At First Light(Dr. Evan Wilding #1)(72)

The air was suffused with the odor of marijuana. Addie spotted plastic baggies and wrapping papers on a coffee table next to a collection of black candles whose wax had pooled and hardened on the wood.

“We stand here much longer,” said one of the CACC agents, “I’m gonna be as high as that kid.”

They all stiffened when, from below, a man shouted something, and the dogs fell silent.

There came the rattle of a chain and heavy breath, and then a brindle pit bull came surging up out of the darkness and threw itself against the gate.

Patrick made a small sound and fell back. The younger of the two CACC officers swung his snare pole around, missing the detective’s head by inches. The pit fell silent, regarding them through the gate with alert eyes. His neck, shoulders, and muzzle were crisscrossed with old scars, and a recent wound on the top of his head seeped blood.

“Poor baby,” the older CACC officer said.

Addie inwardly echoed the thought. What kind of abuses had this dog endured?

A line of drool strung from the dog’s mouth and struck on the floor.

“Hellhound,” Patrick muttered under his breath.

A light popped on overhead, illuminating the entryway, and then a man appeared, climbing the stairs toward them. He wore black jeans and a red T-shirt with the words VIKINGS RULE across the chest and sported tattoos along his arms and curling up from the neck of his tee toward his jaw. He stopped on the other side of the gate and shoved his fingers beneath the pit’s wide collar. In his other hand, he held a cell phone.

“Good morning, Mr. Ruley,” Addie said pleasantly.

Ruley looked at each of them one by one, probably smelling authority on them the same way a pickpocket sniffed out the rich and distracted.

“The police,” he snarled. He raised his voice loud enough to reach the upper level and probably set the curtains swaying. “Tristan, you stupid dick hair ball, you didn’t tell me it was the police.”

No response from upstairs.

Uncomfortable now with having the teen’s location unknown, Addie raised her own voice. “Mr. Walters, can you come down here, please?”

Echoing silence.

“Keep an eye out for Walters,” she told the CACC agent closest to the stairs.

He nodded.

“We’re not doing anything illegal.” Ruley scratched along his jaw. “Neighbors are full of shit.”

“That’s always a promising opening,” Patrick said.

“All the dogs got licenses,” Ruley went on.

Addie returned her attention to the man on the lower stairs. He was more fit than the teen who’d answered the door and much larger—over six feet and two-hundred-plus pounds of muscle. Like the teen, Ruley had shaved the sides of his head, leaving a thick thatch of hair on top. But in place of the teen’s man bun, Ruley wore an intricate braid, dyed strands of blue interwoven with his own blond locks.

The man slid the cell phone into the back pocket of his black jeans. The jeans, like his Viking tee, were covered with dog hair.

Addie held up her badge again. “We’re Detectives Bisset and McBrady. What dogs are you talking about, Mr. Ruley?”

“I don’t have to answer your questions.”

She had to give him that. “We’re not here to cause any trouble. We just want to chat with Mr. Helskin.”

“He’s not here.”

“Any idea where he’s gone? Work, maybe?”

“No idea.”

“What about when he’ll return?”

“I look like his mother? Now, if it’s all the same to you, I got work to do. Come back later. Or maybe never.” He yanked the dog’s collar as if to drag it down the stairs. The dog whined.

“You’ve got a lot of dogs down there,” one of the CACC officers said.

Ruley sneered. “Real genius, huh? Now, get out of here.”

Addie decided it was time to provoke. “Hey, Ruley. You want to tell me why you guys decided to go after James Talfour?”

Ruley stared at her. His recognition at Talfour’s name snapped into place. Addie could see it happening, like watching a square peg suddenly morph and slide into a round hole.

But Ruley’s gaze remained steady. “Who the hell is James Talfour? And why should I give a fuck?”

The dog, picking up on the man’s anger, growled. Ruley yanked on the collar, and the pit fell silent. A strand of Ruley’s hair had worked its way free of the braid and now fell forward across his face. He lifted an arm to sweep it back.

A streak of fresh blood stood out on the paler, untattooed skin of the inside of his forearm.

“What’s that?” Addie asked.

He followed her gaze to his arm.

“It’s from feeding the dogs,” Ruley said. “They’re carnivores.”

“How many dogs you have down there?” the CACC officer asked.

“Let’s see,” the man said. “I got Fuck Off, Not Happening, and Go Away Dickwad. Is that three?”

“How’d this animal get hurt?” the officer persisted. “These wounds appear to be injuries from fighting. I need to take a look around.”

“Oh yeah? And the Jews need Christ to make an appearance and save their worthless asses. You wanna see the dogs, get a warrant. And if you wanna talk to Helskin, come back tonight. Maybe he’ll be here. Now, I got work to do.”