Bad Love (3 page)

Dr. Delaware’s Black Museum.

My heart was still chopping away. The screams and chants replayed themselves in my mind.

The house felt too empty. Robin was not due back from Oakland till Thursday.

At least she hadn’t been home to hear it.

Old protective instincts.

During our years together I’d worked hard at shielding her from the uglier aspects of my work. Eventually, I realized I’d erected the barrier higher than it needed to be and had been trying to let her in more.

But not this. No need for her to hear this.

I sank lower into my desk chair, wondering what the damned thing meant.

Bad love . . . what should I do about it?

A sick joke?

The child’s voice . . .

Bad love . . 
. I knew I’d heard the phrase before. I repeated it out loud, trying to trigger a memory. But the words just hovered, chattering like bats.

A psychological phrase? Something out of a textbook?

It did have a psychoanalytic ring.

Why had the tape been sent to
me
?

Stupid question. I’d never been able to answer it for anyone else.

Bad love . . . most likely something orthodox Freudian. Melanie Klein had theorized about good breasts and bad breasts — perhaps there was someone out there with a sick sense of humor and a side interest in neo-Freudian theory.

I went to my bookshelves, pulled out a dictionary of psychological terms. Nothing. Tried lots of other books, scanning indexes.

Not a clue.

I returned to the desk.

A former patient taunting me for services poorly rendered?

Or something more recent — Donald Dell Wallace, festering up in Folsom, seeing me as his enemy and trying to play with my head?

His attorney, a dimwit named Sherman Bucklear, had called me several times before I’d seen the girls, trying to convince me his client was a devoted father.

“It was Ruthanne neglected them, Doctor. Whatever else Donald Dell did, he cared about them.”

“How was he on child support?”

“Times are rough. He did the best he could — does that prejudice you, Doctor?”

“I haven’t formed an opinion yet, Mr. Bucklear.”

“No, of course not. No one’s saying you should. The question is, are you willing to form one at all or do you have your mind made up just because of what Donald Dell did?”

“I’ll spend time with the girls. Then I’ll form my opinion.”

“ ’Cause there’s a lot of potential for prejudice against my client.”

“Because he murdered his wife?”

“That’s exactly what I mean, Doctor — you know, I can always bring in my own experts.”

“Feel free.”

“I feel very free, Doctor. This is a free country. You’d do well to remember that.”

Other experts. Was this bit of craziness an attempt to intimidate me so that I’d drop out of the case and clear the way for Bucklear’s hired guns? Donald Dell’s gang, the Iron Priests, had a history of bullying rivals in the meth trade, but I still didn’t see it. How could anyone assume I’d make a connection between screams and chants and two little girls?

Unless this was only the first step in a campaign of intimidation. Even so, it was almost clownishly heavyhanded.

Then again, Donald Dell’s leaving his ID at the murder scene didn’t indicate finesse.

I’d consult an expert of my own. Dialing the West L.A. police station, I was connected to Robbery-Homicide, where I asked for Detective Sturgis.

Milo was out of the office — no big surprise. He’d endured a demotion and six months’ unpaid suspension for breaking the jaw of a homophobic lieutenant who’d put his life in danger, then a butt-numbing year as a computer clerk at Parker Center. The department had hoped inertia would finally drive him into disability retirement; the LAPD still denied the existence of gay cops, and Milo’s very presence was an assault upon that ostrich logic. But he’d stuck it out and finally gotten back into active service as a Detective II. Back on the streets now, he was making the most of it.

“Any word when he’ll be back?” I asked the detective who answered.

“Nope,” he said, sounding put upon.

I left my name. He said, “Uh-huh,” and hung up.

I decided nothing further could be gained by worrying, changed into a T-shirt, shorts, and sneakers, and trotted out the front door, ready for a half-hour run, knees be damned.

Bounding down the steps, I jogged across the motor court, passing the spot where Evelyn Rodriguez’s car had leaked oil. Just as I rounded the eugenia hedge that blocked my house from the old bridle path winding above the Glen, something stepped in front of me and stopped.

And stared.

