Bloodlines (26 page)

I could feel my face fall. “Kevin, if you knew that …? Look, maybe you don’t get it, because you don’t see where the big profits are. A guy like Rinehart, a broker, probably only pays around forty dollars for a cocker puppy, and in theory, according to the law, he’s supposed to keep the puppy for a minimum of twenty-four hours, I think, but the USDA isn’t the world’s greatest enforcement agency. In fact, it’s probably the worst. So, say Rinehart pays forty and sells for one-fifty,
he’s made a hundred and ten, okay? And he’s had a really quick turnover. Maybe it costs him five or ten dollars to have the puppy picked up and another five or ten to have the puppy delivered, plus he pays some vet to sign some papers, but his profit is tremendous, and it’s quick, and it’s not a lot of work, either.”

Kevin looked damp and stolid.

I went on. “The point is that Simms is using Rinehart’s setup to cut into Rinehart’s profits. Simms isn’t trying to do in Rinehart’s business, because he can’t. A pet shop needs a reliable source of a whole lot of different breeds, and the only way to get that is through a broker. Simms is small-time. He can’t compete with a broker. What Simms is doing, really, is just supplementing his own income at Rinehart’s expense. Simms runs a puppy mill, and, other than that, he’s just a delivery boy. He’s using Rinehart’s van and his whole organization, including whatever vet Rinehart’s bought off, to deliver to Rinehart’s customers.”

Kevin ambled to the refrigerator, got a beer, popped it open, and upended it over his mouth. When he lowered it, he said, “We cops aren’t the brightest people in Cambridge, of course, but we can manage simple arithmetic. Course, we have to count on our fingers and all that, but …” He sank back into his chair.

“So have you talked to Rinehart? Because, you know, in a way, Diane Sweet was cheating him, too. So is Janice Coakley, if you want to look at it that way. For all I know, maybe Rinehart found out, and he decided to make an example of her, of Diane Sweet. Or else maybe … Kevin, I wondered if Diane Sweet could have told Rinehart?”

Kevin gave a strange, knowing grin. “Joe Rinehart catches a guy sticking his hand in the till, and …” He zipped a beefy thumb across his throat and made a gruesome sound. “And why would Diane blow the whistle on Simms? Simms was her boyfriend. And if he hadn’t been? She blew the whistle, she’d’ve ended up paying more than she already did.” Kevin looked down at the
pages spread on the table. “Now you feel like telling me how you got hold of these?”

“No,” I said. “Kevin, the other thing is … Someone suggested to me that Walter Simms might have the same thing going with Janice Coakley that he did with Diane.” I paused. “Or maybe just that Janice wishes he did.”

Kevin finally perked up. “Where’d you hear this?”

“From someone who couldn’t possibly know about Diane and Simms. Interesting, huh?”

Kevin’s blue eyes go slightly out of focus when he’s mulling something over. Eventually he said, “Yeah, but she did call her Sunday night. Janice called Diane. Phone company says so and—”

“Or
someone
called?”

“Janice did. Answering machine was on at Puppy Luv. Machine picked up, and then Diane did. What’s on the tape is just her saying hello and Janice saying it’s her, and then Diane turned the machine off.”

“What time was this?”

“Ten after ten. Call lasted two minutes.”

“Does Janice say why she called Diane?”

“Checking in. Women do that.” I let that pass. Kevin continued. “She knew Diane’d be working, and she called her up to give her a little break.”

“For two minutes?”

“Diane said she was busy and she’d call her tomorrow.”

“Kevin, does Janice inherit anything from Diane? Did Diane leave her—?”

“One opal ring, belonged to their grandmother. Maximum value maybe a hundred bucks. And something like a sixteenth of an interest in a cottage on Lake Winnipesaukee. One of those family messes where it got left to everyone, and now no one knows who owns what.”

“Those things cause a lot of family fights,” I said. “Did—?”

“Yeah, but Janice and Diane were on the same side, and they couldn’t’ve sold their shares, anyway.”

