Lost Dog (A Gideon and Sirius Novel Book 3) (14 page)

Collar ID.
The words seemed to write themselves on the paper in front of me. I underlined them a few times and then added some stars. Then I encapsulated the two words in a cube. I don’t claim to be an artful scribbler, but I sensed something was there.

When I’d found Angie, she hadn’t been wearing a collar, and I’d incorrectly assumed she was an abandoned dog. Reyes had given me her collar, not out of any goodwill, but to make it clear that he was in charge and I was merely the animal keeper.

I pulled out my cell phone and began looking at the pictures I’d taken at Heather Moreland’s house. While it was clear I was no crime-scene photographer, thanks to technology my pictures were mostly legible. With my index finger I scrolled through the shots, stopping when I came to the pictures I’d taken through the master bedroom window that faced the backyard. Some of the pictures I’d lined up; others I had shot blind. Even though I’m six feet tall, I’d done most of my looking into the room on my tippy-toes because of the drop-off from the window to the ground below.

At the time I took the pictures, I had wanted to document what I thought looked like a struggle. I hadn’t consciously noticed the dog collar, but now I saw it on the ground near the window.

It seemed like a strange place for a dog collar to be. It almost looked as if the collar had purposely been removed. But if I was right about Heather keeping Angie out of harm’s way by putting her out the window, why would she have removed her collar? Angie’s tags were on the collar; Heather’s personal information was there.

Maybe the collar had fallen off while Heather was lifting Angie through the window. Or it was possible my initial supposition was wrong. Angie could have been in the backyard when the intruder broke into the house. There was a doggie door, after all.

I used my thumb and index finger to expand the image and give me a better look at the dog collar. There didn’t seem to be anything special about what I was seeing. I’d handled many nylon collars just like it. The collar had a quick-release buckle and a snap hook for the leash. I could see the dog tags in the picture. The color of the collar was a robin’s-egg blue, which was what made the vivid rectangular patch stand out. The discolored area looked to be about half the size of the soap cake they provide in discount motels. Something had shielded that section of the collar from the elements.

It was probably nothing, but Doggy Doreen was on my call list anyway. Now I had a reason to call her other than finding out how Angie was doing. Doreen picked up on the second ring.

“This is Detective Gideon,” I said. “How’s our friend?”

“Angie is a very sweet girl,” Doreen said, “but it’s clear she would rather be home with her parent.”

“I hope she hasn’t been too much trouble.”

“No, it’s not that. She was pacing the grounds last night, and she’s been pacing them this morning. Dogs are pack animals,” Doreen said, “and she wants her pack leader back.”

“Still working on that,” I said. “I hate to ask, but could you take her for another night or two?”

“It’s not Angie’s fault that she loves too much. As I told you, I’ll be happy to keep her into the foreseeable future.”

“I’ve got another favor to ask of you,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“I wonder if you could look at her collar. I want to see if there’s a brand name inscribed on it.”

“It will take me a minute to round Angie up,” she said. “Do you want me to call you back, or do you want to hold on while I get her?”

“I’m happy to hold on,” I said.

Doreen and her portable phone went in search of Angie. Along the way I heard her talking to other dogs. If I wasn’t mistaken, it sounded like one of those took to sniffing the mouthpiece of the phone. I could hear Doreen calling to Angie. Most of the other dogs responded to her calling, but not Angie. Finally, she caught up to her, and was slightly breathless when she came back on the line.

“I have both Angie and her collar in hand,” Doreen said. “And now I am looking at the collar.”

I could hear the sounds of her examining it. After around ten seconds of silence she said, “There’s no brand name visible.”

I felt a twinge of disappointment, but not much. It had been a long shot anyway, and I wasn’t even sure if knowing what kind of collar it was could have helped my investigation in any way.

“Thanks for looking.”

“But I think the reason I don’t see a brand name is that the tracker is missing,” she said. “I’m fairly certain this is a Doghound collar.”

“Tracker?” I asked. “Doghound?”

“I’ve seen collars that look just like this one before, except this collar is missing its GPS tracker.”

“And you think it’s a brand called Doghound?”

“Now that I think about it, maybe it’s Dogfound. Or it could be Dogfind. It’s something like that.”

“And this collar comes with a GPS tracker?”

“I hear it’s very effective. If your dog goes missing, you can track its movements.”

