Hair of the Dog (12 page)

“Jai alai?” Dan was drawing a total blank.

“Very popular in Florida. Teams with a ball in a closed room?”

Dan shook his head. “Like racquetball?”

“Somewhat. Mr. Warren was the one to introduce jai alai to central Florida. It's very popular in pari-mutuel betting. He has almost single-handedly built this complex. Built it and made it a lucrative part of the community. We have a complete betting venue for the sportsman. Or woman.”

“And you expect Mr. Warren back on Monday?”

“Yes. October is his time to take a couple weeks to tour the Southwest. He's an amateur photographer. The Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta is always a draw.” She pointed to poster-sized, framed pictures of the event on the walls.

“Pencil me in for nine on Monday if he has that available.”

“Done.” She looked up with a pasted-on smile and a nod of dismissal.

Dan turned to go. “Oh, I almost forgot. I'd like to view any footage from your outside cameras the day of the fire. I assume you keep digital records?”

“For one month and then we destroy. Just let me know what you need.”

“I'll get back to you.”

***

A beer on the porch. That was all he could think of. Some downtime. Maybe a weekend at the beach. But the minute he turned into the complex of townhouses and saw the three police cars, lights blazing, sitting in front of Fucher's place, the beer was forgotten.

He didn't spot Joan Carter with a subdued Sadie beside her until after he'd gotten out of the car.

“Where's Fucher?”

“They took him. Back to jail, I'd guess. Oh, Mr. Mahoney, this is so awful. What did that poor boy do now?”

“Probably nothing,” Dan muttered under his breath. He knew harassment when he saw it and this as clear a case as any. Nothing was happening, so stirring things up made people think you were busy solving the crime. Sometimes it did scare up new evidence—and the operative word there was “scare.” But these tactics usually made a person of interest just shut down.

“They loaded up all the track disks and equipment. I'm so glad you got here. I've called Roger but he was in a deposition. He'll get here as quickly as he can.”

Joan was right behind him when he reached Fucher's front steps just as Officer Bartlett stepped through the living room door.

“Just collecting a little evidence.” He held up a two-gallon gas can complete with spout. “Not sure what our boy would be doing with this but I can guess.” That smirky half-smile that Dan hated played around his mouth.

“Oh, for God's sake, he mows the lawns for me. Put that back where you found it.” Joan Carter stepped forward. “That happens to belong to me.”

“Sorry, ma'am, you'll be able to pick up the gas can downtown when we're through with it.”

He made an elaborate gesture of putting it in a black plastic garbage bag another officer held open, then taped the bag shut and handed it off.

“You know I'm going to ask to see the warrant.” Dan held out his hand.

“And I'm happy to oblige.” Officer Bartlett brought out a folded paper from an inside jacket pocket.

A quick scan and Dan knew it was in order—reason for search? Certain reported incendiary materials on the premises, copies of syndicated races and viewing equipment without proper authorization…damn, Dan had the authorization from UL&C plus copies of the subpoenas at his place. He should have left a copy with Fucher but there was no reason to think anyone would be interested. And that was the puzzle. He certainly didn't keep track of Fucher's friends—who might have visited—but it smacked of someone being able to tell authorities exactly what to find and where it was located. Odd. What would someone get from confiscating the viewing equipment and disks of races?

Shit. Of course. He was being naïve. Someone was able to stop the search for live dogs—stop it or slow it down considerably. Was this proof that he was on the right track? He thought so. But it was also proof that whoever had the dogs wasn't going to stand by and let them be found easily. By the time Roger Carter could get all this straightened out, Fucher would be at least several days—and probably more like a week—behind in viewing. And like it or not, Dan's hand had been tipped. Now the person behind the theft of the dogs knew his suspicions.

Chapter Fifteen

Roger Carter brought Fucher home. He, too, was angry at the blatant disruption and falsely fabricated reasons for confiscating the disks and the gas can. Apparently, the judge agreed and had Fucher released immediately. Dan would need to supply the UL&C contract and subpoenas for the disks and those would have to go through “channels.” Their word, not his, and he had no idea how long it might be before he could get the disks and gas can back. They would call. He'd been there before. It'd probably be up to him to bug them.

