To Sketch a Thief (20 page)

Chapter 26

T
he game was already into its final period when Rory arrived at the soccer field. She found Leah on the sidelines cheering loudly for her eight-year-old son and his team. Her husband, the team coach, was on the far side of the field, keeping pace with the players as they ran first toward one goal, then toward the other as the teams lost or gained possession of the ball. It was a mild day, a teaser that felt more like spring than fall. The parents and grandparents watching the game had traded in their parkas for lighter jackets, and some of the men had already shrugged off even those.

Leah had asked Rory to meet her at the field so she could give her an update on the Larry Sugarman case. Her weekend was a marathon of running to each of her children’s sporting events; she wasn’t free for brunch or even a cup of coffee.

“Sorry to drag you out here,” she said, giving Rory a quick hug before turning back to watch the game.

“Hey, the weather’s great, and I get to spend some time with you and find out what’s happening with our murdering scum.”

“Well, for one thing, he’s an arrogant, murdering scum,” Leah said. “Excuse me, I mean person of interest. Didn’t even blink when I told him we had his prints on the knife that killed Brenda. He just sat there with this little smirk and demanded to see his lawyer. You have no idea how much I wanted to rearrange his face with—way to go, Jake!” she shouted as her son maneuvered the ball away from an opposing player and headed for the goal. “Go, Jake, go—go—go—all the way!”

Jake took a shot on goal. For a moment it seemed like the goalie would be able to deflect the ball, but it flew by him just out of reach. A cheer erupted from half the onlookers, while the coach from the other team called out encouragement to his players.

When Leah picked up the narrative, she was going hoarse from all the cheering. “We had to wait for his lawyer to get there before we could finish questioning him.”

Rory shook her head in disgust. “Let me guess—he’s claiming he killed Brenda in self-defense.”

“Bingo! A lovers’ quarrel. He’d broken it off with her; she was distraught and came at him with a knife. In the ensuing struggle the knife found its way into her chest. Trite, but it works more often than it should.”

“I’m surprised he told you that much.”

“Sometimes they’re so full of themselves and so sure you can’t touch them, they like to dangle their ‘get out of jail free’ card in your face.”

“If Hobo could talk, Larry wouldn’t have a prayer.”

With her briefing finished, Rory took the opportunity to apologize for trampling on police turf. “You have my word that it won’t happen again,” she said.

“Really?” Leah asked skeptically.

Rory thought for a moment before she replied with a sheepish grin, “Well, I’m pretty sure.”

“That’s what I figured. But joking aside, Rory, you’ve got to curb your impulsiveness. Preferably before it gets you killed.”

“That’s number one on my ‘to do’ list.”

“It certainly ought to be.”

Then Jake had the ball again, and Rory joined in to cheer him on.

“Hey, I almost forgot,” Leah said. “We found some scabbed-over bite marks on Larry’s arm, bites that came from the mouth of a large dog.”

Rory issued a low whistle of amazement. “So heroism isn’t a new concept for Hobo.”

“That’s one hell of a great dog you have there.”

Rory couldn’t have agreed more. She stayed on to watch the last minutes of the game, but declined an invitation to join Leah and her family for a pizza victory lunch. As much as she loved pizza and spending time with Leah and her energetic little tribe, she had some unfinished business to attend to back home.

S
he’d decided that she had to tell Zeke about the events at the Sugarman residence. As unpleasant as that conversation was likely to be, Hobo deserved his due. The marshal needed to know about the dog’s heroic efforts on her behalf. She was trying to work out a sanitized version of the truth, one in which she hadn’t egged Larry on, when the telephone rang. The woman on the line introduced herself as “Debbie from It’s a Dog’s World.” But Rory had already recognized her voice and shifted gears. If she wasn’t careful with what she said she could compromise the sting.

Debbie said she was pleased to let her know they had her beagle puppy. Rory was thrilled. It was barely twenty-four hours since the puppy was reported stolen. Either it was an amazing coincidence or Dog’s World was in the “steal to order” dog business. Of course she and Zeke still didn’t know the names of the thieves or whether the suspects on their list were among them, but they finally seemed to be headed in the right direction. In one day they’d made more progress than in all the weeks before.

Rory asked the questions that she thought a prospective owner would ask, like what kind of food to buy for the puppy and whether he’d been given any of his shots. When she’d run out of questions, Debbie asked if they could deliver the puppy the next day. Rory said that would be fine, and they agreed on a time of two p.m. Debbie repeated the time to someone else, after which Rory heard a man in the background give his approval. Apparently Debbie had her on speakerphone. In a tone that was far from pleasant, the man reminded Debbie to get the address right this time. Rory thought his voice sounded familiar. If he would just continue talking she might be able to place it, but instead she heard a door close, and then Debbie was speaking directly to her again.

