Double Dog Dare (10 page)

On the other hand, if he had seen Jeff lurking, he surely would have told me by now, wouldn’t he? Or even the cops, since he knew Jeff was missing.

But . . . could Tom have somehow been involved in Jeff’s disappearance?

The sudden suspicion nearly pulled me to my feet. That would be one sound reason Tom wouldn’t mention seeing Jeff prying around The Clone Arranger.

But he would hardly admit it to me, would he?

“Is something wrong, Kendra?”

Obviously my unexpected mistrust must be showing on my face, so I did my utmost to eradicate it. “Something just passed through my mind,” I admitted with absolutely no intention of informing him exactly what it was. “The ethics of the whole thing. I mean, some people believe cloning is sinful, and even if one has no religious hesitations, what if the technique can be used to clone people? Do you believe that’s okay?”

This time both his shoulders lifted under his snug white shirt. “I’m a doctor, Kendra. I come from a scientific background. I guess one could say, even if religious, that if the deity in charge didn’t like cloning, he wouldn’t allow mankind to discover how to do it.” Hadn’t Lois said something similar, but from her own theological leanings? “And duplicating people has the same drawbacks as duplicating animals. Plus, there are already so many other ways of conceiving children these days besides the tried, true—and fun, by the way—method.”

He gave me a big wink that would have turned my insides suddenly steamy if I was allowing myself to think sex in this man’s presence—which I absolutely wasn’t.

“Ethical?” he continued. “Heck, I don’t know. But I’m all for scientists’ rights to experiment, and to profit from their successes, too. How about you?”

“Let me get back to you on that. But you’ve certainly piqued my curiosity. I’d like to know all the additional stuff about the scientists at The Clone Arranger and what they do. How did that poor man Earl interface with them? In fact, tell me how their whole system works. It sounds fascinating.”

Tom took a sip of coffee and stared at his foam cup, as if attempting to ascertain if the answers he sought were written within the design of the coffee company’s logo.

“You know”—he looked up at me, some confusion in his eyes—“I perform exams and even do quality control for the company’s animal care. But I really can’t say how the whole thing functions. All I know is that they promote their services a lot to people who could become their customers. People who want pets cloned come to the facility to have animals evaluated to determine whether they’re good cloning candidates. If they are, those animals stay for a few nights while DNA is removed and preserved in the manner proprietary to The Clone Arranger, whatever it is. They made it abundantly clear I shouldn’t pry into it, no matter how interested I might be. You’re a lawyer, so you’d understand. They made me sign one heck of a confidentiality agreement.”

“Not surprising,” I said soothingly, wondering, at the same time, who might have drafted it—and how ironclad it really was.

Could I convince Tom to tell me more? As a vet, he had a scientific background. That had to include deep interest in all things arguably along that line. Consequently, I assumed he’d been as nosy as me and examined all information hidden within company computers or otherwise, just to satisfy his own curiosity.

“Anyway, after that proprietary magic is performed, the animals go home,” Tom continued. “In whatever time frame it takes, the client is either told to expect a new baby similar to the existing pet or informed it didn’t work this time.”

“And how did those whose clonings failed generally react? ”

“Don’t know.” Tom shook his head. “I’m seldom there when the pets’ owners drop them off or visit, and I check them over in the clinic area.”

“Then tell me something about the people who work for The Clone Arranger.”

He peered at me in a manner that suggested I was stoking the curiosity I was certain he had. “Why are you asking so many questions, Kendra? Are you seriously thinking about looking into Earl’s death for me?”

My turn to move a shoulder beneath my pretty pink print blouse—not nearly as wide as Tom’s or as decisive in its shrug. “I’ve gotten involved before for friends, and I consider you a good friend,” I said with as winsome a smile as I could muster. And hoped I wasn’t laying it on too thick. Or kicking him vicariously in his most treasured parts, by referring to him as a friend instead of a potential lover. Even though he should know and accept that by now.

“But I thought your interest was generally in clearing people you considered unjustly accused of murder,” he responded.

He was absolutely accurate. I’d gone into my own investigation of murder cases mostly because I didn’t believe the suspects the cops had zeroed in on were the real perpetrators—any more than
I’d
been a few months back when accused of a couple of intentional killings.

