To Sketch a Thief (8 page)

“Up here,” she answered him, licking telltale chocolate off her fingers.

A moment later Larry appeared at the top of the stairs, Marti’s very own Jack Sprat, wearing khaki pants and a yellow dress shirt open at the neck. He had a long face that was accentuated by a receding hairline and blue eyes caught up in the fine lines of one who enjoys laughing.

“I forgot you were coming home before the Bay Shore meeting,” Marti said, setting a wriggling Falcon on the floor. The dog headed toward Larry, his tail wagging so hard it was difficult for him to walk a straight line. When he was within arm’s length of his master, he flipped onto his back. Larry bent down to administer the expected tummy rubs while Marti took care of the introductions.

“I see you wound up with Hobo.” Larry grinned as he stood again to offer Rory a handshake. “I haven’t seen him in . . . what is it, Mart . . . more than two years now?”

“Something like that,” she murmured.

“I guess after all that time he didn’t recognize me.”

“Yeah, sorry about the greeting,” Rory said, “dogs can be so territorial when they’re in a car.” Another bit of wisdom gleaned from the dog bible. “I was just about to get going, but it was nice to meet you.”

Purse in hand, she thanked Marti for taking the time to speak to her and promised to keep her posted if there was any news about Tootsie. There was no point in burning a bridge she might need to cross again one day.

Chapter 9

D
r. Holbrook was running late. In a medical office, there would have been irritation, grumbling and sour expressions from those languishing in the waiting room. In a veterinarian’s office it was barely controlled bedlam. There were too many dogs and cats and too little space to keep them peacefully separated. And more patients were arriving by the minute. The receptionist suggested that the newcomers wait in their cars; they’d be notified when it was their turn. No one seemed to think that was a good idea. Maybe they were worried they’d be forgotten.

There was every manner of canine behavior from sniffing to snapping and playing to dominating, a general whirlwind of activity to the continuous tune of the owners’ apologizing to one another. People with cats kept their carriers in their arms or tucked under the wooden benches behind the barrier of their legs. By the time Hobo’s name was called, Rory’s hands were red and aching from the effort of keeping him on a short leash, and she was beginning to think that a dog the size of a Maltese definitely had its advantages.

They were shown into a tiny exam room with green linoleum floors and a small counter/sink combo with cabinets below it. The centerpiece of the room was a stainless steel table that had acquired a thick patina of scratch marks over the years. Rory sat down on the one stool in the room and tried unsuccessfully to encourage Hobo to lie down beside her. He should have been exhausted from all the excitement in the waiting room, but there appeared to be too many mysterious and alluring smells that required his attention.

After another fifteen minutes Rory was as antsy as her dog. She walked around the room reading Dr. Holbrook’s diplomas and examining the large diagrams of the canine and feline anatomy that constituted the only artwork on the walls. The girl who had shown her into the room had left Hobo’s file on top of the counter. Rory decided that if she was going to be paying Hobo’s bill, she’d earned the right to read his file. Flipping through it she could see that he’d led something of a storied life in his five years on the planet. He’d broken his leg, had his nose dive-bombed by wasps, snacked on a small lightbulb, necessitating surgery, and hosted a flea circus. Dr. Holbrook’s notes showed a flair for the creative. When she went to put the file down again, she noticed that it had been sitting on top of a yellow legal pad. The top page bore a handwritten list of surnames, followed by what appeared to be pets’ names, then a “T” or an “M” and a phone number. About a third of the names had check marks next to them.

Rory was looking to see if she recognized any of the people on the list when she heard the slap of leather soles approaching the room. She quickly set Hobo’s file back down on top of the legal pad. A moment later the door opened and a man walked in wearing a white coat with “Stanley Holbrook, DVM” embroidered in blue on the pocket.

Holbrook was short with broad shoulders and a flat stomach that he advertised by leaving his white coat open and wearing a polo shirt tucked snugly into his trousers. A thick crown of brown hair fell onto his forehead, giving him a boyish look completely at odds with his graying temples and eyebrows. He held himself ramrod straight as if trying to harvest every last millimeter of his height. He flashed Rory a broad smile, his teeth so white they looked a little blue in the fluorescent light.

“Hobo, my man,” he said, bending down and holding out his hand to the dog. “Give me five.”

Hobo offered him a wary wave of his tail instead.

Holbrook rose and introduced himself to Rory, who’d reached the point where she wouldn’t have wagged her tail even if she’d had one.

