Murder Strikes a Pose (8 page)

I imagined Bella trapped in a cage, surrounded by strangers

and barking dogs. “But there’s no one to contact. Her owner is

dead.”

“They’ll call his next of kin, in that case. If no one claims her in seven days, they’ll assess her. If she’s deemed adoptable—” She paused and glanced at Bella, still ferociously barking in the crate.

“If she’s
safe
to adopt, they’ll try to find a home for her.”

I knew the chances of that were somewhere between slim and

none. In this horrible economy of home foreclosures and double-

digit unemployment, more and more people were forced to give

up their pets. Normally easy-to-place animals were euthanized ev-

ery day. And Bella wouldn’t be easy. Not only did she have behav-

ior problems, she had an expensive health condition.

Bella clearly needed an advocate. I hesitated, but just for a second.

“Let me take her. I promised George that if anything ever hap-

pened to him, I’d find Bella a new home.” I lied. George and I

never talked about anything of the sort. Like most people, George simply assumed he’d outlive his dog.

Martinez looked at Bella, who was still snarling and showing

her teeth. “Sorry, I can’t take the risk.”

Out of desperation, I named the one person I thought she’d

trust. “Call Detective O’Connell at the West precinct. He was my

father’s partner, and he’ll vouch for me.” I pulled out my phone.

“He’s probably off duty now, but I have his home number in my

cell.” Martinez looked doubtful, but she gave the number to a uniformed officer, who walked away to make the call. Sensing that

the drama was over, the other officers left to continue processing 56

the crime scene. Bella finally stopped barking and sat in her cage, watching me intently.

“Your father’s a cop?” Martinez asked.

“Was. He died two years ago.”

“I’m sorry. Was he young?”

The answer was yes. He was only fifty-three the day he died.

But I couldn’t talk about my father’s death. Not with a stranger.

Especially not so soon after finding my friend’s body. I changed

the subject instead.

“Hey, look. That’s Bella’s leash over there. If you open her cage, I swear I won’t mess anything up. I’ll carefully put on her leash and take her home. I’ll come right to the station if you have more questions, but please let me leave. I need to go home, shower off this horrible night, and collapse into bed.”

The officer came back wearing a lopsided grin. “O’Connell

vouches for her. Says she’s a pain in the ass but otherwise harmless.”

Bella continued to sit still, now quiet and apparently calm.

“You’ll come right to the station if we call?” Martinez asked.

“Yes, immediately. I promise.”

Martinez looked to the side for a moment, thinking. “I’m

probably going to get my ass chewed for this, but OK. You’ve had

a tough night. No need for me to make it any tougher. Go ahead

home and take the dog with you; she’s your responsibility now.”

She gave me a stern look. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Martinez opened the crate. I hooked on Bella’s leash and

coaxed her out. Bella seemed stressed and unsure, but she came

out quietly, gently swishing her tail back and forth.

So far, so good.

At least until Detective Henderson walked around the cor-

ner. One look at him and Bella rose up like a hound from Hell.

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Her hair stood on end and foam sprayed in all directions, as she

lunged, barked, and viciously snapped her teeth. I could barely

hold onto the leash as she pulled me to the ground. One more sec-

ond and I’d have flown through the air like a kite behind her.

Martinez grabbed the leash. Henderson took three quick steps

back and drew his weapon.

Adrenaline surged through my body. “Don’t shoot her!” I

begged. I couldn’t bear the thought of another death. “I don’t

know why she’s doing this. She must be terrified!”

“Get that dog under control or I
will
shoot it!” he yelled.

Martinez and I dragged Bella around the corner. Once Hen-

derson was out of sight, Bella stopped lunging. Although she ap-

peared to calm down, her facial expression belied her true feelings.

She stared at the building with laser-like focus, as if daring him to make another appearance.

Martinez frowned. “Are you sure you want to take that animal

home with you?”

