Maggie steadied herself. She needed to stay focused. She tried again, more slowly this time. The dog sniffed at the dangling sleeve, possibly recognizing the scent of his owner. His growl turned into a whine and then a whimper.
“It’s okay,” Maggie promised in a hushed tone, uncertain whether she was trying to convince the dog or herself. She inched closer with the tennis racket in her other hand, the tie’s loop hanging down, moving in while the dog watched and continued to whimper. She let the dog sniff the tie. He didn’t resist when she slipped it over his snout. Gently, she tightened the knot.
“How’re we gonna get him out from under there?” Officer Hillguard was now on his knees on the other side of Maggie.
“Let’s unfold one of those blankets and get it next to him.”
But as soon as Officer Hillguard’s hands got close, the dog snapped and snarled, growling and struggling against the makeshift muzzle. He jumped toward the officer, and Maggie used the opportunity to grab the dog’s collar from behind. She yanked him forward onto the blanket, all the while holding the tennis racket and keeping the muzzle tight. The dog yipped, and immediately Maggie worried that she had opened one of the wounds.
“Holy shit,” she heard Detective Manx say, but this time he kept his revolver in its holster.
“We got him.” The medical examiner stood and waved Officer Hillguard over to his side. The two men tugged on the blanket corners and pulled the dog out from under the bed. “We can use my van to transport him to Riley’s Clinic.”
Maggie sat back on her feet, only now noticing that she was soaked with perspiration.
“Shit.” Manx was back to his belligerent mood. “That means all the blood by the door and in the bathtub is probably the fucking dog’s blood, and we don’t have a damn thing.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” Maggie said. “Something violent happened here, and the dog’s owner may have suffered the brunt of it.” She watched the doctor and officer cover the trembling dog and secure their blanket stretcher, grateful they were too busy to notice how much effort it took for her to stand.
“I’m guessing this guy—” she pointed to the Lab “—tried to stop whatever happened. He may have gotten in a couple of good bites. There’s a chance some of the blood, especially here by the bed, may be the intruder’s. Your forensics people should be able to get a sampling even though it’s been wiped up.”
“You think you can allow me to do my own investigation?” Manx shot her a look of contempt.
Maggie wiped strands of hair off her forehead. Jesus! Couldn’t this guy give her a break? Just then she realized she had blood on her hands and now had blood on her forehead and in her hair. When she glanced at the medical examiner, he was shaking his head at Manx and giving him a warning look as though he, too, was fed up with Manx’s arrogance.
“Yes, of course, the investigation is all yours,” Maggie finally said, and grabbed a corner of the blanket to help the men move the swaddled dog. “I’m sure the whole neighborhood will sleep soundly tonight, knowing you’re on the case.”
Manx seemed surprised by her sarcasm, then turned red when he noticed the two men would not be coming to his defense. Maggie caught the medical examiner smiling. She didn’t turn to see if Manx had caught it, too.
“Just keep your big FBI badge and your pretty little butt out of my investigation,” he said to her back, determined to get in the last word. “You got that, O’Donnell?”
She didn’t bother to look at him or answer, the ungrateful son of a bitch. He wouldn’t have even found the dog if it wasn’t for her. Now she wondered if he would bother to take blood samples, simply because it had been her suggestion.
She held her corner of the blanket tight and followed Officer Hillguard and the medical examiner. As they reached the landing, Maggie turned to look at Manx, who had stayed in the bedroom’s doorway.
“Oh, Detective Manx,” she called to him. “One more thing. You might want to check out this mud here on the steps. Unless, of course, you’re the one who tracked it in and contaminated your own crime scene.”
Instinctively, Manx lifted his right foot, taking a look at the sole before he realized his defensive reaction. The M.E. laughed out loud. Officer Hillguard knew better and confined himself to a smile. Manx’s face went red again. Maggie simply turned, concentrating on keeping their patient steady and calm while they hauled him down the stairs.
CHAPTER 6
Tess McGowan stuffed a copy of the closing papers into her leather briefcase, ignoring its worn sheen and cracked handle. A couple more sales and just maybe she could afford a new briefcase instead of the hand-me-down she had bought at the thrift store.
She jotted a note on her desk blotter, “Joyce and Bill Saunders: a dozen long-stemmed chocolate chip cookies.” The Saunderses kids would get a kick out of them, and Joyce was a chocoholic. Then, she wrote, “Maggie O’Dell: a garden bouquet.” Quickly, she scratched out the notation. No, it was too simple, and Tess liked to customize her thank-yous to her customers. They had become one of her trademarks and paid off big-time in referrals. But what would O’Dell like? Hey, even FBI agents liked flowers, and O’Dell seemed nuts about her huge backyard, but a bouquet didn’t seem right. No, what seemed right for Agent O’Dell was a killer Doberman. Tess smiled and jotted down “a potted azalea” instead.
Pleased with herself, Tess switched off her computer and slipped on her jacket. The other offices had gone silent hours ago. She was the only one nuts enough to be working this late. Though it didn’t matter. Daniel would be at his office until eight or nine and not ready to think about her for several more hours. But she wouldn’t dwell on his inattentiveness. After all, she’d be running in the other direction if Daniel was constantly calling her, infringing on her independence or pushing for a commitment. No, she liked things just the way they were—safe and uncomplicated with very little emotional investment. It was the perfect relationship for a woman who couldn’t handle any real commitments.
She passed by the copier room but stopped when she heard shuffling. Her eyes darted to the front door at the end of the hall, making certain nothing obstructed her path in case she needed to run. She leaned against the wall and peeked around the door to the room where a copy machine buzzed into action.
“Girl, I thought you went home hours ago.” Delores Heston’s voice startled Tess as the woman stood up from behind the machine and shoved a tray of paper into the mouth of the copier. Finally, she looked at Tess and her face registered concern. “Good Lord! I’m sorry, Tess. I didn’t mean to scare you. You okay?”
Tess’s heart pounded in her ears. Immediately she was embarrassed at being so jumpy. The paranoia was a leftover from her old life. She smiled at Delores while she leaned against the doorjamb and waited for her pulse to return to normal.
“I’m fine. I thought everyone else was gone. What are you still doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be taking the Greeleys to dinner?”
Delores punched some buttons, and the machine whizzed to life with a soft, almost comforting, hum. Then she looked at Tess, hands on her ample hips.
“They had to reschedule, so I’m catching up on some paperwork. And please don’t tell Verna. She’ll scream at me for messing with her precious baby.” The machine beeped as if on cue.
“Holy Toledo! What did I do now?” Delores turned and began punching buttons again.
Tess laughed. The truth was, Delores owned the machine just like she owned every last chair and paper clip. Delores Heston started Heston Realty nearly ten years ago and had made quite a name for herself in Newburgh Heights and the surrounding area. Quite an accomplishment for a black woman who had grown up poor. Tess admired her mentor who, at six o’clock in the evening after a full day of work, still looked impeccable in her deep purple custom-made suit. Delores’s silky, black hair was swept up into a compact bun, not a strand out of place. The only indication that she was finished for the day were her stocking feet.
In contrast, Tess’s suit was wrinkled from too many hours of sitting. Her thick, wavy hair frizzled from the humidity, strands breaking free from the clasp she used to tie it back. She was probably the only woman alive who dyed her naturally blond hair a nondescript brown in order to buy herself more credibility and to avoid sexual advances. Even the eyeglasses, which dangled from a designer cord around her neck, were a prop. Tess wore contact lenses, but didn’t young, attractive women always look more intelligent when they wore glasses?