“Sorry about the delay,” he said, reading her mood and ratcheting the smile down a few degrees out of respect for the trials and tribulations of her extended stay in the waiting room. “We’ve had a crazy morning. Two car accidents, emergency surgeries, hysterical owners—but I’m glad to report that everyone survived. Not always the case when dog meets car.” As soon as he picked up Hobo’s file, he saw the pad beneath it and flipped it upside down without missing a beat, increasing Rory’s interest in it tenfold and then some.

“Anyone who takes in an orphaned mutt is okay in my book,” he said, leafing through Hobo’s history.

Rory wondered if being “okay in his book” might buy her less of a wait the next time she had to bring the dog in.

“It’s terrible what happened to Brenda,” he said. “Such a nice woman. I took care of her dogs for more years than I can remember.” Although he was saying all the right things, Rory had the uncomfortable sense that there was no substance behind his words, no emotional component. She told herself he was just maintaining a clinical distance from his patients in order to take proper care of them and the families who loved them. Yet the best doctors she’d ever come across didn’t completely shut the door to their emotions. Holbrook seemed to have bought into the old theory with every nickel to his name.

“A lot of people think she was killed by someone who came to steal her Maltese,” Rory said. She’d finish analyzing him later. Right now she wanted to hear his thoughts on the dognappings. He owed her that much, after all the time she’d spent in his waiting room.

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” he said, closing the folder and looking up. “A number of my clients have had dogs stolen recently. It’s gotten the whole dog community paranoid.” He pressed what looked like an intercom button on the wall and pulled on a pair of latex gloves from a dispenser on the counter.

“Being in the dog business, do you have any theories about who might be behind it?”

Holbrook’s eyebrows arched up to meet the tumble of hair on his forehead as if this was the first time anyone had put the question to him. “It’s got to be some kind of ‘steal to order’ ring. I doubt it’s just someone stocking up on dogs in case there’s a sudden shortage.” Pleased with his own humor, he flashed her another dazzling smile. “But you don’t have to worry about old Hobo here—mutts aren’t worth stealing.”

Before she could object to the way he’d phrased the remark, the door to the exam room opened and a boy walked in. He was no more than eighteen, tall and reed thin with a prominent Adam’s apple. His shoulders were rolled forward, making his narrow chest appear as if someone had scooped out a large portion of it.

Given his stature, Rory was amazed when he picked Hobo up as if he were a five-pound sack of potatoes and set him down on the steel table. Hobo didn’t seem at all happy about his new location. His nails skittered across the slippery surface as he tried to dig in and find traction.

“Ms. McCain,” Holbrook said, “this is my assistant Zach.”

Zach bobbed his head in greeting, while he kept one arm securely around Hobo’s middle to prevent him from taking a dive.

As the exam proceeded, it was clear that Zach knew his role. He moved from one side of Hobo to the other, keeping out of the vet’s way as he checked the dog’s heart, lungs, eyes, abdomen and every available orifice. It was like watching a well-rehearsed dance team.

Ten minutes later Hobo was given a clean bill of health. Then Zach plucked him up and deposited him back on the floor much like the hook that grabs a stuffed animal and sends it down the chute to a waiting child.

“Okay, boy, you’re good to go.” Holbrook gave him a quick scratch around the ears. “I don’t have to see him again until spring,” he said, handing Rory a form to take to the front desk.

Seventy-five dollars later, she opened the car door and Hobo leaped inside, as joyful as any child to be leaving the doctor’s office.

Driving home, Rory couldn’t stop thinking about the list under Hobo’s folder and what it might represent. She came up with a host of benign possibilities, none of which explained why Holbrook didn’t want her to see it.

1878

The Arizona Territory

M
arshal Ezekiel Drummond was up before the sun. He’d spent an uncomfortable night bedded down near the stall in which his horse was stabled. The only thing between his body and the hard-packed earth was the small pile of hay he’d gathered from the corners of the smithy. He was not unaccustomed to sleeping on the ground, but although he ached with fatigue, his thoughts refused to be stilled. Trask was out there somewhere, putting more miles between them with every passing minute.

Since he’d paid the blacksmith in advance, there was no need for Drummond to wait until the man arose to start his workday. After seeing to oats and water for his horse, he saddled the chestnut and led him outside. The horse moved with a spring to his step and a brightness to his eye that bespoke his gratitude for the sorely needed rest.

To the east the sky was pinking up, the sun peeking over the lip of the horizon like an impatient child waiting to be discovered in a game of hide-and-seek. Drummond swung into the saddle wondering where a man might find some breakfast in this town. Although his saddlebags were packed with hardtack and pemmican, along with some peaches and tomatoes in airtights, such provisions would best be saved for times when there was no other source of food.