It was a weekend so he decided to shelve the case for a day. Nothing was going to happen that couldn't be taken care of on Monday. He was frustrated, yet sitting around being angry wouldn't get the materials released any quicker. They'd been in Daytona a week and a half and hadn't seen the ocean. Well, only from a distance. The Atlantic, no less. Warm and inviting even in October. Dan felt a lazy Saturday coming on—picnic on the beach, a little swimming in the surf, sunbathing…maybe dinner at Bonefish—tough to beat that for a holiday. Elaine was thrilled. This was a good time to take a break. Her first assignment was finished and turned in, and Maggie had called back to say she'd rented the townhouse in The Villages. She'd be coming back their way as quickly as she could with Simon and following a moving van. Great news but if they didn't take some time now, things promised to get hectic between helping Mom settle in and work.

Dan had picked up the five bags of supposed greyhound ashes, paid Roddy, and dropped the bags by the lab. Dr. Hunt reiterated that her testing would determine species but couldn't tell an Afghan from an Affenpinscher. Dan wasn't real sure he even knew the difference in the flesh. But it was a place to start. And that was enough business for the day. He owed Elaine a little one-on-one attention and wouldn't mind a little in return.

They loaded the Land Rover with cooler and picnic basket—more finds in Joan's garage—towels, blankets, sunscreen. Then at Elaine's urging, they stopped and bought a kite. The store was warehouse-big, right on the corner of highway A1A and a dead-end side street. It had everything. All at seventy percent off. The sign was so faded, the sale must have been as old as the building.

The beach was perfect—they parked the Land Rover and unloaded, then swam, flew the three-point Delta kite, dozed on the blankets, hunted shells, talked…both agreed the day should never end. But sooner or later the ham and baby swiss on light rye gave out and at the first grumble from his stomach, Dan suggested gathering up and heading to Bonefish. He couldn't remember feeling so relaxed, so rested and just plain happy. If Elaine's smile was any indication, she felt the same way.

Dan was patting himself on the back for making reservations when he saw the restaurant's packed parking lot. Saturday night and the whole town seemed to need a fish-fix. They had twenty minutes to kill before their table would be ready so Dan suggested a drink in the bar.

He was stopped in the doorway by the crowd of people in front of him who had the same idea. And that's when he saw the two men sitting at the far end of the bar—before they saw him—heads close together, one earnestly seeming to entreat the other to do something? Maybe just agree with him? It didn't seem to be working as the other man turned back to the bar and smacked it sharply. Officer Bartlett and Kevin Elliott. And that was not just a pleasant little chat. Officer Bartlett's face was flushed, mouth pulled back into a thin line, and a nervous tapping against the bar with his left fist indicated some urgency to whatever topic had been under discussion. Dr. Elliott just looked sullen and uncommunicative.

As if he felt his gaze, Officer Bartlett looked up quickly, made eye-contact, then slipped off the bar stool, said something to Dr. Elliott, and walked toward Dan. But the instant transformation of expression was interesting. The man coming his way was smiling broadly and holding out a hand.

“Mahoney, we meet again.” The grip was firm.

Dan introduced Elaine but refrained from calling Officer Bartlett the arresting officer in Fucher's case. He'd like her feedback on this man and he didn't want it tainted.

“Anything new on the track fire?” Dan thought he might as well test the waters.

“Naw, nothing you don't know. Still working it but it proved to be arson—a simple gas-fueled blaze. We got your boy's prints on a gas can found in the dumpster. And we lifted a matching set from that gas can he had at his house. Not sure what a boy like that needs with two gas cans, but I bet I could guess. I'd say we're about ready to wrap things up.” A barely concealed I-told-you-so smirk.

“Interesting. You might want to take a look at the autopsy on Jackson Sanchez first.”

“And just what would I find?” Still that jocular attitude but the voice was just a little tighter and the smile a little forced.

“I'm not really at liberty…best to go through channels.” Now it was Dan's turn to smile…a shrug and one of those “aw, shucks” sorry about this little hang-up sort of expressions.

“Thanks for the heads-up. I'll do just that.” Then, a look over his shoulder. “I'm trying to talk my pal over there into going to the races tomorrow. He seems to think Sundays are workdays. I'm not making any headway but better get back to it. Ma'am, good to make your acquaintance.” A nod to Dan and he was gone.

“You rattled his cage. What's going on?”

“I'm sure you sensed the ‘we've already got our man' attitude? I just think he's been hasty in naming a suspect—hasn't looked at all the evidence. It's obvious he hasn't seen the coroner's report.”

“I'd hate to work for him.” Dan agreed and reminded himself to ask her why later, but at the moment they were being directed to follow their server to a table in the main dining area.

