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September frowned at Anita. The news stories made Shadow out to be super-dog.
“So he grabbed Steven’s gun? Shadow knows how to disarm bad guys?” Anita covered her mouth with her hand. “Sorry, I don’t mean to imply Steven is a bad guy. How could a little kid like that...”
“It’s okay, I know what you mean.” She tucked stray hair behind her ear. “It’s complicated. Shadow knows what the word means. He sort of nose-poked the gun at the right time.”
At the word gun, Shadow cocked his head and his ears flicked backwards. The word probably had unpleasant connotations if he associated it with his shot ear. “The show-me game helps teach Shadow vocabulary. By holding two different objects, one in each hand, and naming them, he learns what each is called.” Shadow knew nearly a hundred name-words by now. She scanned the room, and then turned back to the patiently waiting dog. “Shadow, show-me paper.”
His mouth clicked shut and he danced across the room to the small coffee table, and nosed the stack of magazines.
“Good-dog!” September turned away to speak over her shoulder to Anita. “He prefers to learn new words, but we need to practice the known words to keep him sharp.”
“He needs new ones?” Anita shuffled around her desk. She held up a coffee mug, and raised her eyebrows.
“Cup, he knows that one. But okay. What else you got?” September reached through the opening when she pushed it through.
Anita moved a few items around the desk, and then opened the drawer. “How about this? Got it on a trip to England years ago.”
“Nice.” September took the shiny silver letter opener, shaped like a hand wielding a sword. She turned to Shadow, the coffee mug in one hand and letter opener in the other, and he backed away and sat down, anticipating what would follow. “Shadow, this is cup. This is . . .” She hesitated, fingering the cool metal. She held it carefully, not wanting Shadow to hurt himself. “This is knife. Show-me knife.”
He leaped forward, and nosed the hand with the letter opener.
“Good-dog!” She handed the objects back through the window. “I want him to generalize objects. No matter the size or shape, they’re always cups. Not mugs, or glasses, just cup.” She shrugged. “Could get fancy and add colors, the ones dogs see anyway—blue cup, yellow ball, green Frisbee—but at this point I don’t want to confuse him.”
Shadow woofed. He stared hard, probably willing her to produce the Frisbee. “Sorry, baby-dog, that wasn’t nice of me, I shouldn’t tease the dog.” She scratched the top of his head and he tipped it sideways and pressed into the satisfying scratch.
Anita took the items, her blue highlights waving. “So now he’ll identify any letter opener as a knife?” She dropped it back into the drawer.
“You got it. He already knows knife. I don’t want to confuse him using terms like dagger or machete or butter knife.”
He wasn’t suited for Schutzund work—the type of training typical of police and protection dogs—and September wasn’t interested in training an attack dog. During his temperament tests at seven weeks old, Shadow’s breeder chose him as the best suited of his litter to be a service dog. He needed to have a confident but biddable, loyal and focused personality to partner with an autistic child like Steven, and bite-work had never been in his future. Dogs trained to help those suffering from PTSD often were expected by their human partners to offer warnings of perceived or imagined threats. But protection training wasn’t necessary. The bond between human and dog partners grew so strong that feeling protective of each other happened as a byproduct of their love.
Even protection trained canines like Dakota weren’t super-dogs. She wanted Shadow to know enough to alert her and protect them both, but not so much that he’d rush in and get himself killed.
It had taken every bit of courage to open her heart to another dog after Dakota died with Chris. Caring so much, loving so deeply opened the heart to future hurt. So much safer for her to keep others at a distance. Safer for them, too.
The phone rang, and Anita adjusted her headset on her blue-striped locks before her accent disappeared and she morphed into her husky-voiced alter-ego. She beckoned September closer and pointed at the door, pressing a hidden button to unlatch it. “Go on in. Maybe if he sees you, Fish will get the hint.” She punched the phone line. “WZPP, you’ve reached ZAP105 FM Radio, home of THE Humphrey Fish, bringing you easy-listening 24/7 with the best Fish Stories. How may I direct your call?”
September held the door for Shadow. She hadn’t bothered to switch to the short six-foot leash, and had to stoop to reel in the long tracking line before it got caught. Anita winked as they walked by, and tossed a treat that Shadow snapped out of the air and gulped in one graceful motion. September laughed when Anita lobbed a second treat at the end of the hall. “You’re spoiling my dog.” But she dropped the line, said, “Okay!” and he bounded after the prize.