As the chestnut picked his way down the dark, rutted street, Goose Flats’ residents began to stir. Two men came out of the saloon and crossed the street to a building at the other end of town. From his position, Drummond couldn’t quite make out the sign over the door, but an establishment open for business this early in the day was most likely to be a restaurant or what passed for one in these parts. He headed that way, and before he’d dismounted, he was joined by several other men who’d come by horse from the direction of the prospectors’ camp and the Tombstone mine. The men gave him a nod of the head, ample greeting for a stranger in a mining town where the population changed by the hour. Drummond dipped his head in return.

As he tethered the chestnut to the hitching post, he looked up at the sign, the unexpected words bringing a smile to his lips. “Big Bertha’s Buns” was a ramshackle structure with walls that seemed to be leaning into one another for support. Inside, an enthusiastic fire crackling in the hearth managed to impart a homey feel to the room. Half the tables were already filled with men forking eggs, ham and pancakes into their mouths.

The only female Drummond saw in the restaurant had to be Big Bertha herself. She was dressed in a homespun skirt that resembled a gunnysack and a blouse grayed from dozens of washings and embellished with a palette of food stains. Her brown hair was pulled back into a knot from which a thin curtain of wispy ends had pulled free to frame her full, rosy cheeks. Beads of perspiration danced across her forehead and skipped down her temples as she squeezed between the tables holding plates of steaming food aloft to clear the heads of her patrons.

“Don’t be shy,” she said, catching the marshal’s eye. “Find yourself a seat anywhere and I’ll fetch you some coffee soon as I set these down.”

Drummond took a seat at a narrow, empty table near the fire in the hope that no one would join him. He preferred to eat alone, quickly and without conversation, and be on his way, although he didn’t actually know which way that was. If Trask had stopped for breakfast before leaving town, maybe Bertha had seen which way he’d headed.

He was still thinking that thought when a mug of coffee was placed in front of him along with a chipped plate that contained two sourdough biscuits and a large spiral bun, redolent of sugar and cinnamon and trimmed with a loop of vanilla icing. His stomach grumbled loudly.

“New in town,” Bertha said, taking stock of him. “Eggs and ham work for you?”

“Sure does, ma’am,” he replied. “As for the other, I’m just traveling through.”

“I’ll have you back on the trail quick as a wick on a fastburning candle.”

True to her word, Bertha was back with his breakfast as he was polishing off the bun. He couldn’t remember ever having tasted anything quite so fine. If he didn’t have a man to catch he might have asked for another, but as it was he was feeling guilty for having enjoyed such a treat when little Betsy Jensen would never eat another meal.

Drummond wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, since Bertha hadn’t supplied him with any linen for that purpose. “I’m lookin’ for a man by the name of Trask,” he said when she came to refill his coffee mug. “Any chance you know which way he headed when he left town?”

Bertha’s brows lowered over her eyes and her mouth contracted into a tight line that cinched in her round face like a tailor’s thread. “So long as he was leavin’, I was right happy with the situation,” she said, looking at the marshal from a grim, new perspective. “I wouldn’t figure the two of you for knowin’ one another.”

“Well, ma’am, the truth is I intend to hunt him down and bring him to justice.” He wasn’t sure why he’d admitted that, why in fact he’d felt the need to be less harshly judged by this woman whom he was not likely to see again.

Bertha’s face relaxed. “Then I’ll be pleased to tell you I heard him jawin’ with one of them prospector fellas sittin’ near him. Wanted to know how many days’ ride to Albuquerque. Bein’ of a curious nature, I looked out the door when he left and saw him headin’ in that very direction. I’ll be wishin’ you Godspeed on your journey.”

Drummond finished his coffee, and as he pushed back from the table Bertha appeared at his side holding a bundle wrapped in an old piece of checkerboard cloth. “I daresay this won’t last you for too long, but it’ll sure sweeten the road for a time.”

The marshal didn’t have to ask what was in the parcel; the aroma gave it away, making his mouth water even though his stomach was already full to brimming.

“On the house,” Bertha said when he tried to pay her for the additional food. “I make more than enough on the lard heads who eat here every day.”

When Drummond emerged from Bertha’s his heart lay a mite lighter in his chest now that he knew where Trask was headed. In his youth he’d explored large portions of New Mexico, and he knew that a man on horseback would do best to keep to the flatlands until he reached Las Cruces, where he could replenish his supplies before turning north to Albuquerque. The marshal reached into his vest pocket, withdrew the tin star he’d hidden there before riding into Goose Flats and pinned it back on his chest. Where he was headed it would serve him better to be known as a lawman. Then he mounted the chestnut and headed east where the sun was climbing into the sky on a ladder of clouds.