Hair of the Dog (16 page)

Pulling in the front gates, minimum security lock-up looked pretty cushy. A four-story sprawling brick building at the entrance, no razor-wire in evidence anywhere. Actually no chain-link or fencing of any kind anywhere—buildings designated as dormitories, another as a kitchen/dining hall combination, immaculate grounds. Was this incarceration? Supposedly, seven hundred and thirty-one inmates were here. Elaine was impressed.

At the gate check-in, they were directed around to the back of what was probably the administration building. Elaine parked the SUV and she, Stanley, and Maggie followed the drivers and two dog-handlers into an office. Not only did they have to sign in, but each dog was weighed, photographed, and its registration number recorded before being handed off to a waiting inmate. Elaine, Maggie, and Stanley each brought a dog from the carrier to the office—back and forth until all twenty had been checked in.

The dogs had been pre-assigned to an inmate and after the hand-off, each inmate waited in line for a brief interview. A manual, a twenty-foot lead, a pinch collar, a sack of dry kibble, and a small box of treats made up a kind of care package. Each dog had arrived with a padded leather collar and appropriate tags showing vaccinations. The collar was mandatory wear when not in training and no dog could ever be off lead. Folded metal wire crates were taken from the carrier and stacked against the office's outside wall. Crates were also mandatory. Dogs were issued blankets if inmates desired them. Most did, Elaine noted.

There was to be a sort of graduation ceremony as yet another set of inmates put already-trained dogs that were to go back with them through their paces—companion dog, service dog, basic obedience, and beginning agility. Elaine was amazed at how well the greyhounds did in each discipline. Only three were beginning agility training but those dogs were a cut above—each so attuned to its trainer that Elaine wondered if trying to place the dog with a new family might cause needless anxiety. Companion dog training and basic obedience made sense but it would be difficult to find new homes that would continue agility training. There was no doubt, however, that the program was an exemplary one.

There was to be a brief tour of the grounds and lunch before they loaded the trained greyhounds into the carrier and took off for home. There was a common area where inmates could introduce themselves and several came forward. In fact, the taciturn Stanley turned into Mr. Loquacious, shaking hands, laughing at the jokes of his new companions. The metamorphosis was pretty impressive. And Maggie looked a little lost hanging onto Stanley's arm. Elaine started to move in her direction when three men ushered them forward, presumably to start a tour of the grounds. Elaine watched them go. One of the men with his arm around Stanley's shoulders. Chummy. New friends or old? If she believed Scott Ramsey, these could be former business partners.

Then Elaine noticed a man on the far side of the open area watching the festivities—his gaze seeming to dwell on Stanley. Black tee-shirt, black jeans, dark hair combed straight back to just touch his shoulders. A little squat in stature—more of a “jerk and press” type than a long-distance runner. Probably Elaine's age or close. Beside him a cane was propped against the wrought iron table. As she was about to turn away, Stanley appeared to acknowledge the man. It was just a glance back over his shoulder, but the barely perceptible nod he received in return confirmed a certain knowledge of one another.

Intriguing. But now the man at the table was motioning to her. Indicating that she should join him. Well, why not?

“Elaine Linden.” She held out her hand. “Recent convert to greyhound rescue.”

“Tony.” No handshake so she awkwardly let her hand fall back to her side. He leaned back looking up at her. “It's a good program. The going will be slow but let me show you around.”

“All right.” She had to admit this strangely alluring man was more than a little interesting; yet, the name Svengali came to mind. There was something compelling about him—the taunting, smiling eyes that roamed her body—
undressed
her body and appreciatively came back to look her in the eye after lingering on her bust line.

“Nice, very nice.” The two-handed gesture seemed aimed directly at her breasts.

It didn't seem to require an answer so she didn't give one but hoped the warmth that was creeping its way up her neck wasn't noticeable. She should just leave—find another guide but by now he'd risen, relying heavily on the cane. And she was a grown woman fully capable of taking care of herself.

“Actually, I'm your best choice for a guide.” He took her arm but she pulled away—and felt those brown, almost black eyes studying her.

She found her voice, “And why is that?”

