Death By Dog

Chapter 1

When the cold rain stopped that Wednesday, the sun peeked through gray clouds and painted the horizon over Puget Sound in slashes of orange and red. Soda stepped out the door of the First Avenue bookstore as she brushed her thick chestnut hair away from her face. It fell in waves to the middle of her back. The girl dug a scrunchie out of the pocket of her faded jeans then fisted her hair and tied it so that it fell under the collar of her hoodie.

Mid-March in Seattle, Washington, breathed an early spring chill on the city. She flipped her hood up then zipped the sweatshirt and stuffed her hands in the pockets. Shoulders hunched, she walked briskly south. Before long, she left the restaurants, boutiques and shops that had pulled steel mesh across their entrances for the night and entered an industrial area that had seen better times. Warehouses and abandoned buildings with busted windows hulked in the darkening evening.

The sound of rough male voices drifted across the narrow street. Soda edged into the deeper shadow of a crumbling, brick building; its windows like blinded eyes stared blankly out onto the littered street. Between the black jeans and the navy blue hoodie--pulled close around her pale face and with her white hands stuffed in her pockets--the shadows swallowed her form. Standing perfectly still, she listened as the voices drew closer. Eyes straining, she peered from her spot, trying to make out what swung between the two men.

A few street lamps--not yet vandalized--spilled watery yellow light on the dirty sidewalk and the green dumpster that squatted at the mouth of the alley across from where Soda hid. The men sauntered into the light. Soda squinted her gray-blue eyes. Her heart pounded when she finally realized what they carried.

The body of a large dog hung between them as they made their way to the dumpster. They swung the body back and forth until enough momentum had built and then let go. The animal sailed over the edge of the dumpster and thumped into the trash. They pulled off their gloves and stuffed them in jacket pockets.

The hum of traffic from several streets away sang a muted song, but the men’s voices--harsh and loud--rode over the top of it. The shorter, heavier man dug under his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one and the ember glowed as he inhaled. Grey smoke drifted up toward the circle of lamp light, but disintegrated when a slight breeze puffed off Puget Sound. The breeze smelled of dead fish. Damn, that was some sick bitch. Shortest fight I’ve ever seen. Admiration sounded clear in his gravelly voice.

The second man was slightly taller and not quite as heavy as his companion. He accepted a cigarette and lit it. Short for damn sure. Only thing that bitch, he jerked a thumb over his shoulder and toward the dumpster, good for was a trainin’ fight. Can’t believe that other’n; not even two years old, yet. Man, I want me one of them dawgs. He snorted a laugh.

A shiver ran up Soda’s spine. She pushed against the brick; the cold that seeped through her hoodie felt reassuring.

The shorter man shook his head. In your dreams. He finished his smoke then flicked the butt out into the street.

A cramp seized Soda’s calf muscle. Afraid any movement would draw their attention she clamped her teeth and pressed her lips together, willing herself not to move.

What you think one of them dawg’s worth? In imitation of the other man, the taller man flicked his cigarette butt out into the street.

For a moment, he seemed to be looking straight at her and Soda thought her heart might stop.

The other man shook his head. Way outta your league. I heard some of them cost as much as fifty big ones.

The taller man shifted his attention to his companion and Soda sucked in a silent breath. If I had me a dawg like that...

The shorter man guffawed. You wouldn’t know what to do with it. Them things are the devil’s own dogs. One of them would eat you up, bro. Come on. I’ll buy you a beer.

They sauntered away into the dark created by busted street lights. Snatches of their words faded until only the hum of the traffic from nearby streets filled the air. A couple of minutes later, a truck roared. Soda shuffled to the edge of the cracked sidewalk and watched as a block north a large, dark colored pick up pulled into the street. She waited until she could no longer see the red of the taillights before she hustled across the potholed asphalt.