“Doggone,” I said, trying to control my growing excitement.

My bad pun found pay dirt. “Yes, that’s it!” said Doreen. “That’s the name of the collar! I’m sure of it.”

CHAPTER 18

A PRAYER IN THE LAIR

Heather awoke to the world spinning around her. She shook her head and tried to orient herself, but it almost felt like she had water in her ears that was throwing off her equilibrium.

What time is it,
she wondered,
and what day is it?
She couldn’t even guess at how long she’d been held, and didn’t know if it was day or night.

At least she could move more freely now. Her shackles had been removed, but the damage to her hands and legs had already been done. The cuts and scabs on her wrists and ankles were oozing and looked infected.

Still, that was the least of her worries. Her stomach churned. Her abductor had made a film showing his violation of her. He’d treated her like some kind of curiosity to be used and abused, like a sideshow in his circus. Heather had tried not to watch, and most of all not to react. A camera was filming her. Even if no one was watching at that moment, she had to assume she was being monitored at all times. It was even possible her jailer was watching her remotely. If so, she would offer him no satisfaction. She would deny him his live theater.

But what if it wasn’t Emilio? What if she was the prisoner of a crazed killer?
Then I will have to deal with it,
she thought.
And wasting time thinking about it won’t help me escape.

During her drugged sleep, the dungeon had been rearranged. The funhouse mirror was gone. And her clothes had been removed and replaced by a robe. On the floor she saw what looked like an article of clothing, and she picked it up.

The burka had been designed to cover up her face. There was colored mesh that was designed to hide her eyes and mouth. Heather’s first reaction was to throw the headdress to the ground, but then she decided the burka might prove useful. She could put it on at a time of her choosing and hide her face from him.

He had exposed her body and used it, and then had covered it up. Her captor was trying to exert control of her mind and body. She was in his cage, but there were ways out of cages. All of her life Heather had been finding those ways.

She thought of Angie’s GPS tracker. It was possible her captor had overlooked the device attached to the strap of her nightgown.

At least she’d succeeded in preventing any harm from coming to Angie. Her drooling, snuffling Angie.

Heather prayed then, but not for herself. She asked God to deliver Angie into a good home.

After her prayers were finished, she began a painstaking search of her cell. She would go over every square inch again and again until she figured a way out.

CHAPTER 19

FALSE FRONTS AND DOUBLE MEANINGS

I was forced to listen to Sergeant Reyes’s voice mail once again. This time I said, “I might have something on Heather Moreland’s disappearance. If we’re lucky, together we might even be able to pinpoint her location. I need you to call me back pronto.”

While awaiting Reyes’s call, I went to the Amazon website and acquainted myself with Doggone and similar tracking systems incorporated into dog collars. According to the device’s description, Doggone offered real-time global positioning satellite readings that could be accessed through a web tracking platform used with either a GSM phone or a computer. What that translated to was you could supposedly get a bead on your missing Fido if he was wearing the tracking device. To use the system, you needed to have a SIM card.

Several potential pitfalls surfaced as I read about Doggone. The manufacturer said that the battery life of the product was “up to one week when fully charged.” I suspected the real battery life would be less, and it was likely that Heather Moreland had already been missing for four days. That meant the battery could be dead. There was also the chance that Heather had decided Angie was no longer a runaway threat and let her SIM card lapse to avoid paying its monthly fee. My final worry was whether we could access the web tracking platform in a timely manner. I suspected Heather had downloaded the Doggone app to her cell phone, but even if that was the case, I didn’t know if the program was password protected. I also wasn’t sure if I’d be able to figure out how to use Doggone. The manufacturer’s claim was that it was “easy to use.” I was skeptical.

My phone rang, and the readout told me it was Reyes. I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell him any of my doubts.

“I assume you have Heather Moreland’s cell phone in your possession,” I said.

“Your message said you had something. Was that just a fishing expedition?”

“Before we get into specifics, I need to know if you’re currently able to access Heather’s cell phone.”

“In Burbank we actually have cell phones,” he said. “And in case you’re wondering, I’ve been studying her incoming and outgoing calls and text messages. I’ve even gone through her pictures and made a list of her contacts. And right now I’m trying to get in touch with every single one of her contacts, or I would be except I keep getting interrupted by your calls. So do you have something or not?”

