14

Wednesday evening, September 20, 1989

I was home later than usual and after the usual hassle found a semi-decent parking spot at the end of the block. When I reached the gate, I pulled the mail from the box, surprised that Henry hadn’t yet collected it. It wasn’t until I rounded the studio to the backyard that I realized something was wrong. Henry, in a T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, stood on his back porch as still as stone. Pearl, suspended between her crutches near the clothesline, appeared to be anchored to the spot. In the kitchen window, Ed the cat was puffed up, his white fur looking like dandelion fuzz, every hair standing on end.

The pup tent was in its usual place, the opening flap zipped shut. In front of the tent flap, a massive black dog chewed on a rubber baby doll. His coat was short-haired except for his shaggy buff-colored tail and an incongruous golden ruff at his throat. He had a huge head and a dark, deeply wrinkled face with a small gold dot over each eye. His brown eyes were focused intently on his toy, which he gnawed on vigorously without doing serious harm. The minute he caught sight of me, he rose silently to his feet, his head low, his ears back. His tail was tucked in close to his body and oddly kinked. A growl rumbled through his chest like an engine turning over. He fixed me with a look, snarled once, and then barked. While my body froze, my heart was doing double time.

“Well, he’s a charmer,” I remarked.

Pearl said, “I wouldn’t make a move if I was you.”

“Not to worry. How long has this little standoff been going on?”

“I’d say twenty minutes. Does that sound about right to you, Henry?”

“Close enough. I heard her shriek and came running out to see what was wrong. The dog refused to let her move. I thought to intervene, but he didn’t seem to care for it. He rushed me and barked so close to my shin, his hot breath felt like ankle wind.”

“This is the mutt you rescued?”

Pearl said, “That’s him.”

“Where’s Lucky?”

“In the tent sleeping off a drunk. Him and Henry went and fetched the dog from the vet. Lucky said it stressed him out and he ain’t over it yet. All them poor sick pussycats and puppy dogs. One of ’em had got hit by a car and the doc had to amputate his hind leg. Lucky said it was the awfulest thing he ever seen. Nothing but a stump was left. He got home and had to knock back four beers just to settle his nerves. Minute he went in the tent, the dog put hisself in charge and put us on notice. Nobody better move or he’ll bite the shit out of you.”

As though to demonstrate the point, the dog barked so savagely his chest quivered and his front feet came off the ground. All three of us jumped as though jolted by a cattle prod.

“What kind of dog is that?” I said, trying not to move my lips.

“Part mastiff and part Rottweiler. He’s got some golden retriever in the mix as well. The mastiff and Rottie parts are all loyal guard dog. The retriever part loves to fetch. I throwed him his baby and he brought her right back to me, but after Lucky went in the tent he didn’t want to play no more.”

“He have a name?”

“Killer.”

“Very nice,” I said. “How’re you doing, Henry? Everything okay?”

“More or less. Pearl says you were here earlier looking for me.”

“I thought we should talk about putting in a home alarm to cover your place and mine. Ned’s on the loose. He stopped by yesterday.”

“Pearl mentioned that. Nothing wrong with home security.”

“I’ll be happy to split the cost.”

“No need. My treat. What company?”

“Security Operating Systems. They installed the alarm at my office.”

“S.O.S. Clever. I’ll give them a call.”

“Actually, with Killer on the premises, burglars wouldn’t have a chance,” I said. I turned to Pearl. “Any news on Ned’s whereabouts?”

Pearl said, “My homies ain’t seen him, though a pitcher of him might be nice. You talk about a middle-aged white guy and it don’t exactly set off alarms.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I said.

Henry said, “Oh. Before I forget, I wanted to remind you of Rosie’s birthday. We’re having a little party for her Friday night.”

“Glad you mentioned it. I’d blanked on that.”

Pearl said, “Lucky and me are invited too, so don’t give us no guff.”

“We’ll do it after supper and I’ll be baking the cake.”

Pearl said, “He was going to make an angel food cake, which is a type of sponge cake. Stiff-beaten egg whites is used as leavening instead of baking soda or baking powder, but I suggested a sheet cake, which will feed more.”

Henry said, “Very good, Pearl. I’m impressed.”

Pearl shrugged modestly.

“Friday’s the twenty-second?” I asked.

“Indeed.”

“Gifts?”

“I leave that up to you.”

I glanced at Pearl. “How long is Lucky apt to sleep?”

“I hope it ain’t long. I gotta pee.”

“Me, too,” Henry said weakly.

The dog lifted his head and bared his teeth. The hair on his back rose magically in a stiff line from his shoulder blades to his tail, making him look like a hound from hell. I wasn’t sure about Henry or Pearl, but I was ready to repent.

