Hair of the Dog (10 page)

Maybe this was a major defeat but he couldn't get sidetracked. He needed to continue to look for evidence that would clear Fucher. Because Fucher, the murder, and the fire had everything to do with five greyhounds—five alive or five dead greyhounds. And he had to trust his gut. He'd go by the crematorium, but first a trip to the track kennel area was in order. The “pool of blood” bothered him. Both Fucher and the cop mentioned substantial blood—first on the floor and then on clothing—and there wasn't any reason to lie about it. Yet, there was no indication that it had come from Jackson Sanchez' body. Dan hoped that the hallway hadn't been torn out or scrubbed clean.

He parked along the side of the building next to a flatbed truck loaded with a few hundred cement blocks. Dan knew it was the building material of choice in an area that boasts of termites. Rumor had it the winged insects could eat the wooden studs right out of a house, leaving it a shell. St. Augustine was famous for ornate wood Victorians that were now only held together by plaster board on a rock foundation. You could poke a pencil into a wall and see nothing but sawdust. No, cement block made a lot of sense.

The kennel and track office had a blue plastic tarp draped over the roofline and it looked like they were expanding—adding an extra room or two along the back. The place was eerily quiet without dogs. A young workman let him into the roped-off general area but wasn't certain that the area of flooring that Dan was interested in was still intact. They were getting ready to pour a solid concrete pad that would tie the old office together with the two new ones, and much of the hallway had been torn up.

“Shoot, looks like it's gone.” His guide had rounded the corner first. “You know the cops were here. They took pictures and samples of everything. Looks like they took most of the floor.”

“I may be wasting our time.” Dan looked around. Not only were the walls to the office now nonexistent, the floor was a pile of cement and tile chips—nothing much larger than three by four inches—and the entire floor was in three, three-foot piles.

“Tell me exactly what you're looking for and I'll help.”

Dan explained that there had supposedly been a puddle of blood right outside the door and he needed to find stained tiles to support the story. He thought the kid looked a little queasy and was probably second-guessing his offer of help, but any reluctance was short-lived.

“Let's try that pile closest to where the old office door was.” Immediately his helper was down on his knees digging through the pile with two hands, discards tossed to the side.

“What do you think? Could this be a piece of what you're looking for?” He held up a remnant of tile still attached to a piece of concrete.

Dan took the chunk the size of his fist, bigger than the rest, with a blackened coating thick enough to flake off. “I think you've found it. Any more?”

“Two more pieces but they aren't as big. Most of the flooring is gone, though.”

“These'll do. I appreciate your help.” Dan bagged them separately in the zip-lock bags he'd remembered to tuck in his pocket. He'd get the chunks tested. He hoped Dr. Hunt might suggest a lab, or because the samples are related to her work with Jackson, she'd do it at the County facility herself. Fingers crossed. It'd save him a lot of running around and he just wasn't sure he trusted the police lab. Something about Officer Bartlett still bothered him.

He'd drop them by the coroner's office in the morning. But for now he needed to get to the pet crematorium on the other side of town.

***

The building was at the edge of a residential area. An older house-turned-office with bright red geraniums flanking the walk to the front steps. He presented his card and explained briefly the need to verify the cremation of five greyhounds killed in last week's fire at the track. The receptionist had no record of cremating any dogs on the morning in question, but she hastened to explain that that wasn't unusual.

“Dr. Elliot often uses the facilities without anyone being here. He has a key to the crematorium out back.”

“I'd like to see the area, if I could.”

“Oh, I don't think—”

“Nonsense, Rachel, I'll be glad to show our guest around…uh, Mahoney, was it?” A tall elderly man emerged from an office to his right. According to the nameplate on the door, this was Paul Fenwick, owner.

“Yes, Dan Mahoney, United Life and Casualty.” Dan took out another card. “I appreciate your help.”

“Not a problem.”

Dan waited while Mr. Fenwick took a set of keys off a peg on the wall behind the receptionist and then followed him down a hallway to the back door. Dan tried not to stare at the case of pet cremation jewelry. Small vials to hold ashes, some in the shape of hearts, stainless steel, silver or gold, with or without rhinestones, but all with an area for inscription—a pet's name or just a declaration of love. Something was terribly sad about all this, and Dan was suddenly very happy he was seeing Simon soon.

Then, in the last case before the door, he saw shelf after shelf of urns—all different sizes and all different breeds. The greyhound ones? Exactly like the five on Dixie Halifax's desk. A sign directed anyone interested in purchasing to check with the receptionist. Apparently she could also take care of any engraving.

