“It doesn’t matter what he said,” she said fiercely. Then she lowered her voice, so Danny wouldn’t hear. “No way in hell is George touching my son.”
By the time Greyson was done tracking the entire area, the best he could figure was the dog had kept going through the woods, not out in the open space on the sidewalk. Greyson had walked four miles without seeing any new signs of dog hair or any new paw prints. He did see several people walking dogs, and he’d stopped to talk to them, showing them a picture of the dog in question.
“Hello. This is Kona. I’m looking for her,” he said with an easy smile. The older couple walking the small Yorkie had stopped to look at the picture, then frowned and shook their heads. “We haven’t seen that dog at all,” the older man said. “Who do we call if we do though?”
Greyson quickly pulled out a Titanium Corp business card, jotted down his cell number on the back, handing it to him. “If you see the dog, please let me know.”
“Is it dangerous?” the woman asked anxiously.
“It’s a very well-trained War Dog,” he explained. “I wouldn’t approach her if she shows any sign of not being happy. Just call me right away. I’ll come right over and pick her up.”
“Tsk, tsk. It’s not the happy ending we’d like to see for any animal that’s been in service,” the older man said.
They walked away, leaving Greyson standing here with his hands on his hips, wondering who else to talk to. Then he remembered the detective. He pulled out his phone with the photo of the card and the detective’s phone number, then quickly dialed. Once he introduced himself, the detective said, “I figured you guys would have been here a few weeks ago.”
“Paperwork,” he said. “And somehow this animal fell through the gaps.”
“Got to call you back,” the detective said in an urgent tone.
Greyson walked several more blocks, checking out the undergrowth, but just enough time had gone by that Greyson could be tracking any kind of animal at this point. The hair he had seen definitely matched the Malinois he was tracking, but he wasn’t finding anything now. He turned and headed back on the long walk toward the shelter. He passed several other people and stopped to ask them if they’d seen the dog.
When the detective returned his call, Greyson asked for an appointment to see the detective, as Greyson headed back to his grandpa’s truck.
“I can meet you now if you want.”
“That’s great. I’m about fifteen minutes out,” Greyson said. “I’ll be there soon.”
In truth, he was more than fifteen minutes out because he wasn’t back at the vehicle yet. But he picked up the speed of his walk and made it back to his truck in ten. With his GPS set, he quickly pulled out of the rescue center’s parking lot and headed to the police station. He was five minutes late and figured that was still pretty close to being on time.
When he walked in, a detective stood at the doorway, looking at him. Greyson held out his hand and smiled. “Greyson Morgenstein,” he said.
“Detective Boris Shear,” the man replied. He led him inside and motioned toward an empty chair in the small office.
Greyson sat down and began, “What can you tell me about the missing War Dog?”
“I think that’s my line,” the detective said drily.
“I mean, what have you found out about the dog?” Greyson asked, with an airy wave of his hand. “Obviously the US government is very concerned.”
“And yet you’ve been weeks getting here,” the detective said, the corner of his lips curling up.
“Well, I just arrived,” he said, “because the file was given to me yesterday. So I admit the wheels of government turn pretty slowly at times, but I’m here to rectify that.”
“But not everybody moves just because you say so,” the detective said. He reached over, grabbing a file. It was damn slim. He opened it up. “All I have is a signed receipt of the airport handlers, saying they accepted the dog. It was taken to the shelter. I don’t even have a picture of the dog from the shelter or where it was kept. Just notes from the next morning, saying the dog was gone.”
“Any theories or suspicious behavior?”
“I think they were assuming somebody let the dog out.”
“But that would mean somebody must have been in the shelter in order to have done that, which would make it an inside job,” he said.
The detective lifted his gaze and stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he said, “there’s no outside access or gate to the run where the dog was kept.”
Silence. “Interesting,” he said, sitting back. “I wasn’t aware of that.”
“Did you go to the site?”
“I did,” he said, “and I saw the pen and run from the inside.”
“So you didn’t get into the run then?”
The detective shook his head.
“That’s how you would have seen that there’s no gate on the outside,” he said.
“So, what do you think happened?”
“I think the dog jumped,” Greyson said honestly. “They are well-known for scaling six feet easily.”
The detective shook his head. “I don’t like the sound of that,” he said. “This is a military War Dog. He’s dangerous, and he shouldn’t be out on the loose.”
That isn’t what Greyson wanted to hear at all. He leaned forward. “She’s very well-behaved and certainly isn’t aggressive without reason.”
“How about hunger?” the detective snapped back. “Just because you say it’s well-trained doesn’t mean it is. And just because you say it’s well-mannered and well-behaved doesn’t mean it is. This dog has been missing for weeks now. For all you know it could have been eating other dogs and cats in the neighborhood.”
“I highly doubt it, or you would have reports to substantiate missing pets,” Greyson said calmly. “Would she have taken a rabbit or a bird because she needed
