Double Dog Dare (14 page)

By Jeff . . .

Wally had thrust the door open, and I preceded both of them through it into a vast room that was gleamingly clean. One side was lined with small, fenced-in areas, and three contained puppies!

“How cute!” I cried, dashing toward them. And then I stopped and looked back at the people who’d accompanied me here and asked the obvious. “Are they clones?”

“Yes.” Melba sounded as proud as if they were her own offspring. In a way, since she was chief scientist, I supposed they were.

“They’re nearly old enough to go home with their owners and older siblings,” Wally said in a tone that suggested he shared a lot of satisfaction in this achievement. “That’s one reason we can show them to you. All the proprietary procedures are handled in other areas of the lab. There’s a lot of work that goes into creating clones, but with these little fellows that work is just about done.”

I’d reached the pens and looked in at the three adorable puppies. One was a Lab, not very unlike Beryl Leeds’s, but it was black instead of chocolate, so it clearly was unrelated to her older dog, Melville. Another was the sweetest tiny Yorkie. The third was a boxer that could have come from a litter raised by Marie Seidforth, a client I’d assisted in a situation where her homeowners association might have required her to forgo further boxers. As always in pet-related disputes I dealt with, I’d used ADR in Marie’s situation— usually used in legalese to mean “alternative dispute resolution, ” but defined by me as “animal dispute resolution.”

“May I pet them?” I asked.

Permission was granted, and one by one I picked them out of their pens and hugged them.

They felt like regular puppies. Acted like regular puppies, frolicking on my lap as I sat on the cold lab floor, licking my chin, yapping, and attempting to leap away.

I laughed—a whole lot more than I had in the last couple of weeks. They were adorable.

From the stuff I’d read, the technology behind cloning made it difficult, but not impossible, to clone dogs, at least for an arguably affordable price. But clients like Beryl Leeds obviously had the funds. Lois Terrone? She said they’d claimed to have charged her a bargain price— because they intended to harm her dog? More likely, to build up clientele and get their company established.

And some clonings clearly worked. If these endearing darlings were the result, then The Clone Arranger definitely would get public recognition soon.

Still . . . I needed more info that I hoped to get from Tom, which meant I had to keep speaking to him even after his effusive greeting by Debby Payne.

I’d initially figured Tom wasn’t a legitimately likely suspect in Jeff’s disappearance, since my affections were an unlikely motive. But what might Jeff have learned to undermine the apparent wonderful success of The Clone Arranger? And how would Tom have reacted to that?

And Tom had even admitted to having professional access to the drug that been used to kill Earl.

I stood, finally, and dusted myself off. “Can you tell me anything more about how cloning is done?” I asked. “As you can tell, I’m really amazed. In awe. These puppies are wonderful!”

“Come into our office and I’ll give you an informational brochure,” Wally said with a smile that suggested relief. I’d obviously said the right thing—implied I was impressed enough not to embarrass them or cause any trouble.

I was sure, though, that I’d get the same info that had been sanitized for public consumption, probably what I’d picked up before.

It wouldn’t give me the answers I really needed: Who killed Earl Knox, and why? Had Jeff actually been here investigating, and had it led to his disappearance? If so, why?

Who was involved?

And at this moment, at least, Dr. Tom Venson wasn’t just on my list of suspects. He’d taken a place of dishonor right near the top.

Chapter Eleven

THERE WASN’T A whole lot else for me to see at The Clone Arranger that afternoon. Or at least there wasn’t a whole lot else that Melba and Wally were willing to show me, considering the apparent size of this warehouse-huge facility.

I got to see one sample lab fitted out, they told me, nearly identically to the ones where DNA samples were taken from the animals to be cloned, then treated in the outfit’s proprietary manner for storage or for immediate replication of pets, whatever the owner had paid for.