In actuality, that was my main interest in this case, too. Well, one of them. I’d adore proving that Lois Terrone was innocent, because of her motherlike relationship to Jeff.

And if my inquiry ferreted out what Jeff had been up to in his investigation of The Clone Arranger for Lois’s sake, and that somehow assisted in locating Jeff himself— alive, of course—then I would come out of this situation ecstatic.

But all that was for me to know and Tom never to learn.

“That’s how it’s been up to now,” I acknowledged, sipping my latte as I determined how best to finesse my explanation. “But I’ve always stood for digging up the truth. This time, you’ve gotten me interested because of your relationship with The Clone Arranger and Earl Knox. I’m sure the authorities have unearthed evidence against that woman who seems key to their investigation, according to the news. And maybe it was her. If I dig in and nose around”—an image that brought Pansy the potbellied pig to mind—“I won’t want to get in the cops’ way, anyway. Maybe I’ll be able to assist them. Or not, if I discover evidence to the contrary. But I’m not working on exonerating any friends or acquaintances at this moment, and though I enjoy the practice of law, it’s less exciting these days if I’m not investigating a murder.” Not! But that sure sounded good, even to me, along with all the other lies. “So, tell me the cast of characters at The Clone Arranger, and then I’ll see what strands I can pull together to find out who determined Earl’s fate.”

I all but batted my eyelashes. Too much? So I feared at first.

But Tom soon spilled a bunch of data he’d amassed in his mind about the personnel affiliated with this incredible cloning outfit. I took copious notes on the pad I always, as a listophile and lawyer, carried in my large purse.

A SHORT WHILE later, I sat in my rental car going over my jottings, with Lexie riding shotgun and Odin resting in the rear. I’d get Althea to confirm what she could online— which, knowing her, meant everything and then some. Besides, bits of this info might be legitimately posted on The Clone Arranger’s website.

And whatever wasn’t, Althea would know how to nose it out.

But would it help find out what had happened to Jeff? That wasn’t something even the best hacker—namely, Althea—could guarantee.

I bit back my sudden resumed fear and sorrow and went over the names Tom had proffered. I’d already met The Clone Arranger’s CEO, Mason Payne. Other company officers Tom had met included Mason’s sister, Debby Payne, as well as the chief public relations person, Wally Yance, and a top cloning scientist, Melba Slabach—or at least I imagined that was how to spell the name Tom spit out.

And then there was the mysterious poison that had been used to dispose of Earl. Could Althea learn what it was by hacking into some of her favorite official sites? I jotted that down, too, then closed my notebook and stuck the key into the ignition. . . .

Which was when I noticed the Escalade just passing me on the road.

Not a big black one, as Jeff’s had been, but gold. There were probably plenty, especially in L.A.

But I got a glimpse of the guy driving it. He sat tall in the driver’s seat, as Jeff did. He had light brown hair and big shoulders, and he wore sunglasses, so I couldn’t get a glimpse of the angularity of his face.

Yet he sure as hell resembled Jeff. And as he drove away, I found myself following.

Chapter Eight

IT TOOK A couple of turns and a red light before I could maneuver the car up close and personal enough to get a good look at the guy.

Just because he had similar features and posture didn’t mean he was Jeff.

Just because he was in an Escalade didn’t mean he was Jeff. In fact, no way could this be Jeff’s Escalade.

And what would Jeff be doing way out here, in Tarzana, near a coffee shop not far from Tom Venson’s veterinary clinic?

Hell if I knew. But just in case, squirrelly as it seemed, I had to see for myself if this could be my missing lover.

At the traffic light, I looked, sideways and up, at the guy. He looked down, still wearing his shades. And smiled as if he thought I was flirting with him, the egotistical SOB.

Which revealed a row of teeth smaller, yellower, and more irregular than Jeff’s, planted behind much skinnier and less sexy lips. Plus, the hairline was all wrong—too much brow—and the color not a light enough brown. And—

Well, you get it. This wasn’t Jeff.

Had I genuinely expected it was? My damned imagination was much too full of hope, I supposed.