“Not exactly,” I admitted. I slowed my breath, trying to calm

my fractured nerves. “But honestly, I’ve never seen her do any-

thing like that before. And George wouldn’t want Bella to go to the pound. She won’t last a day there. I’d rather keep her with me for now.”

I looked at Martinez with what I hoped was an expression of

steady confidence. “Who knows? Maybe George’s family will take

her. I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

“It’s your funeral,” Martinez said shaking her head. “But fair

warning. Don’t let her go after an officer again. A cop won’t hesitate to shoot a dog that attacks him or another person. We protect human life over animal. Every time.”

58

seven

“Hey, back there, keep it down,” I muttered to the snoring mon-

ster in my back seat. Bella wasted no time in claiming my ancient Honda Civic as her own. As soon as I opened the door, she crawled behind the driver’s seat, curled up, and immediately fell asleep for the three mile drive southwest to my home in Ballard. She seemed

surprisingly comfortable. Perhaps riding the bus taught her what

to expect from a moving vehicle. Perhaps the small, dark space reminded her of her crate. Or perhaps she simply passed out, ex-

hausted from the trauma of her evening.

I should be so lucky.

As we neared our destination, I worried about how the neigh-

bors would react to my new roommate. They had a hard enough

time adjusting when
I
moved back in. They liked me well enough, but a yoga teacher was a poor substitute for a twenty-five year vet-eran of the police force. Maybe if I told them Bella was a police dog and signed her up as block watch captain, they’d be more welcoming.

59

Dad and I moved into my 1920s bungalow back when Ballard

was best known as a sleepy Scandinavian fishing village. In the

last decade, it had been radically transformed. Most of the small, single-family homes had been torn down, and the Nordic-themed

businesses had relocated, along with the area’s Scandinavian residents. Today, the Ballard neighborhood was an ethnically diverse

Mecca of multi-story apartment buildings, trendy new restau-

rants, live music venues, and enough microbreweries that it was

now known as a music and beer destination.

When Dad first died and left me his house, I wasn’t sure I could

stand to live there—too many memories, you know? I considered

selling it for about a minute, but the thought of my childhood

home being torn down and replaced by some fancy new McMan-

sion quickly squelched that idea. So I made it my own by painting the exterior a soft shade of violet and filling the flowerbeds with pink roses, multi-colored tulips, and bright yellow sunflowers.

The two-story, 1400 square foot house wasn’t much by most

people’s standards, but I’d grown to adore it. Probably because it safeguarded the very memories I’d been afraid to confront. The

top level contained the master bedroom and a spa-like bathroom,

complete with a jetted bathtub—the one luxury Dad had permit-

ted himself. The main floor was made up of the requisite kitchen, living room area, and a half-bathroom suitable for guests. Just off the kitchen sat my childhood bedroom, now a combination office

and storage space.

I didn’t have much of a yard, but my tiny piece of grass was

enough for what Bella needed right then. Standing next to her and holding the leash, I deeply regretted not getting the yard fenced.

Some things should be done in private. One look at her output

and I realized I’d need to buy some dog waste bags. Big ones.

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That duty completed, I took her into the house and unhooked

her leash. She ran from room to room, frantically sniffing, as if expecting an evil intruder around every corner. Her only pit stop was a brief visit to the guest bathroom, where she drank her weight in water—from the commode.

Satisfied we were alone, she sat in the middle of the kitchen

floor and stared at me with big brown wolf-like eyes.

“Bark!”

“What do you want now?”

She barked again.

This wasn’t one of Bella’s typical vocalizations. It didn’t sound particularly angry, or even excited. This single, distinctive, sharp bark said, “I demand something.
Now
!”

I had no idea what she wanted. I ignored her and tiredly sorted

through the day’s assortment of bills and junk mail.

Bella’s bark grew louder and more insistent.

“Quiet! You’ll wake up the neighbors!”

She walked closer and barked directly in my ear. I could only

assume she thought I was deaf.

“I don’t know what you want!”

She continued her loud conversation.