“I
might
have something,” I said, “but I’m trying not to get ahead of myself. Have you checked the phone’s apps?”

“Yeah, that’s been a priority of mine,” Reyes said. “I’ve been sitting here alternating between Tinder and Angry Birds.”

“I want you to look at her apps and see if she has one called Doggone. It has the image of a paw print.”

I listened to Reyes’s heavy breathing while he tapped the phone. The movements of his finger sounded like someone hitting a heavy bag with slow, hard punches. Reyes wasn’t a technophobe, but like everyone over the age of forty, he hadn’t been weaned on technology.

His grunt made it sound as if he’d landed a particularly solid blow. “I found it,” he said.

“In that case I’m crossing my fingers that we’ve found her,” I said.

Reyes wanted an explanation over the phone, but I insisted upon a face-to-face. He reluctantly agreed, but said I’d have to drive to Burbank. He said he’d be grabbing a quick bite at the deli across the street from the police station. Ironically, it turned out to be the same deli where Sirius, Angie, and I had met with Katie Rivera. That wasn’t something I told Reyes.

It took me five minutes to print all the instructions I could find on Doggone’s website, and another half hour to drive to Burbank. I found Reyes sitting in a booth finishing what looked like a meatloaf sandwich. As I made my approach, the same server who’d waited on me before asked, “Where are your dogs?”

“In the car,” I said, hoping Reyes wasn’t paying attention.

“They’re cutie-pies,” she said. “You want me to see if the kitchen has some extra bones for them?”

By now Reyes was listening closely.

“No, thanks,” I said. “I’m just here for a quick meeting.”

I joined Reyes in his booth. “Seems like you’re a regular here, Gideon,” he said.

“It
is
a dog-friendly restaurant.”

“Why is it that you were dining at a dog-friendly restaurant in Burbank instead of one in your neck of the woods?”

“You want to talk about dogs, or see if Heather Moreland’s cell phone holds a clue as to where she might be?”

He answered by pulling the phone out of his shirt pocket and sliding it across the table so that it rested between us.

“Talk,” he said.

“Heather Moreland was worried about her dog running away. That’s why she got a collar with a GPS tracker. The collar you gave me didn’t have that tracker on it. I think there’s a chance Heather unhooked it from the collar right before she was abducted. I’m hoping she still has it on her person and that the tracker will tell us where she is.”

Reyes suddenly looked interested. “The stage is yours,” he said, gesturing to the phone. “I’m hoping you can pull a rabbit out of the hat, Gideon.”

My adrenaline was pumping as I turned on the phone and called up the Doggone app. Then I read the instructions aloud; everything on the phone seemed operational. From what I was seeing, the GPS function was installed, outfitted, and ready to go. According to the Doggone website, the readout would indicate within ten feet where the tracker currently was. I tapped the search function. Almost instantly a flashing red
X
marked a spot on a map.

“West L.A.,” I said, and looked at the readout. “If this thing is accurate, our target is on West Pico Boulevard and the corner of South Genessee Avenue.”

“You drive,” said Reyes, “and I’ll hold on to the phone.”

“Geez,” said Reyes, rolling down a window, “what’d you feed that dog?”

Maybe the bran muffin hadn’t been such a good idea. Sirius could tell that Reyes was talking about him, and looked chastened.

“My partner’s not the one with gout,” I said.

“I think his gas is worse than my gout.” Reyes shifted in his seat. The movement caused him to wince and mutter under his breath,
“Pinche madre.”

We had about a twenty-mile drive, but from Burbank there’s no fast route to West L.A. Reyes kept watching the phone. The tracker didn’t show any movement.

I kept racking my brain trying to remember what kind of businesses were operating along West Pico and South Genessee. As far as I recalled, there was the usual L.A. hodgepodge of fast food eateries, flooring stores, auto-repair shops, and strip malls. I remembered seeing some kind of new TV studio on West Pico at roughly that location, but there was no guarantee it was still in business. It’s rare to find anyone in L.A. without a business card identifying them as a producer.

As we drew closer to the location, it felt increasingly wrong to me. I wanted to say that out loud, but I didn’t, afraid of jinxing our operation. When we were right on top of where the tracker was broadcasting, I pulled up to the curb and cursed.

“What is it?” asked Reyes.

“The tracker must have been dumped.”

