Cutting Edge

“That’s close, but not right,” he had said. “It’d be a Schutzhund. An animal he could totally control.”

“He?”

Ricci had glanced at Glenn, looking almost surprised by the question.

“Whoever took Julia,” he’d said and left it at that. As if no further explanation were needed. “We’ve got to find out who’d sell those dogs in this area.”

And by six A.M. a relatively swift Internet search had furnished an abundance of material about the classification in general, and some very specific information on the North Bay Schutzhund Club, of which Gilbert was founder, president, and breed warden.

Now Glenn held the receiver away from his mouth, ballooned his cheeks, and exhaled to release some of his tension.

“Sir, you can trust I’ll take your advice,” he said after a moment. “I definitely recognize my mistake…”

“I would hope so.”

“But since the harm’s been done, and you’re already out of bed, I’m hoping we can turn that mistake… inexcusable as it is… into something productive—”

“Anagkazo,” Gilbert said abruptly.

“Excuse me?”

“You told me you’d seen an individual walking a black German shepherd from the window of a car.”

Glenn remembered the hastily improvised line he’d fed him. “Yes, that’s right, a taxicab…”

“Told me it was a longhair.”

“Right.”

“Told me you wish to look into acquiring such a dog to guard home and family while you travel on business. Which is commendable.”

“Right… ah, and thanks…”

“I try to recognize positive traits in all species,” Gilbert said with no hint of sarcasm whatsoever. “At any rate, if you’d taken the extra time on your computer, you would have found the Schutzhund USA registry’s online genetic database. It lists DNA-based evaluations of each and every certified dog’s pedigree, physical conformation, and susceptibility to hip dysplasia and other health problems going back five or more generations. It also would have shown you that pure black longhairs are quite scarce. Just a handful of breeders sell them in this country. Virtually all have been imported from Europe or sired by imported breeding stock—”

Glenn wanted to get back to what Gilbert had said at the outset of his lecture.

“I don’t meant to interrupt, sir, but that word you used a minute ago…”

“Word?”

“Started with an ‘A,’ I think… ana-something-or-other…”

“Anagkazo.”

“Right, right…”

“That’s a name,” Gilbert said testily. “John Anagkazo. Good respectful fellow up in the hills. Our homepage has a link to his Web site. If the shepherd is indeed Schutzhund qualified and was purchased in the state of California, you can be guaranteed his farm is where it came from.”

About eighty miles west of San Jose, the Anagkazo ranch sat on multiple acres of rolling grassy field laid with training tracks, hurdles, agility and obstacle course equipment of various configurations, and a large open pen area for the dogs out back of the main house, a restored wood-frame that might have been a century old.

Ricci and Glenn found the breeder waiting at his door when they drove up at nine o’clock. As they exited their car, Ricci turned on his cellular and saw a half dozen new voice messages for him. The log showed four with Thibodeau’s office number. The two most recent ones had come from a phone with Caller ID blocking — Breen at Gordian’s house, he would have bet. Ricci wasn’t prepared to return any of them. The Parkville Vet Clinic didn’t open till ten, but he figured the cops outside would have awakened by now. Or if they hadn’t, they’d have been found by their fellow police checking up to see why they hadn’t responded to routine radio checks. Erickson would know the clinic had been broken into, recognize it was a slick job, smell right away it was tied to the kidnapping. But Ricci had left nothing out of place, and that would throw some question marks into his head. Anything Erickson thought couldn’t be more than be a guess. And whoever made Julia disappear would probably top his suspect list. Would UpLink be on it? Not as an organization. Ricci thought he might rate on his own, though. Maybe high enough for Erickson to conduct some inquiries before eliminating him… even if that other detective, Brewer, was too afraid of getting jammed to admit he’d given him a peek at that crime scene diagram. Erickson nosing around UpLink could be trouble, and Ricci couldn’t afford to worry about it until later.

He turned off the phone, snapped it back into his belt clip, and a moment later joined Glenn at the door.

“Hi, I’m John Anagkazo.” The breeder smiled through a thick beard, putting out his hand for them to shake. “I saw your car from way down the road… I’m guessing you must be Misters Ricci and Glenn. With Uplink International, is it?”

Glenn nodded and showed his Sword ID.

“Corporate security, Mr. Anagkazo,” he said.

“Sure, sure. You told me over the phone. I hear super things about you folks.” Anagkazo looked curious. “C’mon in… and call me John, please. No need to wrestle with the second name.”

Ricci was looking past him through the door at the head of an enormous, large-boned German shepherd.

“Long as your friend won’t mind,” he said, nodding at the dog.

Anagkazo smiled.

“Bach’s fine,” he said. “Won’t bother anybody who doesn’t bother me.”

They followed him into a living room with a strong Southwestern feel — earth-toned geometric patterns on the rugs and upholstery, hand-crafted solid-wood furniture. The shepherd trailed behind them, waited for Anagkazo to lower himself into his chair, and stretched out beside him, nuzzling a leather chew toy on the floor.

“It must’ve been quite a ride for you out of San Jose,” Anagkazo said. “I can put up some fresh coffee…”

“Thanks, we’re okay,” Ricci said. “I’d kind of like to get right to why we came.”

Anagkazo shrugged. He waited.

“We’ve been trying to get some information about black longhaired shepherds,” Ricci said. “From what we hear, you’re the only local person who breeds them. And gives them Schutzhund training.”

Anagkazo nodded.

“At every level,” he said, “including specialized training. I’ve been at it a while, and about sixty percent of my business nowadays is with police and fire departments all around the country… I’m very proud of that.”

And the pride looked real. As did his friendly, helpful demeanor. Ricci had studied his face and body language for any changes and seen none indicating he might be on the defensive.

“So, what sort of questions have you got?” Anagkazo said. “I need to tell you right off there’s a wait on long- coated sables.”

“They’re that popular?” Glenn said.

Anagkazo shrugged.

“It isn’t really about popularity for me.” He reached down over the armrest of his chair and scratched his dog’s neck. “Black-and-reds like Bach here are very well established lines in this country, and we’ve got a wide pool of sires and dams. But I just introduced the sables a few years ago — four generations into it now — and I don’t want to risk overbreeding my stock. That’s how you pass along congenital diseases, temperament problems, a whole bunch of weaknesses you’d rather see go away.” A pause. “A dog has to be at least a year and a half old to qualify for basic Schutzhund classification. There’s a litter of blacks due in January, plus two sixteen-month-olds that are almost ready for placement and have full deposits on them. Which is too bad—”

Ricci broke in. “You sell any lately?”

“That’s just what I was about mention,” Anagkazo said. He was still scratching his shepherd. “If you’re interested in blacks I’d have to say this is crummy timing. The deposit on the pair of dogs came a few days ago from a big-time movie director who’s got a South Hampton estate in New York. And I sold my only other three beauties a couple weeks back to a photographer who’s staying right over on the Peninsula… well, actually, drove out and delivered them to his cabin, way off the beaten path in Big Sur country. Three dogs. Some guys who work for him had prepaid last month. I guess while he was getting settled into the place.”

Ricci looked at him.