Hand on the dumpster side she let her head drop back until she stared up at the faded sky. Why am I doing this? It’s not going to change anything. She’s dead, or they wouldn’t have thrown her away. A lump swelled in her throat. She swallowed hard. Taking a deep breath, she pushed her thin shoulders back and straightened up to her full five-foot-five in an effort to steel herself for what she knew lay in the garbage. With an exhale, she clambered up the side of the dumpster. Balanced on the inches-wide lip of cold metal, she stared down as the odor of rotted food wafted up to her. Pale light glinted off black plastic bags of garbage.

The dog had landed on top of several black bags. You poor dog, she said as tears quickened in her eyes. She readied to hop off the metal container then stopped. Holding her breath, she leaned forward. A faint movement caught her eyes.

Without hesitation, she dropped into the garbage and waded to the animal. One dark eye blinked slowly up at her. Poor baby. She eased down close to the dog. Papers rustled and a puff of something rancid reached her nose. She ignored it. Gently lifting the dog’s head, she scooted her legs underneath and laid the big head on her lap. A whine whispered from the dog. With light fingers, she stroked the dog’s face between gaping wounds. At least, the bleeding had stopped. A pink tongue slowly snaked out and rasped along Soda’s hand.

Even in the faded light from the street lamps, she could tell that the dog’s coat had once been a sable color, a mix of light brown and black hairs. Now a spray of drying and dried blood matted the fur with dark splotches. One of the muscled forelegs had been gashed and the muscle ripped open. The jagged point of bloodied bone jutted out of the skin. The dog had once been a beautiful animal with a well-built body that looked bigger than most German Shepherds that Soda had seen, but it was definitely a German Shepherd. She’d always loved the regal look of that breed.

Another shuddering breath pushed the dog’s ribs up and down. Soda swallowed back her tears as she recalled a lullaby that her mom had sung to her when she was young and had awakened from a bad dream. She petted the dog’s big head and stroked her side as she sang in a quavering, soft voice. Before she’d finished the song, the dog licked her hand once more, looked into Soda’s eyes and breathed her last.

Tears coasted down her cheeks as she wiggled out from under the dog’s head and laid it on a pillow of garbage. She reached out and stroked the still side. Maybe you’ll see my mom when you cross the Rainbow Bridge, girl. Jaw clenched, she struggled to her feet. With the sleeve of her hoodie, she scrubbed the tears away.

She had always loved dogs. Had one that had died a month before her mother died of cancer; a little dog shelter mutt, but Soda had loved Cindy. After her mother passed, she was glad that Cindy had died of old age first. She couldn’t have taken care of Cindy while she lived on the streets and she wouldn’t have left her dog alone with her abusive stepfather.

Fists knotted at her sides, she vowed that even though she was only a street kid she’d do something! She didn’t know what, but she would do something to stop those assholes from slaughtering any more dogs.

Chapter 2

Sergeant Nita Slowater squinted hazel eyes up at the weak sun that shone through ripped, pale gray clouds as she captured her long raven hair and subdued it in a black band at the nape of her neck. She shoved through the revolving door of the office building on Third Avenue in Seattle that housed the Special Crimes Team. As she jogged across the lobby, Jane--the anorexically-thin daytime receptionist behind the half-moon shaped reception counter--waved. Nita threw up a hand in acknowledgement. With a glance at her watch, she jabbed the elevator call button.

The elevator smoothly ascended without stops. As the doors opened on the fifth floor, Nita glanced at her watch again: five minutes before morning briefing. She should get a medal. It was Thursday and she’d been early or on time for every briefing so far this week. Laptop bag pounding against her muscular thigh, she took a sip of her hazelnut latte then hurried down the beige hall to the Command Center of the Special Crimes Team, AKA SCaT--and known by other law enforcement people as the Shit Squad since they took cases that stunk so bad nobody wanted to touch them.

She hustled through the door. The larger than normal room held a long, laminate-topped conference table with wooden chairs surrounding it. She headed for her seat at one end of the table. Along the far wall was a counter and sink with overhead cabinets and drawers below it. A microwave, an automatic coffee maker and a hot water pot graced the fake granite countertop. Behind her chair, corkboard covered one entire wall of the room. Empty now, but during a case morgue photos, a long white banner for the timeline to be sketched on it, and other visual information germane to the case would appear as needed.