“We sell a lot of those. We have the exclusive rights. Almost every breed is represented except for a few of the new ones. We even carry some of what they're calling ‘designer breeds.' In my day that meant you'd left the back gate open when your dog was in season.” A chortle. “For ceramics I think the likenesses are pretty damned good.” Mr. Fenwick paused by the door, “We played hell getting the right colored ribbons for Ms. Halifax's set. Such a shame. I understand those dogs were top-notch.”

“Yes, they were. Just out of curiosity, how do you know what size urn a particular dog will need?”

“Good question. Everything's figured mathematically. A sixty-pound dog—by the way, that's average for the greyhound breed—would produce sixty cubic inches of cremains. Or one pound of dog is equal to one cubic inch of ash. Dogs weighing between fifty and seventy pounds would produce three to five cups of ash.”

After some fiddling with both a deadbolt and a padlock, he led Dan into a metal building the size of a single-car garage. Inside, brick flooring had been laid wall-to-wall and yellow fire-brick lined the wall behind three stainless steel ovens. State-of-the-art. Dan knew he was looking at a sophisticated setup. He listened to an explanation of how everything worked—temperatures, times it took to cremate varying sized animals, how many grateful families he'd served this past year; yes, families could stay with their beloved pet and then there was a room where they could compose themselves back in the main house, meet with the veterinarian—Mr. Fenwick handled this part of the event. Hand-holding. Not pleasant but of so much comfort to the owners. He'd helped Dr. Elliot with that terrible burden last week, sat with Ms. Halifax and all. He just oozed caring and sincerity. Dan thanked him for the tour and walked back to his car.

Had Mel been wrong? The dog she thought was Mellow Yellow really wasn't? But Pete Ellis? He admitted to altering the dog's registration number. There was no reason that he would have shared information that would incriminate himself. But why would Paul Fenwick lie? The truth was somewhere in all this—but it sure seemed to involve a lot of people stretching it.

Chapter Thirteen

“I'm hoping your day was better than mine.” Dan finished opening a classic Chianti and poured two glasses. Elaine had picked up peppers-and-sausage dinners freshly prepared by Massimo's Italian deli on Palm Coast Parkway and dinner was on the table.

“Don't bet on it.” Elaine passed Dan a green salad followed by warm ciabatta bread, then went back to the kitchen for butter.

“I don't think real Italians put butter on their ciabatta.”

“I'm not real, then.” She laughed, it was a long-standing joke between them. She could probably prove three-quarters Italian blood but that was pretty far removed from the old country. And as for the Irish, well, she didn't think the Mahoneys were any closer to their origins.

“You first.” Dan looked up from loading his plate with penne pasta and a generous topping of sausage and peppers.

“What?”

“Your day. Are you trying to duck sharing the excitement of an afternoon in Palm Coast?”

Actually, if the truth were known, she probably was. She was reluctant to discuss the contents of the envelope of false information that implied his mother lived with a criminal and by the time she told how she'd gotten it, she could only imagine Dan's reaction. But there was no way out of it. Scott Ramsey had been right.

When she'd finished—complete with the agent hiding under the car—Dan didn't say anything.

Finally, he said, “I'm glad Mom's out of town for a week or so.” Elaine breathed a sigh of relief—nothing about her being tethered by the ankle by an unknown assailant who was supposedly an FBI agent. She was afraid she might have to defend her choice of career.

“She can't know. I mean I think it would be dangerous to tell her the truth.”

“I'm sure it would be.”

“She's already suspicious. You've met him. Did you get the idea that Stanley might be a criminal?”

“No. In retrospect, if I'd thought about it, I would have suspected he wasn't from Iowa. Iowans don't put an ‘r' in saw. That was the worst. He was just boring, not threatening.”

“So, we give her the packet of information and what? Hope for the best?”

Dan shrugged. There was no winning this one. “At the moment we don't have a choice—we just have a little time before we have to do it.”

Over coffee and Elaine's favorite decadent Italian tarts with orange peel and cream centers, he shared his day. When he got to Jackson Sanchez' possible multiple killers, Elaine interrupted.

“You've got to be kidding. A gang killing? Or maybe the Mafia? But who did the initial killing—with the alcohol overdose?”

“Not a clue.”

“But you think the carving wasn't done by the same person? And maybe the stabbing was done by yet another? The police should be looking for up to three people instead of pointing a finger at one?”

“If someone goes to the trouble of making the murder look like an accidental alcohol overdose, he's not going to deface the body. That screams for an autopsy and the medical examiner. No, I think someone came along, found Jackson dead, and used him to send a message. Then, possibly a third person not seeing the etched warning, stabs him thinking he or she's killed him. Remember Jackson was lying facedown in the hallway.”

