So Smitten, page 12
“Who did he steal Franco from?”
Roman shrugged. "I didn't need to know, so I didn't ask. It helps to know as little as possible in this business, agent. That's why a guy like Vinny can work fifteen years for the mob and get off with a slap on the wrist, but a guy like me runs a few things for a few years, and the best the FBI can do is a reduced prison sentence and a felony record."
“So Bobby never mentioned anything about where he got the dogs?”
“I made sure he didn’t. My exact words to him were, ‘I want the product to show up under my tree like Santa Claus, you feel me? I don’t want a shipping label, a return address or a collar. As far as I’ll ever know, the Lord just blessed me. Got it?’ He got it.”
Faith and Michael shared a look, then stood. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Kerry. We’ll see what we can do about your charges.”
***
The original home of Franco the Wolfhound turned out to be harder to find than Faith expected. No shelters reported any Wolfhounds found within the past six months, and there was no police report filed.
“We only take those reports if the dog is registered,” Garvey explained. “There’s no other way to know for sure that the dogs actually belong to their owner. It amazes me how many owners don’t want to spend the thirty bucks and the hour of time to get the dog registered and inspected.”
“I’ve learned that most people are convinced that bad things only happen to other people,” Faith said.
Garvey shook her head. “How many people need to die for us to get over that idiocy?”
Faith chose not to comment on that. She and Michael browsed through local listings and social media clubs and finally found something.
The Wolfhound’s name wasn’t Franco originally. Fluffy Face was a six-year-old Irish Wolfhound who, like most members of his breed, was absolutely enormous. He was listed at three feet at the shoulder and a massive one hundred eighty-eight pounds. That made him over twice as big as Turk and half again as big as the largest Rottweilers. No wonder he had been a champion fighting dog.
The picture posted of him on the social media page of Atlanta Dog Lovers didn’t look like a fighting dog. He was smiling the wide grin that Faith saw anytime Turk was in an especially good mood and seemed utterly devoted to a little girl who hugged him tightly.
The post was from two months ago, and it broke Faith's heart. The owner, Donald Peterson, begged for information on Fluffy Face, his granddaughter's dog. Fluffy Face was as gentle and loving—the post said—as his name suggested. Jeanie, the granddaughter, hadn't stopped crying for him. Any information would be met with a reward.
Faith doubted the information they had to share would be met with a reward. She sighed and wiped her hand across her eyes.
“Assholes,” Michael said viciously. “God, I wish I could feed them all to the dogs they abuse.”
“Yeah,” Faith said, “I’m right there with you.”
The page listed an address a few miles from the station. Faith and Michael headed there with Turk, who seemed alternately more subdued and more restless than usual. Faith wondered if he knew that they were hunting people who hurt dogs. She thought of Turk, so recently lost and in the clutches of a sadistic serial killer. She recalled the joy and relief she felt when he returned safely to her. She could easily imagine how her heart would break if he had been found dead.
This was going to hurt.
They reached Donald Peterson’s house just after lunchtime. School was still in session, so at least they didn’t need to worry about Jeanie finding out.
Donald Peterson opened the door, and the look on his face when he saw the officers pierced Faith to her core. He sighed and slumped forward, looking every bit the old man he was. “Well,” he said, “the FBI is here. Either that means you found my anti-war letters from Vietnam, or you found my dog somewhere he shouldn’t be.”
Faith lifted an eyebrow. “You’re aware of the dog fighting ring?”
“I’m aware of dog fighting rings in general,” Donald said, “I don’t know about any of them, but when Fluffy didn’t come home and no one managed to see a two-hundred-pound dog, I figured someone picked him up for no good reason.” He shook his head. “Well, come on in.”
The agents followed him inside. Turk walked straight to Donald’s side, looking up at him with big, sympathetic eyes. Donald smiled down at him and reached down to ruffle his fur. “Dogs are wonderful, aren’t they?” he said.
