Woof at the Door (2 page)

He pointed to a photo. “If I remember, he and his girlfriend recently had a very public
breakup . . .”

“Already on that, too.”

The woman, who I assumed was the medical examiner, stood and turned to the men. “Liver
temp puts time of death at around four thirty a.m. or so.” She pulled off her gloves
and began placing her equipment back in her case. “Looks like the single shot to the
head is the cause. I’ll know more once I get him cleaned up. I’ll run a tox screen
and page you if anything turns up.”

“Thanks, Maggie.”

“You got it.” She pointed toward the back of the room, where a bank of French doors
lined the wall. “What about him? The poor baby’s going crazy out there.”

“Animal control was supposed to be here an hour ago,” CSU Guy said. “They got tied
up out in MacClenny, helping Baker County deal with twenty-five half-starved pit bulls.”

From where I stood, I still couldn’t see the dog. Furniture blocked my line of sight.
But I could hear him, barking with every breath.

“He doesn’t seem very sociable,” Maggie, the ME, said.

She was right. Anyone trying to get a leash on him would probably have ended up in
the hospital. That, or the dog would be shot. Maybe both.

Jake let out an affirmative growl at the comment, waved a thick hand toward the doors.
“The chief’s already been chewing my ass, and now we got Cujo here wanting a taste
of it, too.” He mopped his brow with a limp handkerchief. “I got a call in to an animal
trainer. She should be here soon.”

That was my cue. No more stalling.

I abandoned my column and started forward, stopping just behind CSU as he said, “She?
You really think a woman will be able to handle him? What’s she bringing, a stun gun?”

So much for thinking he was cute. “That won’t be necessary.” My tone was crisp, and
as he turned, I gave him a look that could, and in fact had, stopped a polar bear
in its tracks. I let my gaze roam over him in appraisal and cocked my head. “I’ve
handled much worse.”

I’ll say this, the guy had the good grace to seem sheepish and shot me an apologetic
smile. I ignored it and turned to Jake. “Detective.”

Jake made a quick introduction. “Grace Wilde, this is Sergeant Kai Duncan. Kai is
with the Crime Lab.”

I nodded curtly at Sergeant Duncan and turned back to Jake. “What’s the story?”

Jake pointed at the back door. “Big Dobie in the backyard, seems to be trained as
a guard dog. Got a nasty cut on his nose, and he’s pretty freaked out.”

Understatement. “I’ve got my medical kit in my truck. I could calm him down, get the
kit, and sew him up, but it would probably be best if I take him with me until you
find out who will want to claim him.” I glanced at the body. “He doesn’t need to stay
here.”

“I don’t see a problem with that. Kai, you need to go over the dog for anything?”

Kai shook his head. “It doesn’t look as though the killer would have made contact
with the dog. If he had, we’d probably be processing two bodies.”

Jake snickered at that and smiled at me. “Don’t I wish. He’s all yours.”

Showtime. I walked forward, past the couch, to where I could finally see the dog.
A slice of red ran down a cut on the side of the Doberman’s nose. As he barked, blood
and saliva were hurled at the glass between us.

I stopped and knelt in front of the French door. I had already calmed myself. Now
it was time to work on him. With one final deep breath, I opened my mind to the dog.
I was immediately overwhelmed with emotions—desperation, alarm, betrayal. Images of
violence and pain flooded my mind. I pulled my thoughts away from the awful torrent
and tried to drag the dog with me.
Okay, it’s okay. It’s not your fault
.

The Doberman stopped snarling. I filled the space in our linked minds with white haze.
Calm nothingness pressed out the horror.

I whispered aloud, “All right, boy, I’m going to help you.” Slowly, I stood and turned.
“The officer that brought me in told me not to touch anything. Would you open the
door and let me out?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Sergeant Duncan stepped forward. “You sure?”

I arched a brow and waited. He moved to the door and turned the knob with a gloved
hand.

I slipped out as the door swung in. Dogs communicate in several ways. Smell, touch,
sound. But most important is energy. My energy was different than any other human
the dog had encountered. I was connected to his mind. I sent him waves of calm, alpha
energy.
I will lead you. I will help you
.