A dog, but I’d never seen one like it.

Small dog — about a foot high, maybe twice that in length. Short, black coat brindled with yellow hairs. A lot of muscle crammed into the compact package; its body bulged and gleamed in the sunlight. It had thick legs, a bull neck, a barrel chest, and a tight, tucked-in belly. Its head was disproportionately wide and square, its face flat, deeply wrinkled, and pendulously jowled.

Somewhere between frog, monkey, and extraterrestrial.

A strand of drool dangled from its flews.

It continued to look me straight in the eye, arching forward, as if ready to spring. Its tail was an inch of stub. Male. Neutered.

I stared back. He snorted and yawned, showing big, sharp, white teeth. A banana-sized tongue curled upward and licked meaty lips.

A diamond of white hair in the center of his chest throbbed with cardiac excitement. Around his beefy neck was a nailhead-studded collar, but no tag.

“Hi, fella.”

His eyes were light brown and unmoving. I thought I detected a softness that contradicted the fighter’s stance.

Another yawn. Purple maw. He panted faster and remained rooted in place.

Some kind of bulldog or mini-mastiff. From the crust around his eyes and the heaving of his chest, the early autumn heat wasn’t doing him any good. Not a pug — considerably bigger than a pug, and the ears stood upright, like those of a Boston terrier — in fact, he looked a bit like a Boston. But shorter and a lot heavier — a Boston on steroids.

An exotic dwarf fighter bred to go for the kneecaps, or a pup that would turn massive?

He yawned again and snorted harshly.

We continued to face off.

A bird chirped.

The dog cocked his head toward the sound for half a second, then peered back at me. His eyes were preternaturally alert, almost human.

He licked his lips. The drool strand stretched, broke, and fell to the pavement.

Pant, pant, pant.

“Thirsty?”

No movement.

“Friend or foe?”

Another display of teeth that seemed more smile than snarl, but who knew?

Another moment of standoff, then I decided letting something this pint-sized obstruct me was ridiculous. Even with the bulk, he couldn’t weigh more than twenty or twenty-five pounds. If he did attack, I could probably punt-kick him onto the Glen.

I took a step forward, then another.

The dog came toward me deliberately, head lowered, muscles meshing, in a rolling, pantherish gait. Wheezing.

I stopped. He kept going.

I lifted my hands out of mouth range, suddenly aware of my exposed legs.

He came up to me. Up to my legs. Rubbed his head against my shin.

His face felt like hot suede. Too hot and dry for canine health.

I reached down and touched his head. He snorted and panted faster, letting his tongue loll. I lowered my hand slowly and dangled it, receiving a long lick on the palm. But my skin remained bone dry.

The pants had turned into unhealthy-sounding clicks.

He tremored for a second, then worked his tongue over his arid face.

I kneeled and patted his head again, feeling a flat plate of thick, ridged bone beneath the glossy coat. He looked up at me with a bulldog’s sad-clown dignity. The crust around his eyes looked calcified. The folds of his face were encrusted, too.

The nearest water source was the garden-hose outlet near the pond. I stood and gestured toward it.

“Come on, buster — hydration.”

The dog strained but stayed in place, head cocked, letting out raspy breaths that grew faster and faster and began to sound labored. I thought I saw his front legs quaver.

I began walking to the garden. Heard soft pads and looked behind me to see him following a few paces behind. Keeping to the left — a trained heeler?

But as I opened the gate to the pond, he hung back, remaining well outside the fence.

I went in. The pond water was greening due to the heat, but still clear. The koi were circling lazily. A couple of them saw me and approached the rim for feeding — babies who’d survived the surprise spawn of two summers ago. Most were over a foot long now. A few were colored brilliantly.

The dog just stood there, nose pointed at the water, suffering.

“Come on, pal.” I picked up the hose.

Nothing.

Uncoiling a couple of feet, I opened the valve. The rubber hummed between my fingers.

“C’mere. H
₂
O.”

The dog stared through the gateway, panting, gasping, legs bowed with fatigue. But he didn’t budge.

“C’mon, what’s the problem, sport? Some kind of phobia, or don’t you like seafood?”

