The Survivors Club

Tess looked at the animals drowsing in the sun. At least they had ramada shelters.

She should report this facility. No way should this place have something as dangerous as a tiger here. Tess couldn’t imagine how the tiger had not found a way into the ibex’s pen. Crazy.

Tess left feeling depressed.

What she was thinking was beyond logical. It was insane.

But it made sense in the larger scheme of things.

Driving out, she looked back at the animals. Most of them appeared to be underweight.

One thing June Hackler had told her stood out: the animal would have to be starving.

As Tess opened the door to the room—it was cool and smelled stale and no longer held the magic of her tryst with Max—her mobile sounded.

For a second she thought of Max.

That’s right, it’s rope-a-dope. And you’re the dope.

The number on the readout wasn’t his. The name was Frieda Nussman. Tess answered. Nussman ran the Desert Winds Animal Sanctuary.

She had a voice like a goose honk. Tess thought uncharitably that it might account for the nervousness of the animals at the “sanctuary.”

“I had a lion but someone bought it.”

“People can do that?”

“Sure. I checked them out, made sure the lion would go to a good home—a zoo in Palm Springs.”

“You checked their accreditation?”

“Oh, yeah. The guy was a wildlife biologist.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Goldie’s been gone a couple of years now.”

“Can you remember when you sold him?”

“No, I can’t. It could have been spring, but I’m not sure. I’d have to look at my records, and I’m outside right now.”

Why did Tess somehow doubt she had any records?

“Can you describe him?”

“It was a long time ago. I can’t describe what I had for dinner last night.”

“Try.”

“He was good-looking, I remember that, because he flirted with me.”

“How old was he?”

“I don’t know—midthirties?”

“Did the man have a cage?”

“Of course he had a cage. That went pretty well. I’m away from my desk right now. I’ll look up the paperwork when I get in and give you a call.”

She hung up.

Tess had a feeling she wouldn’t call back. The woman had made a quick buck off an old mountain lion, and that was that.

Tess looked at her watch—she had time.

She called Barry Zudowsky, and he agreed to meet her there.

He sounded like he wanted to get it over with. Professional courtesy, that was all.

Tess had something specific she wanted from him. He might do it, he might not, he might argue about it. She’s learned always to ask, even if it made her uncomfortable. That was part of the job description, getting into peoples’ faces and asking them to do something they didn’t feel comfortable doing, something that didn’t fit with their agenda. She did it every day, but today she felt foolish about it. So she said it right away— another favor.

“I’m going to send a photo to you of a man I suspect could be involved in Peter Farley’s death. Frieda Nussman might recognize him. Could you make up a photo lineup with this photo in it?”

He agreed that he could. The he asked, “You think he killed Farley?”

“Yes.”

“How? Farley was killed by an animal. That’s indisputable.”

“I know that.”

Just saying it emboldened him. “He was killed by a mountain lion. The jaw size, the tooth marks. This was a death by misadventure, just as we pegged it.”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“You think someone faked it?” He was incredulous. “How could they do that?”

“I’m not sure if they could.”

He said nothing. She knew he was thinking: Wild goose chase.

He was thinking: Wasted day.

Tess said, “I’ll see you there. You’ll bring the photo lineup?”

“Will do.”

She put her bag in the car and drove back out to Desert Winds Animal Sanctuary, this time pulling off the road outside the gate to the property and waiting for Detective Zudowksy.

He pulled up behind her.

As she got out she saw that he was still sitting in his car. It looked like he was writing something down. Defending himself, maybe, for spending the day with a madwoman? She saw him shift in the car and unlatch his shoulder harness. She couldn’t see much past the windshield except for his shape. Finally, he levered his tall beanpole of a body out of the car. Reluctance in every line. A waste of time.

He approached. He said hello and then after that he said nothing. She knew he was trying to figure out what her game was. She hadn’t been completely forthcoming about her theory because it sounded outlandish and she wanted to keep him on her side.

He hadn’t pushed.

But now she could see he was getting fed up.

A waste of a day. Nothing in it for him.

“I brought the photos.”

“Good.”

She followed him to his car and went around and opened up the passenger’s side. He gave her the lineup. He’d used driver’s licenses to match the photo of Michael DeKoven’s DL.

“Good job,” she said.

He didn’t reply. Just looked straight ahead.

Tess just had to deal with it. She needed Zudowsky. Having him there in his official capacity might make Frieda Nussman more cooperative.

They bumped up the road and got out.

Nussman wore a flannel shirt and jeans. Her hair was long, down to the small of her back. She had an angular face, and was thin, almost skeletal. Tess wondered if she might have an eating disorder.

Nussman was prepared. She had the bill of sale in her hand. She described the man, who’d paid her one thousand dollars in cash for the mountain lion and a large cage she’d had rusting around the place. Tess shivered when the woman described it—she’d purchased it at a swap meet, the cage had been used in a circus that had gone out of business. “Paid a pretty penny for it, too,” she said. “I thought it would draw people, but…” She glanced around the yard.

The name on the bill of sale was a Dom Derring.

“He paid you in cash.”

“I told you that.”