His master was gone. His job to protect fractured into uncertainty. Confusion and
fear dominated his mind. I had to fill the void.

Again, I knelt in front of the dog.

It’s all right
.
Good boy
. I felt him relax measure by measure.

The cut on his muzzle wasn’t that deep; a few stitches would work. I just needed to
get him out of here. Reaching out slowly for his tags, I flipped past the license
and looked over the two round brass plates. One was engraved with the word
JAGUARS
and what looked like a phone number. The second had what I was looking for—his name.

“Hey, Jax. That’s a good boy.” As I spoke in a soothing monotone, I sent wave after
wave of my energy and moved to stroke his sinewy neck.

The giant dog slowly collapsed and rolled over to expose his belly.
Jax, good bo
y.

I smiled down at him as I scratched his rib cage. “Yes, you’re a good boy, Jax.” After
several minutes, I knew I would be able to lead him out of the house and to my Suburban.
“Okay, let’s go get you fixed up.” The dog rolled onto his feet. I grasped his thick
leather collar and walked him through the door. I made sure to position myself between
the dog and the body as we walked by the couch. He hesitated, and I paused for a moment.

The Doberman whimpered softly.
Gone?

I placed my hand on the dog.
Yes, I’m sorry, boy
.
He’s gone
. I felt the massive dog begin to tremble. Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to
ignore the renewed torrent of emotions that swirled through me. “Come on, come with
me.” Gently, I led the quaking dog out of the room.

As we reached the front door, I heard Sergeant Duncan say, “Well, that was impressive.
Is she a dog whisperer or something?”

Jake grunted. “She’s something all right.”

I smiled. One point to Team Grace.

• • •

I stood under the near-scalding water and spread more of my sister’s twenty-dollar
shampoo through my long hair.

No matter how many times I lathered, no matter how hot the water, I just couldn’t
shake the feeling that I wasn’t clean. The images of blood and death kept creeping
in to pollute my mind.

I’ve never been very good at dealing with suffering. In veterinary school, I told
myself I would get used to it. That I would be able to block out the pain, the nauseating
fear. But I couldn’t. I’d gotten better at dealing with it through the years, but
it still took its toll emotionally. In the clinic, every time an animal had been brought
to me, I knew its thoughts, felt its terror and pain. It should have made me a better
vet. It didn’t.

“But it makes you a damn good animal trainer,” I muttered to the showerhead. I had
yet to meet a creature great or small I couldn’t work with. It was laughable to think
that I couldn’t handle a Doberman, as Sergeant Duncan had assumed.

I knew what he saw when he looked at me. A petite, curvy little
thing
who needed help opening her peanut butter jar.

Okay, so jars had been known to give me problems in the past, so what? I have small
hands. But that’s not the point. Hot guys think they can use their looks to make up
for bad behavior. Like Hugh, who assumed he was smart enough not to get caught in
his womanizing ways. It’s funny the things people will do when they think no one is
watching. Even people who work with animals every day don’t count them as witnesses.
I know better.

My ability to communicate with animals isn’t exactly public knowledge. I don’t talk
about what I can do. For one, everyone would think I was a loon. For another, it comes
in handy from time to time for people, like hot guys who’ve finally talked you into
going on a date with them, to assume what they say and do behind the Elephant Barn
is private. Not that I spy. I don’t. Much.

My friends are like anyone else’s—four legs and fur aside—misbehave and they’ll tell
me.

My sister, Emma, who hounded me like a beagle after a jackrabbit to go on more dates,
would argue that I was being unfair. I had blown Hugh off countless times. Just because
I’d finally decided to say yes the next time he asked me on a date did not a commitment
make.

Details.

One male I do trust? My dog, Moss. Though being half wolf, he’s technically a hybrid,
interspecies mutt or not, the big guy never lets me down. He had even companionably
sniffed the Doberman when I’d brought him to the condo. No territorial posturing,
just an offer of friendship.

I turned off the water and stepped out of the shower into the steamy bathroom. The
Doberman was lying on the sleek black-and-white marble floor. He raised his head and
looked up at me.

“Hey, Jax. You feeling better?”

