To Sketch a Thief (15 page)

She transferred the note to a plastic bag, hoping Reggie would still be willing to donate his time. Then she looked Zeke squarely in the eye. “I know what you’re thinking, and I’m not going to have this argument with you again. I can’t run to the police every time some thug tries to scare me off. If I do, my reputation and my career will be over in a heartbeat, and you’ll find yourself haunting some new home owner’s life.”

Zeke’s jaw was tight, his words measured. “I get what you’re sayin’, but I don’t know that you’ve been in the business long enough to know the difference between what’s prudent and what’s downright foolish.”

“Given your current status, you’re hardly the right one to teach me,” Rory reminded him as she stalked out of the kitchen.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Aurora,” he said, cutting her off at the staircase. “I’m the perfect one to teach you, precisely because I got it wrong.”

Rory didn’t bother to reply. Determined not to let him block the way, she squeezed past him and continued up the stairs to her room. It wasn’t late, but she was tired. She undressed, pulled on her nightgown and crawled into bed without bothering to wash. Yet sleep didn’t come easily. In the stillness, the nagging feeling that she’d missed something important came back to her. Like an itch too deep to scratch, it kept tugging her back from the brink of sleep until well past midnight.

Chapter 20

R
ory arrived at the Huntington Dog Park in the early afternoon accompanied by Hobo. The plan was for him to get exercise while providing her with instant entrée into the social network of dog owners there. It was a cool day made colder by a blustery wind that chased clouds across the sky and juggled the russet and gold leaves it plucked from the trees.

Rory had bowed to the weather and hunted down her short winter jacket for the excursion. After searching for half an hour, she’d finally found it on the floor in the back of the guest room closet. As much as she loved the renovations Mac had made to the old Victorian, her one quibble remained. There was too little closet space. Mac hadn’t felt the need to increase it. In his line of work he’d lived in chinos or jeans that he paired with tee shirts for summer and sweaters for winter. He had one good suit that he’d adapted to every occasion, from weddings to funerals, by simply changing the shirt and tie. Since it had been late spring when Rory moved into the house, she’d simply stuffed her winter clothing into whatever nook or cranny she could find, certain there’d be plenty of time to organize her wardrobe before the first chill. So much for certainty.

As she pulled into the parking lot of the dog park, Hobo started whining and dancing around the backseat as if he knew exactly where they were. Pavlov would have been proud of him. When she turned off the engine, he jumped into the front prepared for a quick exit. Rory grabbed his leash and ordered him to sit down. It took several tries and the addition of a menacing tone before he obeyed. But even then Rory could tell by the way he was wiggling around that she had a window of maybe twenty seconds before he came unglued again. She managed to open the door and jump out before Hobo launched himself after her. Some obedience training was definitely in order.

She closed the door and locked the car. She’d already decided to leave her sketch pad behind, so she could get a sense of the people there before she let on that she was investigating the dognappings.

The dog park occupied several acres of open field that were well maintained and complete with benches for the owners and waste bag stations so that they could clean up after their pets. The area was divided into two sections, one for small dogs under twenty-five pounds, the other for their larger kin. There was no ambiguity about where Hobo belonged. Rory opened the first of the double gates into the big dog enclosure. Like an airlock on a spaceship, the two-gate system prevented dogs from escaping when someone entered or left. Hobo was bouncing up and down with excitement by the time Rory led him through the second gate and unhooked his leash. He immediately took off across the open field, barking as if to announce his arrival.

By Rory’s count there were close to a dozen people in the enclosure, most of them women, either sitting on the benches or standing and talking in small groups as their dogs raced around making the most of their freedom. Rory turned her collar up against the wind and set out for the two middle-aged women standing nearby. They stopped their conversation to say hello as she approached them.

“Hi.” Rory smiled. “Is it always this windy here?” Thank goodness for weather, the universal conversation starter.

“Today’s a little over the top even for this place,” the shorter of the two women replied. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her nose was red from the cold. “Was that Hobo with you?”

“Yeah, I guess he’s used to coming here. I had no clue.”

“See, Jean, I told you that was him,” the taller woman said. She had on a red knit hat and oversized sunglasses. “There’s only one Hobo, the original class clown. I’m Susan.” She nodded to Rory, but kept her hands tucked into her pockets. Given the weather Rory understood perfectly. She’d shoved her own hands into her pockets as soon as she’d let Hobo loose. She introduced herself as Hobo’s new owner.

