Double Dog Dare (6 page)

“But as dogs and people do, she started to get old. And then I heard of the most wonderful organization . . . or so I thought. What if I could have not just another Akita, or even an Akita mix, but another Flisa?”

I suddenly suspected that I knew what she meant. “Did you go to—”

“That’s right. The Clone Arranger. My first mistake.”

She started to explain how she’d intended to keep quiet about it. Cloning was quite controversial, especially in many religious environments—at least the possibility of human cloning, but sometimes animal cloning as well. Even so, she adored Flisa and decided to see about getting a pup with her exact genetic makeup.

“I understood heredity isn’t the only factor in getting another perfect dog. Environment plays a role in determining personality. But if I got a baby Flisa and brought her up like her mom, I figured they’d be close enough.”

But she was dead set on her church friends, her surrogate family here, not knowing about it.

“Flisa was getting older and less limber. I brought her in for the cloning and paid a fortune, but figured it would be worth it. Only . . . no puppy resulted. And then . . . and then . . .”

I was afraid I knew what she was about to say. “Oh, Lois,” I began in premature commiseration.

“She died.” Lois’s head sagged and her hair flowed about her face. “It was awful. I didn’t know whether The Clone Arranger did something to her or not. In any event, they apparently can’t create a clone from dead DNA. So it was over. No Flisa.” She swallowed a sob. “But they kept my money, since they claimed they’d charged me a bargain price. Hah! They said it was part of their contract that they made no guarantees. I was crushed. But even more, I was suspicious of something foul and needed answers. That’s when I called Jeff.”

I kind of got it now. She had asked him to investigate this organization. And I suspected it merited investigation. Hadn’t I heard how hard it was to clone cats—and that dogs were worse?

Even so . . . “You wanted Jeff to figure out if they’d hurt Flisa?”

She nodded slowly. “But he had to be discreet. I didn’t want them to get the slightest inkling that they were under investigation. And I absolutely didn’t want anyone from my church to find out I’d even considered buying a clone. They’d be horrified. I’d lose all of their respect—although in my estimation, if God allowed man to figure out how to clone, He must have thought it a good idea.”

I wasn’t about to enter into a theological discussion, so I just nodded. “Could be. But, Lois, are you saying—”

“I’m saying I asked Jeff to return to Southern California without telling a soul. Not even you. Maybe that was too much silence, but I begged him, and he agreed. And then . . . well, I couldn’t reach him, not even on his cell phone. I figured at first that he’d just gone deep undercover on my behalf. But then the police contacted Irene, and she called me. And I started feeling so guilty . . . and I remembered what Jeff told me about you, that you conduct your own investigations. I don’t believe he’s dead, Kendra, but we all need to know what happened to him. And I suspect I . . . I could have sent him into an awful situation that caused all this.”

“Then you think—”

“I think something about the investigation into The Clone Arranger caused Jeff’ s disappearance.”

THAT WAS ALL the arm-twisting it took. Lois had intrigued me. Given me at least a nugget of new information to investigate.

So here I was, the very next day, pulling into the parking lot of The Clone Arranger.

My initial reaction on seeing the large, single-story gray building behind a big but open fence was to wonder who had stuck a movie studio here in the middle of the middle-class, ethnically transitional small city of Glendale.

My second was to admire the ingenuity of the owners of The Clone Arranger. They’d hidden this potentially controversial business in plain sight—at least for Los Angeles. There were movie studios nearly everywhere around here—like right next door, in Burbank. And if inside this particular soundstage setting there happened to be scientific laboratories instead, who would know?

Except, of course, those doing business with The Clone Arranger.

Like me. Or, rather, like Kenni Ballan, my persona today. I’d used it before while attempting to go undercover and was outed almost immediately, but that was a different situation, months ago, when I was attempting to solve murders of which I personally was under suspicion. I could have made up another name, of course, but why bother?

With me, in my rental car, was Meph—short for Mephistopheles, a wiry terrier mix. I’d borrowed him from his owner, Maribelle Openheim, whom I’d visited yesterday while pet-sitting for Stromboli, her neighbor’s pup. A while back, I’d believed Meph to be neglected and had introduced myself to Maribelle. I’d also wound up introducing Maribelle to a sort-of old friend of mine, Judge Baird Roehmann, he of the roamin’ hands. They’d been an item for a while, until Maribelle had wised up about men and depression and dog care. Now, Maribelle seemed quite content on her own. I pet-sat for her, now and then, and visited when I could.

