Lost Dog (A Gideon and Sirius Novel Book 3) Read online

  “And what’s that?”

  “Behind a warm and caring veneer, he said his wife was very manipulative. Of course given her circumstances, that’s not surprising.”

  “What circumstances are those?”

  “When she was a girl, Ms. Moreland watched her father murder her mother; the rest of her childhood was spent in foster care, an environment that certainly took its toll on her psyche.”

  “In what way?”

  “It would stand to reason that she has a desperate need to be loved. However, because of childhood issues, she would doubt whether she is worthy of being loved. In most cases someone like that is never going to be settled, or happy. She will sabotage her relationships in the self-fulfilling prophecy that she can’t be loved.”

  “That’s quite a thumbnail sketch.”

  He shrugged, but looked pleased with himself.

  “So you’re saying Heather Moreland is quite needy, but hides that from others?”

  Barron nodded.

  “And she wants love, but is incapable of receiving it.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Why would someone like that adopt a dog that by all accounts was next to impossible to live with?”

  “Dog?” Barron’s face contorted, as if he didn’t understand the question.

  “If Heather Moreland was as needy as you believe, I don’t understand why she would put herself in a position where she had to provide almost unconditional love to an animal.”

  “I deal in human relationships, Detective Gideon, and the human psyche. I can’t conjecture about interspecies relationships.”

  I nodded. But I was glad I could conjecture about interspecies relationships, and the way Heather had tended to a third-chance dog told me a lot.

  “How long have you been seeing Emilio?”

  “Almost a year now.”

  “How did he become your patient?”

  “My client,” he corrected.

  I thought about asking him how he pronounced Los Feliz, but instead waited for his answer.

  “Mr. Cruz told both the court and his wife that he wanted to change. In order to try and save his marriage, he agreed to anger-management therapy. He did this at his own cost without insurance. Because of that, I agreed to work with him at a much reduced rate. I have three other clients with similar circumstances. The reason I have taken on these individuals is that I am a great believer in the efficacy of anger management. I do my best to teach coping skills, and offer alternatives to anger and violence. If these individuals can be freed from their vicious cycles—‘vicious’ being the operative word—their lives can change for the better.”

  “Are you following any program or guidelines in your treatment?”

  “You have to manage each case on an individual basis.”

  “So you’re saying there are no standards and no testing of results?”

  Barron looked amused. “It’s rather difficult to quantify teaching someone how to keep their emotions in check.”

  “Emilio Cruz was arrested for domestic violence, wasn’t he?”

  “Those charges were reduced.”

  “But you’re not denying that he beat Heather Moreland on multiple occasions?”

  “My client admitted that he did so, and that he deeply regretted his actions. You need to remember that he came to me on his own volition and that he wanted to change his ways in order to save his marriage.”

  “Do you think your treatment of Emilio is working?”

  “I believe he’s much improved from when we first started.”

  “When I talked to him today, it seemed to me that he had a short fuse.”

  “I wasn’t there. I can’t comment.”

  “Can you comment about whether Emilio has made statements that he’d like to commit violence against Heather?”

  “I could comment, but I won’t.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I stand by what I said before: Mr. Cruz has been making progress.”

  Barron’s smug expression and self-satisfied way of speaking showed how he was enjoying controlling our session.

  “Do you think Emilio is capable of abducting his wife and/or potentially committing violence against her?”

  “The human species is capable of anything. It would be disingenuous of me to say otherwise.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a ringing endorsement.”

  “That’s your interpretation.”

  “I noticed Heather Moreland didn’t take his last name. Do you know if that was a point of dissension between them?”

  “Apparently Ms. Moreland had already changed her name once and was reluctant to do so a second time.”

  That was news to me. “Why did she change her name?”

  “Emilio said that while she was still in foster care, she petitioned the court to lose her father’s name. When they became engaged, she told him she was deeply attached to the name of Moreland because she had selected it for herself.”