“I can show you the inner workings of this rat's maze.”

“Interesting choice of words.”

“Do you disagree?”

“I don't know enough to agree or disagree. Have you been here long?”

“Long enough. This way.”

The tour was perfunctory. The library a donation by Mrs. and Senator such-in-such, the arboretum a gift of a local doctor and his family, exercise equipment from yet another foundation, electronics including all the latest bells and whistles a loan from a local college and used by their instructors for classes. All in all, the “maze” contained all the comforts. He hadn't made conversation or interacted other than to explain each area and open doors. And she'd stayed out of reach. He didn't try to touch her again, and there were no more comments about her attractiveness, which had seemed limited to above her waist.

“Looks like we're just in time for lunch.” They had made a complete circle and ended up more or less back where they started. This time she excused herself and took a chair at Maggie and Stanley's table.

White collar prison. Did it bring back memories? Of course. Her first husband, father of her child, spent seven years in just this sort of facility for flying contraband from Columbia to New Mexico—only to supposedly die in a flash flood the day he got out. What was it about arrogant, the-world-owes-me personalities? She knew she was sitting in the midst of a few hundred. And had just escaped the clutches of a particularly smooth one. One that she noticed others deferred to. Was he some kind of inner prison honcho?

Suddenly she just wanted to go home. Home temporarily being a townhouse in Daytona Beach with a man she dearly loved.

“Are you okay, dear?” Maggie leaned in to whisper.

“Yes. It's just been a long day.” Elaine made an effort to finish her avocado stuffed with chicken salad. By the time the flute of chocolate mousse arrived, she'd lost her appetite.

“We'll be going soon. Don't look now but I think you have an admirer over there.” Maggie winked. “He's cute.”

Elaine didn't need to look. She could feel Tony's eyes on her every move. And it was giving her the creeps. It was a little late now but she should have stayed with a group for the tour.

“I'm going to go back to the car. I'll meet you out front to help load the dogs. I just need some fresh air.”

A restroom stop and she walked out into the bright sunny day. A deep breath and she was beginning to feel better. Until she realized that Tony was leaning against her SUV. How could an inmate with a gimpy leg get out here so quickly? She blipped the car open and walked to the driver's side.

“Wait. I want to apologize for bad manners. I've upset you and I didn't mean to.”

“No apology needed.” She placed her hand on the door handle.

“You're a very beautiful woman. I'm sure you can appreciate that we don't see too many of those.”

“Thank you for the compliment.”

He stared at her for a few seconds. “Okay. I respect your distance.” The gesture was both hands palms outward and Tony stepped away from the car, “Oh, Elaine? Be careful. Don't get mixed up in things you don't understand.” He turned back, the smirky, laughing eyes holding her immobile. “Got that, gorgeous? Tony Falco says so—therefore, it's law.” A wave of the hand that resembled a blessing, a laugh and a shake of the head. She watched him limp away.

Chapter Nineteen

The newly acquired dogs were watered, fed, exercised, and then crated at the track when they got back to Daytona. The Prison Greyhound people were there to meet them and all went smoothly. Everyone thought the freshly trained dogs were an especially nice group, and there were several new families already waiting to adopt. Happy endings. Elaine liked that. Now for a great ending to her own day. She saw a light on in the living room at the townhouse when she pulled in the drive. Suddenly she realized how much she wanted to see Dan and put the day behind her.

Crackers, cheese, sliced hard salami, and a really good Merlot—could life get much better? He met her at the door glass in hand.

“I take it Mom isn't picking up Miss Daisy tonight?”

“Stanley didn't want to take the time to stop. They have another hour and a half to get home, and he was getting tired. I'm sure she'll run up in the morning.” Simon and Daisy were both giving her the once-over—lots of sniffs. Unloading twenty dogs and loading twenty more must mean she smelled interesting.

“So, tell me about dog-delivery. Good day?”

“Mostly.” Elaine sank down on the couch. She elaborated on the already-trained dogs—how impressed she was. And then she added briefly and in little detail the guided tours and her bad luck to draw Mr. Mafioso as personal guide.