Anita hung up the phone. “Spoiling them, that’s what dogs are for.”
“That’s my line.” Laughing, September hurried after the pup to the glass-walled studio of the radio station.
The red “on air” light over the outside of the door was off. A dorky headphone-wearing young man straddled a tall bar stool while he fiddled with the controls on the U-shaped bank of controls that surrounded him. Fish stood behind the engineer’s shoulder, making notes on a computer tablet. He saw her and visibly tried to stand taller and suck in his pear-shaped abdomen. It didn’t help.
She opened the door but didn’t want to go inside. Fish had a history of ambush-interviews, telling visitors mics were off when in reality they were hot and broadcasting. When Fish saw Shadow, his hopeful expression shuttered to a scowl. “We’ll wait till you’re done.” September let the door swing closed.
Fish tucked the tablet under his arm and strutted to the door. “It’s about time. Are you allergic to returning phone calls?” The petulance turned his bass voice into a cartoon.
“I told you, I’m done with radio.”
He wilted, and then brushed by her, swerving to avoid contact with Shadow’s inquisitive nose. “You mean you’re done with me? Then we’ve got nothing to talk about.”
“Humphrey, don’t be that way. I appreciated you giving me the Pet Peeves spot. But I don’t need it anymore.”
He whirled. “Did you ever think maybe I needed it?” Two bright spots of color sat high on his cheeks, and he blinked hard. “Might as well bury me now. My life is over.”
Was he crying? Humphrey Fish, king of his little fiefdom, overnight sensation, needed her? Before she could ask, he turned away and entered one of the small offices at the end of the hall. She followed, catching up Shadow’s leash to prevent the pup from returning to Anita-the-treat-dispenser.
The short man walked around his desk, keeping his back to September when she followed and shut the door. He stared out the small window.
“Why in the world do you need me?” Shadow dropped his nose to the carpet and began vacuuming crumbs. She wrinkled her nose. The place smelled of stale French fries and something sour. Fish was a pig. “You’re the radio king, flying high after saving the day. Like the ad says; all the best Fish Stories. Right?
“Don’t be catty.” He turned around, eyes hard. “What’d I do to get kicked to the curb? We had something good, September, good chemistry. You owe me—”
“What? I owe you?” Shadow whined and pawed her leg, reacting to her tone. “This place is like a chemistry experiment gone bad. I don’t owe you anything.” She turned to go. “I thought we were friends.”
“So did I. When you asked me to help, I was there. But you can’t even return my call, and then show up here to rub my face in it.”
That stopped her. She hadn’t realized how he must feel. “I’m sorry but I can’t come back. Holy crap, it was only a stupid five-minute weekly slot.” The weirdoes already phoned her with relentless glee, determined to get a rise out of her. “We did have chemistry. You’re right. I’m sorry. I should have called and explained.”
What made for great local radio banter risked her sanity once it went viral. The national publicity killed her privacy, and opened the door to the past finding her again. She shivered.
“Radio’s dead. My career, anyway.” His choked words stopped her.
“And Pet Peeves would save your career?” She couldn’t help the sarcasm. He had to be joking, playing the victim in the hope for a pity favor.
“Hell, radio’s been on oxygen for the past couple of years. Now the owners issued the station a DNR. Unless there’s a miracle healing.” Fish waved his hands in the air like a televangelist, but quickly dropped the campy imitation. He set the tablet on the desk. “You became a star last month. The station got lots of attention.”
“Attempted murder on live radio will do that for you.”
Fish winced at her dry tone, but didn’t take offense. The little man’s usual buoyant personality kept him higher than helium, but he’d deflated into a sad balloon cartoon. “The station owner got some offers. He’s going to sell.”
She sat down so she wouldn’t add insult to injury making him crane to meet her eyes. “But that’s good, right?”
“You’d think so.” After a moment he sat down, too. “The new owners want to take it to a younger audience. And they’re cutting staff. They’d keep you as long as your star power lasts, and I figured maybe as a favor you could say we’re a package deal.” He wiggled his eyebrows and they squirmed like dark caterpillars. “Barring that, I need another killer story, something that knocks their stinkin’ socks off. Otherwise I’m gone as of the first of the year.”
