The China Dogs (4 page)

One covers the body of a seventeen-year-old girl just identified as
Kathy Morgan, an only child from Richmond Heights out in South Miami.

The other contains the animal that ripped her to pieces.

Walton signs in with a scenes-of-crime officer, passes through the fluttering tape and starts across the beach. A sea breeze tugs his trademark linen suit, and he feels the sun uncomfortably warm on his thin, white hair and his milky, pale skin.

Miami's blue sky has turned gray and the sea looks slow and sad now, as though it knows what happened and understands it would be wrong to be boisterous at a time like this. Music strikes up in Ghost's mind. It's gentler than the Mahler in the Dodge—the achingly painful violin solo at the start of ­Rimsky-Korsakov's
Scheherazade
with its melancholy flutter of harp strings.

Behind the stylish shades that he almost never removes, his pink pupils scan the scene for clues. He follows the path CSIs have marked across the sand with their iron poles and yellow tape.

The front of the nearest tent opens, and he greets forty-year-old Medical Examiner Gerry Stockman. “Man, this is too beautiful a place to witness an accident as ugly as this.”

“Sure is, Ghost.” Stockman is kitted out in full white Tyvek suit and wears blue rubber gloves—a testament to his long-­standing allergy to latex. “And when you see what's in here, you may rethink your definition of the word ‘ugly.' ” He holds back the tent flap. “Look but don't step in. Forensics hasn't been here yet.”

The music in the detective's head is gone now. All he hears is the buzz of flies, drawn to the unexpected feast of violated organs and drying blood. He absorbs the visual brutality, blots up its violence and all the emotional pain he imagines the girl's family will endure, until the only thing left is the puzzle of what happened. “Where's the rest of her?”

The M.E. lets the flap fall and points across the sand. “There are flesh and bone fragments spread for twenty to thirty yards, some blood pooling where the dog stopped briefly, and then this mess here, right where it was shot. The thing ripped her limb from limb. Would probably have attacked others if a Ranger hadn't killed it.”

“Dog shouldn't have been on the beach in the first place.” Ghost nods toward a sign. “Rangers should have been quicker in acting.”

“Always good to be wise
after
the event.” Stockman knows the lieutenant of old, Ghost's lack of tolerance as legendary as his physical appearance. The M.E. takes a slim video camera out of an overall pocket and starts filming. CSIs will shoot comprehensive footage, but he wants his own as well. “The vet is already here. She's in the other tent.”

Ghost looks out to the waves as he walks away. Sharp lights glint from boats bobbing on the sparkling water. He knows instantly what they are.

Cameras.

When the beaches were shut off, the photojournalists took to the ocean.

Two white-suited CSIs exit the tent he's heading toward. They open steel cases and unfold sample bags in preparation for the grisly evidence that has to be recovered.

Ghost ducks into the plastic shelter covering the forensic vet.

What he sees stops him in his tracks.

The dog is massive. Much bigger than he'd expected. It has huge legs and a giant square face that looks like it's been fashioned out of steel.

A plump, dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties is on her knees, covered in forensic whites and with a blue mask around her mouth. She looks up at him quizzically. “Sandra Teale, and you are?”

He slides ID out of his jacket, “Lieutenant Walton.”

“You with the Canine Section?”

“No, Special Ops. I'm just the guy in the wrong place at the wrong time—and apparently the one they give all the weird and crappy jobs to.”

She laughs. “Me too.”

He squats alongside her. “Any microchip that will give us the owner's address?”

“Might well be, but I've not had time to run a scanner yet. I'll do it back at the lab and let you know.”

“Thanks.” He peers quizzically at the animal. “What kind of dog is it?”

“Cross breed—though I'm not sure exactly
what
has been crossed with what.”

“Mike Tyson and a wolf, by the look of it.”

He dimly recalls a course about dangerous dogs that he attended as a rookie. “That thing has a broad, deep chest and muscular shoulders—aren't they traits of a pit bull?”

