Double Dog Dare (28 page)

And I was certain I was.

“Hey, everyone,” I called out. I’m not the tallest person, but my voice projects pretty well. I’ve trained it to be heard in court, after all. Some courtrooms have microphones and adequate amplification systems, and others don’t, so to impress judges and juries I’ve had to ensure I’d be heard. “May I have your attention, please?”

Corina sidled up to me and smiled in uncharacteristic silence, obeying my request to listen when she first arrived. But not everyone responded, so I shouted again, and this time the room quieted, except for the scrabbling of canines asserting their alphaness and the hisses of kitties in their crates.

“I’d like to explain why I’ve invited you all here.” I could see Corina’s cameraman focusing on me and was certain she’d soon start attempting to interview me, notwithstanding my instructions, but for now she simply let me speak. “At this time, I’m just telling a hypothetical tale, but I’m hoping it will help explain the motives for a couple of nasty situations. First, though, I want to try to ensure I’m correct. Is anyone here who’s utilized The Clone Arranger, or knows people who have, aware of any successful cloning of a pet who’s not a purebred of his or her breed?”

This caused a muted roar among attendees as they discussed this question among themselves. Not one raised a hand or otherwise indicated they knew of a mixed breed being cloned.

“Okay, then, Ms. Carey.” I nodded toward Corina. “As an attorney I know I’m putting myself out on a limb here with hypothetical and unsubstantiated allegations, so I want to state for the record, and the camera, that this all is entirely speculation, still subject to being proven.”

I launched into a brief but sincere assessment of my suspicions—on why Lois Terrone, whose Akita, Flisa, whom she’d wished to have cloned, was led on but eventually informed that the cloning could not be done successfully: Flisa wasn’t a purebred, but an Akita mix. And then Flisa died, possibly as a result of mistreatment, or possibly just a result of old age. Of course Lois was distraught and made allegations that were sincere but unprovable. Since her primary contact was Earl Knox, he had been the object of most of her anger.

But Lois wasn’t without resources of her own. She had hired her dear friend and almost-son Jeff Hubbard, a security expert and private investigator, to look into The Clone Arranger and its business practices, assuming that what he would find was mistreatment of its animal clients.

This mention caused Ned Noralles to stand up straighter in the crowd, his attention clearly captured.

I continued, “Jeff also happens to be a friend of mine.” Yes, I spoke in present tense, which apparently wasn’t lost on those who knew of his disappearance—Ned, Lois, and Corina—judging by their sudden smiles. That same surreptitious poop scooper who’d sneaked in at the same time as Ned now stood at one side of the room, his expression on the snide side. Well, we’d see what he thought as I finished my tentative tale. “I believe he found out what I suspect—that The Clone Arranger does in fact supply its clients with excellent pets that closely resemble those they want to duplicate, but instead of being clones, they’re the closest purebred animals that they can find from alternative sources. They don’t charge as much for their services as other cloners who truly duplicate livestock—for example, for owners that can recoup the expenses in future sales of prime cattle or horses or whatever. But they charge a whole lot more than their suppliers of wonderful purebred pups and kitties do.”

The swell of voices convinced me that those suppliers who were here were fascinated by my ideas—and not pleased by the possibility. Probably the cloning customers weren’t, either.

“Now, now, this is all nonsense,” Mason Payne said, waving his arms in a manner suggesting he wanted to shove the furor to the floor. He seemed to try to draw himself up to his full, unimpressive height, but his usual silver tongue that complemented his silver hair appeared to fail him, since he offered no concrete rebuttal, only a denial.

“I absolutely hope so, Mason,” I told him in my raised voice. “Please give us facts to refute what I said. Have you ever cloned a mixed breed of any animal?”

He glanced toward Melba as if seeking assistance, but when she simply blinked, he said, “If not, it’s because of the difficulty of dealing with their DNA. You must understand that the cloning process, although we have come a long way, has imperfections—not, of course, in the products of our cloning, but in how we must handle the animals being cloned, and—”

“
Allegedly
cloned. Am I accurate in assuming you haven’t cloned
any
animal?” Of course I was, but would he confess? “That would explain why you prefer pretending with purebreds. With them, you can easily purchase pups that resemble the alleged parents you’re claiming to copy.”