Lieutenant Michael Williams, head of the Special Crimes Team, sipped coffee from a mug that said, Today, I shall find good in people--or kill them. Mike’s bitter chocolate face looked relaxed; his dark chocolate eyes happier than she’d ever seen since Governor Marleton had first created the team to catch a gruesome serial killer known as The Avenger.

This past Monday, Dr. Irene Nelson, FBI agent on semi-permanent loan to SCaT, had marched into the Command Center and handed Mike the mug. Then the petite Behavior Analyst--or profiler to use the more popular civilian term--had settled primly on the chair to his left, her deep brown eyes watching his face. Everyone had crowded around to see the cup. On the side opposite from the saying was a caricature of a man with bugged out eyes and hair electrified around his head, holding a steaming mug. Nita wondered about the story behind the gift. With that particular newly-wed couple, it would be a good one. Just no one had drummed up the courage to ask about it, yet.

She had resented the FBI woman when she’d been assigned to SCaT during their first case. A rogue FBI agent had been implicated in the murder of a close friend of Nita’s only months before the arrival of Irene. By the end of The Avenger case, however, she admitted to herself that her prejudice against Irene had no basis in reality. The FBI woman had proven to be an integral part of their team.

The door swung open and she shifted her attention. The rest of the team ambled in with Ronald Arneau--the sole civilian member and the team’s computer guru--rushing in behind them, open laptop in hand, light blue eyes glued to the screen. Longish hair flopped over his forehead in this month’s color--neon pink.

Nita finished the latte, got up and rinsed her travel mug out in the sink on the far side of the room. A sniff at the pot of coffee staying warm convinced her to set her mug in the dish drainer. Mike must’ve made the coffee. She strolled back to her place.

Detective Frederick Albert--the only member on the team who took as much care with his work attire as she did--already seated at the table, raised spring green eyes to her. Good morning, Nita.

She grinned as she looked into his warm caramel face. Good morning, Frederick. She pulled her chair out and settled on it. An unfailingly polite man, the slender detective with the mellow voice had surprised her on several occasions. The first time had been when he’d saved her from bleeding out on top of Mount Baker. Who knew the dandy had been a field medic in the armed forces overseas?

As she popped open the lid of her laptop and powered it on, Detective Maizie O’Hara slid onto her chair and powered on her laptop. Maizie’s blue eyes and wild head of red curls that made her pale, Irish cream skin glow, pegged her as the youngest detective in the room, somewhere in her late-twenties. Making detective at that age spoke well for her dedication and her intelligence.

Nita’s eyes drifted around the room. Officer Driscoll Mulder, an ordinary looking man with plain brown hair and unremarkable brown eyes, slouched further down in his chair along one side of the table. An ever-present red, plastic coffee stirrer jutted from the corner of his mouth. Mike had talked the governor into a relaxed dress code for SCaT, so uniforms were no longer required for officers on the team. Like everything else about the man, Driscoll’s clothing shouted ordinary joe--jeans, a dark button-up shirt and a dark windbreaker-type jacket slung over the back of his chair.

Across the table from Driscoll, Officer Juan Rodriquez presented the opposite picture as he sat up straight in his chair. Neat black hair topped a serious face and alert, dark eyes. He wore a more professional outfit of black slacks and a pale blue, button-up shirt--both were ironed, but not creased like her slacks and those that Frederick wore.

Mike slapped his big-knuckled hands together once--his call to order--and she transferred her full attention to him. Listen up, folks. Low voiced conversations ceased and all eyes turned toward him. Got a heads-up from Governor Marleton last night. Apparently, Seattle and the surrounding areas are having a flare-up of dog fighting.

Why is the governor involved? Nita frowned. The last time the governor had phoned Mike personally, she’d insisted that SCaT drop everything and focus on locating her missing best friend, a hotshot attorney named Ellen Delaney. At first, Nita had wished Governor Marleton would run the state and leave the team to her and Mike, but then the case had blown up into a terrifying mess. She shoved the thoughts away, hoping the governor didn’t have some woo-woo psychic connection that let her know about cases that were about to explode a bloody mess all over Washington State. Not that she believed in woo-woo stuff.

