Becoming Rain (Burying Water #2)(19)
Warner’s laughter only grows. “What would you have preferred?”
“I don’t know. A Great Dane or a pit bull, or something more . . . me?”
“But you’re not you,” he reminds me. “You’re Rain Martines. A little princess who lives in her daddy’s condo with her lap dog.”
“That is not a lap dog. His eyes aren’t even in the right place.” I’ve spent days Googling pictures, and based on his smashed-up nose and curly tail and ears like satellites, my best guess is an obese pug–Boston terrier cross, with a little bit of swine mixed in for good measure. But I’m no expert.
“He was the smallest one they had and you need a dog, not a puppy. Come on! He’s kind of cute, isn’t he?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m changing his name. Who names their dog ‘Stanley’ anyway?” That’s what the tag hanging off his collar read, when Animal Control picked him up. “I’ll bet he ran away from his owners because they gave him such a stupid name.”
“Whatever he did, I’m glad he was there. You needed a small dog for our case. He needed a home. It’s a win-win.”
“Yeah, until the case is over. And then what happens?”
“You’ll be so in love with Stanley by then, you’ll take him back to D.C. with you.”
The dog’s tongue hangs over his severe under-bite as he pants, staring me down with those bulging, round eyes that belong on a gremlin, waiting for me to toss the tennis ball again. I doubt that. I let out a reluctant sigh. Stanley is the least of my problems.
I walked out of Rust’s Garage over two weeks ago now, full of confidence and feeling in control. But there’s been no call from Luke Boone. He’s been at his office and out to The Cellar, based on the surveillance team reports. He’s even had that bartender over once. But he hasn’t picked up the phone and dialed my number. I’ve played through a dozen scenarios as to why that might be and what the right next step is without creating suspicion or an air of desperation.
Accidental run-in sounded like the right next move, once enough time passed. What better way to do that than on the park trail he runs every day after work with his bulldog? Fellow dog lovers, unite.
So, Warner took a trip to an animal shelter and picked out Stanley.
“If this doesn’t work . . .” I toss the ball across the way. Stanley tears after it like it’s a steak, struggling for speed on those stubby legs that are too short for his body.
“Who knows what happened. Remember, we lost him for an entire night. Maybe he’s distracted by something.”
I remember, all right. While the surveillance team can’t be on him twenty-four hours a day, they haven’t had a hard time tracking him down whenever they check in. So, when they couldn’t find him, we were all on high alert. I held a silent vigil by my window, reporting in when he finally stumbled through the door just after seven a.m., his clothes rumpled and stained.
Very unlike him.
“Maybe.” Hopefully not too distracted to notice me out here in my second-skin yoga pants and a low-cut V-neck sweater. I huddle against the chill and glance down at my watch—he’s late; he should have been out for his run two hours ago—and then back up at the path to see the sleek body in light gray pants and a navy-blue shirt jogging toward me, his bulldog somehow managing to keep up.
A nervous burn ignites in my stomach. It’s the one I always get when I’m about to jump into character. This time it’s worse, though, because it’s coupled with the fear of another failure. “He’s coming. Gotta go.” I hang up and drop my phone into my pocket.
And wait, continuing my game with Stanley. He fetches well, at least. I hold back, timing my next throw with Luke’s proximity, and then toss the tennis ball along the path. As expected, Stanley goes after it like it’s his last meal.
He’s going to form an adequate obstacle for Luke, forcing him to turn toward me, see me . . . All’s going as planned . . .
And then for some reason, Stanley morphs.
Positioning all four paws squarely, he lets out a howl that only a seal caught in a trap would be capable of making. It works, bringing Luke’s feet, pounding against the asphalt, to a halt.
A little too obvious, but . . . good job, Stanley, I silently praise him. You’ll get a bone for—
Stanley charges toward Luke’s dog—easily three times the size of him—and lets out a frenzy of high-pitched barks before he lunges, his little mouth seizing the dog’s front leg and attacking it like it’s a rag doll.
Crap. I leap off the bench and run forward, intent on getting there before Luke’s dog decides to retaliate and maims the little mongrel. Luke’s doing his part, shoving against Stanley with his leg, attempting to break up the attack. That’s when Stanley releases his grip and latches onto Luke’s calf.
Luke hollers in pain.
“Bad Stanley!” I yell, grabbing hold of his stocky body. He relents surprisingly easily, allowing me to scoop him up into my arms. Whatever Jekyll-and-Hyde moment he had instantly vanishes, his little sandpaper tongue darting out to scratch my cheek.
As covertly as possible, I scan our surroundings. Even though I didn’t drop my safety word, the commotion that the wire picked up was obviously enough to get them running because Bill is casually leaning up against a lamppost some forty yards away, a smoke in hand.