The China Dogs (17 page)

Her brown eyes are as big as saucers. She's never been to a restaurant as expensive as this. Never had anyone other than friends and family sing “Happy Birthday” to her.

Danny dips into his pocket and conjures up the little square box of magic that his mom told him all girls dream of. He flips open the brown faux-leather lid and reveals a modest speck of diamond on a nine-carat band. “Jennifer Louisa McCann, will you do me the immense honor of being my wife?”

Her eyes fill with tears and her heart bounces like a jackrabbit in a carrot field. Danny's a great guy. Good-looking. Smart. There are so many reasons to say yes.

And as many to say no.

She knows what he does, the hacking and the wheeling-and-dealing—and she knows it's not right. The kind of
not right
that can end in jail time.

He can see her hesitation.

And so too can other diners.

People at surrounding tables have spotted the outstretched hand, the ring proffered on the sweating palm of the young man with a desperately expectant look on his face. What was once a white-clothed dinner table is now a stage, an intimate moment in a very much public performance.

Danny takes her hand and squeezes it. “Jen, I love you. I'd cut pieces from my soul to just spend the rest of my life with you.”

She shuts her eyes and takes a deep breath.

The power of the words and pressure of the moment are too great to resist. She opens wide and smiles at him. “Yes. Yes! I'd love to be your wife.”

58

Police HQ, Miami

S
ix hours after Melissa Clay was brought in for questioning, a police doctor rules she's fit to be interviewed.

Ghost does the Q&A with detective Annie Swanson. Partly because he wants her to watch and learn but also, because of Melissa's drug problems, he's keen to have a sympathetic female in the room for her.

They start off real slow, with all the formalities and chitchat, then the lieutenant lays out pictures of the dead rottweiler faceup on the table like they were picture cards. He looks across to the wreck of a woman in a yellow V-neck T-shirt and ragged blue jeans. “This your dog, Melissa? Is this Tyson?”

She stares but doesn't touch the print, or show any emotion. Drugs and depression have dried up all of her feelings. Her voice is slow and slurred, “Yeah, that T. Wad 'appened to him?”

He ignores her question. “When and where did you last see him?”

She closes her eyes and takes an eternity to answer. “Hell, I don't know. He gone, that all I figure.”

“Try harder.” He leans over the table and shakes her gently. “Melissa, stay awake and you might just stay outta jail. Dwayne said you drove to his place at Miami Beach and took the dog after you guys split up. Is that right?”

She nods. “Yeah. That motherfucker said he loved me.” She licks dried lips. “Told me that over an' over. ‘Love you, baby.'
And what does he do? He makes up this shit that—”

Ghost doesn't want to hear it. “I'm not interested in you and Dwayne, Melissa. The dog, Tyson—you picked him up and then what?”

She lets her head loll to one side and scratches an itch on her neck. Mosquito bite that hurts like hell.

“Melissa, the dog!”

She gets herself together. “I let him go.”

“Where? Miami Beach?”

Scratching has made her neck bleed. She looks inquisitively at the blood on her fingers. It reminds her of needles and smack and the wonderfulness of forgetting life's shit.

“Melissa, did you let Tyson go on Miami Beach?”

She looks up from her blood. “Naah. I let him out someplace else. I was jus' drivin'. I stopped and Tyson was yappin' and all. It was like he wanted to be free. So I opened the door and said, ‘Get the fuck outta here' . . .” She smiles happily. “. . . and he did. He just fucking ran. Then I drove off.”

Ghost's heard worse stories in his time, much worse, but he still can't believe the stupidity and selfishness of such an action. “Where, Melissa? Where was this?”

She thinks on it. Her face grows sad as she reconnects with the dog. With the little bit of tenderness she had. “Near the shoppin' center, out at Key Biscayne. I remember now.”

Ghost nods to Annie.

She knows what to do. There are two other photographs, facedown in front of her. She turns them over and slides them across to Melissa. “This is Alfie Steiner. Ten years old. He was playing soccer with friends when Tyson bit him to death.”

Melissa stares at the picture then looks away.

“The dog ever attack anyone else, Melissa?”

