Hair of the Dog (15 page)

“I don't think I want you mad at me. Seeing one of these monsters in the rearview would be a little discomforting.” Did Fred look startled?

Then a belly-laugh. “I forget how all this looks to someone not used to it. These babies are big all right—two to three tons for some of them.”

But Dan barely heard him. Torture. The body of Jackson Sanchez came to mind. Bruising, smashed toes….“Who has access to this area?”

“About twenty workers. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I just might need to do some interviews. Do you have a list of those twenty?”

“Sure, but I don't see how maintenance can be of interest.”

“I've learned that you never know. Just keeping options open.” Dan smiled and did a little “who knows?” shrug with his shoulders. And the more you protest, the more I'll make sure I do a little chatting, he decided.

***

The chief must have come early. He and Roger were waiting on him when he entered the casino restaurant. The chief was tall, a little stooped but wide-shouldered, his steel-gray thinning hair cut neatly with a side-part.

“Don't think we've had the pleasure. Arnold Cox.”

The handshake was firm and the blue eyes absolutely piercing. Dan wasn't sure when he'd seen eyes that clear or that naturally blue.

Two young cops walked up with papers and, after a brief exchange, the chief sent them off. “Time to get those search warrants served.”

Dan almost blanched. He wondered if he could hear Dixie Halifax yell all the way from her office to where he was sitting in the restaurant. He didn't rule it out. In the meantime he shared his findings—first as to how they applied to the five insured dogs, then as to how his investigation led him to other areas. The deaths of Jackson Sanchez, and now Wayne Warren.

Dan filled the chief in—down to the newest disappearance and death of the casino manager and how the ashes in the urns coupled with blood samples from the kennel after the fire moved Wayne Warren's status from missing person to probable homicide.

“Your guess is that that all three deaths are related? Jackson Sanchez, Wayne Warren, and the vet?”

“I'm throwing in Dr. Elliott's death simply because it seems odd that it would occur just when damaging evidence surfaced indicating his involvement.”

“It is a little suspect.” The chief leaned toward Dan. “I'm sorry your investigation hasn't gone smoothly, but it would appear that the dogs are, in fact, alive and didn't end up in the crematory. Is this your conclusion?”

“Yes. I'm guessing that all five are still out there very much alive. And the man who supposedly took them to the crematory could have helped us. Kevin Elliott never denied finding the dogs, bagging up their bodies, and taking them for cremation. Obviously, he didn't count on someone testing the ashes or finding two of the dogs still racing—one with an altered ear number. Did the vet steal the dogs? Has he been behind still racing them? And was Dr. Elliott the one who murdered Wayne Warren, bagged his remains and cremated him? We'll know more about that when we get the labwork back—I'm hoping the ovens give up some answers.” Dan ordered a cup of coffee. What the hell. It had been over an hour since the last cup and hadn't he read articles recently that the stuff was good for you? Kept Alzheimer's at bay or something.

A young, out-of-breath policewoman interrupted. “Chief, any chance you could talk with Ms. Halifax? She's pretty upset and demanding that she talk with you.”

“What do you think boys? Are you in this one with me? I think I could use a little backup.”

Well, he probably did because halfway down the hallway to her office, they could hear things breaking—the sound of glass hitting glass.

Opening the door to Dixie's office was life-threatening. The floor-to-ceiling glass partition beside the door itself shuddered but didn't break as a ceramic urn hit it and burst. Ashes and pieces of pottery literally exploded and the woman standing in the middle of the room was about to lob another urn in their direction.

Using the brief lull in the action, Chief Cox pushed open the door. “Ms. Halifax? What seems to be the problem here?” Dan and Roger followed him into the room.

“A search warrant? You send in your people with a warrant? Just what am I supposed to have in my office that could be of interest? If you want the ashes of my darling dead dogs, help yourself but I can't imagine why.”

Dan stepped forward, “I can shed some light on that. Two of your supposedly dead dogs have recently won races here in the state.” Maybe he could get by without having to mention that he'd had ashes from the five urns analyzed. Set up someone to steal the ashes. And he sure as hell didn't want to tell her she had the cremated body of Wayne Warren on her desk. But he didn't have to say any of that.

The urn that Dixie was holding slipped from her grasp and shattered against the granite floor tiles. Then Dixie followed. Gracefully, her legs and body seemed to fold accordion-style leaving her slumped in the midst of the mess at her feet, head to one side, eyes half-closed, ragged breathing, hand on her throat…Either all this was for show and an Oscar was up for grabs, or the lady really was shocked at hearing that two of her dogs were alive. Dan couldn't tell which.

“Where are they?” The voice was barely above a whisper.

“I'm afraid only on tape. The dogs were identified as Mellow Yellow and Maximillian.”