“You know there's no way that Fucher could have killed Jackson via tubed ingestion. He wouldn't know there was such a thing, let alone do it. What a disgusting way to commit murder.”

“I agree. I've given Roger a heads-up. As soon as the coroner's report is released, he'll be able to approach the judge. Of course, given the warning message, the knife, and Sanchez owing him money, it might not change things that much. Intent to kill is still a serious charge. In the meantime I hope to have answers as to the ‘puddle' of blood under the body.”

***

They didn't get to bed before one. He liked running things by Elaine—this sharing a career interest was working out just fine. As long as he didn't dwell on the possible dangers. Like maybe her needing to carry a gun. He was pretty proud of himself for not reacting to a guy hiding under the car and grabbing her ankle. And the grabber was one of the good guys.

They'd divided up the last of the Chianti and carried glasses upstairs. Alone time. It had been a long day and a little cuddling and whatever that led to sounded just about perfect to Dan. And it was. Funny how little it took to push Mom and Stanley and five greyhounds to a back burner and let him just enjoy the moment. He loved this beautiful woman with his ring on her finger.

What he didn't love was his cell phone going off at two thirty.

“Mr. Mahoney? You gotta come quick. They're gonna shoot me.”

“Fucher?” Dan's feet were on the floor and he was already reaching for jeans and tee-shirt. “Where are you?”

“Here.”

“At home?”

“Yeah.”

Dan hung up and told Elaine to call 911—someone was threatening Fucher's life.

By the time Dan had reached the front door, he could hear angry voices coming from the parking lot in front of Fucher's townhouse. Fucher's porch light was on and about six people crowded together on the steps and stoop. Two people had guns.

Uh oh. Not good. Dan broke into a jog.

“Hey, what's going on here?” He pushed through the group to stand by Fucher and Sadie.

“This crazy son of a bitch kills my brother and the father of these girls here and he's loose.” The woman talking held up the hands of two teenaged girls. Her black hair was piled loosely on top of her head, and bright red lipstick had found the creases around her mouth as well as the filter on the cigarette dangling to one side. There was a strong smell of alcohol and the most inebriated of the bunch also had a gun—a man slouched against the railing at the bottom of the steps.

“We live in a country where you're innocent until proven otherwise and no—”

“That's just so much bullshit.” The man with the gun started up the steps, then lost his balance and fell against the man next to him. “You deserve to die.” He waved the gun in the air in the general direction of Fucher. “Nobody gets away with killing my compadre.”

As if on cue the sirens of three cop cars drowned out any more dialogue. The group abruptly scrambled to their cars and, making U-turns, headed for the exit. Dan hoped the cars would be stopped. There were a couple potential DUIs in the group.

“Are you okay?” Dan realized that Fucher was shaking.

“Yeah. Sadie's okay, too. She was pretty scared, though. I had to give her lots of pets.”

“Good for you. Sadie's a very lucky dog. I'll wait here until the police leave. They might have some questions.”

The cops didn't take long and promised to put an extra car in the area to patrol at night. Maybe nothing more than an occasional drive-by, but it was something. Finally, Dan could say “good night” and admonish Fucher to lock the door after he left and keep it locked while he was inside. He got a promise and was feeling relieved as he took off down the steps. Nothing worse had happened than just a good scare. They were lucky—then he heard Fucher's door open behind him.

“Mr. Mahoney? I forgot to tell you. This evening? I saw Maximillian take second at Tampa in the first race.”

Dan turned around, surprised by the rush of adrenalin. Wow. He hadn't realized how much he wanted those dogs to be alive.

“Were you able to get a screen shot?”

“Uh uh. You want to come see?”

“Yes, I'd like to take a look.” Could wild horses keep him away? Dan doubted it and took the steps in two leaps.

He waited while Fucher put Sadie back to bed—this entailed straightening her blankets and giving her a dog biscuit once she laid down. If a dog could look smug then that was the expression on Sadie's face. She knew when she had it good.

“Over here.”

Dan followed Fucher to a table set up with viewing equipment, a computer, and printer. Actually, Fucher was good with electronics and quickly isolated the screen shot and blew it up for viewing.

Dan leaned in. He just wished these damned dogs didn't all look alike. But then he was more than sure that someone could put Rottweilers in the same boat. He studied the yellowish gray brindle with reddish-brown stripes. Maximillian was a big dog—over seventy pounds, he'd guess—long and lean with superior rear angulation. You didn't have to be an expert to see that this animal was special.

“What makes you so sure this is Maximillian?”

“His eyeliner.”

“I'm not following.”

“See his eyes? He's got thick black lines, like makeup.”