Mike shrugged. The governor loves animals and hates dog fighters.

Before she could demand to know where in the Governor’s Mandate for the Special Crimes Team it said they should investigate rumors of dog fighting, Frederick spoke up, his mellow voice never failing to soothe her. I assume you are unaware that the governor’s family was actively involved in helping to place the Michael Vick dogs? Her brother adopted one of the Pit Bulls that had been seriously injured in Vick’s dog fighting ring.

Rather than admit to ignorance, she glared at his calm face and threw up her hands. Our unit was founded to investigate the worst types of crime--the types that give seasoned cops nightmares-- and to investigate cases that cross jurisdictional lines within the state. Granted, dog fighting is horrible, but does chasing rumors fall within our mandate?

Mike pursed his lips and his face fell into thoughtful lines. Elbows propped on the table top, he tapped his fingertips together. I believe the governor’s request falls within our mandate. The rumors involve several jurisdictions and, as you conceded, dog fighting is a terrible crime.

She shook her head. Rumors aren’t crimes, Mike. We investigate crimes; usually with mutilated, dead bodies attached.

Driscoll shifted the red coffee stirrer from one side of his mouth to the other side and snarked, New name for the team--Rumor Busters; sorta like Ghost Busters, but without an actual sighting.

Irene removed the reading glasses perched on her nose, folded the side pieces and neatly laid them in line with the side of her laptop. The local FBI office feels that the rumors come from sources that are reliable enough to warrant investigation.

Nita fidgeted in her chair. Then let the Feebs investigate. This is more their bailiwick than ours. We have cold cases that we can’t keep putting on the back burner; especially in order to chase rumors.

Though she raised one brow, Irene otherwise appeared unruffled by Nita’s outburst. The FBI has asked the governor to request assistance from the Special Crimes Team.

Just because Nita had come to value Irene didn’t mean she thought well of the Bureau. The Powers-That-Be had caught the rogue agent responsible for Ed’s death a few months ago and placed him in the Witness Protection Program instead of in prison. Her anger at the federal agency flared hot. Hands fisted, she wanted to curse and throw a chair across the room. She fought down the visceral reaction to all things Feeb-related. Jesus H.! They want us to do their job for them.

The lieutenant slapped his hand on the table. Enough discussion. The governor has ordered us to investigate these rumors.

Nita switched her gaze to him, eyes narrowed to slits. Don’t try to shut me down, Mike. Her jaw clenched. I am the second-in-command of this team. I will not be figuratively told to shut up or go to my room.

For a moment, his dark chocolate gaze burned into her hazel eyes then his eyes flicked to the side. He dragged in a slow breath and released it. That was uncalled for. I apologize.

Tension drained from her shoulders as she forced herself to relax in her chair. No prob. I think we need to know why the governor is determined to involve us in this rumor chase. That woman doesn’t do anything without a good reason and I don’t think she’d cave easily to the Feebs demands, she admitted grudgingly.

What about giving assignments to start tomorrow and Irene, you and I will head to Olympia in the morning to ask Governor Marleton that very question? Mike gave her a steady look.

I appreciate you including me, but you and Irene know what my concerns are and the governor relates to the two of you better, especially after I grilled her during the Backlash case. What areas do you need me to cover?

He held her eyes for a long moment then nodded. Sounds workable to me. I’d like you to take the Seattle area. He shifted his attention to Detective O’Hara. Maizie, I want you to team up with Driscoll again. During that last case, you two did a good job.

Maizie blushed as her eyes skipped across the table to Driscoll then back to Mike. Thank you, sir.

I want you to head down to Tacoma and start low-key interviewing of residents. Ronald can MapQuest the areas that are questionable.

Maizie gave a brisk nod of her head. Yes, sir.

Whoopee! We get to chase will-o’-the-wisps, Driscoll folded his arms over his well-developed chest, the coffee stirrer bobbing in the corner of his mouth. At least, they aren’t likely to shoot us.