What they showed me was a room that could have come from a showroom of ideal veterinary paraphernalia, for all I knew. A tall table with a shining metal top sat in the middle. Pristine, presumably locked, cabinets sat at the room’s periphery, and counters jutting from them contained an array of technical doodads I had no hope of identifying. I had the sense of rarefied air—purged of all L.A. smog or other contaminants, not even the usual aromas of animals or disinfectants present in places where pets were generally found or handled.

I received a clearly sanitized explanation of what went on in here: a detail-free overview of how samples were extracted and stored and, gee, how after that they were taken to some other very special and secret rooms in this facility to be put under a magic spell so, soon, someone would wave a magic wand and say “poof!” and the result would be an embryo of a creature identical to the one from which the DNA had been removed.

Well, forget the magical part. This was solely scientific, or so they told me in a manner designed to wow laypeople like me without really revealing diddly squat.

“Is it true,” I asked, “that the DNA has to be removed from a living animal, like the woman suspected of killing Earl claimed she was told here? I’ve heard that it doesn’t matter in some processes, and there are cloning companies that even preserve DNA from dead animals for future duplication. ”

“It matters in our special process,” Melba confirmed without explaining the intricacies, leaving me completely curious.

Eventually, I’d seen everything they’d permit me to view. I was through here . . . at least for now. Time for me to hurry out and make some notes.

Except that I couldn’t depart without saying something to Tom. Something like goodbye, sure. As in
Goodbye forever, you two-timing louse
. But he wasn’t actually two-timing at all, since I’d never even given him a chance to one-time with me. And one kiss, even as hot as the one Debby had laid on him, didn’t mean there was much between them now. And most important of all, I’d made it clear I wasn’t interested in him romantically, especially now.

But the louse part . . . well, with his involvement with The Clone Arranger, and The Clone Arranger’s personnel’s possible connection to Jeff’s disappearance, it wasn’t a huge stretch to keep Tom on that list of suspects I was about to embellish and reorganize, as soon as I got a moment to myself.

As I was very obviously being ushered toward the door, I stopped and said to Wally, “Where’s Tom? I’d really like to say goodbye to him. And to Debby and Mason, too, so I can thank them for their hospitality.” I was really pouring on the bread-and-butter politeness, but hey, courtesy and etiquette might get me invited back, if I needed to perform further research here.

Or not, if they suspected what I actually was up to.

But since I sort of dug in my heels and refused to be herded outside, Melba said, “You can’t go in the examination room where he’s looking over some of our prospective clone subjects, but if you wait here, I’ll go get him.” Her features appeared pinched at the prospect of having to humor me, or maybe it was just because of how tightly her dark hair was pulled back from her face. Whatever, she turned her back and hustled down the hall.

We were just outside the entry lounge, and Wally insisted that we wait in there. “Might as well be comfortable, ” he pointed out in too boisterous a voice.

Aha—alone with a Clone Arranger at last! I agreeably entered the lounge and sat on one of the less-than-comfortable yellow-upholstered metal chairs, staring first at the one beside me and then at Wally till he got the message and took a seat. “How long have you worked for The Clone Arranger?” I asked, as if I’d searched for something to start a conversation. Which I had, sort of. Only, I had a motive for this particular madness.

“About a year,” he said. “I worked for a veterinary supply company before that, also doing public relations.” What a surprise.

“Do you like it here? I mean, if you worked in a similar industry before, I assume you like animals. What do you think about cloning—both scientifically and ethically?”

I knew what his canned response would be. “The Clone Arranger provides a wonderful service to pet lovers,” he said, much too mushily. But he was, after all, in P.R. “And ethics? Well, I know there are controversies about cloning, especially the possibility of cloning people, but it’s simply a different approach to regular old genetics. Assistance in reproduction has been around for a while, and it’s a good thing, don’t you think?”

Sounded somewhat like Tom’s canned response. Had he learned it here? Most likely. And Wally was trying to turn the tables on me, regarding me expectantly with small, focused brown eyes, as if readying a positive response for anything negative I might say.