“Oh, for God’s sake, shut up and let me think!” I slumped in a

chair and rubbed my aching temples, unsure which was worse—

my pounding head or my growling stomach. It was well after mid-

night, and I hadn’t eaten since lunch.

I sat up straight. “Hey, wait a minute. Are you hungry?”

Bella answered with another series of staccato barks.

We had a problem. I had no idea when George had fed Bella

last, or even what she ate, other than leftover ham sandwiches. I vaguely remembered something about her illness that made food

61

problematic, but I was too brain-dead to recall the specifics. And it was far too late to visit a pet store.

I went to the fridge instead, Bella tagging close behind. “Let’s

see what I’ve got: lettuce, tofu, a couple of apples, milk …”

I took a whiff and almost gagged again. Straight into the trash.

“Forget the milk. Hummus, carrot cake …”

Bella leaned in closer and started drooling. I snatched the tasty morsel away before she had a chance to grab it. “Absolutely not.

The carrot cake’s mine. Salad mix, bagels …”

Bella groaned. A vegetarian household obviously wasn’t con-

ducive to late-night doggie dining.

I looked at her and shrugged. “Sorry, girl. I don’t have anything for you.”

Bella showed her frustration with three more ear-splitting

barks.

“I get it! Shut up. I’m thinking.”

I finally remembered Ballard’s twenty-four-hour Super Mart.

I knew grocery store kibble was frowned upon in most doggy cir-

cles, but these were desperate times.

_____

Twenty minutes and a grocery store run later, Bella had merciful-

ly stopped barking. She was too busy wolfing down dog food from

my favorite crystal serving bowl. I added food and water bowls to my shopping list.

I looked at the clock and almost cried. It was one-thirty, and

my early morning class started at six. I’d never felt so bone-weary in my life. My head still throbbed, and my stomach ached from

hunger. But all I could think about was sleep—deep, dreamless

sleep. “Come on, Bella. It’s bedtime.” I showed her the bedroom.

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She hopped on the bed and flopped down, lying squarely on my

pillow.

“Sorry, pooch. This is where I draw the line. I sleep on the bed.

You sleep on the floor.”

I grabbed a blanket from the closet, laid it on the floor and

pointed to it. “For you.” It took some convincing, but Bella finally relented. I collapsed on the bed and closed my eyes.

Huge mistake.

Images of George’s body, sounds of sirens, the smell of blood,

and the full knowledge of the evening’s horror invaded every crevice of my being.

Bella paced the room, panting and whining. I tried to coax my-

self to sleep with “Kate’s Sleeping Pill,” my favorite breath practice for insomnia. No good. The horrible memories refused to leave.

But at least now the room was quiet. At least that infernal whining had stopped.

My mind froze.
My eyes flew open. Why
had
the whining stopped?

I rolled over and locked eyes with Bella. Her accusing glare

scolded me. We stared each other down for what seemed like an

eternity. Finally, I realized what was bothering her. Bella was used to sleeping on the ground, but not alone. She and George had lain next to each other every night for as long as she could remember.

Changing that now seemed cruel.

“OK, you win. Come on up, but only for tonight.” I slapped the

bed beside me.

Bella hopped up, turned a quick circle, and sank down next to

me with a heavy sigh. Her brow furrowed, her ears drooped, and

her head hung low. I could tell she knew something had changed.

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She didn’t know what or why, but she knew it was bad. Frighten-

ingly bad. Life-changingly bad.

I suspected Bella couldn’t understand me, but she deserved

an explanation nonetheless. So I told her that George was gone,

but that he had loved her more than anything. I also promised her that, although I couldn’t keep her, I would make sure she was safe until I found someone who could.

I owed that to George.

You see, I firmly believed that George’s death was at least par-

tially my fault. That if I had listened more and judged less, I might have prevented this awful night. I deeply regretted my stubborn-ness in not apologizing. I regretted suggesting he euthanize Bella.

I even regretted not buying that damned paper. No one else would