Flustered and stumbling over her words, she apologized for the interruption. Whoever the man was, he certainly had enough clout to make her nervous. Her voice still wobbly, she asked Rory for her address.

The address Rory gave her was Helene’s. She’d decided to take delivery at her aunt’s house to avoid the possibility that someone at Dog’s World might recognize her own address. When she’d talked to Helene about it, the conversation had been more trying than arranging for the stolen puppy.

“I don’t see why I have to leave,” Helene had said, as if Rory were borrowing her house to throw a party that she wasn’t invited to attend.

“It’s too dangerous,” Rory told her. “I can’t take the chance.”

“You wouldn’t be taking the chance,” Helene pointed out. “I would.”

“Semantics aside, the result would be the same. I’d rather not have to explain to my mother why I let you get killed. That kind of thing is hard on family relationships.”

Helene ignored her attempt at humor. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating. It’s not like this is a drug bust. They’re going to drop off a puppy. What could possibly go wrong?”

It occurred to Rory that her aunt was a lot more naïve than she’d realized. “You read the papers and watch the news, Aunt Helene. Things that shouldn’t go wrong, go wrong every day.”

Helene had begged to differ. That sort of thing was actually rare if you took population numbers into account. Rory stood her ground. She couldn’t remember ever arguing with her aunt before, and, though she didn’t like it, she refused to give in and put her at risk. She finally had to threaten to use her parents’ address, before Helene would agree to leave.

“And that includes the immediate area,” Rory had added firmly. “No lurking behind bushes or parking across the street to watch.”

Helene’s huffy sigh told her she’d been entertaining thoughts of doing exactly that.

Chapter 27

W
ith the delivery arranged and Helene given notice that she had to be out of the house well before two the next day, it was time for Rory to bring her partner up to speed. Maybe the news about the puppy would help distract him from asking too many questions about her little set-to with Larry. Zeke’s name was barely out of her mouth when he appeared in his customary seat at the kitchen table, eyebrows hitched up with curiosity.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“Actually I want to fill you in about everything that’s been happening,” she said brightly. No problems here. She dashed through her epiphany about how Hobo loved everyone but Larry, and that she’d taken him to see Larry to test that theory. In her revamped version of the event, Larry became unhinged the moment he saw her and Hobo in the kitchen with Marti. One minute Rory was trying to calm the dog and the next she was fighting for her life. She wouldn’t be standing there if not for Hobo’s heroism. He’d defended her without hesitation and without regard for his own survival.

Although the basic elements of the story were true, Rory could tell by the furrow working between Zeke’s eyes that he wasn’t buying the total package she was selling. She decided that as long as he understood how courageously Hobo had acted, she’d accomplished what she’d set out to do. Zeke’s issues with the way she lived or conducted her business were academic. She had zero intention of changing them. At some point he would learn that he couldn’t whittle her into a shape that fit his idea of a proper woman. Of course, that might take a while, since he’d proven that change wasn’t easy for him. He’d been wrestling with death for over a century, yet here he was still managing to have a life of sorts from beyond the grave.

He looked like he was about to start lecturing her, when Rory preempted him with an enthusiastic “Hey, guess who called less than ten minutes ago? Debbie from Dog’s World.” She steamrolled on before he could respond. “They have our puppy. We did it. I mean
you
did it. You found the right ad. Dog’s World is the one stealing the dogs.”

She watched the conflict play out across Zeke’s face. He didn’t want to let go of the events at the Sugarman residence before he’d had his say, but neither could he ignore the excitement of their plan finally moving ahead.

“Okay,” he said somewhat grudgingly, “when’s the delivery set for?”

“Tomorrow at two. I’m going to get there early, though. I don’t want to take a chance on missing them.” Rory gave herself a quick pat on the back. Zeke had hooked into the Dog’s World news as she’d hoped he would.

“Okay, so someone will deliver the dog to you,” he said, thinking out loud. “With any luck it’ll just be one guy.”

“One guy who has no reason to expect trouble.”

“Right. But he will be expectin’ payment, and I’m assumin’ you don’t have twelve hundred bucks in cash just sittin’ around.”

“Not a problem,” Rory said. “As soon as he comes in with the dog I’m going to detain him and hold him until the police arrive.”

Zeke ran his hand over the stubble on his chin, a gesture Rory had come to be wary of, since it was often the preamble to an argument. “I think you need a plan B,” he said. “You know, just in case the delivery guy takes exception to plan A.”