“They are, but this isn't a pure pit, it's a mutt. I suspect someone was kenneling pits and then when the breed became regarded as dangerous, they started to cross them with other dogs to try to make them more sellable. It looks part mastiff and part something else—maybe German shepherd.”

Ghost points at a wound. “I need the bullets when you dig them out. Just a formality for when we bring charges.”

“Of course.” Teale puts a gloved finger and thumb around one of the entry holes. “I'll send the slugs to Ballistics as soon as we get this big guy back to the lab and start our tests.”

“It's a
him
?”

“Oh yeah.” She lifts its back leg to prove her point. “
Very definitely
a him.”

13

Coral Way, Miami

T
he cab drops Zoe at a small building on a block opposite a Greek restaurant. At the door, she presses a buzzer marked
CUNNINGHAM.

A tinny voice squawks out of a wall-mounted Intercom.
“Hello.”

“Jude, it's Zoe.”

There's a howl of excitement, then the muffled thud of feet descending stairs. The brown front door bursts open and a beaming Jude Cunningham bounces out and smothers her in a hug.

“Let me breathe,” jokes Zoe.

“Wow! I can't believe you're actually here.” The chubby blonde looks her over, then stares quizzically at the sidewalk near her feet. “Where's your baggage?”

“Don't ask. Probably somewhere in Alaska.”

“Come inside and tell me.” She holds the front door and reveals a tidy hallway leading off to four doors and a short flight of stairs to another four. “I was getting worried—your plane landed hours ago.”

“I know.” Zoe starts the climb. “There was a robbery around the corner and I got caught up in it.”

“Oh my God. Anyone hurt?”

“Only the robber.” As an afterthought she adds, “And my Levi's. I split them.” She lifts a leg to demonstrate.

“Not a good look, sister.” At the top of the stairs, Jude lets her in through an open door to the left. “Here you are—home away from home, for as long as you like.”

“You might live to regret that.” Zoe stares into a bright open room with white walls and a big window. The floors are bare boards sanded and polished to make them look “olde world.” Fresh flowers stand in a fat-belly glass vase on a junk wood dining table with leather benches either side. “It's nice. You've made it really homey.”

“Thanks.” Jude walks her along a short corridor. “Your room's through here. Barely big enough to fit a cat let alone swing it—but hey, it's got a new bed and fresh linen.”

“It looks lovely.” Zoe tries to sound convincing.

“It'll look a whole lot better when we've opened a bottle of wine or two.”

They head into the kitchen laughing, and Zoe checks her watch. “Shoot, I didn't realize it's so late. Mind if I call my brother Danny in New York? I've been trying all day and we keep missing each other. I promised I'd ring when I settled.”

“Sure, the phone's by the door.”

“Nah, it's okay. I still got credit on my cell.” She pulls the phone out of her jeans pocket and dials.

Danny's three years older but is a constant worry for her. He runs with a bad crowd. Always seems to be up to shady stuff. Never wants to talk about what he's doing or who he's doing it for.

Zoe virtually brought him up after the family broke apart. Dad ran off with a younger woman and Mom hit the bottle. Almost overnight Zoe became the anchor of her brother's life. When she moved to Maryland, she half expected him to trail in her wake. It was a relief that he stayed in NYC to live on his own.

His phone trips to voice mail: “This is Danny, I'm busy doing other stuff, leave your details after the beep.”

“Shit.” She kills the call and puts her hand out for the glass of wine that Jude is offering. “God knows what he's up to. One day that boy's gonna get himself in big trouble.”

14

The White House, Washington DC

T
he press corps is lapping it up. America's First Lady and her gorgeous kids playing on the White House's famous Rose Garden lawns with a million-dollar Chinese dog, while President Pop is away in Beijing battling with the Asian business bores.

It's a classic photo opportunity.

And the dog is a wow as well. The Tibetan mastiff practically poses for shots. Tilts his cute head and shakes his thick double coat of fur as the kids hang onto his big neck and all but ride him.