“Why would you think such a thing?” He’d grown pale. “We take in all sorts of pets for cloning. Like your friend Lois’s mixed-breed dog. We tried, we really tried, but we weren’t successful.”

“Are you admitting that you somehow harmed Flisa?” I demanded.

“No, no, not at all. That’s not what I meant.”

And then I was somewhat, but not entirely, surprised when a stooped, elderly-looking man in filthy clothing suddenly appeared at my side—then drew himself to his full hunky height and stared at the group, including Ned Noralles, who roared his immediate recognition. “Hubbard! Damn it, it’s Hubbard. Why—”

My eyes hurriedly scanned the crowd, attempting to assess reactions as Jeff started to speak. Sure enough, I noticed one person who seemed especially upset by this revelation. Interesting . . .

“Although this should be handled by appropriate legal means, I wanted to add my comments here. Yes, I’m Jeff Hubbard, the friend Lois hired to help her learn the truth behind The Clone Arranger. And I did.”

Lois screamed, squeezed her way through the crowd, and threw her arms around her almost-son. “You stinker! You didn’t even tell me who you were at the police station. I wondered . . . but your disguise was so damn good—even to the smell, although it could have been worse.”

The smile Jeff leveled at her made my heart sing. Yes, behind all that makeup and those facial enhancers that made him look so different, it was the same Jeff.

Who now hated me, without my really understanding why.

Only . . . I soon understood the why, even though it was entirely erroneous.

“Anyway, I want to let people know that Ms. Ballantyne’s speculations appear to be true, at least based on my initial investigation. I spoke secretly to as many employees of The Clone Arranger as I could. Most wanted nothing to do with me, but one was feeling guilty about what they did. What I didn’t know was that guilt wasn’t enough to keep him from trying to kill me later—in fear for his own life, I believe. That person was Earl Knox.”

The name of the murdered man sent another wave of shocked comments through the crowded room.

Only then did I start wondering if I’d made a huge mistake in handling things as I had. I mean, in these close quarters with so many people, what if the true villain in this scenario had come here armed and dangerous and willing to do whatever was needed for self-protection— like taking hostages and killing others? Killing clearly was in the person’s vocabulary.

Ah, but I wasn’t the only one who’d been worried. Suddenly some uniformed cops shoved their way through the doors and into the crowd. Must have been called in by the detective who’d accompanied Esther and Lois.

Which made me feel a lot better.

Jeff didn’t stop talking, and Corina never moved her eyes or microphone off him.

“Earl even provided me proof, in the form of a computer thumb drive with information about what animals were purchased from what breeder to appear to be clones, and how the selection procedure was handled.”

So that
was
it! I’d suspected so. Made perfect sense— all except the part where Jeff refused to reveal to me what was on that damned thumb drive. Why hadn’t he trusted me? I’d been traveling along the same speculations as he had. Maybe we could have arrived here faster if we’d worked together.

But no time to think about that now.

I watched the person I’d zeroed in on as the villain in this situation—whose face turned angry, then green.

“Okay, Hubbard, just where is this unequivocal proof now?” That was Ned Noralles, who, in his jurisdiction or not, had thrown himself into the situation and now stood beside us.

“It’s in Ms. Ballanyne’s care and custody,” Jeff said. “I mailed it to her.”

“And I told you I never received it.” And neither had Rachel. She had looked, but she hadn’t located it at the spot she sorted our mail. “In any event, you surely know that I didn’t, and wouldn’t, hide something like that from you, Jeff—even though you obviously were hiding a lot from me, like your survival.”

“Which you figured out almost on your own, you bulldog of an attorney.” Hey, that smile of his was leveled on me now. His old, somewhat familiar smile beneath his disguise. “And after all this—well, maybe I really was wrong, and you never did receive the thumb drive.”

Well, duh. But at least that was a step toward an admission of error. Even so, I wasn’t sure we were about to fully forgive one another, but at least the pressure between us was easing up—maybe.

But before I could follow up on anything in that direction, I had something else to do.

Put my foot in my mouth even deeper, perhaps. Or maybe solve this whole situation at last.

