The China Dogs (21 page)

The thought throws her for a second. “Danny, give me Jenny's number and I'll call her. Tell her what a protective sister-bitch I am and how I'm really happy you're both going to be married.”

“But you're not, are you?”

“Not yet. But I'm going to be. But listen—if you screw this up, big brother, then I'm going to come to New York and kick your ass so bad you'll never sit at a computer again.”

73

Coral Way, Miami

C
ooking dinner isn't something Zoe normally does. Not for guys. Mostly not even for herself.

Not unless you count warming up plastic-wrapped food in a microwave, in which case she should have her own TV show. In her most ambitious moments she's boiled pasta and chopped vegetables to go with meatballs. But she's never gone the whole hog and done the “follow a recipe and put linen on a table”
crap.

At least not until now.

Tonight she's making an exception. After that rooftop spread Ghost put on, the least she can do is cook some fish with a few little side dishes and open a bottle of wine.

Jude has a stack of books on a shelf above the cooker, and she's found a recipe for “Asian Salmon Bake with Creamy Miso and Sake Sauce.” A quick scout around shows there's enough stuff in the freezer, fridge, and vegetable basket to have a go at it.

Zoe does her prep first. She tracks down bottles of vegetable and sesame oil and measures out what she calls “the doses.” Next, she gets a board and chops green onions, cloves, and garlic, then defrosts a hunk of salmon from the icebox. Making bread crumbs is trickier than she thought, and she manages to add some grazed knuckle to the grated bread.

She needs a chair to root in the alcohol cupboard above the fridge. There's rum, whiskey, port, brandy, Cointreau, Southern Comfort, gin, and vodka.

Everything except sake.

Vodka will do.

Won't it?

She measures out the quarter cup that the recipe asks and then freezes. From the back of her mind comes a memory of baking with her mother and the young Zoe taking a sip of water from mom's cup. Only to find it wasn't water. It was vodka. Then there'd been the instant recollection of how many times Mom had drunk water from a cup. How many times it mustn't have been water but booze, the vodka that eventually would ruin her life.

Zoe throws the alcohol in the sink. The smell of it freaks her out, has her heart racing like a bolted horse. She takes the bottle and empties all of it down the sink, shakes it to get all the drops out, then runs the tap. The odor is still there. That insipid stench that was always on her mother's lips.

She takes time out from the kitchen, sits in the living room and stares into the cream nothingness of the opposite wall. But nothing is not what she sees. The past is there, in all its vividness.

She's a child again. Baking brownies with her mother. Pulling on oven gloves so she can carry them over to where her father and Danny are excitedly waiting with eyes closed. “No peeping,” shouts her mama, and they tiptoe in together, Zoe concentrating hard on not dropping the precious food. “Okay, now you can look.” And they do. Their eyes sparkle with the joy of the moment, the smell of the fresh baking, and Dad is even clapping. “They're amazing, honey—yummmmmm.”

Zoe shuts her eyes and feels the pain shoot through her.

All that was before “that” day. The day no one ever talked about. The day that was so bad they sent her to the psychiatrist to get over it.

Zoe's in trouble now. Lost on a sea of unlocked memories. Swept out into vast stormy waters of pain and fear. She tries to stay calm. Takes long, slow breaths. Counts the time in, the time out.

Her hands reach for her phone.

Her mind is sinking in the ocean of thoughts.

Her fingers find the speed dial as her pulse quickens.

Her mouth is filling up, but not with saltwater—with vodka.

“Hello.”

She stares at the phone and listens to her brother's voice.

“Hello.”

She feels herself rise above the waves.

“Zoe? Is that you?”

She coughs. Spits out all the choking vodka. Splutters like she's been dragged up onshore.

Her finger finds the touch screen and the big red button that ends the call.

With any luck Danny will think she just rang him by mistake.

It's happened before.

Plenty of times.

74

Long Pine Key Camp, The Everglades

B
y the time Ghost and Harries have driven out to the camp, the death toll has risen to four.