Sheryl Molton gathers the pet and her two children beside a lectern and microphone to say a final few words before disappearing back inside. “Thank you all for coming. Emperor, Jack, Jane, and myself all hope you managed to get the pictures that you wanted and had as much fun as we did.”

A reporter raises a hand, and when a press aide gives him the nod, he calls out a double-edged question “Jan Bolz,
Modern Dog
magazine—can you tell us, has Emperor already had all his shots and been microchipped?”

“He has. The President and I are big believers in animal welfare and owner responsibility. He's up-to-date on all his inoculations and has been chipped and registered—though, as I'm sure you'll agree, the chance of us losing him are pretty thin.”

The remark draws laughter from across the lawns and even a smile from the Secret Service men standing guard in their suits and shades.

“Anna Arit,
Washington Post.
Could you tell us, ma'am, are Asian dogs trickier to tame than American ones?”

There's laughter at the double entendre before the First Lady even starts to answer.

“In my experience,
all
dogs are tricky to tame. Ask any wife or mom in the country and if she's got
a dog
in her life she'll tell you they're always out making a mess somewhere.”

More laughter and a ripple of applause fills the gardens.

“Ian McLoughlin, CNN. How is the President getting along with his new foreign friend? Has he already managed to establish himself as its master?”

Sheryl Molton senses the allusions are getting a little too close for comfort. “Hey, for a start, the President knows there's only one boss in my house, and I can tell you it's not him or the dog!” She decides to quit while she's ahead. “Thanks again, folks, I hope you all have a good day.”

The cameras click like crazy as the First Family and Emperor walk away, waving and smiling in the Washington sunshine.

Once back inside the privacy of the West Wing, Sheryl asks herself the same question, and suspects her husband is having a far more difficult time with President Xian than anyone expects.

15

Downtown, Miami

T
he distraught faces of Kathy Morgan's parents are still burned in Ghost's mind as he drives away from work.

Over the years, he's learned to objectify victims as much as possible.

He's taught himself to see them as the central part of a cryptic puzzle that needs total focus and clarity of mind to crack. But he's never been completely successful at blocking out the person, and with it, all the human pain. Personal empathy and emotion seep like acid through whatever professional barriers he erects. Right now he's aching for Derek and Amy Morgan, wishing they'd never had to stand in that cold morgue and had a sheet pulled back to reveal the remains of their beloved child.

He tries to shut off work as he lets himself into a three-­bedroom penthouse in the city's Historic District. The prime real estate has been in the family for decades, passed to him when his very successful, elderly parents died a few years back.

Around him is a stretch of land and key buildings bounded by Miami Court, North Third Street, West Third Avenue, and South Second Street. Most of what catches the eye was built during the Florida land boom of the 1920s, including the building that dominates the view from Ghost's front window. The Freedom Tower over at the Miami Dade College is a prime piece of Spanish Renaissance architecture, built in '25 as a print works for the
Miami News.
In the 1960s the federal government took it over, in order to process documents and provide health support for refugees fleeing from Castro's Cuba. That's when it got the iconic name Freedom Tower. These days it's more famous for the art exhibitions held there. Ghost has spent many an hour mesmerized by the works of Dali, Goya, and Da Vinci.

The walls of his apartment are filled with an eclectic and ever-changing mix of paintings by upcoming artists. His dealings in this world, like his activities in the stock and bond markets, brings him an annual income more than five times his police salary.

The first thing he does after kicking off his shoes is put on music.

Not from an iPod in a docking station, or a computer with endless, digitally streamed tracks, but from a vintage Bang and Olufsen gramophone that copes with anything vinyl from 33 rpm right back to a good old-fashioned 78.

He gently places one of his favorite discs on the turntable. It's Mindru Katz's live performances of Liszt's Piano Concerto No. 2 in A Major.

The master composer's melancholic opening is momentarily lost in the culinary clatter that Ghost creates in the kitchen. He may live on his own, but that doesn't stop him eating well. Tonight he's starting with fried foie gras and chicken livers on French toast, followed by pan-roasted veal chops and spinach.