“I’ve got my plan B loaded and ready for action.” She smiled. “It’s a good thing you suggested the upgrade when you did. The .45 will be perfect for the job.” She might have ducked the Larry issue, but there was already another debate staring her down. She was going to need every ounce of the marshal’s goodwill to win the coming battle with him over the sting. And this time it wouldn’t be as easy, since it involved his actions as well as hers.

“Have you given any more thought to lettin’ me tag along?” Zeke asked, effectively firing the first shot across her bow.

Rory had not only given it more thought, she’d weighed it down with an anchor and thrown it overboard to a deep, watery grave. Wondering if and when the marshal, or various parts of him, might make an appearance would only distract her and put her in more jeopardy.

“I could stay out of sight unless you need me,” Zeke pressed on, anticipating her objection.

“You don’t have enough control of the process yet,” she said. If she’d had any hatches, this would have been the time to batten them down.

“Maybe not.” Zeke’s tone had grown testy. “But I’ll bet it’s good enough to save your neck again.”

“Let’s not be so dramatic. I’m perfectly capable of saving my own neck if it comes to that.”

“Is that how Hobo sees it?”

Rory had known that by expounding on the dog’s help, she would leave herself open to that sort of remark. It was a trade-off she’d been willing to make. She didn’t even bother with a reply, since she didn’t have a good one. She’d let him have this round.

Zeke vanished from his seat, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. He popped up a moment later near the door to the backyard. Rory had taken to leaving it open, with just the storm door closed to keep out the cold, whenever Hobo was outside. That way she could easily check on him. She’d become a lot more vigilant in the wake of the last threatening letter.

She waited to see what Zeke’s next move would be. Since he hadn’t disappeared, she assumed he had more to say on the subject. But she wasn’t expecting what came next.

“Rory, you need to get out there,” he shouted.
“Right now!”

The marshal knew better than to bark orders at her, so it was immediately clear that there was a serious problem outside, a problem that most likely involved Hobo. She flew past Zeke and out the door without bothering to grab a coat. Hobo was near the gate that opened to the side yard. His whole torso was chugging back and forth as if it were in the grips of an alien being. As she ran to him, he started vomiting violently, spewing up chunks of undigested raw beef along with mucus and blood. Rory didn’t know what to do for him. She tried to soothe him, to rub his back. He didn’t even seem to realize she was there.

When there was nothing left in his belly, he kept on retching, bloody spittle hanging from his jowls. Then he staggered a few steps before collapsing onto his side. His breathing was noisy and labored, each respiration an enormous effort. She had to get him to a vet and fast. As she was trying to work out the logistics of lifting a ninety-pound dog off the ground and carrying him to her car, Zeke appeared beside her, looking a whole lot more solid than she felt.

“Get the car goin’,” he said.

Rory ran into the house to get the keys. Ten seconds later she was opening the rear door of the car. She looked toward the side gate and what she saw wasn’t possible. Hobo was still lying on his side, but he was floating toward her, hovering several inches above Zeke’s outstretched arms. She could see the strain on Zeke in his tightly clenched jaw and in the blood vessels standing out along his neck. By the time he’d reached the car, his lower body had vanished. Hobo lay perfectly still, a sculpture of a dog. His eyes were barely open, the thin inner lid all that was visible. If he knew how close he was to the marshal or how he was being transported, he was too ill to care.

Rory jumped into the car and started the engine while Zeke maneuvered Hobo onto the backseat. A moment later the marshal disappeared. Rory knew the effort had cost him dearly. She had no idea how long it would take him to recuperate, how long it would be before she’d be able to thank him properly. Then Hobo moaned pitifully from the backseat, wiping every other thought from her mind.

She drove through the winding side streets as fast as she dared. When she reached Jericho Turnpike she tramped down on the accelerator, praying she wouldn’t attract the attention of the police. Right then she decided that if that should happen she wouldn’t stop. They could chase her all the way to the vet and arrest her there if that suited them.

“Oh my God,” she cried aloud. “What am I doing?” She’d automatically headed for Stanley Holbrook’s office, because he was the only vet she knew in the area. But what if he was the person who’d sent the threatening letters? The person who’d arranged for Hobo to be poisoned? Well, she had no choice. There was no time to call around and get another recommendation, no time even to look in a phone book and locate another vet. It would be okay, she told herself. After all, Holbrook had a reputation to maintain. She’d insist on staying with Hobo, and she’d watch every move Holbrook made. It was one thing to pay someone to poison a dog miles away, quite another to fail to help an animal brought to his office. If his aim had been to scare her into dropping the investigation, she’d convince him that he’d succeeded. Of course, she could be getting ahead of herself. Holbrook might not even be the guilty party.

She pulled into the parking lot and took the last open spot. Promising Hobo she’d be right back, she ran into the office. There was a woman already speaking to the receptionist, but this wasn’t the time for waiting her turn or other social amenities.