Blink. He stayed in place. Swayed a bit.

The hose began to dribble. I dragged it out the gate, sprinkling plants as I walked.

The dog stood his ground until the water was an inch from his fleshy mouth. Then he craned his neck and began lapping. Then gulping. Then bathing in it, shaking his head and showering me before opening his maw and heading in for more.

Long time since the last tipple.

He shook and sprayed me again, turned his head away from the water, and sat.

When I returned from replacing the hose, he was still there, settled on his ample haunches.

“What now?” I said.

He ambled up to me, jauntily, a bit of roll in his stride. Putting his head against my leg, he kept it there.

I rubbed him behind the ears and his body went loose. He stayed relaxed as I used my handkerchief to wipe the crust from his face. When I was through, he let out a grumble of contentment.

“You’re welcome.”

He put his head against my leg once more, blowing out breath as I petted.

What a morning. I sighed.

He snorted. A reply?

I tried it again, sighing audibly. The dog produced an adenoidal grunt.

“A conversationalist,” I said. “Someone talks to you, don’t they? Someone cares about you.”

Grunt.

“How’d you get here?”

Grumble.

My voice was loud against the quiet of the Glen, harsh counterpoint to the flow of the waterfall.

Nut mail and talking to a dog. This is what it’s come to, Delaware.

The dog gazed up at me with a look I was willing to classify as friendship.

You take what you can get.

He watched as I pulled the Seville out of the carport, and when I opened the passenger door, he jumped in as if he owned the vehicle. For the next hour and a half, he looked out the window as I drove around the canyon, watching for
LOST DOG
posters on trees and talking to neighbors I’d never met. No one belonged to him and no one recognized him, though the checkout girl at the Beverly Glen Market opined that he was “a little stud,” and several other shoppers concurred.

While I was there, I bought a few groceries and a small bag of kibble. When I got home, the dog bounced up the stairs after me and watched as I unloaded the staples. I poured the kibble into a bowl and set it on the kitchen floor, along with another bowl of water. The dog ignored it, choosing instead to station himself in front of the refrigerator door.

I moistened the kibble but that had no effect. This time the stubby tail was wagging.

I pointed to the bowl.

The dog began nudging the fridge door and looking up at me. I opened the door and he tried to stick his head in. Restraining him by the collar, I scrounged and found some leftover meatloaf.

The dog jumped away from my grasp, leaping nearly to my waist.

“A gourmet, huh?”

I crumbled some meatloaf into the kibble and mixed it with my fingers. The dog was snarfing before my hand was free, coating my fingers with a slick layer of drool.

I watched him feast. When he finished, he cocked his head, stared at me for a moment, then walked toward the back of the kitchen, circling and sniffing the floor.

“What now? Sorbet to clean your palate?”

He circled some more, walked to the service porch door, and began butting and scratching at the lower panel.

“Ah,” I said, bounding up. I unlatched the door and he zipped out. I watched him race down the stairs and find a soft, shaded spot near a juniper bush before lifting his leg.

He climbed back up, looking content and dignified.

“Thank you,” I said.

He stared at me until I petted him, then trailed me into the dining room, settling next to my leg, frog face lifted expectantly. I scratched him under his chin and he promptly flipped onto his back, paws upright.

I scratched his belly and he let out a long, low, phlegmy moan. When I tried to stop, one paw pressed down on my hand and bade me continue.

Finally he turned back on his belly and fell asleep, snoring, jowls shaking like mudflaps.

“Someone’s got to be looking for you.”

I slid the morning paper across the table. Plenty of lost-dog ads in the classifieds, but none of the animals remotely matched the creature stretched out on the floor.

I got animal control’s number from information and told the woman who answered it what I’d found.

“He sounds cute,” she said.

“Any idea what he is?”

“Not offhand — could be some kind of bulldog, I guess. Maybe a mix.”

“What should I do with him?”

“Well,” she said, “the law says you have to try to return him. You could bring him in and leave him with us, but we’re pretty crowded and I can’t honestly tell you he’ll get anything more than basic care.”