Hair of the Dog (3 page)

The dog didn't need to be encouraged. Sadie buried her nose in the bowl enameled with paw prints and gulped more than tasted her food.

“I wasn't thinking but I bet she hasn't eaten a full meal in three days.”

Dan watched as Elaine filled Sadie's food bowl for a second time. Probably wouldn't hurt her. He'd never seen a fat greyhound…that was like saying there were obese vegetarians. He picked up his jacket and headed toward the car. A few suitcases and they were home. It was a relief to have found a place so quickly.

Chapter Four

The office wasn't opulent unless you knew what you were looking at—it was more Spartan than comfy. But original artwork, and not just paintings, highlighted the entire room. Dan would have bet that oversized glass bowl on a pedestal in the corner was Chihuly. Dan pulled out his iPad and rechecked the list of losses. He was pretty certain he remembered other artwork kept in the kennel office and lost in the fire. Yep, there it was. Five prints by Bridget Riley; the last appraisal put each at roughly sixty-seven hundred dollars—or somewhere close to a thirty-three thousand, five-hundred-dollar loss. Still, it was less than the insured worth of one greyhound.

The woman behind the desk on the phone looked up and motioned him toward a chair. He didn't mind the wait. All the better to size up his surroundings. The room was monochrome—gray, black, white—with enormous splashes of color from the art scattered around. The eight-foot-long desk was chrome and glass, the sofa a black leather “sling” purely Scandinavian with matching chairs. He couldn't name the artist but the large bronzes of two greyhounds sitting on the edge of the desk were spectacular—each over two feet tall.

But it was the woman who held his attention. Who was it who said a pet owner starts taking on the characteristics of his charge as he grows older? He remembered his mother kiddingly saying if she didn't get her upper lip waxed regularly, she'd end up looking like the family pet—a Schnauzer named Toby.

So this was Dixie Halifax. Ash blond, thick hair worn short and brushed back from a somewhat long and narrow face, eyes a pale gray under pencil-thin brows. Gray-striped suit, white silk blouse, red plastic framed reading glasses perched low on an aquiline nose, pearls at each ear and a long rope of them looping almost to her waist. A four-carat diamond on her right hand. The lady liked the finer things in life.

He'd memorized the Wikipedia entry: born in 1952, lawyer, known for having worked several high-profile cases, was a junior clerk during the O.J. trial. She'd spent years representing various “mob-stars.” Married to an F. Marconi (1983), but widowed before the age of thirty. No other marriages. No children. Earned a reputation for getting a couple of family “godfathers” out of prison on technicalities. Recognized more recently for her work with dog tracks across the United States mediating Grey2X demands to clean up the industry. In addition, she was a top breeder and importer of greyhounds. The Halifax kennel was touted as dog racing's winningest one.

She held the phone away from her face, “Mr. Mahoney, isn't it? I'm so sorry for this—I'll only be another minute.” A smile that could have been a grimace before Dixie covered the mouth-piece, stood, and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows at the far end of the office. Out of ear-shot, not that Dan had been listening in. The accent was right out of the South—maybe Memphis or Little Rock. Nothing soft or lilting like an accent from Mississippi or Georgia. There was a distinct twang to this one. A sound that made you lock up your back molars before you even realized you were grinding your teeth. But there was certainly nothing to dispel the greyhound analogy, viewing Ms. Halifax from behind. Lithe, sinewy calf muscles, broad shoulders above tiny, waspish waist…yes, she could be the human counterpart to the dogs she raced.

The extended call did give him a few more minutes to admire the five ceramic greyhound vases on the credenza behind the desk. Vases? They were half the size of cookie jars. Then it hit him. These were urns, not vases. Each had a ribbon; one had two ribbons tied around its neck. Their racing colors. Dan was sure of it. He had to be looking at what United Life & Casualty was just about to pay two hundred and fifty thousand for. He leaned forward. Each ribbon had last Tuesday's date stenciled in gold. And there was a gold plate around each dog's neck engraved with its name.

“Finished, at last. Again, I am so sorry. I really abhor rudeness.” Dixie crossed the room, settled the phone in its cradle on the desk, then perched on the edge of the polished teak base swinging one leg that ended in the highest heel of any shoe Dan had ever seen. “I can't stand these—cripplers for certain.” She flipped one heel off and used bare toes to pry her other foot free. “There, much more like it. Now, how can I help?”