“I need help—my dog is dying,” she blurted out. “I think he was poisoned. He’s in the car, but I need help to get him in here. Please.”

The receptionist pressed a button and called for the veterinary aide, stat. A man in the waiting room asked the woman sitting next to him to hold his dog’s leash. He hurried to offer Rory his help as the aide came running from the back. Together they raced out the door to Rory’s car.

Even before they opened the back door, they could hear Hobo’s tortured breathing. He’s still alive, Rory told herself. At least he’s still alive. She was close to tears as she watched them struggle to get the dog’s limp body out of the car. She hated feeling so helpless, but there was no room for another person in such tight quarters.

Hobo looked like a big, furry rag doll when they finally pulled him out. As they rushed him inside, the aide told Rory to stay in the waiting room, but she made it clear she was going wherever Hobo went. She followed them into an empty exam room, where they laid him gently on the steel table. Holbrook walked in a moment later.

He nodded briefly at Rory, no flashy fluorescent smile this time. He put his stethoscope to his ears and frowned as he listened to Hobo’s heart and lungs. He palpated the dog’s abdomen and looked in his mouth. Rory watched him as if he were a jewel thief browsing in Tiffany’s. Holbrook sent the aide for oxygen, and after he’d fitted the mask to Hobo’s snout, he asked her what symptoms the dog had exhibited before falling unconscious.

Rory recited everything she could remember, which wasn’t difficult. The horrible scene was indelibly etched into her brain.

“Could be a number of things,” Holbrook said, shaking his head, “but if I had to pick one, I’d pick cyanide—his trouble breathing, the way he collapsed. For that matter it could have been a poison cocktail.”

“What are his odds?” Rory asked, afraid to hear the answer, but unwilling to hide from it.

“I’m not going to sugarcoat this,” he said. “You have a very sick dog here. The good news is that he seems to have vomited up most of the poisoned meat. The bad news is that some of the poison clearly made it into his bloodstream. I’m going to get an IV started to hydrate him. We have a doctor who’s on the premises overnight, so we’ll be able to monitor him closely and deal with any complications that might arise. If Hobo makes it to the morning, I’d say he’s got a pretty good shot.”

“I’m going to stay with him,” Rory said in a tone that dared anyone to argue with her.

Holbrook started to do just that until he caught the look in her eyes. “We don’t permit that as a general rule, but given the circumstances we’ll try to accommodate you. I’m afraid the most we can offer you is a chair.”

“That’s fine,” Rory said, thinking that would be far more comfortable than walking the floors back home.

They transported Hobo by gurney to a critical care room with Rory one step behind. The aide shaved the lower part of his left front leg, after which Holbrook ran an IV. Rory kept watch, trying to stay out of their way and willing Hobo to open his eyes and wag his tail as if this were all some strange misunderstanding. But the dog remained chillingly still.

“Any idea who might be to blame for this?” the vet asked, stepping back from Hobo once he’d adjusted the rate the IV fluid was flowing into him.

“Someone who wants me to stop investigating the dognappings,” Rory said bluntly.

Holbrook wagged his head. “It’s one hell of a convincing argument. Personally, I wouldn’t be able to pursue the case if something like this happened to one of my animals.”

And that’s exactly what the thieves are hoping for, she thought. Still, it was hard to tell if Holbrook was speaking from honest sentiment or just trying to protect his sideline. Too bad life wasn’t more like TV, where the guilty party breaks down and confesses and all the loose ends are tied up by the end of a sixty-minute episode.

“Believe me, I’m done with this case,” she said, going for the Emmy. “Tina can have her retainer back. Nothing’s worth causing Hobo to suffer like this, or worse, losing him altogether.” The tears that sprang into her eyes were as real as they come.

Holbrook pulled a tissue from a box on the counter and held it out to her. She’d won his vote. “There’s coffee in the small kitchen we have in the back,” he said. “And the deli down the block delivers until eight p.m. I’ll be in to check on Hobo between my other patients, and I’ll introduce you to Dr. Rosen when she gets here for the night shift. Meanwhile I’ll get a chair in here for you.”

Rory nodded and thanked him. Without proof that he was involved in the poisoning, she had no choice but to keep up the pretense of civility.

“Now, we’re going to have to put Hobo into a crate for his own safety,” Holbrook said, with a “here’s where I draw the line” firmness. “And it doesn’t matter that you’re going to be right by his side,” he added as Rory started to object. “We can’t take the chance that he might move suddenly and fall off the gurney.” He motioned to the aide, who wheeled over a large steel cage that had been standing in a back corner of the room. The cage was on high legs that brought it up to waist height.