Hair of the Dog (13 page)

Chapter Sixteen

The place looked dead. Maybe ten cars in front of the casino at eight-thirty in the morning. It looked like he'd beat the crush of reporters and police. Just barely. Between the vet dying and what promised to be a freshly fueled police investigation of the fire, the track would be the center of attention for a few days. Luckily, people had attention spans the length of a sparrow's tail—another truism from his grandmother—and would be on to some other titillating bit of news by the end of the week. In the meantime he hoped Wayne Warren would have some answers.

He decided to pull around to the kennels. He doubted Roddy was still on duty. Maybe a quick heads-up that the ashes were going to fast become the center of attention would be helpful. And he'd like to see Roddy's reaction to the contents—the kid couldn't be ruled out as a suspect.

He entered the building from the outside door next to the vet's office. Already three small bouquets of flowers and a flickering candle filled the entry to his lab. Thoughtful. He glanced through the glass partition. Funny but he had an eerie feeling that someone had gone through things. The usually meticulously neat room was in disarray—not tossed, just a few things out of place. Subtle things. Three file drawers open an inch or two. A couple papers on the floor…blotter on the desk not squared up. He used the tail of his shirt to cover the doorknob—no use someone finding his prints on anything. But the door was locked. Just as well, he really didn't need the temptation of looking around.

Then again…Dan removed a narrow, thin, metal, saw blade from his billfold. How long had it been since he'd used this? The perfect tool for picking a Kwikset, single-cylinder lock. The blade slipped easily into the keyhole. A quick look up, then down the hallway. All clear. He could hear workers feeding dogs. That ought to give him some privacy for a little while. He slowly turned the blade in an opposite direction every time the tumblers caught. One catch, two…at the third click, he withdrew the blade, and turned the door handle. He was in.

Nothing seemed out of place in either the exam room or adjoining lab. A glass-fronted cold storage unit showed vials stacked in neat rows seemingly untouched. Apparently whoever went through things wasn't interested in drugs. Dan turned back to the office area and stepped behind Kevin's desk. Several pens, a black felt tip marker, two drug pamphlets advertising the latest treatment for kennel cough…a Day-Timer open to last Friday's date. Day-Timer? Somehow Dan thought his calendar would have been electronic. Some habits died hard, he guessed.

He leaned down to take a look at Friday's entries. Slow day. Breakfast meeting with Dixie, phone consult with a vet from the St. Augustine track, vaccinations for an incoming group of dogs after four…nothing out of the ordinary unless the note in the upper right-hand corner meant something. “Call 386 283-1020.” The number had been underlined three times. Doodling or done for emphasis? On a whim Dan pulled out his cell and dialed.

“Private Investigator, Scott Ramsey's office. How may I help you?”

Dan almost dropped the phone. That wasn't what he expected. He was barely able to mumble something about a wrong number before he hung up. It probably meant nothing, but under the circumstances, anything and everything could be important. He didn't have a clue as to what someone might have been looking for in Kevin's office. And he'd probably reached the end of any safe timeframe to be snooping. He grabbed a Kleenex from a box on a side table, quickly crossed to the door, covered the inside turn button as he twisted it perpendicular, stepped through and pulled the door shut behind him—locked like he'd found it.

“Can I help you?” The man in coveralls looked like he might work for Fred Manson in maintenance if the grease stains were any clue. Dan was just glad he hadn't jumped because he certainly hadn't heard the man walk up, but there was no indication that he'd seen him coming out of Kevin's office.

“Actually, you can. I'm looking for a kid named Roddy. He works as a custodian, I think.”

“You're shit out of luck on that one. Roddy came in last night, worked a half shift, and walked out. Said he'd give Fred a call but he didn't plan on coming back.”

“Seems sudden. Any idea why?”

“Kid's a hophead. Fred was giving him a chance to straighten out but I don't think it was working. Even doled out his paychecks—you know, only gave him money for food and gas. Just the necessities. Kid was ‘up' on something last night. I don't think he could have finished his shift if he'd wanted to.”