He wagged his nub tail. The cut on his face looked much better. The sedative I had
given him so I could clean and suture the wound had calmed him down considerably.
Now his thoughts were hazy. No shocking memories of violence and panic. Later, maybe
tomorrow morning, I would try and make sense of the jumbled images he had communicated
to me, but for now it was best to let him feel calm and safe.

The truth was, I didn’t really want to know what he remembered. I assumed from where
Jax had been in the backyard that he’d had a clear view of Mark Richardson’s murder.
I also guessed from the impressions he’d given me so far that he had, in fact, witnessed
what happened. What I didn’t know was if the cops had a suspect, or evidence that
pointed them in the right direction. I hoped so. Telling the cops that their only
witness was a canine was not something I wanted to do. Especially if said canine relayed
crucial information for them through me.

I groaned at the thought of how that conversation would go.

The sound of the front door opening had Jax scrambling to his feet. A low growl vibrated
in his throat. Protective tension radiated from him like heat off asphalt.

Easy, Jax. It’s okay.
I quieted him with soothing thoughts. “That’s just my sister, Emma—”

“Grace! I do
not
believe this!” My sister’s annoyed voice streamed from the living room.

Crap
. I grabbed a thick, oversized towel, wrapped it around me, and zipped through the
bedroom I had been calling home for the last two weeks. My sister loved me enough
to house me while I looked for a new home. She and Moss . . . different story.

Jax was close on my heels as I skidded down the hall to the living room.

Emma stood, hands on her hips, scowling at Moss. “That couch is made of Venetian silk,
you beast. Off!” She shooed the dog and bent to pick up a displaced pillow from the
floor. Her stylishly cut dark hair fell across her face, hiding her frown for a moment.
“Grace!”

I shot a weary glance at Moss.
Really? Would it kill you to stay off the couch?

He slid slowly off his perch and walked over to plop down onto the antique Persian
rug.

“Sorry, Em. As soon as I find a place, we’ll be out of your hair.”

My sister continued to glare at Moss, who had begun to scratch fervently behind an
ear, sending tufts of downy white fur flying. Emma shook her head. “I swear, he just
does it to spite me—” She broke off as she turned and noticed the huge Doberman standing
next to me.

Here we go.

Emma raised her perfectly pruned eyebrows and pointed at the dog. “What the hell is
that?”

I plastered on a bright smile. “This is Jax.” I introduced him like I would a long-lost
relative. When Emma remained silent, glowering down at me like a lithe Amazon in four-inch
spiked heels, I felt my smile falter. No one intimidated me like my older sister.
It was genetic. I could stand up to wild horses, but Emma’s scathing glare always
made me flinch. “I’m sorry. I know I promised that I wouldn’t bring any wayward animals
to your place, but I had to. I got a call today—”

“I don’t want to know Grace, really.” Shaking her head, Emma turned and stalked into
the kitchen. “Mr. Cavanaugh called again to bitch that Moss was howling. The geriatric
old goat swears his life is being ruined because he can’t watch reruns of
The Golden Girls
without having to come over here with his sticky notes. Now you bring home another
dog?”

I ignored the comment about our curmudgeon of a neighbor. The man was an ass. If he
heard so much as one bark from my sister’s condo, he complained and wrote wacky notes
and taped them to the door.

I followed Emma into the kitchen. Leaning against the smooth granite counter, I glanced
down at Jax, who had dutifully trailed me into the room. “You heard about Mark Richardson?”

“Of course.” Emma pulled a bottle of Chardonnay out of the wine fridge and began uncorking
it. “It was all over the news. Why?”

I watched my sister pop open the wine and set the cork aside. “Jax was his dog. I
had to pick him up from the crime scene.”

Emma almost dropped the crystal wine goblet she was lifting out of the cabinet. “What?”
Astonished, she looked from me to the Doberman. “Good grief, Gracie. Did he see what
happened?”

“I’ve only been able to pick up some raw emotions from him. But yeah, I think so.”

Emma stared at me a moment longer, her beautiful face made only more compelling by
the concern in her dark eyes. “And they just let you take him?”

“Why wouldn’t they? I’m licensed. He’s being officially quarantined.”

She slowly shook her head, poured two glasses of wine, and handed one to me. “Are
you going to tell the cops?”