A gasp, deep breath, the closing of eyes, then opening them, looking up at Dan. Dixie dramatically held out her hand and Dan helped her to her feet. Brushing off her skirt before running both hands through her hair, Dixie walked to her desk. “And those are the only ones recovered?”

“Yes, to date.

“And you are continuing to investigate?”

“Yes. But I need to know if you saw the contents of the bags in Dr. Elliot's possession the night of the fire. There's no guarantee that more than two dogs are alive.”

“I met Kevin at the crematory. I parked next to his truck in the parking lot. When I walked around his vehicle to go into the building, the tailgate was down and I saw several large, black plastic bags in the bed of his truck. Five to be exact.”

“Did you at this time or any time inspect the contents?”

“I went directly inside the building. I sat in the chapel with the proprietor, Paul Fenwick, while the…the…cremation was executed. I picked out the urns and then we went to the chapel. Paul is very comforting. I was beside myself. I couldn't have looked at my babies. It would never have entered my mind to do so. And certainly the offer was never made.”

Dan glanced over his shoulder. The chief was directing his officers to bag the remains separately from each of the three shattered urns by first sweeping the contents into neat piles. There was a part of him that hoped he really was looking at the remains of dogs and not Wayne Warren—there was still that outside chance that Roddy with no last name had switched the contents. Yet it made no sense as to why.

A long day only got longer. A priority, rush-request to the police lab confirmed the ashes from all five urns as Wayne Warren's and the chief took Dixie to his office downtown for questioning and a statement. Dan vaguely wondered if she'd get a lawyer. None of his business now. He was spared the nastiness of having to tell her he'd already pilfered ashes from the urns. But that seemed small compensation for how ugly the case had become in general. By the time he got home Elaine's rented Hyundai SUV was in the drive and he was already late for dinner.

Pot roast, a good merlot, a flourless chocolate torte, and he was back among the living but maybe the highlight of the evening was a text from his mother:

Arriving late tomorrow with Simon. Carolyn traveling so driving back straight through.

Chapter Eighteen

Simon didn't seem to be any worse for having been cooped up in doggy paradise for two weeks. He was probably going to miss water aerobics. But Dan thought he could remedy that by finding a quiet stretch of beach. Had Simon ever been in the ocean? A couple of ponds, yes, but never saltwater. Fucher finally had his race monitoring equipment back and a stack of disks from tracks around the state. They'd missed out on a few days but it was still worth doing. However, after almost two weeks time he didn't have a solid lead as to where the dogs were. He just knew where they weren't.

Dan took Simon over to meet Sadie and see how things were going. Not the brightest idea he'd had recently. Fucher seemed reluctant to even let Simon inside.

“Your dog is pretty fat.”

“Ah, give him a break, Fucher. You know, he's German.” Now what did that mean? That Germans could be fat? He could see that Fucher wasn't buying any of it. Maybe a different tactic. “Simon is solid, look at this bone.” Dan put his index finger and thumb around a foreleg, then glanced up at Fucher who was still frowning and shaking his head. “You know, Fucher, I think you're right, Simon is pretty fat.” Defeat. But certainly compared to that waif of a dog clinging to Fucher's side, he had a point. But Dan didn't comment on Sadie's physique.

And Sadie herself seemed to want the last word—a curled lip and a non-stop low growl was keeping Simon three feet away. Poor Simon, did he smell bad? This wasn't good for his self-esteem. A check of the equipment and a screen-print just for practice and Dan left.

The day promised some quiet time to get caught up on paper-work. That is until his mother showed up.

“A dog? You bought a dog?” Dan was staring at the golden tan greyhound with a white blaze between the eyes and a snowy white chest. The dog seemed to be hanging on her every word. Slanted hazel eyes followed his mother's every move. It was pure adoration. His mother could have that effect on people as well as dogs. That might explain the rather long list of Stanleys from the last few years.

“
Rescued
a dog. Isn't that right, precious? Her name is Daisy.” Maggie bent over Daisy for a quick hug. “There I was innocently walking into Publix to buy groceries and this ‘save the greyhound' group was set up in the parking lot. Well, I already missed Simon and this seemed perfect. The woman in charge has spent many years around greyhounds. Actually, her daughter is a manager or maybe the owner of the track here in Daytona. She helped me pick Daisy out.”

“Agnes Halifax?”

“Yes, that's her name. Lovely woman. We're looking forward to lunch.”

“Mom, are you sure a dog is—?”

“Darling, I just adore this poor baby girl. Who knows what she's gone through. I owe her a great life. In turn she'll be my best friend.” Another swift hug that Daisy seemed to enjoy.

“Dan, I think Maggie's right. A dog is great company. You wouldn't want to be without Simon.” Elaine also gave Daisy a quick hug. “She's beautiful.”