For this particular outing, I’d needed a canine companion other than Lexie or Odin. Since Maribelle and I were friends, I had spewed my confusion and sorrow to her over Jeff’s disappearance. Having extracted herself from her own depression, she’d made it her mission to comfort others.

She happened to call last evening when I returned from visiting Lois, which was when I was hatching this day’s plot. And she’d volunteered Meph, no questions asked, when I’d asked to borrow him for a confidential reason having to do with finding Jeff. Of course, I’d intended to return Meph to her safe and sound, while being superbly grateful for his assistance in this distressing matter.

Now, Meph climbed eagerly on my lap as I slowed to pull into the parking lot. It contained half a dozen cars. As I maneuvered my little rental car into a spot, I spotted the entry door immediately—maybe because it was the only door visible. There were no windows in the stucco sides of the building, again like a movie studio. Maybe that’s what this structure had actually been in an earlier incarnation.

I grabbed Meph’s bright lime leash and walked up to the door. It opened easily. Right inside was a large lounge, brightly illuminated and furnished with myriad metal chairs upholstered in yellow. The beige linoleum floor gleamed. The only other furniture consisted of several small tables piled high with what appeared to be photo albums. And then there was a sign on the room’s only other door: PLEASE WAIT. SOMEONE WILL SOON BE HERE TO GREET YOU. Not exactly an invitation to go farther inside, but I tried the knob anyway. Unsurprisingly, the door was locked.

“Hi,” said the room’s only other human occupant, a pretty lady perhaps a decade my senior who looked vaguely familiar. At her side was a beautiful chocolate Labrador retriever, who rose at our entry and issued a warning growl, causing Meph to stand at attention and yap. The lady laughed as I stooped to pick up my pup of the day.

“Hush, Meph,” I cautioned him.

“Melville won’t hurt anyone,” the lady said. “Will you, sweetheart?” She rose from her chair and knelt, her mid-length red skirt tickling the floor, to hug the medium-size dog, who wriggled and licked her slightly sagging chin.

My turn to laugh. But I wasn’t here to observe a canine admiration society. I had research to engage in. “Are you here to get Melville cloned?”

“Sure am.” She stood and nodded as if extremely proud of her intent, while Melville remained standing at attention and staring attentively at Meph and me. The woman noticed it and said, “Friends, Melville. Sit.” He obeyed, and seemed to take her at her word about our amity, relaxing considerably. A little hyper for a Lab, I thought. Or maybe just overly protective of his mom. Which mom continued to me, “The Clone Arranger did a marvelous job cloning my other Lab, Churchill.”

“Really?” I hoped I didn’t sound as skeptical as I felt. When I’d gotten home last night, I’d spent hours on the Internet researching not only this outfit but cloning in general.

I’d soon understood why Lois Terrone had hoped to keep her interest in such a situation secret since she was so involved in her church. It was indeed highly controversial, especially in religious circles.

But beyond that, the ability to clone pets and livestock to any respectable degree had initially seemed somewhat iffy. Sure, Dolly the sheep had been cloned. And the livestock aspect appeared to be thriving, as was research into genetic makeup of pets, such as whether actual backgrounds matched supposed pedigrees and if certain genes presaged particular personalities.

At least one outfit had managed to clone cats for owners willing to pay dearly for a duplicate of their dear pets, but apparently had been unsuccessful with dogs and ultimately went out of business.

And even where the possibility of pet duplication was discussed, all descriptions contained a caution that creating another being with the same DNA didn’t mean one could count on an identical twin of its parent. Things could get modified in the process. Even more compelling, no one could guarantee a similar personality, let alone the same one, possibly the result of environment versus heredity swirling into the mix.

But my intent wasn’t to analyze the realities of cloning. It was to investigate whether Jeff had leaped in to look at this company on behalf of his mother’s good friend Lois— and, if so, whether it had somehow led to his disappearance.

