Shelter in Place (Page 74)

Reed thought he’d rather deal with a cowardly dog than an aggressive one. “Did he have a collar?”

“I didn’t see one. For all I know he’s rabid.”

“Well, we don’t know that. Give me a description.”

“Some brown mongrel dog, and dirty. Fast. First time he came around and chased Bianca, I was right over there, prepping that bed for planting. I stood up, yelled, and he ran off. Same thing today. I heard the barking and carrying on. Bianca likes to nap on the porch. I came out, and he lit out.”

“Which way?”

She pointed. “Tail between his legs. He’s lucky I didn’t have the shotgun.”

“Mrs. Booker, I’m going to advise you against getting that gun and firing it.”

“My cat, my property.”

“Yes, ma’am, but deploying a firearm in a residential area’s against the law.”

“Self-defense,” she said stubbornly.

“Let’s see if I can round up the dog. You say he ran off, so he didn’t come at you?”

“He went after Bianca.”

“I get that, but he wasn’t aggressive toward you?”

“Ran the minute he saw me. Coward.”

Not aggressive with people then. Probably. “Okay. I’ll look for him. If I don’t find him, I’ll send a couple of deputies to look around. We’ll round him up. Sorry about the daffodils.”

He checked the neighborhood, found those who’d spotted the dog—usually after he’d knocked over a trash can and run off.

He cruised awhile, wondering where he’d go if he were a dog who liked to chase cats and dig up daffodils. It calmed him, he realized, the simple task of searching for a stray dog, crisscrossing that area of the island in his cruiser and on foot.

Still, he’d nearly given up and decided to send Cecil out on the hunt, when he heard the barking.

He spotted the dog on a stretch of beach, chasing birds and the lap of the surf. He got the loop leash and the hamburger he’d stopped for earlier, walked down slow and easy as he considered his quarry.

Not rabid to his eye, the way he splashed and ran, and not much more than a puppy. Skinny—ribs showing—so maybe the food would do the trick.

He sat, unwrapped the burger and set half of it beside him.

The dog’s nose went up, sniffing, then his head turned. The minute he spotted Reed, he froze.

Reed sat, waited, let the breeze carry that seductive scent of meat. The dog hunched down, crept closer. Long legs, Reed noted, floppy ears, and, yes, tail tucked.

The closer the dog got, the lower he got, until he bellied over like a combat trooper. Eyes on Reed, he nipped the burger, ran back to the surf. Devoured it.

Reed set down the second half, got the loop leash ready.

The dog bellied over again, but this time Reed slipped the loop around his neck when he lunged for the meat.

The dog tried to pull back, eyes wide and wild.

“Uh-uh, none of that. You’re under arrest. And no biting.”

At the voice, the dog froze, then began to tremble.

“I’d say somebody gave you a bad time.” Reed picked up the burger, and his movement had the dog hunching and cringing. “A very bad time.” Keeping his movements slow, he offered the rest of the burger.

Hunger overcame fear. The tucked tail gave a hesitant wag.

“Gotta take you in. Attempted assault on a feline, destruction of personal property. The law’s the law.”

Slow, slow, Reed laid a hand on the dog’s head, skimmed it back and over, felt the bumps of scars at the neck. “I’ve got some of those myself.”

He stroked for a few minutes, was rewarded with a tentative lick on the back of his hand.

The dog cringed again when Reed stood up, then shifted his gaze up when the expected blow didn’t come. He learned quickly the dog didn’t like the leash. He pulled, twisted, froze each time Reed stopped and looked down at him. With that process, they made it to the car.

The tail wagged with more enthusiasm. “Like riding in cars, huh? Well, this is your lucky day.” He started to put him in the back, but the dog looked at him with such soulful eyes, the beginning of hope.

“Don’t barf up the burger in my official vehicle.”

The instant he opened the door, the dog leaped in, sat in the passenger’s seat—and banged his snout on the window.

Reed decided a dog could look surprised. He rolled the window down, and his prisoner’s floppy ears waved out in the air all the way back to the station.

“Gotta write you up, and see if I can get the vet to come in and take a look at you. Then we’ll figure out the rest.”

He noted the black SUV in the lot, and knew he had a federal visitor.

In the bullpen Donna took another call, Cecil and Matty sat at their desks, and Special Agent Xavier sat in a visitor’s chair with a cup of coffee while he scrolled something on his phone.

The sight and smell and sound of so many humans in one place had the dog shaking, tail tucked, head down.

“Aw, you found the puppy.” Cecil started to get up. Reed held up a hand to stop him.

“He’s scared of people.”

“Doesn’t seem to be scared of you,” Matty pointed out.

“A little yet, but we came to terms over the burger I fed him. Donna, call the vet.”

“Vet’s only open Wednesdays and Saturdays, except for emergencies.”

“I know that. Call him at home, tell him the situation. I need him to look over the dog, make sure he’s not sick. Cecil, why don’t you take him back to the…”

As he held out the leash to his deputy, the dog whined, pressed against Reed’s leg, and trembled. “Never mind. Hang on a minute.” Leading the dog, he went to the break room, hunted up a bowl, a bottle of water. “Special Agent Xavier,” he said as he came back, “why don’t we go into my office?”

“You’re bringing the dog?”

“He’s in my custody.”

In the office, Reed gestured to a chair, then sat behind his desk. Immediately the dog crawled under the desk. Reed poured water into the bowl, set it down.

“So, what can I do for you?” Reed began, over the sound of wet, rapid lapping.

“I felt a face-to-face might make it crystal clear that neither I, nor the Bureau, appreciate your interference with an active investigation.”

“Well, you didn’t need to take a ferry ride for that, but maybe you needed one to define my interference.”

“Detective, you contacted two people—that we’re aware of—related information to one of them—that we know of—and stated your personal belief that Patricia Hobart intended to kill them.”

“First off, that’s Chief. And clearly my personal belief became fact when Hobart killed Emily Devlon.”

Xavier pressed his palms together, folded down all but his index fingers. “We have no evidence, at this time, that Hobart is responsible for the death of Emily Devlon.”

Reed just nodded. “Would you mind shutting that door? If I get up to do it, this dog’s just going to follow me over and back again, and it looks like he’s finally settling down.”

Reed waited while Xavier obliged.

“I asked you to shut the door because I’d rather my bullpen doesn’t hear me calling an FBI agent an asshole.”

“You’re going to want to be careful. Chief.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. I think what I have to be here is straight. You may not have any physical evidence, to date, or a handy eyewitness, but you’ve got everything else. Devlon fits Hobart’s pattern down the line. She survived DownEast, and while she was at it, she saved a life. She got kudos— No, my office,” he said as Xavier started to interrupt. “She got some kudos at the time, write-ups and so on. More, she benefited financially when the life she saved died of natural causes years later and left Devlon a hundred thousand in her will. Every one of Hobart’s victims so far got press and benefited in some way.”