Most pets go missing outside of normal business hours. People come home from work and discover their dog or cat had gotten out. Sometimes people go out to eat in the evening and forget to lock a gate behind them. Finding missing pets is not a nine-to-five job. I always check messages before I go to bed and first thing in the morning.
We don’t get calls every day, but often the client calls after hours. That morning we had a message from a gentleman whose dog was missing. I had called him back and arranged to meet him after my visit to the vet. As I wasn’t sure when I would be available, he had asked me to come by his home as soon as I could. I frequently meet clients at their house as it is the most logical place to start a physical search. With each case, I try to see where the animal might have broken out. It gives me a direction and possible range to search—both physically and otherwise.
This client, Warren Caldwell, lived in a small, very exclusive, very expensive gated community. The guard glared at me through the small window of the guardhouse. He scrutinized my ID but eventually opened the gate. I found the Caldwell house easily. Like all the others, it was huge with impeccable landscaping and a refined exterior. It was a European country-style estate home and sat on about two acres. The house was beautiful but cold and formal.
My Jeep looked out of place parked in the circular drive, but I grabbed my phone and headed for the door. It was opened by a man in a full butler uniform who looked at my jeans and t-shirt with disdain. My work uniform consists of blue jeans, black t-shirts, and black tennis shoes. The only concession I make to the seasons is wearing short sleeves in the summer and long in the winter. Sometimes I add a jacket. The black hides the dirt, and jeans are durable and easy to wash.
The butler obviously thought I was underdressed. I shrugged and waited for his verdict. Eventually he simply turned to lead me down the hallway to a door at the back of the house. I tried not to gawk as I followed him, but it was hard.
My aunt had come from a well-to-do family. She had married somewhat late in life after the death of her parents. She had been forty, and he was a good bit older. He had been a college professor, and she adjusted her lifestyle to his. They lived comfortably with their home being their biggest expense. After his death and her cancer diagnosis, Nora paid off the house and set up an escrow account that would easily pay the taxes for thirty years or more. Her medical bills over the next dozen years took a lot of her inheritance, but she still left me a healthy portfolio.
Nora had introduced me to the finer things in life. My home was paid for, and my bills were minimal. I knew which fork to use at the dinner table, how to dress for formal occasions, as well as how to read an investment portfolio, but the Caldwell house was far beyond anything I had ever seen. It was wealth. The old-fashioned kind of wealth.
The butler knocked on the door, announced me, and then walked away, closing the door behind him. A large desk dominated the room as did the man standing beside it. Every move he made was calculated to draw the eye. He was in his mid-forties with brown hair that was just beginning to gray around the temples, good-looking without being handsome, and seemingly healthy and fit. He was dressed in an expensive, tailor-made suit making him look like he was about to conduct a multimillion dollar deal. No, I wasn’t intimated at all.
“Ms. Prescott,” he said, walking forward to offer me his hand.
“Mr. Caldwell.” I shook his hand briefly. I resisted the urge to wipe my hand on my jeans. For some reason, I had taken an instant dislike to the man. He gave me a friendly smile that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. The smile did not reach his eyes. They were hard, cold, and calculating. As a child, I had learned to read people. I knew which ones to avoid and which ones were safe. Caldwell was someone to avoid. The instinct to run was blaring at me right then, but I held my ground and waited. I wasn’t a child anymore, and I refused to allow anyone to make me run.
“May I offer you some refreshment? Coffee or tea perhaps?”
“No…thanks.”
“I trust you had no trouble finding the house.”
This was the type of situation I hated. Making polite small talk. Speaking of inconsequential things for no apparent reason. This was the type of situation Claire kept trying to make me appreciate. Social protocol. I hate it, and quite frankly, I don’t usually bother.
“No, no problem. So your dog is missing?”
Caldwell blinked briefly at the abrupt change in conversation but simply pointed to a chair before walking back behind the desk. I sat in the chair he offered. Like the man, it was cold and unyielding. I noticed his own chair was made of soft leather. He didn’t speak again until he was seated as well.
“Yes. My dog is missing. I would like to hire you to find him.”
Refusing Caldwell immediately wasn’t professional. I also got the vibe that it might be unpleasant so I pulled out my phone and opened a document to take notes. Claire and I had hired a firm to design e-documents allowing us to conduct our business anywhere. I always used one form for the client interview. It helped me organize my thoughts and obtain all the necessary information.
“When did you first notice he was gone?” I asked.
“You see, Ms. Prescott. That is part of the problem,” Caldwell said in a resigned tone. “I have been out of town and, well, I’m afraid that was when the dog went missing. My gardener was keeping an eye on him, but the man got sick and no one seemed to realize the dog was gone.”
