The One That Got Away (18 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Bishop Police Department was tiny. Zoë had been in doctor’s offices that were bigger. Hell, the Smokehouse was bigger. She guessed their force couldn’t have amounted to more than half a dozen officers, which wasn’t surprising considering the size of the town. She doubted their department was equipped or skilled enough to deal with a killer. She’d told them so, and it had gotten her dumped in the cramped waiting room. That had been hours ago.

Inspector Ryan Greening emerged from a door marked “Authorized Personnel Only.” He was in jeans and a T-shirt instead of his usual uniform—a suit.

Zoë leapt from the bench. “Well?”

He frowned at her demand.

She couldn’t be too angry with him. He’d saved her. Chaos had ensued at the Smokehouse when the cops arrived to find her pinning Craig Cook to the bar. Accusations flew left and right from her, Cook, Andrew, and Tom. The simple solution was to take everyone in to the station to sort things out. Her claims weren’t met by a sympathetic ear. Instead, she was looking at a couple of charges that included disturbing the peace and battery. Thankfully, she’d gone from being classified as a perpetrator to a victim when she got them to call Greening. He told them he’d be straight over, and she’d been confined to the waiting room and a wall of silence. The one surprise had been Greening’s appearance all the way from the Bay Area in less than an hour.

“OK, sorry. Please just tell me what’s happening?”

“Let’s go outside for a minute.”

They stepped out onto the street. The night was still and quiet. It was as if the town was holding its breath.

“What’s going on?” This time she managed to keep the accusing tone from her voice.

“Nothing. They aren’t the guys.”

“They must be. Craig Cook was with us the night we were taken. We talked to him. He was close enough to slip something into our drinks. He even looks like the person I remember.”

Greening raised his hands to cut her off.

“Sorry. Sorry. What? Just . . . just tell me. Please.”

“OK, it’s pretty simple. Craig Cook remembers you and Holli. He hit on you two, and you two hit right back. By all accounts, you guys had some fun, then you and Holli left at your own volition, giving Cook a nasty case of blue balls. His phrasing, not mine.”

“That’s it?”

Greening looked at her with fatherly disappointment. “I could add that both of you were pretty wrecked when you headed for your car.”

“No. That can’t be right. I’ll admit we would sometimes drink and drive but never while we were over the limit—and especially not with how far we had to drive that night. It was him. I know it.”

Greening held up his hands. “Trust me, it’s not.”

“How do you know? It’s just his word against mine.”

Greening shook his head. “It isn’t. He’s got an ironclad alibi. He was picked up on a drunk and disorderly less than an hour after you and Holli left the Smokehouse.”

She couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it. She was no closer to the truth. She wanted to scream, cry, and laugh all at the same time.

“So this has been a gigantic waste of time,” she said, disgusted with herself more than anything else.

“No. The one thing we have now is another point on the timeline. According to the bartender, you and Holli left about a half hour before they closed. That was 10:30 p.m. The Mono County Sheriffs picked you up at 5:47 a.m. Whatever happened to you occurred in that window. That’s something we didn’t know. So well done.”

“Please don’t patronize me. It’s been too long a day for that.”

“I’m not. I’ve been looking into your case, and we have so few details that something seemingly as unimportant as a timeline is a big step forward.”

Zoë smiled, then shook her head as she realized something. She should have thought of it earlier, but it was late, and she’d been focused on Craig Cook instead of the bigger picture.

“You got here really fast. You were checking up on me, weren’t you?”

“In part, yes. It’s just procedure.”

“And did I pass?”

“Zoë, it’s late. I’ll answer your questions tomorrow, but right now, Craig Cook wants to talk to you.”

“He does?”

Greening nodded and led her back inside. As he was walking her to the interview room, a uniform was escorting Andrew out. He looked at her with the same unflappable expression he’d displayed earlier. This wasn’t true of the cop, who glared at her. She guessed she was guilty of ruining a quiet night in Bishop.

Greening knocked on the interview-room door and the chief of police opened it. Craig Cook sat in the farthest corner with a table in front of him. With his size and the small room, he looked like an oversize kid in elementary school. He also looked ruffled. She guessed he’d gotten a hard time during questioning. The chief pointed to the chair opposite Cook, and she sat down. If Cook was expecting privacy, he wasn’t getting it. The chief and Greening remained in the doorway.

“Zoë, they told me what happened to you, and I just want to say how sorry I am. I can’t imagine what you and Holli went through. If I had heard about this back then, I would have come forward to tell the police I had seen you that night.”

All Cook’s bravado was gone, and Zoë felt bad for putting him through all this. “It’s OK. Sorry for doing this to you.”

“I don’t blame you. I would have done the same if I were you. I just wish I knew something that could help the investigation.”

“Are you sure you don’t? Is it possible you remember some little thing that happened that night?”

He shook his head. “I was pretty buzzed. I just remember having fun.”

She reached across and took one of his large hands in hers. His hand tensed, but for only a second, then he gave hers a light squeeze. “Please think. Someone roofied us, and I think it happened at the Smokehouse. Did anyone muscle in on you or get in our face? Or . . . was anyone a little too interested in us? Did you see anyone leave when we left?”

But Cook was shaking his head. “No. Nothing like that springs to mind. To be honest, we were so oblivious that Elvis could have made a surprise appearance and we wouldn’t have noticed. I promise you that I’ll talk to Andrew and people who were there that night, and if I get anything useful, I’ll let these guys know. I really want them to get this asshole.”

Craig Cook was a sweet guy. “Thanks.”

Greening nodded for her to go. He shook hands with the chief, who promised to stay in touch if he got any leads. Then they found themselves back on the street.

“Is your car still at the Smokehouse?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll drive you back.”