“Hey, you should be flattered. The man has good taste. You want to nip this little flirtation in the bud? I'll tell him you butter your ciabatta.”

Laughing, she smacked him with a throw pillow. “I'll butter
your
ciabatta.”

“Promises, promises. Is that what we're calling him now? I know ‘walkin' the dog' is a euphemism for—”

“Hush.” She took his wineglass, placed it carefully next to hers on the coffee table then leaned in and unzipped his fly. “This is a no talk/no hands zone or I'll have to get the duct tape and cuffs.”

“Handcuffs? Wow. I need to send you to prison more often.”

***

She woke at about three, still wound around Dan on the sofa. She edged to one side, stretched, and felt someone lick her arm. Simon. She gave the big dog a kiss on top of his head. Daisy was watching from a safe distance, not looking very eager to have people slobber on her. Elaine slipped on bra and jeans and let both dogs out into the side yard. It wasn't large but the six-foot white fence made it safe.

“Hey, it's cold. Where'd my blanket go?”

“Your blanket is going up to bed…if anyone wanted to join me, I might not be able to keep my hands to myself.”

She let the dogs in but Dan was already upstairs.

***

“Is there any way to tell Daisy's age? I don't get the feeling that she's very old.” Elaine was pouring their second cup of coffee before clearing the table. Eggs benedict, peach blintzes, juice…they'd stuffed themselves.

“If she came from the track or a kennel that supports the track, she'll be tattooed with not only a registration number, but kennel information. Here, I'll show you.” He offered Daisy a piece of English muffin dipped in egg yolk and had the dog's rapt attention. She wasn't going to move just in case there would be more.

“See, here's the National Greyhound Association registration number. And in this ear is the month she was whelped, the year, and this letter indicates she was the fourth puppy in the litter to be tattooed.”

Elaine leaned in, “812D. Eighth month, or August of 2012 and D means fourth pup tattooed.”

“Got it. 812D. Pretty slick way to individualize each dog.” Then Dan looked again at Daisy's ear. “What the hell? I'll be right back.” He grabbed his iPad off the dining room table and sat back down. He brought up the initial report on the dogs lost. 812D was at the top of the list.

“I'll be damned. I can't believe this. I knew the number was familiar. What's a good way to hide something? Leave it in plain sight. Now, I don't think that anyone thought one of the lost dogs would end up with my mother, let alone me, but there's more than a little irony in this.”

And interesting that a stolen and very expensive dog would be put out for adoption and not be making money racing or used for breeding. Made it seem that the two hundred and fifty thousand was the immediate goal. But for whom? Dixie was the would-be recipient. Was losing the hauler enough for her to want to recoup any way she could? Yet, she was co-owner of the track and the track was big business—a few million, he guessed. Wasn't the insurance money small potatoes? Hauler or no hauler? Or were finances in really bad shape? It would make sense that she wouldn't want the dogs killed or even injured. Still, the insurance money only paid their current worth not projected life earnings. How could she come out ahead? If she wasn't behind the disappearing greyhounds, were they stolen out from under her?

“What are we going to tell Maggie?”

“The truth. I'm going to have to take the proof into custody. You, Miss Daisy, are a very valuable piece of evidence.” A pat to the head and the last piece of Canadian bacon.

“Do you want me to tell her?”

“Mom? No, I'll do it.” He was dreading it, but sooner was better than later.

Dan picked up his phone and walked out on the porch. He was preparing to leave a message when Maggie answered.

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news…” Dan went on to explain how Daisy was really a greyhound named ShebaTwo—the stolen property of Dixie Halifax—and one of the dogs he'd been looking for. He needed to take her back to her rightful owner. He paused and braced himself for some sort of outrage, some kind of ‘what can we do?' or ‘would they let me buy her?' ploy. His mother wouldn't give up something she wanted that easily.

“Well, thanks for letting me know. We're trying to get in a golf game this morning. Talk later.”

What was this? She was just dropping the subject? And his mother sounded terrible. Congestion, a lot of snuffling, a cough….

“Mom, are you all right?”

“Allergies. I'm fine. Don't worry.”