As well as Tom Watkin and his son Perry, the dog also killed senior citizens Baz and Bess Bradbury. The old-timers had been standing hand in hand, staring at the lopsided heart and shaky names they'd carved in a towering pine when they were teenagers.

The uniforms have already evacuated the camp and a team of police marksmen is hunting down the dog. Ghost is there to pick up the investigative pieces and see whether there is a crime to investigate or whether the incident was just an unavoidable tragedy.

He and Harries walk from the roasting air into the chill of the main camp building and see a huge bald guy in pinstriped pants shouting at a young female officer.

“What's the problem?” Ghost steps between them and shows his badge.

The man is a couple of inches bigger than him and isn't deterred by a glint of shield. He jabs a fat forefinger into Ghost's rock-hard chest. “
You're
the problem. You guys need to do your jobs and make this country safe again. These motherfucking dogs roaming around—”

“Calm down.” Ghost takes his shades off, knowing how distracting the sight of his eyes can be. “What's your name?”

“Bradbury. John Bradbury.” He can't help but be mesmerized by the lieutenant's pink pupils. His voice is naked now, no clothes of anger and rage, just the raw flesh of grief. “It's my mother and father who got killed out there.”

Ghost puts his hand on the big guy's shoulder. “Then I understand why you are so upset, but it's not this lady's fault. We're very sorry for your loss—it's a terrible thing to happen, and you're right, it shouldn't have. Now come over here and sit down while I find out what progress is being made.”

Bradbury allows himself to be led to some chairs on the opposite side of the reception area. The woman officer nods a thank-you to Ghost and sits down next to the grieving son.

Harries's phone rings.

She stares at the number display, recognizes it as the head office and finds a quiet corner to take it.

A flash of light by the door comes from sun hitting the lens of a TV camera. Somehow the press have rounded the cordon and are inside.

Ghost recognizes the reporter as Carlo Affonso from CBS.

The journalist talks as he strides toward him. “Lieutenant, we're live on air at the moment, what can you tell us about this latest tragedy?”

Ghost spots the flashing red light on the camera. The guy's not lying. They're live and he's got to say something or else look stupid.

He chooses his words carefully. “I'm afraid there's little I can say at this stage. I'm sure you understand that we need to speak first to the families of the deceased—it wouldn't be right for them to be learning about this incident from the news.”

“Can you confirm that four people are dead, Lieutenant?” Affonso holds up his notebook with the back of it to the camera so only Ghost can see. “These are the names I was given, but since you've not yet spoken to the relatives, I won't read them out loud.”

Ghost glances at the reporter's page. His information is good. So good that someone in the force, maybe even in his own unit, must have tipped him off. “Yes, I can confirm we're looking at four fatalities. No other injuries.”

“But you haven't yet caught the dog?”

“We will. And quickly. Marksmen and trackers are out there right now.”

Carlo moves to a deeper vein of questioning. “Can you tell us, Lieutenant, why are so many people around here getting attacked by dogs, and what are the police doing about it?”

Now that the heat is being turned up, Ghost wishes he'd just thrown the guy out. “There are no easy answers here. At the moment, we don't know why these dogs are suddenly becoming vicious, and until we do, I think pet owners and anyone coming into contact with a dog in a street or park has to treat such animals as genuine threats.”

The reporter scents an opening, “Are you saying people should be frightened of the dogs they have at home?”

Ghost sees the trap. He's not going to tell people to be scared, but he does want to warn them of the dangers. “Responsible dog owners already know dogs
can
kill and
do
kill. Dozens of Americans die each year because of dog bites. Always have. Probably always will. But we have to remember that these animals are descendants of wolves. If you have a dog in your house, then you're feeding and petting a modern day wolf, so take care.”

Carlo looks stunned. He's got more than he expected. “And the police—do you think the police and the sheriff departments should be doing more to warn and help people?”