Bishop was so small, it was just a matter of minutes before Greening pulled up behind her rental car.

“So, I guess you being here means you’re on a trip down memory lane.”

Zoë wasn’t in the mood for a lecture. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. I get it. So what’s the plan?”

“To go home.”

“Now?”

The dashboard clock said it was coming up on 3:00 a.m. If she left now, she’d get back to San Francisco by rush hour.

“Yes.”

“Do you have to be back tomorrow?”

She looked at Greening. She didn’t know what he was getting at. “I should be, but I don’t have to. Why?”

“Well, we’re both here trying to find out what happened to you and Holli, so let’s do it together. Let’s retrace your journey and see what else we discover.”

Marshall Beck let himself into Urban Paws for his nightly visit with Brando. He enjoyed sharing his feelings with the dog. The fact Brando would never betray his confidence made it so much easier for him to disclose his innermost thoughts. Thoughts he even struggled to face himself. He’d never had a relationship with anyone like this before. There’d never been a friend or lover he’d been able to open up to the same way. This was new territory for him—and he liked it.

He let himself into the Assessment Annex. The former fight dogs stirred. Two of them barked but not for long. They were getting used to his late-hour visits. Naturally, Brando didn’t react to Beck’s arrival.

“Hey, Brando,” he said. “Doing well?”

He spoke to the dog like a person and not like an infant. It’d be an insult to treat him as less than a human. He never understood why people used baby talk on their pets. No wonder there were so many animals in pounds.

He unlatched Brando’s cage and opened the door. The dog remained inside his pen. That was OK. He’d come out of his own free will when he was ready. That day wasn’t far off. Beck was sure of that. Today had been the first time he’d been allowed to work with Brando directly. Tom Fisher and he had worked on techniques to test Brando’s temperament and to domesticate him. Brando being Brando had been cool and aloof. Tom had seen it as a problem, as it made it hard to read the dog. Beck had seen it as a display of Brando’s self-control.

“I admire you, Brando. You have patience. Patience I wish I possessed, but I bet you’re tired of sitting in there. I suppose you’d like to get out of here for a while, yes? I know I’d want to if I were you.”

He reached for one of the slip leashes that hung on the wall. They were temporary tethers for the handlers to move the dogs from pen to pen or for prospective owners to walk the animals, before making a decision.

He knelt in front of Brando. The dog remained still.

Beck carefully slipped the leash around Brando’s neck. He stood and took up the slack. The dog slowly padded out of the cage.

Beck smiled. “Good. Let’s go.”

They walked out into the night. It was late, the streets were deserted, and he was tired, but strolling with Brando invigorated him. He was a pleasure to walk. The dog kept to heel. No, heel wasn’t right. Brando stayed alongside him the same way a friend or equal would. Yes, he could see Brando getting his reprieve. The dog was a remarkable creature. He wasn’t sure he’d be so forgiving if he’d endured what Brando had.

They walked in silence. He wanted the dog to enjoy his freedom and take in the world around him, which he’d been denied for so long.
Get used to it, buddy
, he thought.

After twenty minutes, he started his conversation with his friend.

“Zoë wasn’t home tonight. I’m afraid she might have skipped town on me. I don’t think so, though. Most of her stuff is still at the apartment. She’ll be back, even if it’s to collect her things, but it makes me wonder what to do now. Do I stick with Zoë or move on?”

He paused for some reaction from Brando, but the dog kept going.

“Part of me says to move on. It might be all the sweeter to focus on someone else and let Zoë suffer with the uncertainty of whether I’ll come for her or not.”

A couple coming the other way gave them a wide berth. Their reactions disappointed him. Did they see him and Brando as a threat? They weren’t, as long as the couple acted with honor and respect. Or maybe the couple recognized them as alpha males. He liked that.

“Time to get you home for the night,” he said and circled the block to take the dog back to the center.

“I can afford to put Zoë Sutton on hold. If she wants to hide for a while, let her. I can wait. I need to focus on someone else. But whom?”

He’d been lucky with Laurie Hernandez. She’d fallen into his lap by displaying contempt for the animals where he worked. He had no one else on his radar. He’d do what he’d done for all the others. He’d fade into the background and observe the world. He’d hang out in the bars and clubs. He’d read the newspapers for evidence of the contemptuous. He’d hunt down the violators and teach them a lesson. Show them there was a price for bad behavior.

He looked to Brando for guidance and found it. They hurried back to the center, and he flicked on the computer in his office. He looked up the dog-fighting case and got the name Javier Muñoz. He was the alleged promoter of the dog-fighting ring.
Promoter
designated him as a professional organizer, as opposed to an amateur hobbyist. Latest reports said Muñoz was out on bail. That put the bastard in his hands. He smiled over at Brando.

After twenty minutes of revving a search engine, Beck had Muñoz’s home address in Hayward along with a number of other vital statistics about the dog fight promoter. Beck loved how much of people’s lives were readily available these days. It made his work very easy.

“C’mon, Brando. We’ve got somewhere to be.”

He put Brando in his Honda. The dog sat up front as they drove out to Hayward.

Muñoz lived in a crowded and rundown neighborhood, which Beck found surprising. According to news reports, Muñoz made tens of thousands a year from running dog fights. He wondered if his home choice had something to do with image.

He stopped the SUV a half block from Muñoz’s house. It was a small ranch-style dwelling with a flat roof. Except for music pouring from one home, Muñoz’s, the street was quiet. Most residences were in darkness. The lights were on at the Muñoz home.

He would have liked to have gotten a close-up look inside, but he needed a better handle on these surroundings. He didn’t like the close proximity of all the homes. It made it hard to walk up on someone unnoticed. With places that were always in motion, people were too preoccupied to focus on a single person. Quiet neighborhoods were different. Unfamiliar faces always stood out.