  “Earlier you intimated that Heather had a public face and a private face.”

  “That’s what Mr. Cruz believed. He says Ms. Moreland likes to cry wolf.”

  “What did he mean by that?”

  “He said she liked to act like a vestal virgin in public, but was the opposite in private. He said in their love life she liked it rough and enjoyed being debased. She asked for it that way. And then afterward, he said, her guilt would kick in and she would act like the aggrieved party.”

  I had dealt with enough abusers to be skeptical. To them, it was always the victim’s fault. I didn’t hide my doubts; the doctor responded to them.

  “It was Freud who first wrote of the Madonna–whore complex,” he said. “Since his time the meaning has evolved and expanded. In the private lives of Ms. Moreland and Mr. Cruz, both of them navigated the boundaries of the Madonna and the whore. Ms. Moreland’s public persona was the Madonna. In private she was the whore.”

  “I’d consider the source,” I said. “It’s Cruz who is the convicted abuser.”

  “I will be the first to say that Mr. Cruz has anger issues. But I would venture to say that Ms. Moreland would certainly have benefited from therapy also.”

  “Last Friday Heather told Emilio that she wanted to proceed with a divorce. Other than today, have you talked with him since that time?”

  “We briefly chatted on Friday.”

  “What did Emilio tell you?”

  “He said that Ms. Moreland was going to proceed with the divorce.”

  “And what did he say about that?”

  “He was upset, naturally.”

  “Did he say he was going to do anything to Heather?”

  Barron hesitated before saying, “No comment.”

  “Emilio gave his permission for you to talk freely to me.”

  “I am aware of that. But I am still allowed discretion in the matter.”

  “It sounds like you’re hiding something.”

  He smiled. It wasn’t a friendly expression, but a display of superiority. “Is that your best attempt at reverse psychology?”

  “Your Jedi mind tricks won’t work on me,” I said.

  Dr. Barron looked like he was smelling gas. I tried again. “You know what they say—a Freudian slip is when you say one thing but mean your mother.”

  CHAPTER 14

  IS THAT ALL THERE IS?

  As I opened the door to my car, I saw that Angie had been busy chewing up the backseat upholstery during my absence.

  I made an exasperated sound but then corralled my temper. Having a fit might make me feel better, but I knew the guilty party wouldn’t understand. As it was, Angie was oblivious to my displeasure, whereas my glowering caused Sirius to shrink into the seat and lower his head. No one wants to please me as much as my partner does, and I felt bad for causing his discomfort.

  “It’s all right, Sirius,” I said. “You’re a good boy.”

  He immediately brightened.

  I was probably lucky Angie hadn’
t done other damage before this. Dr. Wolf had warned me about bloodhounds being active dogs. I knew that posed a problem for tonight’s docket. Lisbet’s apartment was about seven hundred square feet and full of her artistic expressions. Angie, I suspected, would think those were chew toys.

  As I thought about what to do with her, Angie suddenly decided I was the most interesting man on the planet. I had to keep her from crawling over the seat in order to sniff me down. From head to toe I was suddenly fascinating. It wasn’t a lovefest, though. She wasn’t wagging her tail or acting like we were best friends. There was something about me that had all her attention.

  As Angie continued to probe me with her nose, I told her, “I’m wearing Ralph Lauren’s latest, Eau de Roadkill. You like?”

  At least she was distracted from chewing apart more upholstery. As Angie continued her nasal invasion, I thought about where I might house her for the next night or two. There were kennels at my old stomping grounds of Metropolitan K-9, but I wasn’t sure if I could get her placed there. It wasn’t only that I’d have to do some groveling to get permission, but more that Angie needed an on-call human to potentially reassure her at all hours. She’d been through a lot. Both Angie and I were lucky that a healer by the name of Sirius had been helping her.

  A potential solution occurred to me. With Bluetooth in operation, I said, “Call Lisbet.”

  Caller ID gave me away, because when Lisbet answered she said, “You had better not be canceling. Dinner is going to be ready in about fifteen minutes.”