I listened intently as this pretty, brown-haired lady, speaking with arms in motion, described how she had brought her aging yellow Lab, Churchill, here several months ago and got him cloned. “I now have the most adorable golden Lab puppy at home. He’s so very much like Churchill was at that age. I’ve named him Cartwright. That’s a town in Labrador. So are Churchill and Lake Melville.”

“How fun!” I exclaimed. “This is Meph. He isn’t very old, but I adore him and would love for him to have a little brother just like him for company.”

The woman held out her arms and hugged Meph briefly, though Melville, back at attention, appeared less than pleased by the idea. “I’m Beryl Leeds, by the way,” she said.

Beryl Leeds. The name sounded as familiar as her face looked. . . . Oh, right. “You were in the TV series
Simi Valley Sins
, weren’t you?” I hoped I sounded suitably impressed, although it hadn’t been one of my favorite shows. “I’m Kenni Ballan.”

The room’s inner door opened just then and a couple of men emerged.

Again Melville stood and bared his teeth and yanked on his leash, but Beryl used her earlier strategy to assure him these were friends. Even so, he sniffed their hands before he appeared satisfied.

“Hi, Mason and Earl,” Beryl said. She then introduced them to me.

Mason Payne was the company’s CEO, according to their website. He looked like a CEO: moderate height, middle-aged, and all silver hair and silver tongue as he greeted us. His white-on-white shirt and dark trousers managed to appear both dressy and casual at the same time. “Delighted to see you again, Beryl. And to meet you, Ms. Ballan. And—this is Melville? Hi, Melville,” he crooned, stooping to give the now relaxed Lab a big hug. “Do you want a baby brother?”

Melville, though obviously eager for the attention, didn’t assert his opinion.

Earl Knox was, I supposed, another executive. He seemed more my age, midthirties, tall and grinning and as short-haired as Melville the Lab. Holding a few file folders in one hand, he greeted me. “Hi, Ms. Ballan.” But he didn’t seem as excited to see Meph as his boss was to see Melville. “And this is who you want to have cloned? Hi, guy.” He, too, nearly knelt without putting his khaki-clad knees on the floor. “What’s his name?” he asked me, standing again quite quickly.

“Meph,” I responded. “Short for Mephistopheles, and he really is a cute little devil, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely. And definitely worthy of cloning, aren’t you, Meph?” He crooned a bit, which raised him more in my estimation.

Meanwhile, Beryl and Mason headed for the inner door with Melville. “Wait,” I called. “I’m a little nervous about this cloning stuff, and since you’ve been through it before, Beryl, could I contact you later to discuss your experience?”

I actually was a tad uneasy about the digging I was about to do here, but I mostly wanted to ensure I had a way to contact Beryl if I needed additional info from her.

“Sure.” She reached into the big handbag over her shoulder—red to match her skirt. “I’ll give you my card.”

“Of course we’ll answer all your questions,” Earl said smoothly at my side. “But it always helps to get recommendations from our pleased customers.” Mason beamed at him, then swept Beryl through the door.

I glanced down at the card she’d handed me. It identified her as an actress and contained contact info including website, phone number, e-mail address, and a P.O. box in Beverly Hills.

“Okay, then,” said Earl to me. “Let’s talk a little about our cloning procedures and your expectations.” His voice was on the tenor side, but he kept it soft and soothing as we went over the legal disclaimers The Clone Arranger’s attorneys undoubtedly advised them to assert—all apparently included in the lengthy contract Earl extracted from one of the folders he’d been toting.

They’d attempt to extract a suitable sample of Meph’s DNA, then do their magic that Earl couldn’t quite describe because of its proprietary nature, then, abracadabra, presto-change-o, Meph might have a new baby brother who looked a lot like him.

Or not. No guarantees.

“Is there any danger involved?” I asked anxiously, although of course I wasn’t about to do anything. Certainly not pay the exorbitant charges.

“Not really, although I do have to disclose to you that occasionally one of our clients has overreacted and had to seek veterinary care.”

“Overreacted how?”

“Fear of needles, perhaps? I don’t exactly know. Anyway, if you’d like to look all this over and decide what to do, that will be fine.”