Jean shook her head. “It’s terrible what happened to Brenda, so terrible.”

Susan wagged her head in agreement. “Did you know her?”

“Barely,” Rory said. And not while she was actually alive, but they didn’t need to know that yet.

“It was really good of you to take him,” Jean said. “He’s as lovable as they come, but a bit of a handful.”

“So I’ve been finding out.”

“Just between us”—Susan lowered her voice and leaned in to them—”I don’t buy the idea that Brenda was killed when she got in the way of the dognappers. I’m willing to bet she was killed because of that affair she was having. When it all gets sorted out you’ll see I’m right. I’m intuitive about these things.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, what makes you think that?” Rory asked. She’d planned to reroute any conversation about Brenda into a fact-finding mission about the dog thefts, but she couldn’t resist hearing what Susan had to say. She told herself she was only pursuing that line of questioning so that she could pass any worthwhile information to Leah. The trouble was that she didn’t believe it any more than Leah would.

“Well,” Susan said, “we used to hang out a lot, you know, see a movie, get dinner. She was single like me. But for the past six months she was always, quote, ‘busy.’ No explanation. She used to confide in me when she had a man in her life, but this time—nothing. I think it’s because she was seeing a married man and I think he was somebody we know. She was probably afraid that if she told me, I’d slip and spill the beans to his wife.”

“Is that it?” Jean asked. “The entire basis for your theory is that Brenda didn’t talk to you about a guy she was seeing?”

“A couple of times when I called her I heard a man in the background and I heard her trying to shush him.”

“Come on, now. That’s hardly proof she was having an affair,” Jean said skeptically. “For all you know the guy was her brother.”

“Except she doesn’t have a brother,” Susan replied, a testy snap to her words.

“I’m just saying, I don’t think we should be spreading rumors when even the police don’t know for sure what happened or why.”

“So you think Brenda’s death was the result of a lovers’ quarrel?” Rory asked.

“Either that or the guy’s wife found out and decided to take matters into her own hands,” Susan said in a huffy tone aimed at Jean.

Rory was starting to feel responsible for the escalating tension between the two friends. It was time to change the subject. She was about to admit her real purpose in being there when a man shouted, “Heads up! Incoming!”

The three women automatically ducked as a Frisbee soared by, inches above their heads.

“Sorry, the wind caught it,” the Frisbee thrower called to them. “Baxter, no!” he shouted. “No! Stop!”

Before Rory could turn to see what was happening, she was knocked to the ground by a brick wall that apparently went by the name of Baxter. The black Lab raced on to retrieve his toy oblivious to the casualty he’d left in his wake.

Susan and Jean were helping Rory to her feet when the Frisbee thrower reached them. “I am so sorry,” the young man said. “Are you okay?”

Rory brushed off a few leaves that were clinging to her legs. “It’s nothing my own dog hasn’t done to me,” she assured him.

“I feel terrible. Baxter’s usually better behaved than that, but when he’s going for a Frisbee he has no manners at all.” He extended his hand to her. “I’m Pete Dowling, by the way. You’ll need to know that if you decide to sue.”

“Rory McCain,” she said, laughing and shaking his hand as the Lab with a neck like a linebacker ran up to them, the Frisbee in his mouth. “And this I presume is Baxter.”

“The one and only. I saw you come in with Hobo, right?”

Rory nodded. “He needed exercise and I needed information.” As she told Dowling and the women about her investigation, she could see that they were regarding her with renewed interest.

“Have you noticed anyone hanging around the park here, checking out the dogs, maybe taking notes?”

Pete and Susan shook their heads.

“I think I did,” Jean said. “There was a man standing outside the gate last Thursday. I saw him here once before too. He watches the big dogs here for a couple of minutes, then he goes over and takes a look at the smaller ones before he leaves. I didn’t see him taking notes, but he was holding some paper in his hand.”

“Would you be able to describe him?” Rory asked.

“I think so.”

She excused herself and ran back to the car for her sketch pad. When she returned, she saw that one of the benches was now empty so she asked Jean to sit there with her. Pete and Susan followed them and Susan sat herself down on the other side of Rory.

Before beginning, Rory took a moment to check on Hobo. He was over on the far side of the enclosure still cavorting like a loon, the other dogs following his lead. He was definitely the life of the party. If there were a lampshade to be had, she had no doubt that he’d be the one sporting it. Satisfied that he was safely occupied, she opened the sketch pad to a clean page and took her pencil out of her purse.