No doubt, five hundred “Bens” would buy a fair amount of street dope, Dan thought. He'd had no way of knowing, but he could have been a major contributor to Roddy falling off the wagon. He hoped the kid would be all right but that didn't make the sick feeling in his stomach go away. He walked the long way around the casino to the front entrance, then through the main hallway, past some gaming rooms on his right before stopping in front of Wayne Warren's door. Time to get to work.

At first he thought no one was in the reception area. Ms. Taichert was not at her desk. Then she appeared in the doorway to her boss' inner office—holding a cell phone.

“Mr. Mahoney? Could you help me?” She motioned for him to follow as she stepped back into the room and closed the door. “I don't know what to do. People to contact…” Dan leaned down to catch her last words. It wasn't that she was whispering but more like her voice was shaking. Was the woman going into shock? He quickly pulled out a chair from a small conference table and waited until she was seated before taking a seat himself. Carol Taichert was distraught—coming apart at the seams (there was his grandmother again)—and he had no idea why.

“Water?” The carafe on the table was full but its contents tepid. He poured a glass anyway and placed it where she could reach it. “Now, tell me what's wrong.”

She took a sip of water, then another before setting the glass back down. “This…this is what's wrong.” She waved the cell phone more or less in his direction. “I found it under the desk. There.” An index finger indicated the large wooden monstrosity in front of them—more collector's item than functional piece of office furniture. “I've called and called. Nothing. He didn't contact me the entire two weeks. He never would just be gone that long without checking in. He ran this office from there…” another gesture toward the desk…“on the road. Then just now I found the phone. It's been here all the time. Oh, Mr. Mahoney, he never left. He wouldn't leave without his phone.”

Even though Dan reached out and patted her arm, he knew he could offer no words of encouragement. He knew without putting all the pieces together that Wayne Warren, in fact, didn't leave on vacation—probably didn't leave the casino. The blood in the walkway to the kennel, the ashes in the urns? Dan would bet the farm that he could put a name to the contents.

“I can't believe that something would have happened to him. Not now. Not when he's finally getting ahead. He tried so hard to put this place right.”

“I'm not following”

“Well, I guess it was no secret that the club and casino had fallen on hard times. The last six months have been awful. And it wasn't just Mr. Warren's pocket—everyone was suffering. Ms. Halifax had her hauler repossessed.”

“Hauler?”

“The eighteen-wheeler that she used to carry dogs back and forth to the track. Two-hundred-seventy-five thousand-worth. It had a few years on it, but it was outfitted beautifully—built-in crates, grooming area, water tanks with shower, sleeping quarters for four, and a bottled gas kitchen. It was state-of-the-art. Such a shame that she had to lose it.”

“Where's the casino now? Solvent?”

“Getting there. There were just too many costs—too many I.O.U.s—to breathe easy yet. Thanks to the heavy rain this last summer, reroofing set us back an unanticipated five hundred and fifty thousand. Putting that kind of money back in the bank has been slow. But we're still in business.”

The owner of a repossessed hauler could certainly use some money about now—two hundred fifty thousand would come in handy. Dan couldn't help but feel elated—wasn't finding motive over half the game?

“What do you think has made the difference? Between now and six months ago?”

“Mr. Warren and I were just talking about that before he left. For one thing, he expanded the closed-circuit offerings. In addition he added I-don't-know-how-many tables of in-house poker. Plus he said we'd picked up some high-rollers—a group from Miami—actually a sort of traveling club for gamblers. Let me tell you, they brought in big bucks. It was all starting to add up.”

A “traveling club for gamblers”? Why did that send up a red flag? He found a box of Kleenex in Wayne Warren's executive bathroom and put it on the table. Then, he placed the call to Chief Cox, left a message, got her a bottle of cold water, and suggested she stay put. Was there anyone she would like to have sit with her? The woman who manned the information desk? He'd bring her over. Dan left to find this Rosy, and decide what his next move should be.

His mind was churning…there had to be a connection between Wayne Warren and Jackson Sanchez—both more than likely killed the same night and just maybe in the same vicinity. By the same person or persons? That was the big question. Then throw in one dead veterinarian and the intrigue had just reached proportions that would seem to negate any involvement of a challenged young man who dedicated his life to taking care of dogs.