Funny, once he mentioned it, there did appear to be heavy pigmentation around the eyes.

“See here, it's at the end of the race? The trainers give them treats. I don't know that guy.” Fucher pointed to a blurred image of what was probably a man snapping a lead on Maximillian.

Dan was trying not to feel too excited. But still, instinct told him someone who knew the dog well couldn't be wrong. Mellow Yellow was out there racing and so was Maximillian. He had Fucher email the screen print to him. He'd keep Fucher working on the tapes; if surveillance had paid off once, maybe it would again. There were still three other dogs unaccounted for. But, for now, he felt like there'd been a small victory.

***

Elaine borrowed night-lens binoculars and the zoom-lens camera from Dan and showed up promptly at six p.m. at Scott's office. She'd opted for a black baseball cap instead of a scarf, but thought the black linen shirt and slacks were exactly what was called for. And she'd traded in sandals for gray cross-trainers. The uniform of her new career. No killer heels, silk blouses, or pencil skirts…not a bad trade-off.

The ride to The Villages was uneventful. Once again Elaine was taken with the beautiful farms—most replete with sleek, thoroughbreds frolicking in green fields. A winter training area in preparation for spring racing. It reminded her of New Mexico—the farms outside Carrizozo, just to the south of where she grew up. She would never tire of open spaces.

“A penny.”

“Sorry. I'm not very good company. I was just thinking of home.”

“Well, enjoy the scenery. It gets a little congested in The Villages.”

Scott reviewed the drill one more time as they passed the entrance to the right of Lake Sumter. This was surveillance, pure and simple. The husband had first contacted him early in the summer. The man's wife had admitted to having an affair, but he cancelled any surveillance when she apparently had a change of heart and came home—only to rekindle his suspicions now. Scott reiterated how the husband thought his wife was lying about playing mah-jongg and was really sneaking off to meet someone. They were to follow her to the recreational hall and record any comings or goings. She would leave home around seven-thirty and was supposed to be back by eleven. Scott had a description of her car and the license number. Elaine stifled a yawn. Her first case seemed boringly straightforward, but hadn't Dan warned her that surveillance would make up the bulk of any PI work?

“Cactus Jack and the Cadillacs are playing tonight.” Elaine read the activities board to the right of the stop sign.

“Wouldn't have guessed you to be a Cactus Jack groupie.”

“I'm not, but I am trying to imagine living here in another twenty years. And I don't think I could do it.”

“I'm with you. A little too regimented. Still, if you like everything planned and play a lot of golf—it's paradise.”

He passed five gated individual communities and pulled through the first set of wrought-iron gates in number six. He punched in the security code and they followed the road as it curved to the right.

“We're looking for 1168 Sleepy Hollow. We'll pull past the house and then circle back but stay a safe distance away. Usually a half block is sufficient. When no one is looking to be tailed, they're usually blind to what's going on around them.”

The houses were incredibly close together. Elaine couldn't imagine living with just a few feet separating you from your neighbor on either side. A sneeze and half the block would reach for a box of Kleenex. And people were standing in line to buy these? And the golf carts…was there one in every driveway? She thought so. Once they spotted 1168, Scott executed a U-turn and pulled to the opposite side of the street, cut the engine, and picked up his binoculars.

“Two cars in the driveway, can barely see a cart from here. Uh oh, looks like we got here just in time.”

Elaine focused her binoculars on the house just as a female exited and, walking between the parked cars, opened the door on what appeared to be a late-model, black Cadillac and got behind the wheel. Elaine's view was somewhat hampered by the car being on the far-side of the drive, but the shoulder-length bob of platinum hair acted like a beacon. Elaine watched her as she backed slowly out of the driveway and seemed to hesitate at the edge of the street.

Scott leaned forward to start the car just as the garage door started to rise on the house directly north. A car exited with what appeared to be a single male driver. “This is interesting.” Scott had picked up his binoculars. “Coincidence that a male is exiting the house on their right? Guess we need to wait a minute to see.”

“Won't we lose our subject?”

“Not at the rate she's driving.”

Elaine watched as the Cadillac rolled to the corner stop sign where she seemed to be taking overly long to assess traffic and pull across the intersection. In the meantime the white Chrysler sedan backed to the edge of the driveway and turned in the direction of the Cadillac before slowly falling in behind and following it through the intersection.

Scott put his car in gear and moved forward. “Might be a good idea to jot down the license number. We don't know if there's a connection but we might be ahead of the game if there is. Here, let me get you a little closer.” He maneuvered his car to within twenty feet and Elaine opened her iPad and added the number on a clean “notes” page.