“What type of dog is he?”
“Great Dane.”
In spite of the fact that my heart jumped, I tried not to visibly react to Caldwell’s statement. I don’t think I succeeded. The chances of the missing dog not being Simba were small. How many missing Great Danes could there be?
“Can you describe him?” I asked.
“Gray and, of course, big,” Caldwell said with a false laugh. I didn’t respond to the laugh but simply waited for him to continue. “Very big.”
His statement was a red flag. Most owners would have described the dog in greater detail. They would have mentioned little facts and noted any special markings or characteristics. And they most certainly would have known the exact color. Simba was considered a blue Great Dane. Caldwell might have seen him, but he didn’t know much about the breed.
“Do you have a picture?”
“I’m afraid not,” Caldwell said softy.
Second red flag. I looked at him in surprise. He appeared contrite and nodded sadly. “I know. It’s shameful, but you see, Ms. Prescott, he was actually my late wife’s dog. I lost her just recently…”
He turned from me then and looked out the window into the impeccably manicured garden. His face was the perfect facade of a grieving husband. If I hadn’t watched countless con artists weasel money, drugs, and sex from my mother, I might have believed him. When he looked back at me, there were actually tears in his eyes.
“It was just too painful to keep the pictures.”
“I see. When did she die?”
Again he blinked briefly, and a quick flash of surprise crossed his face. I thought about what I had said and grimaced inwardly when I realized he was expecting me to offer him my condolences. I was just about to do so when he answered my question.
“A month ago.”
I nodded. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” He studied me a minute before asking, “Forgive me, Ms. Prescott, but have we met before?”
“No,” I replied. I would have remembered the man.
“Are you sure? You look familiar.”
“We haven’t met,” I said sharply.
“No, you’re right, but you do remind me of someone.” He paused and studied me again. “It will come to me. I never forget a face.”
“Good for you. Now about your dog…”
“Yes, of course. I don’t have a picture, but you have an exceptional reputation. I’m sure you can find him.”
“You haven’t given me much to go on, Mr. Caldwell. Was he chipped?”
“Chipped?”
“Microchipped.”
“I’m not sure,” Caldwell answered.
“Who is his vet? Do you have any medical records?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, sounding helpless. “My wife handled all of that.”
By this point, I was completely convinced Caldwell did not own a dog of any kind much less the Great Dane he wanted me to find. What I didn’t know was why he was looking for one. Whatever it was, I did know it wouldn’t be good. I sat back in my chair. Warren Caldwell was a very rich and powerful man. Now I needed to know if he was also a dangerous one.
“Mr. Caldwell, you don’t know when he went missing, you don’t have a picture, and you don’t have any records.” I paused and looked him directly in the eyes. He needed to know I wasn’t going to be manipulated. “I don’t think I can help you.”
“Ms. Prescott,” Caldwell said harshly. The helpless, grieving husband was gone replaced by the practical, hard-nosed businessman. “Your website stated you do two kinds of searches. A basic search and an advanced search.”
The basic search is the most common. It is when we canvass the neighborhood, call vets, shelters, and rescue groups, search and post on social media, and supply a flyer and ad campaign if needed. The advanced search is when we do all of that and bring in Hero.
“It’s hard to do any kind of search with so little to go on,” I told him.
“Come on, Ms. Prescott. How many missing Great Danes can there be?” he said, echoing my earlier thought. “Conduct a basic search. Make some calls. See what you can find out.”
If Caldwell was going to insist, I would take his money. I wasn’t above getting whatever I could out of the man. Conducting a search would be easy enough. Turning Simba over to him was a completely different story. I needed to keep him from finding out I had the dog. So I gave Caldwell a fake smile and asked, “Are you familiar with our rates?”
“Yes,” he replied. “One hundred dollars an hour with a non-refundable two hundred dollar deposit.”
Someone had studied our website in depth. Our fees are not on the home page, but they are available. The two hundred dollar deposit covers the first two hours. We charge one hundred dollars an hour after that. If the client wants to have Hero involved, the rates triple. That part isn’t on the website.
I held up my phone. “I can have you sign the contract electronically or email it to you and you may print it out and sign it. Either way, I need a signed contract and your deposit before I begin.”
“Electronically is fine.”
While I completed the form, he pulled out his wallet. I handed him the phone. He signed the form and returned it to me. He then handed me a credit card. I processed the payment not saying a word. Caldwell watched every move I made.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I told him after handing him his card.
“Thank you,” Caldwell said with a smile. The charm was back, but I had already seen through the mask.
“By the way,” I said as I walked to the door. “What’s your dog’s name?”
When I turned around, Caldwell was watching me. The smile was gone. It took him entirely too long to answer.