“Yes,” Faith agreed. “I’m so sorry about yours.”
Donald sighed. “I’m more worried about Jeanie. She’s only six years old. She’s going to just be devastated. I’m not gonna tell her what happened, obviously, but I’ll have to tell her that he’s gone for good. She still prays every night for God to bring him home safely.”
He slumped into his easy chair and buried his head in his hands. Faith and Michael sat on the couch and waited for him to look up. “I’ll get her a new dog,” he said, “I know a guy who breeds Wolfhounds. I’ll find a puppy for her, and we’ll do it right this time. I’ll register it, I’ll build a better fence and keep it locked. I’ll… hell, I’ll buy a gun if I have to. Christ.”
He pressed his hands to his face again, and Faith could see his lower lip trembling.
“When did Fluffy go missing?” Faith asked.
“Two months ago,” Donald said, confirming the evidence from Laura Hagerty and the online post. “We came home one day, and the backyard gate was opened and Fluffy was gone. We thought he had got out to chase a squirrel, so we just put his food out and waited for him to come home. When he didn’t, we called the police, but the police said they couldn’t help unless he was registered.” He sighed. “So, we did it the old-fashioned way. I guess the online ads were new-fashioned, but you know what I mean. Dammit, I knew he was gone. I told Jeanie that he was probably just lost, and if we prayed hard enough, he'd find his way home. I guess I hoped he would."
“Mr. Peterson, did you ever meet a man named Robert Evans?”
“Evans? No. Is he the man who took my dog?”
“Yes,” Faith confirmed.
Donald’s eyes went dark. “Is he here?”
“No,” Faith replied. “He was murdered last night.”
“Hmm,” Donald huffed. “Well, I hope you won’t think too poorly of me if I say I’m not sorry. Do you need me to confirm my whereabouts?”
Faith looked at the old and frail Donald and shook her head. “No, we don’t suspect you. However, I do want to know if you can think of anyone else who would have wanted to get revenge for Fluffy.”
Donald chuckled. “Well, most people I know would be pissed off about anyone stealing a dog, but enough to do something about it? No. Hell, even if I could, I don’t know that I would put myself or my granddaughter in danger. I wish we lived in a world where good people could get revenge on bad people, but in my experience, revenge just turns good people into bad people.”
“That’s been my experience too,” Faith agreed.
“Did you tell anyone about the missing dog? Anyone close to you?”
“No. It’s just me and Jeanie. My wife died ten years ago, and my daughter and her husband died six years ago. My daughter covered Jeanie with her body. That’s how Jeanie survived the car crash.” He stared ahead. “God, I would give anything to be able to do the same for her now. If I could just sacrifice my own life and bring Fluffy back, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”
Faith leaned forward and placed a hand on Donald’s shoulder. “She loves her grandfather too, Donald, and she’s going to need you now. Please don’t blame yourself for what happened.”
Donald turned pained eyes up to Faith. “I wish that knowing that made me feel better,” he said, “but it doesn’t.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Wolfman had to hand it to Atlanta PD. They were in so far over their head they probably couldn’t see the light anymore, but they fought their tails off to protect innocent people.
And innocent dogs. He was overjoyed to hear that the dog fighting ring had been broken up and most of the principles arrested or fled.
It certainly would make his job easier.
He walked around the boarded-up room that at one time had been his K9 training school. For the longest time, he had been the go-to trainer for Atlanta PD. He had trained over two hundred dogs and trained them well. He loved them. He loved taking them from puppies and sending them off as solid professionals—every bit as useful and courageous as their human handlers.
Then that damned ring…
He heard a scuffling noise coming from the back of the building. He walked back to find a stray poking around, probably attracted by the smell of the dog food he still kept here.
“Hey, buddy,” he said softly.
The dog leapt back and growled at him, baring its teeth and flattening its ears to its skull. The Wolfman smiled and approached slowly and calmly, keeping his shoulders square and his posture tall.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “I won’t hurt you.”