“Might be some Rhodesian ridgeback in him, too,” Pearl said.

“Anybody have a plan?” I asked.

“Fresh out,” she said.

“Henry?”

“He can’t be as suspicious of you as he is of Pearl and me. I think he associates us with Lucky’s disappearance. I don’t think he’s made up his mind about you.”

“He seems pretty opinionated from where I stand,” I said. “Have you tried calling Lucky’s name to see if you can rouse him?”

“We gave up. That guy passes out and he’s down for the count,” Pearl said. “See if you can get him to play.”

“Lucky?”

“The fucking dog,” she said, exasperated. “Pardon my potty mouth, Henry. I know you don’t hold with talk like that.”

Henry accepted her apology philosophically, by now accustomed to my occasional salty outbursts.

“When you say play, what are you picturing?” I asked Pearl.

“You know. Frolicking about and dancing on his hind legs.”

“Frolicking?”

“Okay, so skip the frolicking. That’s asking too much. Tell him what a good boy he is. Praise his baby. The dog’s fierce, but he’s not all that smart.”

“Oh, come on. He’s not going to fall for that.”

“You got a better idea?”

“Not really.”

I stood and regarded the dog, thinking of the many accounts I’d read of humans savaged by their faithful four-legged friends. I’d just met the dog and he’d already taken a dislike to me. I watched him settle on the ground and go back to slobbering on his toy, apparently content. He gnawed on his dolly’s arm, then proceeded to lick her tiny rubber feet. From the kitchen window, Ed the cat had relaxed his vigilance, but looked on with concern.

“Well, get on with it,” she said.

“I am! Don’t nag.”

Slowly, I lowered myself into a squatting position, knees popping, uncertain if I’d ever be able to stand up again. I said, “Killer, what a nice doggie you are. Good boy! Is that your baby doll?”

The dog grumbled to himself as he drooled on his toy, uncertain what to make of my behavior.

“Is that your baby doll? What a nice baby! I love that baby. Can you bring her over here?”

Killer paused in his attentions to his baby doll, perhaps willing to share if given the proper incentive. He cast a wary eye in my direction.

“Bring her over here, Killer. Come on. Come on, boy!”

I slapped my knees and repeated my appeal. I was making myself sick with all this goofy talk, but the dog didn’t seem to mind. I could see him weigh my request. His tail thumped twice and the ridge of hair settled. He knew his baby was deserving of praise and applause and he couldn’t help but take pride.

“Bring her over here. Bring your baby.”

Bashfully, he lumbered to his feet as if the idea had just occurred to him. He gave his baby a playful toss, checking out of the corner of his eye to see what I thought.

I said, “Good boy! What a good boy!”

He picked her up tenderly and brought her half the distance. I warbled out more encouragement. I realized later I was activating the golden retriever in his nature. Finally, he carried the baby close and laid her at my feet. I waited until he barked expectantly, stepped back, and wiggled, front legs on the ground and his butt in the air, his gaze fixed on his toy.

“Thank you. What a good boy! I’m going to pick her up now. Is that okay?”

Nothing hostile in his response.

Gingerly, I reached for the baby, moving slowly in case he changed his mind. I picked her up and tossed her across the yard. He bounded over the dirt, grabbed her in his mouth, tossed her, caught her again, and then returned and placed her at my feet.

Henry said, “Keep at it. I’ll be right back.” He made a beeline for the back door and slipped into the house.

“Right behind you,” Pearl said and followed him in.

Killer and I played fetch for the next twenty-five minutes. No sign of Henry. No sign of Pearl. If my attention flagged at all, the dog got all broody and caused me to fret about dog bites. Ed observed from his window perch, amused but mystified, probably thinking only a dog could comport himself so foolishly. I wondered if I’d be driven insane before the day was done. As it happened, Killer’s baby was all tuckered out and he had to lie down with her between his front paws so she could have a little rest. I staggered to my feet and made a slow backward walk to my front door, where I took out my keys and let myself in, keeping him firmly in my sights.

Among the mail that had come in, there was a plain brown 8-by-11-inch mailer. My name penned across the face. No sender’s name, no postage, and no return address. I studied it briefly and then opened it with caution. I’d once had someone gift me with a couple of tarantulas in a similar envelope.

The sheets I pulled out were copies of Ned Lowe’s mug shot and a brief account of the warrants out on him. The black-and-white photograph didn’t do him any favors. It must have been taken years earlier because he looked younger but just as tired. He’d sported a stingy mustache in those days, and the bags under his eyes hadn’t yet puffed up to their full proportions. He was a homely man, which was not so much a matter of his features as the beaten look in his eyes. It may have been that quality that led me to assume he was harmless. Perhaps he’d adapted the expression as the perfect camouflage.

