it.›
“No, no, don’t go out there,” I said. “You’re still in hiding, remember? I’ll go get it.” I wanted to see what could be seen in the daylight, anyway. I dissolved the camouflage bindings on my lawn to evaluate the signature of last night’s carnage. There were some messy patches of gore we had missed last night, especially on the eastern side, and I pulled out the garden hose to see how much of it I could spray away. Most of it obligingly melted into the soil under a jet stream, but some of the grass remained tinted an unhealthy shade of pink. That was a problem I couldn’t simply camouflage away, because the only thing around the pink grass was more pink grass. I’d have to come up with an excuse if anyone asked. Maybe that giant animated jar of Kool-Aid met his untimely end here?
Other than pinkness, there was no evidence of the violent demise of nine very large creatures. I scooped my newspaper off the driveway and returned to the house, where Oberon was waiting with his tail wagging. ‹Any French poodles for sale?› he asked hopefully.
“I haven’t had a chance to look yet,” I laughed.
We discussed the logistics and supply we’d need for our invasion of Siberia as I made a pot of coffee for us and two separate entrees: a skillet full of chops in melted butter for Oberon, and a cheese and chive omelet for myself. I also toasted a slice of whole wheat bread and slathered it with butter and blackberry preserves.
It was domestic bliss there for a while, with the sound of our breakfast cooking, mourning doves cooing in the backyard, and a conversation that was little more than an exercise in silliness. Oberon’s ability to distract me from life’s worries was one of the reasons I adored him. But then I sat down at the kitchen table with my food and looked at the newspaper, and the worries came back.
There was a follow-up story on the death of the ranger. The headline said, RANGER DEATH CAUSED BY CANINE, and a subhead said, Police following several leads. The food I had been intent on savoring got shoveled into my mouth mechanically as I read. PHOENIX-Lab reports revealed that the death of Phoenix park ranger Alberto Flores was caused by a canine, and not by a knife wound as originally believed. Dr. Erick Mellon, Maricopa County Coroner, discovered that Flores’s throat wounds bore signs of tearing associated with teeth. DNA tests on samples collected from the wound detected the presence of canine saliva. That evidence, along with several dog hairs found underneath Flores’s fingernails “and other clues,” according to Phoenix Detective Carlos Jimenez, have led police to believe that he was attacked and killed by a large dog, possibly an Irish wolfhound.
“They got that lab report back awfully fast,” I said aloud, and Oberon asked me what I was talking about. “They’re on your trail, buddy.” I gestured at the newspaper. “They know a dog killed the ranger. How they know an Irish wolfhound did it, I have no idea. As far as I know there isn’t a test to isolate breeds. I bet you the police are getting help from someone.”
Oberon’s ears pricked up and he swiveled his head toward the front room. ‹Someone is coming to knock on the door,› he said.
Don’t bark, I told him silently. Don’t make a sound or do anything to indicate you’re here. I’m going to camouflage you again. And then four sharp knocks echoed through the house. I quickly cast camouflage on Oberon before walking noisily to the front door. Pausing to look through the keyhole, I saw two men standing there in shirts and ties. I turned on my faerie specs, but there was nothing to see. They were humans, then, either cops or missionaries. Since it was Sunday morning and all the missionaries would be on their way to church, I was betting on cops.
I opened the door and stepped out quickly, taking them by surprise and forcing them to step back a little bit. I closed the door behind me and smiled winningly at them. “Good morning, gentlemen,” I said. “How may I help you?” I kept my hands in plain sight at my sides, doing my best to appear friendly and harmless. I also stepped a bit to the left, so that they would be facing away from the pink grass.
The cop to my right wore a blue shirt with a striped tie in navy and white. He wore a jacket to conceal his firearm, certainly not to keep warm, and I got the feeling he would rather walk around with his gun in plain view. He was Latino, looked to be in his mid-thirties, and carried a bit of extra gravity in his jowls.
On the left was the lad assigned to look dumber and meaner. He was going for a Michael Madsen attitude, wearing polarized sunglasses and leaning against my porch railing with his arms crossed. I guessed he wouldn’t be talking much. He was even younger than the other guy and wore a white shirt and skinny black tie, no jacket, like a refugee from a Tarantino film. He was scowling at me because I had stepped out onto the porch before they could ask to come in, which took away one of their primary methods for putting me on the defensive. If they can force you to run around playing the host, then they get a chance to snoop while you serve them.
The Latino guy answered me, as expected. “Mr. Atticus O’Sullivan?”
“The same.”
“I’m Detective Carlos Jimenez from the Phoenix police, and this is Detective Darren Fagles from the Tempe police. May we speak to you inside?”
Ha! He asked to come inside anyway. Not gonna happen, buddy. “Oh, it’s such a nice morning, let’s just talk out here,” I said. “What brings you to my door today?”
Jimenez frowned. “Mr. O’Sullivan, this is really best discussed in private.”
“We’re plenty private right here.” I grinned at him. “Unless you’re planning to shout. You aren’t going to shout at me, are you?”
“Well, no,” the detective admitted.
“Great! So why are you here?”
Resigned, Detective Jimenez finally got to the point. “Do you own an Irish wolfhound, Mr. O’Sullivan?”
“Nope.”
“Animal Control says you have one licensed under the name of Oberon.”
“That’s true, I do; well done, sir.”
“So then you do own one.”
“Nope. He ran away last week. I have no idea where he is.”
“So where is he?”
“Didn’t I just say I have no idea?”
Detective Jimenez sighed and pulled out a notebook and a ballpoint pen. “When, precisely, did he run away?”
“Last Sunday. That would be a week ago, as I said. I came home from work and he was gone.”
“What time was that?”
“Five-fifteen p.m.” Time to play the bewildered citizen. “Why are you asking about my dog?”
Jimenez ignored my question and asked me another one. “When did you leave for work that day?”
“At half past nine.”
“And where do you work?”
“At Third Eye Books on Ash Avenue, just south of University.”
“Where were you on Friday night?”
“I was here at home.”
“Was anyone with you?”
“Well, that can hardly be any of your business.”
“It’s precisely my business, Mr. O’Sullivan.”
“Oh. Are you going to tell me what this is about now?”
“We are investigating a murder committed Friday night in Papago Park.”
I frowned and squinted at him. “Am I a suspect? I didn’t do it.”
“Do you have an alibi?”
“I wasn’t in Papago Park Friday night. Isn’t it supposed to be closed at night?”
“Who saw you Friday night?”
“No one. I was home alone, reading.”
“With your dog?”
“No, not with my dog. He ran away last Sunday, remember? You wrote it down in your little book.”
“Would you mind if we verify that your dog is not at home?”
“How do you mean?”
“We’d like to take a look in your backyard and your house to make sure he’s not at home.”
“Sorry, I’m not entertaining houseguests today. Especially ones who assume I’m lying.”