Wet eyes turn and fix on the cops. “That sad. About that boy—that real sad.”

Annie stays calm. “It is. Especially for the boy's family. I asked you a question—has Tyson ever attacked anyone else?”

“No.” She shakes her head several times to emphasize. “T—he was a gentle baby.” She smiles as images of him as a puppy swim into her addled brain. “Was that why you shot him? Coz of the boy? Coz of what happened?”

Ghost answers. “It was, Melissa.” He thinks about telling her that had she kept her car door shut that day, then both the dog and Alfie Steiner would be alive. But he doesn't. She'll find her own route to guilt soon enough. “Detective Swanson is going to wrap up here. You're going to get charged Melissa, with not having a license for the dog, not having it on a leash, and criminal recklessness.” He lets it sink in, then adds, “I'm going to have to review the case with my captain and it may be that we decide to add second degree murder to that list as well, so you're going to need an attorney to represent you. Do you understand what I'm telling you?”

She's biting on a nail now and fumbling her way through a long fogged mind. “I didn't kill that boy. It was Tyson. Fuck man, you already been judge and jury and given
him
the death penalty. I want to go now.”

Ghost gets to his feet. “Do you have an attorney, Melissa, or you want us to get one for you?”

She lets her head droop. Tired eyes find her lap, her feet, then the floor. “I ain't got no representation.”

Ghost nods to Annie and heads to the door. He knows she's going to need a really good defense lawyer, and not just to fight the charges. Once Alfie Steiner's family find out the owner has been traced, they're sure to file civil proceedings that will take every last cent Melissa has.

59

Coral Way, Miami

Z
oe spends much of the day unpacking her finally returned trunk of clothes

The other thing occupying her mind is Ghost.

She thought he might call or text but he hasn't. Nor has she. All that sudden shit this morning about giving her a key was too much to take. Way too scary.

A key?

What the hell was he thinking?

They barely know each other and
bam
now he wants to give her a key. That's creepy. Weird. Strange. Controlling.

Isn't it?

Or was he just being practical? Nice? Friendly?

Or more?

She spent most of her day
not
thinking about all these things. Plus what he might be doing, what he might be thinking about, and whether she's just completely misjudged him and is in danger of making a fool of herself.

He's definitely weird.

But it seems a nice weird. He's smart and weird. Stylish and weird. Strong and weird. Then again, wasn't that late call he made, asking for her company, a sweet flash of vulnerability? A strong, smart guy who isn't afraid of showing his vulnerability. Now that
is
seriously weird.

The evening news is all about new dog attacks, and to understand Ghost and his work a little more, Zoe finds herself checking stories on the Internet. It seems like the whole canine world is turning on the hands that feed them.

Jude is staying over at Jake's again and then they're off to the Bahamas for a few days, where his company is fitting air-con in a new hotel. It means she has the run of the place, and guiltily raids the snacks cupboard while she scribbles things down.

Two bags of chips and a Snickers bar later, Zoe knows that there are around eighty million pet dogs in the U.S., with about five million a year lost or abandoned, and close to three million euthanized by shelters. Like Ghost had said, the figure has been jumping year after year as the recession deepened. Fertile dogs have two litters a year and produce between six and ten pups. It doesn't come as a surprise to learn that big dogs are really popular. Labs come number one in the nation's Top Ten, German shepherds three. Retrievers four. Boxers six, and bulldogs ten. Then, just outside that elite group, come the mastiff and Doberman pinscher.

She pours herself a glass of wine from an opened bottle of Chilean red and digs some more. From what she can work out, pit bulls and rottweilers cause three-quarters of all attacks on kids and 80 percent on adults. Additionally, they account for 77 percent of
all
attacks that cause bodily harm, three-quarters of the maimings, and two to three deaths a week.

Zoe pours a second glass of red and is about to close down her computer when her phone comes alive with a ring tone she knows is Danny's. “Hi there, what you up to?”

Restaurant noise, laughter, and plate clatter all precede his answer. “Congratulations, Zo', you're about to get yourself a ­sister-in-law.”

“What the fuck?” She sits in shock.