Halfway through a round of Bang-Bang shrimp, beet and goat cheese salad, and a cup of corn and lump crab chowder, Dan's cell rang.

Maria Hunt didn't waste time with niceties as usual.

“I need you to meet me at the lab in the morning.”

“Sunday?” Dan thought he'd heard wrong. What could be so urgent?

“Yeah. You have a weekends and holidays off policy?”

He didn't rise to the bait and ignored the obvious pique. “I'll be there. Name a time.”

***

Dan got up at six. He needed a cup of coffee before his seven o'clock meeting. Seven on a Sunday. He was at a loss. What could be so earth-shattering? He ran through possible scenarios on the way over. And later as he thought about it…never in a million years would he have guessed Dr. Hunt's discovery.

She unlocked the door of the lab and didn't say a word until they were seated in her office. The five bags of ashes sat between them on her desk.

She wagged an index finger up and then back over the bags. “The ashes are human.”

No fanfare. No lead-in. Just throw it out there. Wow. He could hear his heart beat and found it difficult to take a breath, “Human?” Dan couldn't believe what he'd just heard.

“All from the same human, I might add.” She sat back. “And another tidbit of info? I don't think you're going to find a body to go with the blood sample I just analyzed.”

“A match?” His turn to point at the five bags.

“Without a doubt. I'll finish my report and wait until morning to turn all this over to authorities. I'm sure you know I'm going to have to keep these.” Again, a reference to the five bags of ashes.

Dan nodded. He needed to confiscate the five urns on Dixie's desk legally, but fat chance doing it now. After this discovery the authorities would have first dibs. It might even be difficult to be kept in the loop. But he needed to prove Roddy hadn't been the one to substitute something a little more sinister than the expected dog remains. And he needed to get it done before there were too many questions about why he might have had suspicions. This was not the time to get slapped with a “withholding information” citation. He wished he hadn't paid to have the evidence illegally lifted. He'd fully expected to find either the remains of a backyard cookout or roadkill. There was no doubt in his mind that Dixie was one hell of a lawyer. If the finger were pointing at her for possible murder, she wouldn't play nice.

***

Morning came after a long Sunday afternoon of bringing his report up-to-date and a sleepless night. Even a movie and pizza hadn't brightened his mood. He'd get backup first, but he'd confront Kevin Elliott. With luck, he'd get there first. There were too many questions and too many incidences of the doc's involvement. And this latest? Five bags of dog cremains that actually proved to be human remains? Dr. Elliott had a lot of explaining to do before his inevitable arrest. It was time to involve local law enforcement.

And he hoped his appointment with Mr. Wayne Warren, track owner, would turn up a name of someone missing. A very dead someone missing. And Dixie Halifax? Did having urns of human remains on your desk mean you
knew
they were human? Was it time to confront her? Again with some backup. Or should he just wait until she came after him? It wouldn't be long. One way or the other, he knew he was dreading the confrontation.

And he had to keep things in perspective. His sole reason for being there was to prove that UL&C was either obligated to pay on a policy, or not. That was it—a clear-cut bottom line. And that meant his finding out how much involvement Dixie Halifax had in the disappearance of her own dogs. He felt like so much had surfaced, yet the connections were fuzzy at best. He still needed living, physical proof that the supposedly dead dogs were out there racing even if he wasn't any closer to finding them. Mellow Yellow's registration was the only number he was certain had been altered. A blanket request to all tracks both in-state and out to report when a dog matching that number was raced was a starting point. But at the moment it would seem both Maximillian and Mellow Yellow had gone underground. There hadn't been any more sightings. Knowing he or someone was monitoring races had forced the dogs into retirement. It might explain a lot if he knew who had turned Fucher in.

He was early despite the slow traffic. Monday morning commuters. He fiddled with the radio dial and passed up a couple music stations to catch the last of the news. Nothing earth-shattering: several break-ins, two busts for graffiti, a child's escaped parakeet, and a plea to have the false teeth returned that were left at a bus stop on Eighth—then, breaking news. Dr. Kevin Elliott, veterinarian to Daytona Beach Kennel Club and Casino, had died in an early morning motorcycle accident on Highway 40.

Dan pulled to the side of the road. There were not a lot of particulars. Elliott was riding with friends returning from Volusia Raceway; alcohol may have played a part; wet pavement seemed the sure culprit…dead at age fifty-three. Dan tuned out the eulogistic comments but it would seem the vet was well liked—a contributor to Little League events, church-goer, graduate of an in-state school…and Dan smelled a rat.