The dog looked left and right, trying to determine the best route of escape. It snarled and snapped to show the Wolfman how dangerous it was and that he had better not pick a fight or the dog would hurt him. The Wolfman kept his calm as he approached the closet near where the dog stood. The dog lunged at him, but he could tell by its cringing posture and the way its tail hung tucked under its legs that the attack was a feint. He kept coming, keeping his eyes on the dog as he opened the door.
The poor creature was emaciated. Its ribs stuck out prominently on its chest, and when the Wolfman opened the closet, the dog’s eyes immediately turned to the bags of food. He whined, forgetting for a moment the threat of the large man and thinking only of a chance to soothe its constant hunger.
The Wolfman took a bag and walked to the dishes that lined the wall. The dog’s attitude changed immediately. It stopped snapping and approached, cautiously but not fearfully. The Wolfman was happy to see that. The dog had endured much mistreatment at the hands of people, but it was not a stranger to kindness either. There were still some good people in the world.
He poured a good amount of the kibble in the bowl and backed away. The dog looked warily at him, and he smiled again and said, “Go ahead. You can eat.”
The dog trotted to the bowl and began to eat, slowly at first, then voraciously, as the chance of a full belly outweighed the fear that this large stranger might hurt him. The Wolfman watched the dog eat and wondered how it could be that anyone would find hurting these creatures more fulfilling than helping them.
His smile faded as he thought of the job he still had to finish. The police had taken care of most of his targets, but there was one who escaped. Francisco Jimenez, real name Gaucho. He was one of the pit bosses. The Wolfman had learned that Gaucho had killed some of the dogs on his way out of the warehouse. Why, he didn’t know. For heaven’s sake, he could have just left them in the cages. What were they gonna do, rat him out?
But no, he had killed them. Now he would pay. Just like they all had.
The dog finished its meal and cast wondering, grateful eyes on the Wolfman. He started toward the back door, then hesitated and looked back.
The Wolfman would love to have another dog. This one would stay if he commanded it to stay, he knew. He had shown it kindness, and that was enough to earn its lifelong loyalty if he wanted.
But not yet. He still had to avenge Lucy. Then he could find another dog. Maybe this one would return. Probably it would. Dogs remembered kindness. Maybe when his work was done, he could take this one and leave with him. He could travel somewhere out west and find a quiet place in a quiet forest somewhere where the two of them could enjoy the quiet and peaceful existence that they both deserved.
But that day wasn’t today.
“Go on,” he said. “It’s okay. I’ll see you again.”
The dog dipped its head in acknowledgement and gratitude, then bounded out the door. The Wolfman watched until it disappeared down the alley, then donned his mask, shouldered his pack, and took one last look around his business.
He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders.
Then he left to find Gaucho.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
With no leads to follow up on and closing on thirty-six hours with no sleep, the three agents returned to the hotel.
Michael, as always, had no trouble finding sleep. It was one of the qualities Faith most admired in him, the ability to shut his mind off when needed, no matter how desperate the situation. Faith wished she could rest like that.
In the Marine Corps, she had been able to sleep at the drop of a hat and wake just as quickly. That was crucial in an environment where action could occur at any moment, and one needed to be prepared for it. She had kept that skill for the first eight years of her FBI career. Then Trammell…
Then Trammell. It seemed like those were the most important words of her life. Then Trammell. She was able to relax, then Trammell. She was happy, then Trammell. She was confident, then Trammell. She was a great friend, then Trammell.
She wondered sometimes if West’s appearance on the scene only exacerbated a problem that existed before him. She wondered if he had never shown up if she might have found someone else to fixate on. Trammell had been the turning point of her life. West was merely the avatar of the depression and trauma that now ruled her.
She checked the time. Two o’clock. Desrouleaux would just be returning from lunch. She picked up her phone and dialed.
“Faith,” he said, “Didn’t expect to hear from you.”
“We hit a lull,” she said. “We’re catching a few hours of sleep before it’s back to the grind.”