I decided that something argumentative wasn’t in my best interests in this conversation, so I responded sort of sideways. “Well, as I said, I came here first because a friend wanted my take on cloning in general, and The Clone Arranger in particular. I’m still not sure I can form a fully informed opinion, but for the moment I can say I’m really impressed with the place and the professionalism of all of you.” Not Debby Payne’s libido, though. Or the fact that I didn’t know enough to clear even one person from the suspicion of having killed Earl Knox.

And the whole Jeff situation? Well, I absolutely hadn’t enough data to determine if there was anything related to his disappearance around here.

Before Wally could attempt to respond, the door opened once more and Tom came in—by himself. He rushed toward me and stopped as I stood. He took me by the shoulders and regarded me with an intense look that suggested he’d plant one of those sexy kisses on me, too, if I was receptive.

I wasn’t. I stepped back. “Time to get on my way,” I said lightly. “I wanted to say goodbye—to Mason and Debby, too.” I peered around as if searching for the brother and sister behind him.

“They’re on a conference call with a client,” he said. “And I have one more dog to examine in the back. But, Kendra, I want to make sure we get together soon. Tonight, if possible, or tomorrow, for dinner. I want to make sure you understand that Debby and I are history.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw a movement as Wally reacted in some manner—nodding or tossing his cookies, I couldn’t tell at this angle.

But I made myself look up nonjudgmentally at Tom’s earnest expression. “I have to say I was . . . well, not exactly thrilled,” I said, as if it made all the difference in the world to me that he hadn’t been entirely up-front.

Maybe, under other circumstances, it would have. But at this moment, I intended to impose invulnerability onto all my emotions. I’d have to block them to ensure I could continue with all that was on my agenda.

And since one of those things was to interrogate Tom further about his Clone Arranger involvement, I had to put on this act of innocence and hurt.

“Even so, you can call me later,” I told him. “It’s the weekend, and pet-sitters never rest, even if attorneys sometimes do. But I’d love to get together with you . . . I think.” With that I sailed out of the lounge with a final thanks tossed over my shoulder to Wally.

My head spun as I sat down in my rental car’s uncomfortable driver’s seat. Feeling eyes on me from the lounge—even without visible windows—I didn’t stay to work on my lists but instead headed away from the place. As soon as I found a fast-food joint’s parking lot, I pulled in, dragged out my notebook, and began jotting names, including the people I’d just met and the ones I’d been told had possible grudges against the deceased Earl Knox. I also noted impressions of the place and its facilities.

And the cute puppies I’d seen in the cloning holding area.

And then I wrote in great detail how I imagined Jeff might have approached the place had he been conducting one of his P.I. investigations. How he might have, with more skill, gone undercover as a potential customer. His assumed impressions of what he saw and who he met.

How any of them could have seen through his meticulous cover. And lured him up north to the aqueduct area and forced his Escalade into the canal.

And done—what—to him?

Imagined? Heck, I envisioned it, with each individual as a villain, or several or all as coconspirators.

Only then did I realize I was weeping. Again.

Hell! I was accomplishing nothing besides increasing my suspicions with nothing at all to hang them on. I needed facts.

And so I placed a cell phone call to the person most likely to ferret out all the facts, available or not, about the people whose names I’d noted. But it was, after all, Saturday, and Althea unsurprisingly didn’t answer the office phone. She didn’t answer her cell, either.

So it was up to me to do what I could myself. I had access at my office to all sorts of online databases, after all. I hurried first to Jeff’s home, where I had left the hounds. I needed some loving company, which Lexie and Odin gave unstintingly when I knelt and took their furry, squirming bodies into my arms.

We took a short but successful doggy walk on Jeff’s street. I cleaned up after them myself, wondering where the new poop-scooping outfit’s closest employees might be. “What do you think?” I asked the dogs. “That group appears to be becoming ubiquitous, and I might get spoiled if they follow us around to take care of your leavings.”

Lexie barked enthusiastically in response, almost as if she understood. Odin seemed slightly more aloof, but definitely alert, as if observing the residential neighborhood around us while looking for the poop scoopers in question.