He was getting the brush-off. Was she covering up? Not wanting to break down on the phone with him? This was the woman who sobbed her way through
Bambi
. Wait. Of course, all the sniffling wasn't due to allergies; she didn't want him to know she was crying.

“Mom, I'm so sorry. I know you really cared for Daisy. She was a great dog but I'm sure there's another dog out there that you'll love just as much. Look, Elaine and I will get you another—a puppy this time if you'd like. What would you say to a baby Simon?”

“Oh no, I mean how sweet of the two of you. But it's quite all right…” the sound of blowing her nose. “Really, I need to go. Stanley is honking the horn.” Click.

He walked back inside.

“That was short.”

“And strange. I expected a few tears. I wouldn't have predicted necessarily a breakdown but she seemed pretty choked up. I don't think she wanted me to hear how upset she really was. But rushing off to play golf? She doesn't play.”

“Maybe it's something she's taken up recently.”

“I don't know…maybe…but that was just weird.”

“I guess I'd chalk it up to bad timing. She and Stanley could have been having a fight.”

“True.” Dan made a mental note to try her back later in the day.

***

Dan spent a half hour taking pictures—ears, profile, front and rear, head shots—every conceivable angle that would prove who Daisy was—in this case, a very alive ShebaTwo.

He didn't call ahead. He expected Dixie to be in her office and wasn't disappointed. She tried to put off meeting with him until after lunch but he just handed the pictures to her receptionist with orders to put them on her desk and mention that they were taken this morning. He didn't have to wait. Her office door flew open and Dixie Halifax strode toward him pictures in hand.

“Where did you get these? Are they truly recent?”

Dan nodded. “We need to talk.” He motioned toward her office and then followed her inside. Dixie walked to her desk, turned and leaned back against it, both hands tightly gripping the edge. The desk was conspicuously devoid of doggy urns.

Dan explained the chain of events but was stopped when he mentioned Agnes Halifax as the one who helped Maggie choose a dog.

“My mother? However did she get mixed up in this? She works with a placement group but I have no idea where they get the dogs. There are tracks across the U.S.”

“Most of the adoption groups appear to keep excellent records. I'll send copies out of registration numbers on the offhand chance we will uncover another couple dogs whose identification hasn't been altered.”

“What happens if we don't find all of the dogs?”

“You will be asked to prove that you have had nothing to do with their disappearance—possibly a polygraph—that's not up to me. If not recovered, Maximillian and Mellow Yellow and the others will be treated as having been stolen. You, of course, will receive the payout for the four. We'll continue to look for those and there will be a reasonable amount of time before the case is closed.”

Dixie walked behind her desk and sat down. She looked exhausted, Dan thought. None of this was easy—a fire, two murders, and the suspicious death of a highly visible and important track employee, five dogs that went from life to death to life—and no one arrested as responsible. For any of it. Certainly not the young man the police originally charged. Roger Carter had made a forceful case for Fucher's release after the discovery of Wayne Warren's murder and the possible involvement of three people in Jackson Sanchez's death. There was simply not enough evidence to hold him. Fucher was safely out of the running.

“Who do you think is behind taking the dogs?” Dan wasn't invited but he dragged a chair up to the desk.

A shrug. “I'm baffled. Possibly someone who wanted to ruin my breeding program. Not breeders themselves or they would never have let Sheba go. I know this is going to sound incriminating but there was a time when I would have blamed Jackson Sanchez.”

“Why is that?”

“He was highly competitive. About a year ago he had some setbacks—lost two litters to a virus that spread to his racing stock. Three of his best were infected. He wasn't insured.”

“Any idea why someone would carve ‘thief' on his forehead?”

“I've wondered about that. He owed money….”

“To someone other than Fucher?”

“Yes. Gambling debts.”

“But the ‘thief' seemed to indicate he'd stolen from someone.”

“Sorry. I have no idea.”

Did he believe her? Maybe, only maybe. He got the distinct feeling that she thought she'd said too much. Dan got up to leave after promising to bring Sheba to her office later in the day. He felt badly for his mother, but it was the one solid bit of evidence for UL&C. And Dixie was the rightful owner.