Captain Cummings's words ring in Ghost's ears. He knows he has to be cautious or else he'll get chewed up worse than a quarter pounder with extra cheese. “We always try to do more and we should always try to do more—that's what policing is about—and prevention is better than cure. If people take care with the dogs, if they don't take risks by letting them get hungry, overheated, or stressed during this really hot spell, then I'm sure that will help.” He flashes a final smile before he adds, “If you don't mind, I need to get back to the job now? Thank you.”

Ghost walks away and leaves Affonso doing a wrap-up to the camera. He finds Gwen Harries by the door looking stressed. “Don't you have to get force clearance to do that kind of thing?” she asks him.

Ghost frowns. “If you can. The top brass understand that if you have a live camera shoved in your face, then you deal with it. It just looks bad if you stick your hand over the lens and say no comment.”

She nods. “Makes sense. Listen, I have to go. Something has cropped up. I have to pull out quick.”

“Okay.” He can tell she's holding back on him. “Is something wrong?”

Harries bites her lip. “I shouldn't tell you this, so it didn't come from me, all right?”

“Then don't tell me.”

“After that interview you've just done, you need to know. The call I got was from Washington. NIA Director Brandon Jackson and the President's own press officer are about to brief police chiefs and all response agencies that no one should raise public concern about dog attacks. All CIA, FBI, and government staff are banned from talking to the press about the attacks or any potential threat from dogs.”

“Why?”

“That information is classified and I really can't tell you.” She nods toward the departing camera crew. “You've just made national news at exactly the time the White House wants national silence. Congratulations, Lieutenant.”

75

Coral Way, Miami

Z
oe is staring at the dried-up, overcooked fish bake and is consoling herself by opening a second bottle of wine when Ghost finally rings the doorbell.

“Sorry,” is the first thing he shouts through the intercom.

She leans somewhat drunkenly against the wall and buzzes him through, without answering. Cooking has never been her strong point and she knew right off that cooking for a man might be a bad idea. It turns out that cooking for one who would call at the last minute and say he'd be two hours late was a very stupid one. While she's waiting for him to climb the stairs, she refills her empty glass and pours one for him.

Ghost comes through the door looking so embarrassed and tired that her anger all but disappears. “Jeez, you look like hell. Here, I'm sure you need this.” She holds out a glass for him.

“Thanks, I feel like hell.” He kisses her and takes the wine. “Sorry again, this damned dog problem—it's so out of hand.” He produces a lavish bunch of flowers from behind his back, an arrangement of stargazer lilies and white roses. “To make up for being so ridiculously late.”

“They're beautiful.”

“As are you.”

“I wish.” Zoe carries them to the small kitchen area. “Beautiful is something that certainly can't be said for the food.” She puts the flowers on the sink drainer and flips down the oven door to show him the tray of incinerated fish. “Are you hungry enough to eat that?”

“It looks fine,” he lies.

“Yeah, sure it does.”

He puts an arm around her waist and pulls her close. “I didn't really come here for your culinary skills, so we could just skip the food and go straight to bed.” He kisses her neck. “In truth, I'd just as soon
feast
on you.” He bites her playfully.

“Vampire!” Zoe pushes him away from her in mock horror. “Get out now, or I'll beat you to death with the overcooked fish.”

He kicks the oven door closed, “You don't frighten me. I'm ten thousand years old and now I've decided to have you—so have you I must.” Ghost sweeps an arm under her legs and effortlessly picks her up.

“No, no, you beast!” Zoe protests melodramatically, and laughs as he carries her to the bedroom.

He kisses her to shut her up and then lowers her lovingly to the soft mattress. The urge to feel her naked against him has his head swimming. Her hands are around his neck and her mouth is drawing the life out of him.

And then everything changes.

The buzz of a phone kills all the passion in the room.

“Ignore it,” she says breathlessly and unbuttons his shirt.

He kisses her and tries.

It stops.

Ghost slips out of his shirt. Her hands feel cool as they roam his skin, find his taut chest muscles as he bends over her, fingers brushing his hard nipples, electrifying his body.