“Oh.” I thought for a second. “Kevin, if there’s an answering machine at Puppy Luv, then … Her husband says he kept trying to call her, right? Did he leave any messages?”

“She didn’t turn it back on. After she talked to Janice, she must’ve forgot. People do that all the time.”

“Huh. Do you still think maybe the husband—What’s his name?”

“John. Could he’ve gone there? Yeah. Is he strong enough? Human gorilla. Did he know about her and Simms? He’d’ve had to have been pretty dumb not to know. But you talk to him, and that’s how he hits you, big and dumb. If he’d’ve known, would he give a damn? Show me the guy that wouldn’t. We told him, real gentle, and all’s he says is that she was raped. And he gets all broken up, and then he starts asking when we’re going to get out so’s he can open up again.”

“Kevin, what about the stuff you sent to the lab? And the autopsy?”

Kevin tilted his chair and teetered on the back legs. “Well, let’s see,” he said. “For dinner she had an eggplant sub and potato chips. She’d had her appendix out. She wasn’t pregnant.”

“That’s all really helpful,” I said. “Look. Janice and Diane were business rivals, okay? Look at their ads sometime. They competed for business. And maybe they also competed for Simms. He left Janice’s, drove to Diane’s. Janice called Diane, and Diane said she was busy. They hung up at twelve minutes after ten? It takes maybe forty minutes, give or take, to get from Westbrook to Cambridge. Late on a Sunday evening, maybe less. So when was Diane murdered? What time did she die?”

“Body temperature, stomach contents, doesn’t mean a thing,” Kevin said dismally. “You been watching too much TV.”

“Right,” I said. “The Westminster Kennel Club
Dog Show. All the latest news in forensic science. What time did she die?”

“After the last time she was known to be alive. Before she was found dead. Hey, no joke. This is what they tell us.”

“Don’t they even give you a guess?”

“Ten-thirty, eleven, eleven-thirty. Give or take.”

“Then Janice had time. Where does she say she was?”

“Home, like everybody else. Where were you Sunday at eleven?”

“Home.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

Kevin looked as discouraged as I felt. Kevin, though, is a good cop. He really gave a damn about who murdered Diane Sweet. John Sweet? Joe Rinehart? Walter Simms? Janice Coakley?
Prove they conspired
, I thought.
Lock them all up for life.

When Kevin left, I idly gathered up the three photocopied pages, crumpled them into one ball, and aimed at the kitchen wastebasket. After all the practice I’ve had in tossing obedience dumbbells, I should be Larry Bird, but I missed. When the ball of paper hit the floor, Rowdy and Kimi looked, twitched their ears, and decided that it wasn’t worth retrieving. They were right, of course. Even so, I picked it up, separated the pages, and took them to my study.

Imagine a dog writer’s study, and you’ll see mine. You’d never guess that I do most of my writing at the kitchen table. The study is hot in the summer and cold in the winter, and in the spring and fall, it’s either freezing or sweltering, but, as I’ve said, it looks perfect. Framed pictures of dogs and certificates of titles cover the walls. Match, trial, and show ribbons flutter from the frames. Tacked to a big bulletin board by my desk are scads of dog photos mailed to me by people who read my column. Danny and Vinnie’s trophies rest on top of the bookcases, and the shelves below are jammed with thesauruses, style manuals, and books on obedience training, breed handling, grooming, veterinary care, the history of the genus
canis;
issues of
Dog’s Life
, the
Gazette, DOGworld, Dog Fancy, Off-Lead, Front
& Finish
, and the six or eight canine newsletters I receive every month; the complete works of Jack London; histories and first-person accounts of the Byrd expeditions; and everything ever written about the Alaskan malamute. The filing cabinets by the desk support an unabridged dictionary and the diehard Okidata printer that’s cabled to a PC so old that if computers were licensed, mine would wear antique plates. The computer rests on the desk facing the window.