“I feel you there. I wish I could get a lull.”
Faith smiled sympathetically even though Desrouleaux wasn’t there to see it. “Have you made any progress?” she asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.
“Well, none of your other acquaintances have been murdered,” he said, “No sign of West yet, though. I’m not sure if that means he’s made his point and is laying low or if it means the surveillance is working at deterring him.”
“So no news?”
“No news, and I hope that means good news, but after two years plus chasing this guy, I don’t know if I should let myself hope that much.”
“Hope springs eternal,” Faith said, “but it never catches you on the way down.”
“A springboard, not a trampoline,” he agreed. “What about you? How are things on your end?”
“Frustrating as usual,” Faith said. “A whole lot of pieces but no idea what the puzzle is yet or how to put it together.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t surprise me. The Syndicate is a serious outfit. I’m surprised the Bureau didn’t want Organized Crime handling this.”
“Well, between you and me, I think the Boss is just trying to fill my time so I don’t go after West again.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right,” he said, “He only does this because he cares about you, you know.”
Faith bristled but controlled her reaction. “Yeah, I know. I just don’t like living looking over my shoulder.”
“Yeah,” he said, “I get that. Well, I gotta get back now. Chavez is staring at me the way my wife stares at me.”
Faith chuckled. "Hopefully, not exactly the way your wife stares at you.”
“Oh, Faith,” Desrouleaux said with an exaggerated sigh. “It’s kind of you to think that, but even my wife hasn’t stared at me like that in over a decade.”
Faith laughed and exchanged goodbyes with Desrouleaux. After she hung up, she steepled her fingers together and leaned her elbows forward on the table.
So West had chosen a random person from her past and killed him, then disappeared. Maybe he just wanted Faith to remember he was there.
A memory returned to her of one of the early sessions with West when they were exploring their military service. She recalled it first during the interview with Desrouleaux, but it came back now in sharp and clear detail.
“Well, this Decker was important to you, Faith, even if you don’t realize it,” West insisted. “You were intimate with him, and even if it seemed to you like it was only scratching an itch, it was certainly far more than that. You chose to reach out for human contact, and when you did, you chose Decker.”
“I chose him because he had a nice smile and abs,” Faith replied, “he’s not exactly the one that got away.”
“Who is the one that got away?”
Faith thought immediately of Michael, his boyish smile, the laugh he reserved only for those rare occasions when they weren’t wracking their brains to try to find some crazed killer or another, the way his face looked when he slept, completely relaxed, free of the years of accumulated stress that eventually overwhelmed even the most resilient of agents.
But that was absurd. She had been in love with Michael, it was true, but it was only a brief infatuation, a puppy love that faded almost as soon as it started.
“I don’t really have one,” she said.
“Of course you do,” West insisted, “but I won’t make you tell me who if you wish to keep that thought to yourself. Instead, I’ll tell you why Decker was important, why, I suspect, this one that got away was also important.”
“Okay,” Faith said with a wry smile. “Be my guest.”
“You, Faith Bold, are lonely. That is your defining characteristic.”
Faith felt herself recoil slightly. She had to fight to keep her voice lighthearted when she said, “Aren’t you supposed to try to make me feel better?”
“I’m supposed to help you see things as they truly are,” West said, “I’m afraid that more often than not, that involves feeling worse before one feels better. But it is absolutely necessary if you are to gain control of the emotions that now control you.”
“My emotions don’t control me,” Faith said.
"Oh yes, they do," Dr. West replied, "they control everyone. And the emotion that controls you is loneliness. I propose to you, Faith, that you chose Sergeant Decker not because he was the most handsome of the men available. In fact, I would hazard a guess that, in most cases, you would consider a man like Decker one of the least appealing options. But he liked you. He wanted you. Perhaps, in a small way, he even loved you a little. And you wanted that. For just a moment, you wanted to feel like the kind of person who could be loved. That's why you chose him."
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