Interesting, but shaking hands didn't seem to be a part of the greeting ritual. Some women were comfortable with the custom, some not. Dan would have bet Ms. Halifax would be a hand-shaker. He glanced at his notes and then back up to meet a particularly cool stare. “My questions are perfunctory. I'm sure some sound invasive and even threatening, but United Life & Casualty needs as complete a picture of what happened as we're able to ascertain.”

“I understand completely. Your work can't be easy where animals are concerned.”

“No, you're right, it isn't. Ms. Halifax—”

“Dixie, please.”

“Dixie…I thought we could talk here, and then I'd like to take a look at the office in the kennel—what's left of it, that is.”

“Not a problem. I have an appointment at eleven but we'll find someone to show you around.”

“Then let me start by offering my condolences—I understand the dogs lost were from your kennel? Bred and raced by you?”

“Yes. Two were currently on the track; both were three-year-olds. The other three were my future—some months away from racing but already showing tremendous promise. No, I'm not being melodramatic. I don't know when I've seen such finely honed natural instincts. You know, every once in awhile you get a dog that just doesn't like to race. If the will isn't in them, it's next to impossible to put it in.”

“Why were all five dogs at the track if only two raced?”

“The two were slated for races in two days. I usually don't take them back and forth between my kennel and the track unless they have more than one day between races. The three babies were beginning track training. Various trainers get the youngsters started at quarter, then half, distances before testing their abilities at a full five-sixteenths or seven-sixteenths of a mile. People don't realize it, but a greyhound only travels a length of 1,650 feet up to 2,310 feet from starting box to finish depending on the track. But they have to be brought up to that distance, no matter how small it seems. Is this your first time at a dog track?”

“I admit to being a novice. Fascinating stuff, though. How long have you been involved?”

“This is a life's dream come true. I'd raised greyhounds for over twenty years, but it wasn't until about five years ago that I had the opportunity to buy a half interest in Daytona Beach Kennel Club and Poker Room. It just seemed the logical next step after being in the breed for so long.”

“Did you feel you were taking a chance?”

Daisy uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, “Because of the state of racing today?” Dan nodded. “I didn't, but my friends did; so did my parents. Greyhound racing does face a somewhat precarious future. None of us knows how much longer we'll be around. I've taken a lot of guff for getting in on the downslide. But today, this is one of the few tracks running in the black.”

“You make me think that wasn't always so.” Had he hit a sore-spot? Dixie hesitated and raked sharp, white teeth over her bottom lip. Stalling. Trying to decide how much or even what to say?”

“We've struggled. I won't say that we haven't, but our position is unique. Most tracks offer casinos the chance to piggyback on their dog racing gaming permits. It's a lot easier to open and maintain a casino if it's built around dog-racing. It's this combination of live dog racing, closed-circuit games or simulcast horse races that keeps the public coming back. I just don't know for how long. If you throw in the bad press—drugs, dogs injured and even killed—more tracks have closed in the last few years than are still open. But I see a bright future—maybe not as glorious as the one past, but the world will always produce gamblers, Mr. Mahoney. Wouldn't you agree?”

Dan nodded. Yeah, there would always be those who would put down a little money in hopes of making more of it. But the cost of running a place like this—the restaurant, the kennels, a vet—all this could get to be prohibitive without a healthy group of repeat bettors, and just how many of those could there be in Daytona Beach, Florida? But maybe there were other related businesses. “Is training a big part of the track's revenue?”

“Not like it used to be. Not too long ago we would have had dozens of dogs in training and a full roster of trainers.”

“And today?”

“Maybe three full-time trainers use the track. The number of youngsters getting their start here has dwindled to under twenty.”

“I understand you've been active with the…” Dan checked his notes, “Grey2K people—the group who wants to close all tracks—you've helped them draw up a plan to change the face of the sport?”

“I've done what I can. Mostly I've listened. I've offered my services
pro bono
because I'd be the first to say in a number of instances they've had a point. The sport has needed to be cleaned up—greed and live animals are not a good mix.”