  Angie’s probing nose was suddenly tickling me. Stifling a laugh, I said, “I am not canceling. But I will be a little late.”

  “What’s a little?”

  Because of my past tardiness, Lisbet had every right to sound suspicious. “That depends. Didn’t you say you had a friend in Los Feliz Hills who takes in dogs?”

  I pronounced it Lohs-Fee-Liz. Naturally, when Lisbet answered that she did have a friend with a large estate who took in dogs in need, she pronounced it Los Fay-Lease. After I explained Angie’s situation, Lisbet volunteered to call her friend to make arrangements.

  My girlfriend has one of the biggest hearts of anyone I know. The two of us first met through the tragedy of a baby who was abandoned and died. For years Lisbet’s been tending to throwaway babies who’ve died in the L.A. area. Her big heart seems to attract those with the same in all walks of life. Good people and kindred spirits gravitate to Lisbet. She’s not fond of her sometimes nickname of “the Saint,” but there’s a reason people call her that. I wish I had her Rolodex of good people, but it’s something she’s earned by being who she is.

  On the drive over to Los Feliz Hills, I played a Peggy Lee tune quite different from “The Siamese Cat Song.” There’s something disquieting about Lee’s anthem to nihilism, “Is That All There Is?” I listened to Peggy talk about the world going up in flames, and remembered how that had felt. And then she spoke about her disillusionment with the greatest show on earth, and love, and life itself. It’s a song as compelling as it is depressing. There had been a time Lee’s lyrics could have been mine. Life was better now.

  The GPS directed us deep into Los Feliz Hills. The area has some of the nicest houses in L.A., and when the female voice of the directional muse told me we’d arrived at our destination, I could see that Angie had lucked into some splendid digs. The house was set back from the street, and behind it was a huge lot that extended into the foothills. We walked up a flagstone pathway, making our way past huge birds-of-paradise and trellised stands of flowering Mandevillas of pink, white, and red.

  “You’ve hit the jackpot,” I told Angie. “Don’t blow it.”

  I rang the doorbell. Sirius sat down and comported himself like a gentleman. Angie was more interested in sniffing the doormat than she was in making a good first impression. The door opened, and luckily for Angie, her slobber and appearance didn’t put off the hostess one iota.

  “Oh, you poor dear,” she said, immediately taking Angie’s leash into her hand.

  “And aren’t you handsome?” she said to Sirius.

  He wagged his tail, his way of saying, “Tell me more.”

  “As you can see,” I said, “Angie is blind in her left eye. My vet cautioned me to approach from her good side. I’ve forgotten that advice all day and didn’t suffer any consequences, but it’s probably better to be safe than sorry.”

  “I’ll look before I leap,” she promised, outdoing me in the cliché department.

  I talked for a minute with “Doggy Doreen,” as she called herself. In appearance Doreen reminded me of a sheepdog, with her long salt-and-pepper bangs almost covering her eyes. She was on the heavy side and wore a man’s large dress shirt. Her drawstring pants advertised her true love: it was a print with silhouettes of dog breeds showcased up and down her pant legs.

  “Welcome to our menagerie,” Doreen said to Angie.

  From the backyard I could hear a chorus of dogs; their range of sounds could only come from a variety of dog sizes and shapes.

  “I’m currently looking for Angie’s mom,” I explained, “but at this time she’s a missing person.”

  From Doreen’s nods, I could tell that Lisbet had already filled her in. “I hope you find her soon,” she said. “But like I told Lisbet, I’m happy to accommodate Angie for as long as it takes.”

  I thought I should also mention Angie’s chewing, which I did in a roundabout way. “Angie doesn’t seem to like being confined,” I said.

  “The dogs are free to come and go,” she said. “We have more than an acre here. Seven-foot wrought iron fencing surrounds the property. We’ve taken in several so-called escape artists, but so far not one of our charges has broken out.”