Arizona and Nevada State Police detectives are looking for Ned Benjamin Lowe, 53, a suspect in the disappearance of Susan Telford, a 14-year-old white female, last seen on the morning of March 28, 1987, on Paseo Verde Parkway in Henderson, NV. Additionally, he is a person of interest in the 1986 disappearance of Janet Macy from her home in Tucson, Arizona. In both cases, the victims were approached by a man claiming to be a photographer scouting for modeling talent in the fashion industry.

Police say Ned Lowe is wanted on active and extraditable felony arrest warrants. Anyone with information about his whereabouts is asked to contact state police.

The phone numbers for both agencies were listed, along with the advisory note that all calls would be kept confidential. The number for an anonymous tip line was also given.

I picked up the handset and put a call through to Jonah at home.

“Hello?” Camilla.

“May I speak to Detective Robb?” I said. Ho ho. Clever me, asking for him by rank and last name so she wouldn’t realize who was calling.

There was a stutter of silence before she slammed the phone down in my ear. Guess she’s smarter than I thought.

Three minutes later the phone rang.

I answered warily, thinking she was calling back to scream at me.

“Hey, Kinsey. Jonah.”

I pulled the handset away from my ear and squinted. “How’d you know to call me?”

“She slammed the phone down in someone’s ear. I figured it was you.”

“Is she there now?”

“She went out and banged the door shut. I’ll pay for this later, but what the hell. You called about the bulletin.”

“I did, and thanks for dropping it off. I take it your officers haven’t picked up any sign of him.”

“No, but it’s early yet. The subject came up at the squad meeting and everybody’s onboard. We’ll cover the beach-area motels and spread out from there.”

“That sounds great. I’ve got a couple of homeless pals checking the Rescue Mission and Harbor House. They’re also scouting freeway underpasses and the old hobo camp. I was thinking about canvassing motels in Winterset and Cottonwood.”

“Have at it.”

The line went dead, so Camilla must have doubled back, hoping to catch him in the act.

With Killer still parked in the backyard, I decided I really had no compelling reason to leave the house. My cupboard was bare, but I could probably make it until Lucky woke up. I decided to use the time to type up my notes, so I hauled out my portable Smith Corona and removed the lid. I took out my index cards and sorted through the information I’d assembled. As I converted my handwritten notes to a proper report, I let the facts flow over me, making no effort to channel the stream. Coming to any conclusion at this stage of my investigation would serve to filter out competing possibilities. The only notion I tagged for further consideration was that the blackmail scheme was the brainstorm of a newcomer to the scene. Those who’d participated in the taping ten years before—Fritz, Troy, Iris, Austin, and Bayard—saw it as a spoof. The extortionist apparently had no idea the taping was a pseudo-pornographic prank and therefore worthless for ransom purposes.

I sensed the contours of a story behind the story I’d been hearing, but I wasn’t sure what it was. I’d picked up fragments, but I was missing a cohesive narrative. Troy had accepted responsibility for his part in Sloan’s death and I felt his remorse was sincere. Fritz was still busy pointing a finger at someone else—anyone else—hoping to shift the blame. Austin, of course, had simply absented himself and therefore, as far as anyone knew, had escaped the consequences. What I found myself thinking about were the players peripheral to Sloan’s shooting death. Poppy and Iris being a case in point. I wondered how many moments had come and gone when one of them could have stepped up to the plate—made a phone call to the police, mentioned the situation to a parent or someone in a position of authority. By doing nothing, Sloan’s so-called friends had sealed her fate as surely as Fritz had with his gun. In hindsight, did any of them recognize the price she had paid for their passivity? Their failure to act was all the more damning for the ease with which they rationalized their behavior afterward.

I looked at the two names that remained on my list. Given the cleaning out of Sloan’s room, her mother should be next, but I felt myself resisting. I don’t know how you talk to a woman who’s lost her only child. True, I could pose as a reporter interested in the case, but lying to a woman who’d suffered such a loss taxed even my highly developed skills at bending the truth. I can fib with the best of them, but I couldn’t give this woman the impression that I was promoting justice for Sloan when I was being paid for something else altogether and not doing too well with that.

Then there was Bayard Montgomery. So far, no one had much to say about him. I knew he was the unseen camera operator when the sex tape was made and I couldn’t help but wonder if this was his mode of operation, being at the same time the recorder of events and the man fading into the background for reasons of his own. I moved his name to the top of the list and I went to bed feeling cowardly, but relieved.