Dan knew when he'd been bested. But not everybody agreed with Daisy being beautiful. Ask Simon, Dan thought as he watched the big Rottweiler start to join them in the dining room. He spotted Daisy and turned back to the couch. No doubt he was remembering Sadie's less than warm welcome from earlier.

“But it's not only that. The group is sponsored by the Grey2K—you know, the people who are trying to shut down dog tracks? Well, as you can imagine, they are overrun with requests to adopt dogs. But there's a waiting list. Mostly because they just don't let dogs go to new owners before they've been acclimated to life off the track. They first place dogs in prisons for training.” Rather dramatically Maggie slipped off her jacket to reveal a teal green tee-shirt:
Prison Greyhounds—a new race, a new life!

“Wait. I'm not sure I'm following.”

“Inmates take responsibility for a dog and have two months to socialize it, do basic obedience training, regulate its diet—prepare it for the outside world. They do a fantastic job. Daisy won several ribbons as a companion dog.”

“Sounds like a great program.” Elaine offered.

“Oh, I so agree. I've even volunteered to join them—deliver and pick up dogs and oversee their treatment.”

“You mean you're going to a prison?”

“Sounds better than saying I'm going to the dogs.”

“Don't try to be funny, Mother.”

“Yes, I'll be in charge of some paperwork—recording progress, addressing problems—that sort of thing. I'll go with them for the once a month delivery of new dogs and take back already trained ones.”

“Just where would this be?” Dan didn't like any of this.

“Oh, only a white-collar place. The one in Pensacola. You know, Fed Meds. That's a play on the old Club Meds that—”

“Yeah, Mom, I get it. I just don't want you cavorting with any Bernie Madoff wannabes. White collar still means crime.”

“You have nothing to worry about. Stanley will be with me.”

“Stanley?” Elaine and Dan in unison, then Dan added, “I had no idea he was even in the picture anymore.”

“Well, yes. I don't expect you to understand, but I think this will give us something to do together—share an interest. Whatever little dalliance occurred while I was gone isn't really an issue. I understand she's an old girlfriend and short of stalking him, just won't leave him alone. He's tried to break it off a number of times. My being on the scene will put a stop to that.”

“Mom, I think there's something else you need to know about Stanley.”

“That he isn't who he says he is? I've been made aware of that. Federal agents.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “I'm actually working for them. Well, sort of
with
them.”

Dan realized his head was beginning to hurt. “You are working with the Feds? And just what does this job entail?”

“You realize I have to swear you to secrecy?”

Visions of a “pinky promise” came to mind—hooking little fingers together à la fifth grade. “Mom, give me a break. Whatever any of us says won't leave this room.” He looked at Elaine who nodded solemnly.

“Well, they—the federal agents—just want to know of his activities. And maybe any calls that I overhear. Numbers if I can get them. Names, that sort of thing. Absolutely nothing dangerous. You know he's been relocated, and I'm sort of acting as his truant officer—of course, without his knowing.” Her smile was a little too bright, Dan thought. Could there be more? Things she wasn't sharing?

“How did they get in touch with you? I guess my question really is
how
did they know to get in touch with you?”

“Elaine and her instructor. I was her very first client. Remember? Scott Ramsey contacted some of his old buddies trying to get information for Elaine's report.”

“You know, I'm sort of involved already. I'd love to help. Let me go with you—to the prisons. One of my assignments for class is to get acquainted with the system.”

Now Dan knew his head was really going to hurt—his mother and his fiancée. “I doubt if the school expects you to immerse yourself in the penal system to the point of going inside.”

“You're such a worry-wart. She'll be fine. If you're certain you want to do this, Elaine, Grey2K is picking up a group of dogs at the Daytona track this afternoon. They'll be vet-checked here locally, returned to the track overnight, and we take off in the morning.”

“Count me in. And I want a tee-shirt.”

***

“It's six a.m.” Dan squinted at the bedside clock. “You don't have to go this early, do you?”

“I need to be at the track by six-thirty. I think it's a seven-hour drive to Pensacola and I'm going to help load the dogs. I've left coffee in the thermal carafe and there are the muffins that Joan brought over. Just save an apple strudel one for me. I'll text when I get there.” A quick kiss and she was closing the bedroom door.

Then the sound of it reopening. “I forgot to mention that I told Maggie she could bring Daisy over. She didn't want to leave her home for the day—doggy anxiety and all that being how this is so new to her. I think Maggie is overreacting but I was sure you wouldn't mind. Love you.” The door shut again.

This time when Dan woke up, he was staring into two sets of brown eyes—one light, one dark. But both dogs were sitting beside the bed close enough to touch each other. Interesting. There must have been some kind of bonding that happened because these two were chummy.