“So,” I said, “it appears that Earl Knox was killed for revealing the truth to you, Jeff, and providing proof. Or maybe to shut him up after he’d tried to murder you on behalf of himself and a coconspirator.” I swallowed, took a leap of faith based on my own observations. “So Beryl,” I called, “it appears that your Cartwright may not be Churchill’s clone after all. And Melville won’t get cloned at all. Does that make you think twice about anything you’ve done lately? Although that all seems fairly flimsy as a motive for murder.”

As if caught in the spotlight, Beryl Leeds froze. Then she rushed at me, her Labs at her sides and her fingernails extended. “You bitch! You’re wrong about The Clone Arranger. I know you are, and you’ve ruined them, just like Earl intended to do. And we hadn’t even begun filming those wonderful infomercials I promised to do for them. Only a week or two away now, and they were going to pay me so well and give me Melville’s twin for free. I stopped Earl in time, or so I thought. But thanks to you, I killed him for nothing!”

Chapter Twenty-three

IT WAS OVER.

Beryl Leeds was taken away in handcuffs, crying. Tom Venson took charge of her Labs, promising to care for them on her behalf.

Whatever else he might be, he was clearly a kind animal lover. But I felt certain that the afternoon’s revelations about cloning, or lack thereof, were nothing new to him. He’d nearly admitted it—or at least not totally denied it— previously.

The cops started doing their things, asking questions, interviewing those present. This was again—still—a crime scene, the location of some underhanded activities as well as the murder of Earl Knox.

It was also the place where some cloning customers would seek restitution for the fraud perpetrated on them, even if they loved their noncloned children.

Would I, as a litigator, take any of their cases? Nope, I had a conflict of interest. But I felt certain they had winnable positions.

Corina Carey thanked me prodigiously for the scoop I’d given her, then bustled around to partake in interviews.

“So, Ballantyne, you did it again,” Ned Noralles said. Clad as always in the dark suit of a detective, he shook his head with its official close buzz cut, but his smile seemed anything but chastising. “You’re one hell of an investigator. Like I told you before, the LAPD could use you.”

“Like I told
you
before, Ned, I’m too busy with my pet-sitting and law careers to take on a third.” But I smiled back. “At least this time it wasn’t your case I tossed in the toilet.”

“And you, Hubbard. What the hell was that all about? Your car was found in a canal and you lived to tell about it. What happened?”

“Best I can figure,” Jeff responded, “I was drugged by Earl Knox when I was here investigating The Clone Arranger. I’d already left the facility and mailed that damned thumb drive to Kendra to ensure I didn’t have it on me. But Earl called me back, claiming to have more evidence. I wasn’t supposed to be conscious when he drove me up north to dump my Escalade and me into the aqueduct, but I was awake enough to hear snatches of his conversation with an unidentified accomplice—obviously this Beryl Leeds, of all people.”

“And you didn’t reveal your survival . . . why?” Ned peered at Jeff as if suspicious of his complicity in some unidentified infraction.

“Concern for my own life. And Kendra’s. And Lois’s. I wanted to protect us all and find the proof that Earl had given me.” He looked at me. “And that ketamine he injected me with—it’s available a lot of places, especially animal labs like The Clone Arranger’s. It messed me up for a while. But I should be okay now.”

Which sent another annoyed yet sorrowful shiver through me. What if I could never find that damned thumb drive? Would he still suspect me then? Would I care?

As soon as the Glendale cops were through with us, I headed my rental car toward Darryl’s, followed by Jeff’s beat-up What’s the Scoop van. We picked up an enthusiastic Lexie and Odin, and I disclosed the day’s revelations to Darryl, who welcomed Jeff back to the world of the living.

Then we headed to my home, where I quickly sought out Rachel.

“Believe it or not, your friendly poop scooper from What’s the Scoop here”—I gestured toward my grungy male companion, and Rachel regarded him curiously— “that’s Jeff Hubbard under that awful disguise.”

“Jeff!” Rachel shrieked, her large brown eyes growing even bigger. “You’re kidding! I had no idea. Why did you hide who you were? And who were those other guys you had working here?”