“I hope I get this right,” Jean said, rubbing her hands together from nerves or the cold, or both.

“There’s no right or wrong,” Rory assured her. “All you have to do is tell me what you recall. I understand that memory isn’t a digital camera and that even the sharpest memories fade with time. But whatever you give me will be a lot more than I have now.”

Jean smiled, clearly relieved. “Where should I start?”

“Why don’t you estimate his height and weight first. Even though I’ll be concentrating on his face, knowing body proportions helps.”

Jean took a deep breath. “Okay, he was average height or a little under. I’m not good at guessing weight, but he was maybe a hundred seventy-five.”

“Good, that’s good,” Rory said. “How old do you think?”

“The older I get, the younger everyone else seems to me.” Jean gave a self-conscious little laugh that was loudly echoed by Susan. “I’d say he was in his late thirties.”

“Okay. How about the shape of his face, the cut of his hair, the set of his eyes?”

Jean thought for a minute. “His face was more round than anything else and he was bald. I was too far away to tell if he was really bald or just shaved his head the way a lot of guys do. I can’t tell you much about his eyes either, except for the fact that he was wearing glasses with a dark frame.”

“You’re doing great,” Rory told her, although expectations of a viable sketch were fading quickly. Unless this guy had some striking feature, her drawing wouldn’t be specific enough to check against the police database. “What about his nose and mouth? Take your time and try to visualize him standing over there where you saw him.”

Jean focused on the place where she had seen him, the skin between her brows bunching with concentration. After a minute she turned back to Rory, looking defeated. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember anything special about his nose or mouth. I think they were just ordinary.” She shook her head. “I didn’t realize how hard this is. I guess I don’t have as good a picture of him in my mind as I thought I did.”

“You’re not alone. Most people are surprised by how little they actually notice about an individual, especially if it was just a casual observation.” Rory put down the pencil and flexed her fingers, which were beginning to feel stiff and a little numb from the cold. Jean looked uncomfortable too. Her arms were crossed, her shoulders hunched forward as she huddled to keep warm.

Some of the other owners had wandered over to see what was going on, but Rory barely noticed them. Working with the police, she’d learned not to let onlookers distract her.

“Do you mind a few more questions?” she asked Jean, unwilling to walk away without the best sketch she could get.

“Not if you think it’ll help.”

“I’ll make it quick. Did he have any facial hair?”

“No.”

“Were his ears flat against his head or did they project at all?”

“Flat I think.”

“Any scars?”

“Hey.” A young woman who’d been watching spoke up. “I think I know that guy.”

Rory looked up at her. “You know his name?”

“Yeah, that’s Eddie Mays.”

The man standing next to her told her she was nuts. Rory was inclined to agree with him. The Eddie Mays she’d interviewed had a very distinctive, identifiable face, while the man in her sketch was far too bland and ordinary.

“Could you make the eyes kind of buggy, the way thick glasses can make them look?” the young woman asked.

Rory was happy to oblige.

“And the nose should be thicker, fleshier at the tip.”

As she made the requested changes, Rory was beginning to recognize the owner of Boomer’s Groomers too. Without being told, she added the little hoop to his eyebrow and the silver stud to the center of his chin. There was a really good chance that the face staring back at her was Eddie Mays after all. What the drawing had been lacking most of all was the attitude that informed Mays’s features. Now that she knew her subject matter, her pencil flew over the page, paring down the roundness of the cheeks, closing the distance between the eyes, adding shadows and lines and refining the set of the mouth.

“Damn if she ain’t right,” the man murmured. “That’s him. I used to take my dog to his place to get groomed.”

It was all very well and good that Rory’s sketch now looked like Eddie Mays, but if this face was no longer the one Jean remembered seeing at the park, it was worthless. She held the drawing up for her appraisal.

“Okay, what do you think? Is this the man you saw here? Don’t let yourself be swayed by what anyone else is saying.”

Jean stared at the sketch and chewed on her lower lip.

“If you saw this man in a police lineup, would you pick him out as the man you saw here?” Rory prompted.

“Yes,” she said finally, her voice shaking a bit from the cold. “Yes, I’m almost positive that’s him.”

“Well that’s close enough for me,” Rory said. She thanked her for the help and apologized for having kept her out there in the cold. Then she flipped her pad closed and tucked the pencil back in her purse. “You should probably go home and have something hot to drink,” Rory told her, craving a big cup of hot cocoa herself, whipped cream piled high.