“I would agree with you.” Wasn't greed the motivator of almost every case he'd ever worked? He wouldn't expect it to be any different with live animals. “Oh, I almost forgot to ask if all five of your dogs were housed with the others? I think some fifty dogs total?”

“Yes and no. They were kept in the kennel area but their crates were not mixed in with the others.”

“How were their crates separated? On an opposite wall? Next to, or at the end of a row of crates?”

“Actually on a wall adjacent to the door.”

“Were there other handlers in the area? Other than Mr. Crumm, that is.”

“Not Tuesday evening.”

“What about maintenance people—this Fred Manson, for example?”

“Fred was out of here by five-thirty.”

“I understand there are night races. Wasn't this early for him to leave?”

“Not at all. Fred has a crew that does track upkeep for the late races. No need for him to stick around. On the other hand, Fucher often worked late—and just as often worked another handler's night shift. We've never thought we had to have more than one person overseeing the kennel at night, especially when there was a reduced number of animals. Usually we house one hundred and twenty dogs—sometimes more—and that necessitates more than one handler.”

“I can imagine the feeding alone, even of fifty dogs, would be far too much for one person.”

“Yes, although it's not as daunting as it sounds. There's a routine, of course, for handler and dogs. Fifty dogs can be checked and fed within an hour. After eating and exercise, the dogs settle down quickly.”

“So you obviously trusted Mr. Crumm?”

“What am I supposed to say to that? I
did
trust him. He's handicapped, but he's been with the track for years. It's only been recently that there's been any trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Oh, I hate to be the one tattling but over the past year, Fucher seemed paranoid—pugnacious, even. Thought people were out for his job. On one occasion he pushed a young trainer into a fence and squirted him with a water hose just for correcting him. Fucher thought the young man was trying to get him in trouble. I know that doesn't sound like a big deal, but it attests to his deteriorating state of mind. I think when he lost his mother, he just unraveled.”

“That would have been around Christmas time?”

“Yes. He started to forget things. There was a mix-up with medications and one dog almost died.”

“A dog belonging to Mr. Jackson Sanchez?”

“Yes. Jackson reported it to me and the racing commission. In fact, he was very vocal—told anyone who would listen. He requested that handicapped individuals not be entrusted with dogs.”

“Do you employ more than one special needs individual here at the track?”

“No, no we don't. We've been pressed to expand our hiring to include educable individuals who could be trained to care for the dogs and to offer the training here at the track through Daytona State College. Several of the kennel owners objected and the idea just sort of faded away. I think the college was disappointed—saw some federal funds evaporate. You can imagine how saying no was received—in this day of ‘give everyone a chance.' Don't misunderstand, I'm all for offering gainful employment to those less fortunate, but, still, how far can we go if our dogs are put in danger?”

“Were you planning on firing Mr. Crumm?” He thought Dixie looked surprised, or maybe it was the extra moment of hesitation; but he thought she paused to gain composure…and to think how to phrase the answer.

“I talked with Fucher very sternly. I wanted him to understand the gravity of the situation.”

“Translate ‘very sternly' for me. Were threats of firing made?”

Again, she didn't answer at once. There was some smoothing of her skirt and studying the floor. Theatrics? Dan wasn't certain. “I didn't threaten him but Jackson did.”

“Did you overhear this?”

“Well, no, but Jackson admitted it. And at least one of the trainers witnessed it. It was not done with my approval.”

“Do you think this threat was enough to push Fucher into an act of murder?”

“In the past I would have said no, but after this last year, I have to say there's nothing that I can point to that exonerates him.”

“Would he have a job here if he were to get out on bail?”

“I certainly don't see that happening.”

“Having a job here or getting out on bail?” Did lawyers study how to be vague or confusing? He guessed he knew the answer to that.

Again, that pregnant pause and some fidgeting with her skirt. “Neither, I guess.”

Now it was Dan's turn to wait for more explanation but none seemed to be forthcoming. Time to change the subject. “I'd like you to take a moment and go over this list of what was lost in the fire. Make any corrections or additions. I'll pick it up from your assistant later. If you have pictures—more recent than we might have on file of both the artwork and the dogs—I'd appreciate those. In the meantime I'd like to tour the kennel.”