I dropped the wrinkled pages on top of the pile of new magazines, unfinished work, and to-be-filed papers that covered the keyboard. My hand-scrawled draft of the article on Sally Brand half-covered the USDA booklet of licensed puppy mills and brokers. Missy’s pedigree rested on the latest issue of the
Gazette—Pure-Bred Dogs/American Kennel Gazette
, the official publication of the American Kennel Club. I felt sad and bitter. I’d been crazy about the whole idea of tattooed dog portraits. The article now hit me as shameful and frivolous, especially the stupid, cutesy title: “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.” In Kansas alone, there were three thousand nine hundred twenty-seven USDA-licensed puppy mills and at least as many more that were unlicensed. And what was I doing? Making corny word plays about ink, dogs, and love.

What was the AKC doing? Accepting fees: litter registration fees, individual dog registration fees, and miscellaneous other fees from USDA-licensed Class A and Class A dealers and from almost any other puppy mill operator or broker who mailed in a check, too. The AKC litter registration fee? Fifteen dollars. According to most estimates, puppy mills annually produce and register about one hundred thousand litters. In litter registrations alone, that’s an income of one million five hundred thousand dollars a year. My God—I was raised to believe that His earthly address was 51 Madison Avenue, New York, New York, AKC headquarters. And what was my Vatican doing about the thousands of Joe
Rineharts and Bill Coakleys in this country? About the Puppy Luvs and the clones of Your Local Breeder?

What was the worst that the AKC would—or even
could
—do to Walter Simms? I flipped to the Secretary’s Page of the
Gazette
and scanned the notices. A man in Virginia had been fined five hundred dollars and had his AKC privileges suspended for five years because a county court had convicted him of animal cruelty charges. A woman in Missouri had received the same fine and temporary suspension for failing to comply with the record-keeping and identification requirements of Chapter 3A of the Rules Applying to Registration and Dog Shows. If I managed somehow to get the AKC to inspect Simms’s records? The AKC isn’t even allowed to make unannounced inspections. Simms would be warned, and by the time the AKC got there, his paperwork might meet the damned requirements. The AKC inspector could report the filthy conditions to the local authorities, of course, and Mrs. Appleyard might finally be able to get some action going, but the process could take months or, for all I knew, years. And then? If Walter Simms lost the privilege of registering dogs in his own name, he’d register them to Cheryl or to Joe Rinehart or to any friend or relative who happened to be handy. If Simms were convicted of animal cruelty? He’d pay a small fine, maybe even go to jail for a few months, and then he’d be back in mass-market dogs again.

I picked up the USDA list of licensed dealers and tried to fit it on the crowded shelf of loose material where it belonged. I couldn’t get it all the way in, and when I yanked at it, a pile of odds and ends tumbled to the floor. I knelt down and started to tidy up the spilled miscellany: an extra copy of the AKC obedience regulations, a pamphlet on how to play Frisbee with your dog, a photo of Kimi and my cousin Leah the day they earned their third Novice leg, a pamphlet called “You and Your New Puppy,” a few dozen premium lists and entry blanks for long-past shows and trials, a flier about
the United Kennel Club, and a handful of Christmas cards I’d saved.

I sat on the floor and leafed through the cards. Most showed photos of people’s dogs, but the one that caught my eye had a black-and-white drawing of a malamute under a Christmas tree. Clasped between his paws was a torn-open present, a package of dog biscuits. He held one in his mouth. A tag on the present showed the name of the dog, Cody. He’s real. He was rescued by the Illinois Alaskan Malamute Rescue Association, which sold the cards to raise funds. I opened the card and read the message:
Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with us.
The temperature of the hard wooden floor under me seemed to drop ten degrees.

With
us
, right? Not with Kevin Dennehy and the Cambridge Police Department. Not with the American Kennel Club. Not with the United States Department of Agriculture, Jane M. Appleyard, the Eleanor J. Colley Humane Society, or the citizens of Afton. And
let it begin?
From the beginning, instead of restoring peace to Missy and to myself, I’d tried to find people to do it for me. Let Kevin take advantage of a brutal murder to arrest Rinehart, Simms, Janice Coakley, and everyone else involved in the evil enterprise of mass-producing dogs. Let the AKC and the USDA close the bastards down. Let the humane society and the local citizenry raise an outcry that would rouse the authorities to action.