Mike ignored Driscoll. Frederick, I want you teamed up with Juan. Juan’s familiar with the Sedro Woolley-Concrete area. Ronald will have the areas of interest for you.

Juan glanced at Frederick. They made a good team, Nita thought. Both men were laid back, unfailingly polite, and sharp as a well-honed knife.

Ronald, I want you to contact the University of California at Davis and talk to whoever is in charge of the Canine CODIS.

Ronald’s eyebrows scrunched tight over his eyes as he flipped his longish hair off his forehead. Canine CODIS?

Mike said, It stands for Canine Combined DNA Index System. They’re using it to help identify relationships between dogs. That enables investigators to establish connections between breeders, trainers, dog fighting operators, and confiscated dogs. We want to know if they have anything in their system that connects to Washington State. He glanced around the room. Any other questions? When no one spoke, he clapped his hands once. Okay, folks, get out there and shake some trees until something falls out.

Chapter 3

Dawn Samira pulled her long blonde hair back and tied it out of the way with a rubber band. Not many months earlier, an arsonist had attempted to burn down Nita’s and her house. The living room furnishings and the beautiful hardwood floor had been dowsed in accelerant, like a condiment for the hungry fire. The old plaster and lathe walls had slowed the fire long enough for fire fighters to arrive and quell the blaze before it spread up the open staircase to the second floor. Only six stairs had suffered destruction.

The old trunk that Molly the Pack Lady--a homeless, black artist--had willed to Nita caught Dawn’s eye. A new piece of thick glass balanced on its back, giving it the look of an unusual bug and turning the antique into a coffee table. The trunk, with a few black streaks marring its sides, hunched in front of a couple of big cushions they’d discovered at Secondhand Sally’s Thrift Shoppe and had used for chairs until they completed the remodel.

Molly’s trunk had survived the fire intact--the only piece of furniture in the living room unharmed by the blaze. Inside the trunk, sketchpads of Molly’s art sported nothing more dire than a few of the page edges browned by the heat. A cedar wood box containing a Native American artifact had been tucked between the sketchpads about halfway down in the trunk. The wood box had not been touched by the fire or dried out by the intense heat.

The ancient artifact had protected itself. She couldn’t believe that Nita still refused to acknowledge the power it held. Instead, she’d insisted that the trunk’s survival had been a fluke. Stubborn woman! The very tenacity that she admired in her lover also drove Dawn crazy. Nita would accept the truth eventually, but until then pushing at her would be equivalent to pushing against a mountain and expecting it to move.

Grandma Greene had more hope of helping Nita to come to terms with her Native American heritage than anyone else. At least, Nita had begun meeting with Grandma Greene once a week to explore what the elder witch knew.

She shifted her gaze to the front windows. She missed the old-fashioned multi-paned windows that had shattered from the heat. Even though they’d been single pane and caused the heating bill to sky-rocket, she’d loved the history in each small square of glass--like the plaster and lathe walls, now replaced with tongue-and-groove white pine boards that had yet to absorb years of stories. Over a hundred years of laughter and tears had soaked into those old walls. She sighed, dropped her hands to her sides and headed to the kitchen.

At least, they’d gotten new kitchen appliances out of the fire. She loved the stainless steel finish on the stove and refrigerator as well as the new washer and dryer in the adjoining laundry room; however, she sorely missed the antique farm table she and Nita had found at an estate sale right after they’d moved here from Nita’s city apartment.

Why must so many things change under the heat of violence?

The real target of the arsonist had been Nita. Dawn had been away the night the fire started. Fortunately, Nita had awakened in time to escape being incapacitated by smoke inhalation. Dawn shivered at how close she’d come to losing her fiancée. I won’t think about it. It’s over. She’s okay.

She wandered over to the kitchen counter and started a pot of coffee. While that made, she phoned Elegance and More furniture store in Seattle to see if the delivery van had left yet. Last weekend, Nita and she had picked out new living room furniture, soft leather in earth tones. She hung up with a smile. The van should arrive within the next couple of hours, depending on traffic. Once those pieces were in place, the remodel would be complete.