Reyes looked at what he thought was an office building. “Maybe she’s somewhere in that building,” he said.

I shook my head and said, “There’s no chance of that.”

“Why?”

“For one, we’re right on top of where the tracker says we should be, and it’s supposed to be accurate within ten feet. But there’s the other more pertinent reason. She’s not inside the building because that isn’t a building. It’s a veneer. It’s a fourteen-story facade that hides a working oil field with all sorts of derricks and pumps.”

Reyes looked at me as if I was crazy.

Most L.A. natives aren’t aware that much of the city is built atop scores of oil fields. Early pictures showed operating oil wells lining the streets—wells that at one time supplied half the world’s oil. Those wells still exist, but many have gone underground. There are still more than thirty thousand active wells producing a couple hundred million barrels of oil a year, but a lot of those wells are hidden. The ritzy Beverly Center mall houses such stores as Bloomingdale’s, Gucci, and Louis Vuitton; out of sight on the western periphery of the mall, you can find oil wells actively drilling.

Reyes, Sirius, and I got out of the car and approached the pale-yellow building. Up close you could see it was windowless; driving by you might never notice the building doesn’t even have a roof.

The three of us approached a six-foot wrought iron fence. Sirius stopped to lift his leg while Reyes kept limping along the fence line. Behind the fence was a nicely landscaped area with trees, a lawn, and shrubbery. Anyone expecting fumes and noise had to be pleasantly surprised by very little of either.

Reyes looked at the building and shook his head, then went back to trying to locate the tracker through the readout on Heather’s cell phone. He walked east along the fence, extending his phone like it was a Geiger counter. “It should be right here,” he said.

We both started searching around the area. I wondered whether I would have to jump the fence to see if the tracker had been thrown inside the enclosure. It was something I would have to do gingerly; the pickets came with points. Then I noticed something that looked a little off. A growth of sorts rested between a picket and the top rail. Closer inspection showed that what I was seeing was a swatch of black duct tape that blended in with the wrought iron.

I pulled out my phone and snapped some shots. Reyes thought that was a good idea and did the same thing. Then I slipped on latex gloves and carefully removed the duct tape. Inside was the Doggone tracker.

“I’ll take that,” said Reyes.

I shook my head and said, “We’re not in Burbank.” Then I pulled an evidence bag from my pocket and dropped the tracker and duct tape inside.

Reyes’s face reddened. “What happened to me having the missing-person case, and you having the lost-dog case?”

“It’s hard to tell where the lost-dog case ends and where the lost-human case begins.”

Reyes wasn’t pleased. Under his breath I heard him muttering
culero
and
pendejo
. You don’t need to work as a cop in Los Angeles for very long to know that both were Spanish variants for asshole. Reyes’s temper didn’t improve when I called SID and asked them to join us. It was probably overkill bringing in the Scientific Investigations Division, but I wanted them to make sure there were no fingerprints or trace evidence.

While we waited I looked around for security cameras, but didn’t see any. Management probably didn’t care what went on outside a fake building. They would be more concerned about all those oil wells operating inside the four faux walls. Still, in the hopes that there were hidden cameras, I found an informational number for the Packard Well Site and wrote it down.

Reyes was chafing at the wait for SID. It was no cakewalk for him with his gout.
“Estába picándo los ojos,”
he muttered.

It must have been apparent that I was struggling to figure out the meaning. Reyes decided to give me a Spanish lesson, or at least a Mexican-Spanish lesson. “It’s a way of saying we’re wasting time,” he said. “What it translates to is ‘I’m poking my eyes.’”

“You’re probably right,” I admitted. “But this is as close as we’ve been to Heather Moreland’s abductor. I’m guessing he found the tracker on her and this is where he decided to dispose of it.”

“He played us. And the longer we stay here, the longer he keeps playing us.”

“If SID isn’t here in the next half an hour, we’ll take off.”

The offer seemed to mollify him. He looked at his watch, noted the time, and then nodded.

“I’m hoping this tracker has some kind of memory,” I said. “I doubt whether Heather’s kidnapper discovered it right away. Maybe the tracker can tell us where it’s been before it was brought here. I’ll call the manufacturer and check on that.”

“We could use a break,” he said.

I nodded.

“If you’re right about our lady’s pulling the tracking device off of the collar,” Reyes said, “that was fast thinking on her part.”