On the phone line, Danny sounds as wired as a speed addict. “I've just proposed and Jenny's said yes.”

“You what?” Zoe can't believe it. What an idiot. He's going to
marry
some tramp she hasn't even met.

“Listen, sis, she's here with me, I'm gonna put Jenny on so you can say hi.”

“No. Don't. I don't want to speak to her. Get serious Danny—you know what a fucking mess Mom and Dad made of ­marriage—”

Jenny McCann already has the phone to her ear and is listening to every word.

“—any girl who says yes to marriage after such a short relationship is even more stupid than you—”

“Hi, Zoe, this is Jenny. I can't wait to meet—”

Zoe cuts her off.

Fuck.

What a nightmare. Some freeloader she's never met is about to screw up her brother's life, and she's already trash-mouthed her.

And on top of that it's almost midnight and Ghost hasn't phoned.

60

Police HQ, Miami

I
t's past midnight when Ghost and Annie finish charging Melissa Clay with second degree murder.

He drives home feeling darkly depressed. Had the woman not broken up with Dwayne, she wouldn't have driven off with the dog, wouldn't have opened the car door and let it go. Alfie Steiner would be alive and she wouldn't be heading to prison and bankruptcy.

The woulds and would-nots
are as thick and cloying as the humid Miami air. He showers, puts on shorts and a T-shirt, and feels desperately hungry.

In the kitchen he picks fresh fruits from a wooden bowl, cuts slices of cheeses he bought last weekend at the European Deli in Lake Worth, and decants a twenty-year-old port he got at a wine auction almost a year ago.

He takes the food and drink to a handmade oak dining table and then goes to the study to search for some specific volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica. He has the same volumes online but prefers the touch and feel of real books.

Dogs are still on his mind.

Dogs that start as pets and end up as killers.

Dogs that ruin lives.

Ghost has to know more about them, has to study the history of this strange enemy in order to work out why man's best friend is suddenly turning into mankind's worst enemy.

Books in hand, he returns to the table and pours a luxurious dribble of Delaforce's aptly named “Curious and Ancient.” As it breathes a little more, he slices off what he hopes is a complementary piece of Blue Shropshire Stilton.

At first he's not sure the creamy nuttiness of the cheese sits well with the port's sharp but jammy spice, then after a second tasting he decides it's a good choice.

Good but not great.

Ghost starts with the basics. The American Kennel Club recognizes 148 different breeds of dogs and splits them into seven basic categories: terrier, toy, working, herding, hound, sporting, and nonsporting. The smallest breed is the Chihuahua, the tallest the Irish wolfhound, and the heaviest the St. Bernard.

Trawling through canine history he finds that early Egyptians, Greeks, and Persians all used dogs in their armies. The Romans specifically trained the big Molossus—
Canis Mollosus
—and sent packs into battle wearing crude metal armor and spiked iron collars. Similarly, Attila the Hun deployed the mastifflike creatures in bloody and brutal campaigns.

Further down the timeline, Spanish conquistadors trained armored dogs to kill and disembowel South American natives. The British used dogs when they attacked the Irish. The Irish in turn used their native wolfhounds to attack the horses and knights of invading Normans. All manner of leaders from Frederick the Great to Napoleon and Elizabeth I used dogs in battles.

Police first deployed dogs in Victorian England, when the Metropolitan London Police used bloodhounds in the hunt for Jack the Ripper. Most American cops didn't get canine units until post-WWII, after witnessing how the Nazis used military dogs for control and punishment.

Ghost cuts himself a generous slice of Brie de Meaux, which he eats without biscuits, and instantly wishes he'd opened champagne rather than port, or better still chosen the Camembert. Nevertheless, he still understands why Louis XVI's dying wish was for a spoonful of Brie.

He slices some green apple to clear his palate and reads that during the Second World War the Russians used dogs strapped with explosives to destroy German tanks, while during the Vietnam War the Americans used more than five thousand battle dogs. Back in 2011 the U.S. Navy SEALs used a Belgian Malinois war dog in Operation Neptune Spear, the strike that killed Osama bin Laden.