Junk Town Gang would be if Lewis uh, y’know—died?”

Thanks to some rather spectacular gang-inspired nightmares, I awoke the next day before
dawn too afraid to go back to sleep. Rocky and Adrian had crept off the bed in the
middle of the night, (probably driven away by all my thrashing about) leaving me all
alone. Suddenly, I missed Nick so much that I wanted to cry. Instead, I got dressed
and headed for the shooting range. There’s nothing like playing with high tech ammo
to chase away the blues.

The place was already packed, but I ran across Vince and he offered to share his space
with me. I was taking a chance. Vince is not a morning person.

“Your aim is all off,” he scowled and tightened the strap on his protective goggles,
making his naturally chubby cheeks stick out more than usual. He looked like Rocky
the Flying Squirrel.

“Well, how am I supposed to concentrate? I pop a guy in the leg and the next thing
I know he drops dead in his hospital bed.”

“You have nothing to feel guilty about, Brandy. You did what you had to do.”

“Yeah, I know.” The trouble is it didn’t help. Rationally, I understood that Lewis
had left me with no choice, but emotionally—not so much.

I shot off another round and missed by a mile.

“You’re flinching on the recoil. Try taking a deep breath before you shoot.” I did
as I was told, aimed and fired. Not bad.

“It’s just sort’ve a shock, y’know?” I said, as I reloaded my gun. “I mean Lewis seemed
to be on the mend and then, boom, he’s gone. So, what happened to him, anyway? Did
he develop an infection or something?”

Vince shrugged. “We’ll know more after the autopsy.”

“Autopsy? But if he died of natural causes, why would they perform an autopsy?”

Too late, Vince realized his mistake. The corner of his mouth began to twitch. “Just
routine. So anyway, did you catch the Phillies’ game the other night?”

“Vincent.” I fixed him with a stare. “Autopsies haven’t been routine since the 1950’s.
They wouldn’t have ordered one unless the family wanted it, in which case they’d have
to pay for it—unless the death was suspicious…that’s it, isn’t it? The death was suspicious!”
I yelled, waving my ‘shootin’ arm in the air.

“Hey, hey! Put that thing down, ya maniac. It’s loaded.”

“Oops.” I put down the gun and took off my goggles. “Vince, are you saying my shooting
Lewis may not be what killed him?”

“Brandy, I’m not saying anything. Would you please just give it a rest?”

“Look, if there’s a chance I wasn’t responsible for Lewis’ death, I have a right to
know. And if he was murdered, well, that’s the public’s right to know.”

Had he been physically able to, Vince would have kicked himself in the butt.

“Will you keep your voice down? Nobody said anything about murder. We’re still looking
into things.”

“So you admit there’s something to look into.”

“Jesus, you’re a pain. And to think you were once my girlfriend.”

“Oh, please. We were in the third grade. And don’t change the subject.”

“You’re not gonna let this go, are you, Alexander?”

“Vincent, I shot the guy. Now he’s dead. I was willing to accept responsibility for
that, but now you’re saying you don’t know for sure if the two are related. Only some
people might get the idea that they are and be kinda—y’know—homicidal about it.”

Vince’s ears perked up. “Has someone threatened you?”

“No.” I answered honestly. It was all rumor, and I refused to live my life in fear,
which was why I’d declined Nick’s offer to let me stay at his place while he was gone.
(Well, that, and because for reasons I couldn’t fathom, I was feeling upset with him.
My mother would chalk it up to hormones. Then again, my mother chalks everything up
to hormones.)

Vince took off his goggles. “Look, Bran, I can’t tell you what I don’t know, all right?
I don’t have the final report. But mistakes get made, y’know what I mean? So until
we get the results of the autopsy I’ve got nothin’ to say.”

“But—”

“Nothin.’”

*****

Two days later, I drove over to the hospital cafeteria to pick up some lunch, because
as everyone knows hospital food is the yummiest! Oh, and as long as I was there I
figured what would it hurt to ask a few questions about Mario Lewis? I polished off
my pudding cup and headed for reception.

A couple of uniformed guards stood at the desk having a heated discussion over the
cancellation of
Jersey
Shore
. They stopped talking as I approached. The female guard stared at me curiously. She
appeared to be about my height, (5’2” give or take an inch) but broader in the shoulders.
Her name tag said Edie Wyncote.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Thanks.” I whipped out my Press I.D., attempting to channel the cocky assurance of,
say, Geraldo Rivera
. I’m a very important person, and I need my questions answered, stat!

“My name is Brandy Alexander.”

“I knew it!” she shouted. “High five, girl!”

I stuck a reluctant hand in the air, truly hoping her enthusiasm was due to my in-depth
reporting on Skinny Jeans, but she burst that bubble in a hurry.

“You are my hero. What you did to that douche bag was awesome.” Edie whipped her head
back around to her colleague. “You know who she is? She killed the guy who shot the
cop.”

“Woah,” I said nervously. Sitting in the lounge a few yards away, a group of young
men in baggy pants with matching red streaks in their hair puffed away under the “Positively
No Smoking” sign. One of them looked up at the reference to Mario Lewis. He cocked
his finger at me, gun style, and blew a smoke ring in my direction. The hostility
packed in that small gesture made my skin crawl.

I turned back to the guards. “Let’s not jump to conclusions here. I mean I don’t want
to take credit where it isn’t due.”

The male guard gave me the once-over. He was white, with a crew cut and a scar over
his right eyebrow that sliced it in two. Tats peeked out from the collar of his uniform.
“What’d you say your name was again?”

“Brandy. Look, whether or not I actually killed this guy is subject for debate, and
I’m afraid I don’t have time right now. Could you just direct me to the floor he was
staying on?” I was going to make up an elaborate ruse for going up there, but it turned
out not to be necessary.

“Fifth floor,” Edie directed me. “Ask for Suzanne Dunham. She’s the floor nurse. I
believe she was on duty that night.”

“Thanks.”

I could feel the heat of several pairs of eyes on my back as I headed for the elevator.

Nurse Dunham wasn’t there. However, I did run across a brash, young orderly in the
elevator on the way back downstairs. His hair was black and massively curly. He bobbed
his head and eyed me with unreserved glee. “Hey, aren’t you—”

Oh, great. Here we go again.
“Yes,” I huffed with all the impatience I could muster. “I am the one who shot Mario
Lewis. But that doesn’t necessarily mean I killed him, so let’s not go around spreading
rumors. Okay?”

“
O-kaaay.
I was going to say, aren’t you the girl who played the alien in last week’s episode
of Star Fleet 2110. But this is cool too.” He leaned into me with a conspiratorial
whisper. “Y’know, I was here the night Lewis went Code Blue.”

“
Really
. So, Mohindar,” I smiled, reading from the plastic name plate attached to his scrubs.
“Let’s talk.”

We got off at the next floor, and I followed my new best friend down the hall. He
paused in front of a corner room at the far end of the corridor, adjacent to a utility
closet.

“This was Lewis’ room,” Mohindar announced with the jaunty air of a Disneyland tour
guide. “Admin tried to isolate him as much as possible because it freaked out the
other patients seeing the guard at his door.” Mohindar shrugged. “I don’t know what
people were so upset about. I mean it’s not like he was going anywhere.”