Tracking Time

screamed some more. Her ex-husband was an absolute uptight and boring square, a Republican, who never thought about anything but business and had ridiculous views about everything. They'd had no fun at all for years, and he'd never once smoked pot with her. Not once. She couldn't believe it.

'He's got a cookie jar full of it, smokes it all the time,' Brandy said.

Cheryl's eyes popped. 'I'll kill you. I'll fucking kill you if you smoke that pot with your father. I'll put him away. You're a nothing. You're going to be a Goddamn good-for-nothing, just like him. And watch me. I'll send him to jail. I will.'

Brandy whined, 'I feel bad. Mommy, get me some coffee. I'll go to school. I'll clean up. I'll do it, okay.'

'You better do it.' Cheryl softened immediately, thinking she'd order out for the coffee. 'What kind do you want? Cappuccino? Mochaccino?'

'Look, don't hassle Dad. I was just mad at you for giving me grief all the time. I lied about the pot.'

'You lied about the pot?' Cheryl said, suddenly sorry that she'd exploded like that. She always overreacted.

'You know I don't do that stuff.' Brandy stood there guarding her filthy clothes. 'I'll take care of this, okay?'

'I'll get that coffee for you, but hurry up.' Cheryl didn't ask her daughter why her clothes were such a mess. Kids were hell, everybody knew that.

'I'd like a Danish, too,' Brandy said.

Cheryl went into the bedroom for a robe and to call the deli. While she was dialing, Brandy ran out into the back hall and dropped her clothes and shoes down the garbage chute. They went down with a satisfying whoosh and disappeared forever.

Thirty-eight

John Zumech was six feet tall with a medium build, no discernible fat on his body, long legs, and a salt-and-pepper crew cut of the kind that had been reviled since the Vietnam War by those not in the armed services but was recently making a comeback. He had a nose that had seen too much fighting action, a thin mouth with a small scar in the shape of a C that curved down toward his chin from one corner, a cleft in his chin, stormy gray eyes that were not exactly challenging but took a person on with full intensity. Women liked him. And even if he had not been wearing the orange SAR vest, no one would mistake him for anything but a military man.

As promised, he was waiting inside the park where April and Woody had responded to a call for help on Tuesday night. He was wearing hiking boots and was playing with a flat leather leash. His red Jeep Cherokee, as always in such situations, was packed with search and rescue equipment. He'd parked it on the grass. Because the day had already warmed to a hot Indian summer eighty-two degrees in Central Park, the windows were all partially open. The huge head with sharp pointed ears of the Doberman pinscher called Peachy was stuck out a back window, and she whined like a frustrated child.

As Mike and April pulled up alongside the Jeep, the dog's whine got louder. Mike cut the engine quickly. The dog flung herself at the door as if there were a chance she could propel herself through it. The vehicle shook with her efforts. Her agitated moans made an eerie sound and raised the hairs on the back of April's neck. She glanced at Mike. If he was on edge, he didn't show it.

John slapped the leash against his palm and immediately started complaining to April. 'The two of you stink. You know, perfume like that will knock a dog's whiffer out for hours.'

April greeted him through the open passenger window. 'Hi, John, thanks for coming. This is Lieutenant Mike Sanchez. He's in charge.' She didn't bother to apologize about the smell. Hers was just soap and Mike had no idea this was coming down today.

John plopped a Yankees cap on his head and leaned down to window level. 'Hey, Mike. This isn't going to work. Look at that-dogs, people. Cars. Buses.' He straightened up and pointed out the people lying out on the grass, walking on the paths, the traffic over the wall on CPW. The area hadn't been cleared as he'd requested. He looked disgusted. He leaned back in and raved on.

'A, April here promised a different scenario, and B, Peachy is the best dog in the world, but she couldn't do anything with this even if you'd cleared the area as promised. I knew this was a mistake. Not only that, you guys aren't playing by the rules. I stopped over at the CP Precinct. Courtesy thing. The CO over there had no idea we were working here today. What's up with you?' This last he directed to April.

Mike confirmed John's reading of the situation by giving his neck a little exercise, making a manly connection to John that April read perfectly. Oh my God, she thought. Mike had no actual intention of supporting her operation. Peachy was pacing the backseat of the Jeep now, as well as whining. Mike got out of the Camaro, hiking at his belt. He was going to abort on her.

April unhooked her own seat belt, but stayed where she was to watch the scene play out. John was understandably upset. It was against procedure to work in any precinct without full knowledge and support of the CO there. In addition, John had a bit of a chip on his shoulder because so many people, including the PC, had no faith in the dogs. He hated to be made a fool of. And this was pretty bad. Not only that, John hated the prospect of Peachy's failing at a task no animal could possibly be expected to fulfill.

Mike's agenda, on the other hand, was not entirely clear to April yet. His smile was in place, but that was all. Unlike other cops April knew, Mike had a smoothness about him; the man could calm an erupting volcano. Since he'd become a lieutenant last spring, Mike's leadership qualities had a new authority. He was the man in charge, the Alpha male here. He still hadn't told her what his position on the case was or where he was going with it. But he was acting like a boss. That meant he didn't care if he made an enemy of John, and even April herself had to be careful. Like any PD boss, he could turn on her and crush her like a bug. She'd seen it happen a thousand times with the dumb uniforms who thought they could get away with having boyfriends on the job. The only one happy with the situation was the dog. Peachy bayed and scratched at the door, desperate to work.

'Hey, John. I've heard a lot of good things about you.' Mike approached the dog trainer with his hand out. 'And this is the famous Peachy who found that banker, right?'

John's tense smile eased up and he shook Mike's hand. 'Yeah, Peachy's the one. Our most famous case. Back in '92. This guy Randolph was buried alive in a Queens cemetery. An angry employee did it to get even with him. You read about it in the paper, right? What you don't know was that Peachy located him through his airhole. His scent came right up through that hole.'

'Smart dog,' Mike said. 'Sorry about the precinct slipup. We didn't want to keep you waiting. Is someone on the way?'

Smart Mike, April thought.

'No way, Peachy can't do anything with this. Too many people. Too many cars. And you know, a repeat of yesterday…' John shrugged, clearly softened by the praise. The dog was going crazy. April kept her mouth shut.

Mike pointed at the dog. 'She always like this?'

'Peachy? No, she's an extremely well-trained dog. She'll sit on the seat until I give her clean scent of the missing p and tell her to 'go find.'' John went over to the window. 'What's with you, honey lamb?'

Peachy was nuts trying to get out of that car.

Goose bumps rose on April's arms. Something was up. The dog knew it right away. 'She wants out, John. She wants to find him.' Finally April got out of the car herself.

John laughed. 'She doesn't know who he is, sweetheart. She can't find if she doesn't have a scent of your guy.' He tried soothing the dog. Peachy whimpered and pawed John through the window. 'Hey, that hurts.'

'What does she want?'

John shrugged. 'Beats me. Humans have maybe five million olfactory cells in their noses. A Doberman, like Peachy, has one hundred fifty to two hundred million cells. She can smell a ball thrown by a kid two days ago, squirrel pee in the grass, a parrot on somebody's shoulder half a mile away-you name it. Young dogs can go wild in an environment like this. With scent particles of literally everything falling all over the place, they're bombarded with stimuli we can't even imagine.' John was showing off for Mike.