Her mouth dropped open. “But that’s only a couple of weeks. What’ll you do?” He’d been the voice of ZAPP for twenty years.
“Make a deal with the devil. Actually, he’s not the devil. Maybe one of the devil’s minions.” He pretended to shudder. “Can’t believe I’m so desperate I’d even consider working with the likes of him.” He leaned forward over the desk. “Sylvester Sanger brought me a killer story. His editors won’t touch it.”
“That’s hard to believe.” Must be a doozy if his sleazy tabloid got cold feet. “That’s why I’m here. He came to see me this morning.” She scowled. “Did you put him up to that?”
“Yeah. I told him to talk to you, sure. You’re the go-to pet person. I figured once you heard his theory, you could tell me if it’s a load of fertilizer, or there’s something to it.” He fell back in the chair after seeing her expression. “You thought it was bogus, huh? Well, that settles it. I’ll start packing.”
Shadow whined again, and September stroked his brow and immediately her pulse slowed. “I didn’t give Sly the chance to say anything. Thought he was someone else, so I went all Babe Ruth on his car.” She pantomimed swinging a bat, and when Fish winced, she became defensive. “He deserved it. Ran his car right into my new front gate.” It sounded lame when she said it aloud, and she felt ashamed since the man was dead. “Anyway, he mentioned his sick cat had something to do with a story he researched with you. I left Pinkerton at the vet.”
“Pinkerton. Good name for an investigator’s cat. Not a great writer, but he sure can ferret out the dirt.” The old fluorescent lighting flickered, and he pursed his lips. “Damn place is ready to crumble, and the new owners sit on their thumbs.” He cleared his throat. “So, why’d he leave Pinkerton with you?”
She paused. Fish wouldn’t help unless she met him halfway, and he was already more than a little pissed at her. Better go all in. “Pinkerton slipped out of Sly’s car after the accident, and Shadow tracked him.”
“Oh, that’s right. You’re doing that pet tracking deal now. Hope it pays better than radio.” He slurped coffee, making a nasty sound. “Sylvester ask you to track Pinkerton? Did he pay you yet? Careful he doesn’t stiff you. His job’s as precarious as mine.”
September took a breath. “He’s missing.”
“Missing?” He laughed. “That’s one way to dodge paying.”
“Look, I found his body, okay?”
Fish’s mouth dropped open. She could see the wheels begin to turn.
“I didn’t realize the car crash was that bad...”
“It wasn’t. Someone murdered him.” Before he could interrupt further, she rushed on. “Fish, he was dead. I think he was dead.” She rubbed her face. “I know he was dead, had to be, with that head injury.” She held up a hand to stay his questions. “I called the police, they came to investigate and couldn’t find the body.” He didn’t need to know about the missing baseball bat. She couldn’t very well tell Fish about it when Combs remained in the dark.
“Somebody killed him, let a witness see, and then hid the body? That makes no sense.”
She shrugged. “Tell me about it. If Shadow hadn’t tracked the cat, there’d just be an abandoned car at my gate. Nobody would look for him, at least not right away.”
Fish’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “He made lots of enemies over the smear journalism he wrote. Nothing to kill him over, though. Unless the new story struck a nerve. Someone wanted to shut him up before he published.”
“Exactly.” She leaned forward, ticking off items on her fingers. “His cat is sick. Sly’s dead. His body disappeared at my house. You sent him to me for help with a sick pet story.” She didn’t list Macy exposed, sick and at the vet, but couldn’t help feeling there must be a connection. “Whoever came after Sly probably thinks I’m involved, too. You made me a target by sending Sly.”
He held his hands in a prayerful pose, teasing. “So you need to help me. Work with me. Come on, September, what do you say? We make a good team. You said so yourself.”
She’d had enough of high profile publicity and yearned for peaceful anonymity. “No more radio.” Before he argued, she added, “But like you said, I owe you. I’ll help get you the scoop, if there is one. So tell me what you know. What were you and Sly working on?”
He jumped to his feet, the bounce back in his attitude, and fairly rubbing his hands together with glee. “It’s not only pets, September. Not by a long shot.”