Okay, Kendra, you fruitcake
. Even if Jeff was alive, this wasn’t his territory. Best case, I was hallucinating. Worst . . . well, maybe I was nuts. Utterly looney, like Lorraine, a woman who’d been involved with the very first murders in my life. She’d been locked up in a very nice facility for the mentally unhinged. Was that where I belonged?

Or was I simply being too damned hard on myself?

I didn’t even reveal to the dogs how my mind had been working. I made myself concentrate on driving, instead of on fears for my sanity, as I headed for my office.

My dismay must have been tattooed on my face, since the first thing Mignon chirped from the receptionist’s desk was “Are you okay, Kendra?”

“Absolutely,” I assured her, juggling the dogs’ leashes as they dashed toward her in greeting.

“Okay.” She definitely sounded dubious. But then, petting the pups, she perked up again, as she was always wont to do. “You just got a call from Shareen Hayhurst of Show Biz Beasts. I forwarded her to your phone mailbox.”

Oops. I hadn’t focused much on this client’s matter since I’d taken it on earlier in the week. Time to zero in on reality instead of speculating so much over Jeff and his issues. “Thanks, Mignon,” I said over my shoulder as the dogs and I headed for my office.

A short while later, we headed out once more. I’d spoken with Shareen, and she’d promised, if I came to their offices, to show me more of the documentation Show Biz Beasts handed to prospective clients, as well as a training demo. A real training demo, with real dogs. My dogs— Lexie and Odin, if I wanted.

Did I ever! Not that I anticipated either would take on a film career, any more than my assistant Rachel would suddenly drop her day job with Critter TLC, LLC, to become a full-fledged star . . . I hoped. Even so, the show biz bug suddenly buzzed in my ears.

And, fortunately, Odin’s injury was probably healing okay. He hadn’t chewed at it, and the bandage remained securely in place without appearing to bother him.

Our drive to Valencia, home of Show Biz Beasts, was utterly uneventful. I saw no Escalades at all. Imagined no pseudo Jeffs piloting any other vehicle on the 5 Freeway, even though this was a primary route toward the engulfing aqueduct.

The animal training facility was located in a fairly nondescript stucco building at the end of a fairly nondescript industrial park in which all the structures looked the same. In fact, if I hadn’t been given directions to head for Building B, I’d never have found the place.

Or so I initially thought, until I exited the car and commenced traversing the parking lot with the dogs. No edifice besides Building B had barks and howls emanating from it.

And right over the door hung a subtle sign: SHOW BIZ BEASTS. I’d arrived at the right spot.

Lexie and Odin certainly seemed to think so, the way they planted their noses against the glass and sniffed. And sniffed. Until I pushed the door open and we all three strode into a small waiting room that resembled one in a veterinary office. The floor was covered in beige tile, the walls were painted a slightly darker neutral hue, the benches were pseudo leather, and a large sliding window proclaimed where the greeter must sit.

I approached that opening and introduced myself to the twenty-something guy behind the glass, who said he was Larry. Unsurprisingly for a place like this, a dog sat beside him—a mutt whose heritage I couldn’t immediately figure out, but he was short-haired, long-muzzled, and a deeper beige than the walls. He immediately barked hello and rolled over. I laughed as he sat up again, watching me as if awaiting praise, which I of course provided.

“That’s Dorky,” said Larry, who wore jeans and a white T-shirt that proclaimed Show Biz Beasts were the best. “He’s been in ten dog food commercials and a film for training firemen how to save pets’ lives.” The guy stood, drawing himself up to his not-so-tall height, but it was enough to provide some sort of signal to Dorky, who sat at attention. “Play dead,” Larry commanded.

Dorky didn’t just keel over. His big brown eyes widened. He jerked as if shot, which definitely drew a sympathetic reaction from me. But the walls surrounding them prevented me from providing any help. And then Dorky groaned and sank to the floor on his side, eyes closed.

“Is he okay?” I demanded.

Larry grinned. “Okay? He’s the greatest. Okay, Dorky, play alive.” Sure enough, the dog opened his eyes, rose, shook himself, and sat panting—with an expression that suggested he was laughing.