Dan found a quiet corner in the track's restaurant and flipped his iPad open. He'd go over his notes, then request an interview with police. And he'd bite the bullet and report to Dixie. But first a quick call to Roger Carter.

***

Roger met him at the restaurant. It was a little early, but Dan had just put in an order for a patty melt and fries. Who made the rule that breakfast food had to be cereal or eggs? He used to eat a lot of pizza about this time of day and had lived to tell.

“So, take it from the top. I need to know what you know and how you're involved—in each step of the investigation. Mind if I record this?” At Dan's shake of his head, Roger set the recorder between them. This was for Fucher's sake but Dan didn't rule out asking Roger to go with him when he talked with Dixie.

On the iPad, Dan brought up his outline as a prompt, then backtracked to his first meeting with Fucher and started to work his way forward. When he'd finished, Dan closed the iPad. He'd told Roger everything—from ingested alcohol to altered tattoos to human remains in urns, to the track's recent money problems…“Pretty compelling that Fucher just isn't the killer or even one of the killers.”

Roger nodded. “I'm assuming you're willing to turn over any evidence? Testify to what you've just said if it comes to that?”

“Based on what we know already, I don't think it will go that far.”

“Me either. Especially based on Dr. Hunt's lab work, I think I can get the charges against Fucher dismissed.” Roger pushed back from the table but signaled the waitress for another beer. “Sounds like Officer Bartlett won't be too pleased.”

Funny, Dan mused, he could order a little beef before eleven but couldn't have faced anything with hops in it at that hour. Ah, well, different tastes…

“Yeah, you can probably expect a little push-back. Officer Bartlett wants things wrapped up neatly and there isn't anything neat about this one. Add another murder and a few folks are going to be working overtime.”

“You've agreed to share everything—exactly what you've told me—so let's get started.” Roger snapped the cover on the recorder.

“You mean confront Dixie Halifax?”

“That, too. But let's start with the police chief. I'll give him a call and have him meet us here. He might as well get a warrant to search Dixie's office—that'll go over big.” A smile that made Dan think Roger almost relished the idea of upsetting her. The woman didn't seem to have a lot of friends. And a fellow lawyer probably had good reason to want Dixie on the hot seat. Dan knew he wouldn't want to face her in court.

Roger looked up from taking notes. “I forgot to ask if this has been done. If not, it's about time that dog crematory was wiped down. Seems probable that the garbage bags of supposed dog bodies the night of the fire could have been human body parts—parts that were carried out of here right in front of everyone. Don't know if it's too late to detect residue twelve days old, but it needs to be checked.”

“While they're at it, I suppose the lab here should be checked for human blood—especially instruments.”

“Good suggestion. I wasn't thinking of that.”

“There's little doubt that Kevin Elliot could have given us some answers.”

***

Was curiosity a good reason to attend a funeral? Dan didn't think so, but he'd talked Elaine and Fucher both into going with him. Funny but with all the emphasis upon cremation for dogs, Dr. Elliot was in a box. A waste of space and expensive. But nobody had asked Dan. There hadn't been a viewing because of the severity of the accident but there was a tasteful, if short, remembrance ceremony at a non-denominational church in town and a cop-led procession to a cemetery on the outskirts of the community.

The six pallbearers were in biker-leathers and after loading the casket into the hearse, followed behind on Harleys draped in black crepe. Fitting. Officer Bartlett assumed leader-of-the-pack duties and rushed ahead to clear intersections for the entourage. It was a somber group but Dan recognized most of the track's management. Carol Taichert came with Dixie Halifax, Melody sat with fellow trainers, and Fred Manson came over and asked Fucher to sit with him.

“It's so difficult to think a vet would lie about the death of five dogs. It must have been made very worth his while.” Elaine, as ever, looked gorgeous in a little black dress barely above the knee, high-necked, but form-fitting and just plain sexy. And immediately Dan admonished himself for impure thoughts at a funeral—somehow that didn't seem appropriate. Funeral etiquette—no jeans, no loud talking, and no lewd thoughts. Had he read that? He was pretty sure it was written somewhere. Maybe it was his mother talking.