  “That’s probably because none of them have wanted to.”

  Doreen laughed. “The dogs do seem to enjoy their vacation here,” she said.

  “Sorry,” I told Sirius.

  Doreen scratched his ear. “Maybe Daddy will let you visit another time.”

  CHAPTER 15

  CACTUS TO CLOUDS TO SHROUDS

  I wasn’t far from Lisbet’s when my cell phone began ringing. My car’s display showed Seth Mann was calling. I accepted the call hands-free and began talking.

  “Good timing for your call,” I said. “I was just wondering with the amphibian die-off if there was an acceptable substitution for eye of newt and toe of frog.”

  I expected my shaman friend to have fun with my politically incorrect cauldron ingredients, but instead he said, “I expect you haven’t heard the news, Michael.”

  The tone of his voice bespoke his seriousness. “What news is that?”

  “I called the number you gave me for Langston Walker. A woman answered, and I said that I was calling about Walker and the 187 Club. She apparently thought I was identifying myself as a member of that club, and told me the funeral would be taking place on Saturday.”

  “I’m not following what you’re saying.”

  “I am afraid Detective Walker died, Michael.”

  I made some incoherent sounds; Seth correctly interpreted my attempt at speaking as incredulity.

  “I took down the funeral information,” he said, “and afterward I went online. According to the reports I read, the detective was found dead near the top of the Skyline Trail. It’s believed he slipped and hit his head, but as I understand it, they’re also conducting an autopsy to see if he had a heart attack. He was less than a thousand feet from the top of the trail when it happened.”

  I was still lacking the words to respond. I’d broken bread with the man only days before, and found it difficult to get my mind around the fact that he was gone.

  Seth didn’t intrude on my silence. If he was waiting for me to come up with something profound, that didn’t happen. Finally I said, “Shit.”

  “Do you and Sirius want to stop by?” he asked.

  “Lisbet’s expecting us,” I said.

  “Maybe tomorrow night,” he said.

  “That
would be good.”

  I decided not to tell Lisbet about Langston Walker or Heather Moreland. My good intentions didn’t even last five seconds. When Lisbet greeted me at the door to her apartment, she took one look at my face and asked, “What’s wrong?”

  The divorce rate among law enforcement officers is said to be seventy to eighty percent. I’m not sure if that divorce rate is a result of cops sharing what’s going on in their workplace, or not sharing. I’m hoping it’s the latter, as Lisbet has proved to be a great sounding board.

  When I said I wasn’t yet ready to eat, Lisbet fed Sirius, and then we both sat down to a glass of wine. I told her about Langston, and it was almost like I was telling the same news to myself. It’s always a shock when someone dies unexpectedly; I had trouble getting my mind around the detective being gone. I rehashed some of what we’d talked about at dinner, and I told her about the 187 Club.

  “He was a godsend to so many people,” I said, shaking my head.

  And then I did a lot more shaking of my head when I told her about Heather’s disappearance.

  “As bad as I feel about Langston’s death,” I said, “I’m feeling worse about Heather. Langston died on the trail doing something he wanted to do; I don’t know what happened to Heather.”

  “Then why are you assuming the worst?” asked Lisbet. “It would be hard to imagine someone growing up in Heather’s situation that wasn’t—damaged.” It took Lisbet a moment to find the right word.

  “I’m sure she is damaged,” I said. “But that’s what makes me admire her. She overcame her circumstances.”

  “Maybe the prospect of divorce brought up those circumstances. She must have been bottling up a lot. Is it possible she harmed herself?”

  I shook my head with a vehemence that seemed to surprise her. But I had a one-word answer for my certainty, one that had me convinced Heather hadn’t gone off and committed suicide: “Angie.”

  Lisbet understood my shorthand and nodded.

  “Heather’s coworker told me that she saved Angie from certain death. She said Heather didn’t give up on Angie when just about anyone else would have. I can’t see Heather killing herself without first making arrangements for Angie.”