A surge of happiness flowed through her. Though she had loved their house before the fire, all of this remodeling had made it more their creation. Maybe they should celebrate? A quiet dinner at Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse in downtown Seattle sounded good. She dug her phone from her pocket and called to make reservations for Friday evening. She’d ride into town with Nita in the morning and do a bit of shopping before their dinner date. She’d even make sure Nita arrived at SCaT on time for morning briefing.

****

Friday morning’s pastel blue sky put a happy bounce in Dawn’s steps as she made her way from the parking garage to Pike Place Market. The warm spring morning had drawn even more shoppers and tourists to the local landmark than usual. The popular farmer’s market combined boutiques, shops, stalls, sidewalk eateries and ice cream stands. Fresh fish lay on open beds of crushed ice alongside a variety of shellfish. Next to the fish, produce stands bragged of stacks of flat cactus leaves—Nopales-- resting close to a tumble of red apples; bananas stacked side-by-side to slender, purplish bunches of Yardlong. The Southeast Asian vegetable looked like an overgrown green bean. Buskers played guitars and violins and one old man played tin cans and toilet paper rolls. A six-foot long didgeridoo, a cylindrical wooden pipe painted in gay swirls of color, swooped from one man’s mouth to rest its flared end on the pavement.

After a stop at the tea and herb shop, the canvas shopping bags weighed heavy on her shoulders and she turned away from the sights to make her way up the hill to the parking garage. While there she retrieved a couple of empty bags and stuffed them in her huge canvas shoulder bag, just in case. Back outside of the concrete layers, she lifted her face to the gentle sunshine.

Life had finally settled down. Nita and her team had been working cold cases, and those usually didn’t result in fresh bodies. Last night, Nita had announced that the governor wanted SCaT to investigate rumors of dog fighting. Dog fighting almost always involved some level of organized crime.

With a hard mental shove, she disengaged from the worrisome thought. She’d grab the peace they now had, savor it hour-by-hour and push away the knowledge of how quickly lives could be shattered by bullets and knives. Today was no time for morbid memories. Picking a random tune, she began humming as she followed the brick road back to the heart of Pike Place Market.

The crowd ebbed and flowed around her. For a moment she caught sight of the street kid, Soda. When the crowd thinned once again, she watched the girl swipe an apple from one of the produce stands. Once Soda cleared the vendor and melted into the crowd, Dawn struck out in her direction. The noise of the lively street camouflaged her footsteps and drowned out her voice. When she placed a hand on the girl’s thin shoulder, Soda jerked away and started to run.

Soda! She put some force behind her words. Soda! It’s me, Dawn.

The girl’s long chestnut hair swung around her thin face as she threw a look over her shoulder. Her shoulders slumped with obvious relief as she ambled back. Darn it, woman, don’t scare me like that.

She noted the teen’s ragged jeans and the stained T-shirt that showed from beneath a faded navy blue hoodie as she pulled her into a hug. Wouldn’t have scared you, if you hadn’t just light-fingered an apple. The teen’s shoulder blades were painfully obvious through her clothes.

Soda sank into the hug for a moment before she stepped away. I thought you lived out in the country. What’re you doing down here in the dirty, noisy city?

Arm linked with Soda’s, she shot the teen a smile. Right now, I’m looking for food. Hungry?

Partially eaten apple held face-high, Soda quipped, How’d you guess?

You like Ivar’s fish?

The light laugh that tumbled from the girl erased the harshness of street life from her face for a moment. As my mom used to say--only as much as kittens like milk.

As they strolled toward the popular fish stand, the fishy smell of Puget Sound drifted to them on an intermittent breeze. She openly eyed Soda’s clothes. I thought you were going to stay in that foster home until you finished high schooI.

A blank wall slammed over the teen’s features. I would’ve, except... A slight shrug finished the unspoken thought.

Needing to know for sure, she prodded gently, Except?

What I should’ve expected, that’s all.