And if they did, he moved on.

Her heart began to beat a rapid tattoo in her chest, and she turned her back on him, afraid her face would reveal her feelings.

This was not a man to fall in love with, logic warned.

Too late, fate replied.

Marc left a note for his mother before he took Sidney to work. She’d be disappointed if he couldn’t accompany her to the San Luis Rey Mission that afternoon, as planned, but she wouldn’t be surprised. His work often superseded all other aspects of his life, and attending religious gatherings had never been high on his priority list.

It wouldn’t be the first time Alma Cruz had only her faith to keep her company.

“You don’t have to stay,” Sidney insisted.

“Yes, I do.”

Alone at the kennel, she was just as vulnerable as she was at home, but instead of dogging her footsteps, he retreated to her office to make phone calls.

“Gina’s got a match on your reefer,” Lacy reported. “Stomach contents from the stray cat and the joint you gave her are consistent. Homegrown, high THC level, same basic color and maturity. Tests on the dog were also positive, but inconclusive for a specific strain.”

He sat back in his chair, letting the ramifications of her words sink in. If the man who broke into Sidney’s house was the killer, Marc had discovered an indirect link to his identity: his friend and neighbor, Tony Barreras.

Finding everyone who had access to a certain marijuana crop was like playing six degrees of separation. A local grower often sold bulk amounts to a few big-time dealers, who in turn hooked up with small-time guys like Tony, who then distributed the product to a dizzying range of nickel and dime customers.

Still, it was worth a shot. “Let’s assume the perp is drugging dogs with marijuana. He may be hiding it in food, giving it an hour or so to kick in before he strikes. If he waits too long, the dog won’t be in the mood to go for a walk, right?” He drummed his fingertips on Sidney’s desk, considering. “Leak it to Crystal Dunn. Giving female dog owners a head’s-up can’t hurt.”

“You really think he’ll stick to that MO?”

“Not after it’s been all over the news. But what choice do we have? If he tried it a few times before he actually abducted a victim, maybe we could jog someone’s memory.”

Lacy groaned, probably thinking of the task force hours that would be sacrificed to old ladies calling to say Muffy had been sluggish after her morning walk six months ago. “I’m already burning the midnight oil here, Marcos.”

“Public service is a thankless job, Meredith,” he returned, completely unsympathetic.

Marc hung up, no more satisfied with the direction of the case than she was. The “grasping at straws” investigative technique was rarely fruitful. Neither was sitting on their hands, however.

He toyed with the idea of calling Tony then discarded it. His friend adhered to the drug dealers’ code of ethics, an unspoken set of rules that included being deliberately vague over the telephone and never naming names. Tony might give up his source in person, but he wouldn’t do it on a live wire.

After spending another hour trying to piece together a puzzle that didn’t fit, Marc gave up and left Sidney’s office. He’d kept a surreptitious eye on every customer she interacted with throughout the day, studying vehicles, facial expressions and demeanors.

If the killer had been among them, he didn’t know it, and neither did she. Sidney treated all of her clients with the same deference. Her manner was reserved and her professionalism exemplary. Owners spoke of their pets as though they were members of the family, and Sidney cared for them as such.

It was all very bizarre.

Confounded by interspecies dynamics, Marc wandered to the kennel and roamed the fence line, hands shoved deep in his pockets. What had drawn Blue here? The sound and scent of other dogs? Sidney’s psychic connection?

Shaking his head, he studied the surroundings. The industrial park looked nothing like Candace Hegel’s neighborhood, or any other residential area. Pacific Pet Hotel was part of a business zone, a concrete jungle with scant vegetation and few trees.

He flipped open his cell again.

“What?” Lacy answered, exasperated.

“Where did Anika Groene get her dog?”

“At the pound, same as Candace Hegel.”

“Follow up on the prior owners.”

“I already have. Both dogs were picked up by animal control on opposite sides of the city during routine patrols. No tags, no micro-chip identification and no prior owners.”

Marc mulled it over. Like Blue, Anika Groene’s dog was an odd-looking specimen. What else did they have in common? “Are Dobermans a German breed?”

“As far as I know.”

“Check out local breeders, especially the disreputable kind, those who might sell dogs of questionable pedigrees. And trainers. Maybe Hegel and Groene used the same trainer.”

“They didn’t. Neither dog had ever been to a trainer.”

Marc frowned, thinking of the commands Sidney had given Blue. It wasn’t just a habit; she didn’t use them with other dogs, and half the time, she didn’t seem to have any idea what she was saying.

“Did Candace Hegel speak German?”

“I don’t know.”

“Find out.”

Lacy was silent for a moment. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? You do all the thinking, I do all the legwork?”

“Yes,” he said with a grin, and hung up.

Whistling, he wandered over to Blue’s kennel. For once, the dog didn’t lunge or bark at him. Instead he regarded him warily through strange, colorless eyes.

“Hey there, sport,” he said, keeping his voice amiable.

Blue lowered his head and issued a low, rumbling growl.

“Oh, yeah,” Marc muttered. “You’re a keeper.”

“Bonding?” Sidney asked, coming up behind him.

“Best friends,” he agreed, jerking his chin toward the dog.

Blue bared his teeth.

She threw back her head and laughed, the same guileless, throaty laugh he’d been intrigued by from the start. He hadn’t heard it very often, because things between them had hardly been jovial, but he liked the sound. Even more, he liked the way she looked, unselfconscious and unadorned, her simple beauty complimented by his plain white T-shirt and her cap of short, black hair.

He smiled back at her, wishing for a moment he had a fraction of her innocence. When she noticed his appraisal, the happiness drained from her face. “I’m done,” she said, stepping away from him. “I always close at noon on Saturdays.”

“Do you think he misses her? Candace?”

She raised her eyebrows, perhaps surprised by the sentimental question. “Yes. He mopes and sighs and takes very little joy in life.”

“Maybe he was like that before.”

“No.”

“And his aggressiveness? Is that also a symptom of grief?”

She hesitated. “With most dogs, aggression is a learned behavior, although some animals seem to be naturally more inclined to it.”

“What is your professional opinion, in his case?” he asked, adopting her clinical tone.

“I think he was abused or mistreated before the abduction.”

“By Candace Hegel?”

“Of course not,” she protested, as if defending a close friend.

Вы читаете Dangerous to Touch
Добавить отзыв
ВСЕ ОТЗЫВЫ О КНИГЕ В ИЗБРАННОЕ

0

Вы можете отметить интересные вам фрагменты текста, которые будут доступны по уникальной ссылке в адресной строке браузера.

Отметить Добавить цитату