“How'd you guys get in here?” Then Dan remembered the bedroom door had a handle, not a knob. Simon had learned to be pretty good at letting his chin rest on a door handle and watching it pop the door open.

“Okay, who's ready for breakfast?” Simon did his butt-wiggle (this in lieu of wagging a measurable tail) and emitted a low “woof.” Daisy wasn't sure but followed Simon to the door.

“Gotta give me time to get some clothes on.” Dan threw on a pair of jeans and followed the dogs to the kitchen. Two bowls of kibble were fast disappearing and gave Dan time to finish dressing. Clean bowls meant it was time for leashes and a walk around the block.

He had to admit that Daisy was sweet and tractable. Maybe she was the perfect dog for his mother. But this prison thing…well, that didn't sit well. And spying on Stanley? Asking for trouble. Could he persuade his mother to give up the “assignment”? He doubted it. He hadn't even been able to discourage Elaine from tagging along.

The morning went quickly. He was halfway through last week's expense report when Daisy walked over and put her head on his knee. Really a sweet dog. Not necessarily his type, but he couldn't fault her personality. She liked human interaction. Pats and an ear rub and she curled up beside him. The interesting thing was that Simon seemed willing to share his human. No snarly, pulled-back upper lips or growling from either one of them. There was even an effort on Simon's part to interest Daisy in a game of ball. But dropping the bright red ball in front of her produced panic and a run for the couch.

He wished he had a fenced area large enough for a game—well, at least an introduction to ball tossing and return. But there was no doubt in his mind that without a fenced yard, Miss Daisy would be off like a bullet at the first hint of a squirrel, or a cat…or, God forbid, a real rabbit and she'd be long gone. Up to forty miles per hour and there would be no catching her. He'd work in an extra walk—not as much fun as a sense of freedom, but something.

***

She got to meet Stanley. And Elaine was rather taken with him. Peering through the dusk at a shadowy figure outside the storage barn in The Villages hadn't given her a very clear picture of Maggie's love interest. Yet, Stanley was all old world manners—doors opened, bottles of cold water in a cooler for the trip, helping her with her jacket—altogether a sweetheart. A woman's man. Wasn't that the old term? Actually,
womanizer
came to mind remembering the bobbed blonde, elf-finding help-mate in the storage barn.

And it also didn't help that she'd seen the sexting message from Stanley—the picture of a stiffy with a bow on it—wallpaper—background on Maggie's iPhone. Presumably his and presumably Maggie's birthday present. It had caused quite a row with Dan's sister back in Wagon Mound. She referred to her mother as a degenerate if Elaine remembered correctly. But Elaine couldn't suppress a smile—more power to them. If this is what your sixties and seventies could be like, why not? Maybe he made it worthwhile to overlook old girlfriends. Oh, not a good thought—she had to remember she was talking about her future mother-in-law.

But she could imagine Stanley on board a cruise ship. This was a man who could make a tux look good at six one and, maybe, one-eighty. She imagined he probably didn't look too shabby in a pair of swim trunks either. Silvering hair in that way that really dark hair grayed—a cross between a timber wolf in full winter coat and expensive streaking by a top salon. Just enough silver chest hair peeking above the two buttons of the heather blue Henley to quietly say virility. The blue jeans tastefully faded…nothing Ackley or Ames about him much more like New York, New Jersey, or the Old Country—sort of an Italian James Bond. But the mob? Could that be? She didn't want to even speculate.

She offered to drive. The GPS would get them there but they would also be following the carrier—an eighteen-wheeler holding twenty greyhounds recently retired from the track, each in a separate compartment. And they would be picking up twenty greyhounds to bring back for adoption. These would be photographed and introduced to foster homes, then advertised nationally—some with their own websites.

It was a pretty rigorous adoption routine and not inexpensive. Average cost for a “recycled” greyhound ran about two hundred and seventy-five dollars, a home visit to make sure there was a solid, six-foot fence and the means to provide vet care. And an extensive interview to determine level of commitment. Two representatives of the Prison Greyhound organization even traveled with the dogs and interviewed the inmates chosen to receive a dog for training. Very little was left to chance. These dogs were given the best possible opportunity for success—the second time around.

The drive was uneventful. Chatty updates about Dan's sister, Carolyn—her husband, Philip, was getting closer to a run for the governorship of New Mexico—Maggie seemed less than enthusiastic about it. Questions about Elaine's son, Jason, and how he was liking college his freshman year. More interest on Maggie's part about how Elaine had met Dan and had they decided on where they wanted to live. And a wedding…how could she help? Stanley was oddly un-chatty through all the information sharing. Any questions from Elaine garnered only monosyllabic answers. Still the seven hours of drive-time passed quickly.