“Hell of a gamble.”
“Hell of an instinct. You of all people should understand the power of human instinct.”
I did and it was telling me there was more to this story. Kind of like all her stories.
“How exactly did you get Brutus from his abusive owner?”
“I … loaded him up in my truck.”
“With or without the owner’s help?”
She shot me another look, that strong defiance from the night before. “Without. I found out Brutus had been sold when I’d gone to the breeders a few months ago. In casual conversation the breeder shared her concern over his new owner. Guess she had an instinct about the guy too, but money talks. She felt guilty, I could tell. Anyway, I couldn’t get it off my mind. Literally, for a week I couldn’t sleep, thinking about it. So I did something about it. I tracked the bastard down, went to his house and saw the conditions Brutus was living in. The bastard had put Brutus in a box, a cage not much bigger than his body. They’d put blades in the top and sides. If he moved, he’d get sliced. It’s was a tactic to break him mentally.”
It sounded a lot like what I’d been through in SERE training.
“He was muzzled, starved, dehydrated and in so much pain from his shoulder injury, which I can only assume is blunt force trauma…” She stopped talking, her face turning to granite. “When I saw him… Jagg, I’ll never forget it,” her voice was as soft as a whisper. “He spotted me in the woods where I had snuck up. We communicated nonverbally. Me and the dog. I have no doubt in my soul that Brutus knew I was there to save him. … I swear he cried when I released him.” She sniffed, then squared her shoulders, swallowing back the emotions. I got the feeling she did that a lot. I took a step back to give her a moment, and if I’m being honest, to give myself one, too. The story was real. The emotions were real. Her sadness was palpable and dammit if I didn’t feel some sort of feelings for that mutt, too. I’d seen my fair share of animal abuse but imagining it happening to this pit, staring into my damn soul my long lost brother, churned my stomach.
“And then what happened? You just walked up to the front door and said, ‘hey, let me take that dog off your hands.’ And the drug addict said, ‘okey dokey, here you go’?”
“More or less.”
“Less, as in, you stole Brutus from the guy in the middle of the night.”
Her lack of response was response enough.
“You know the guy reported a dog thief the next day at BSPD.”
Her eyes rounded. “He did?”
“Yep. I remember it. Well, I should say I remember him. Kenny Shultz. Everyone at BSPD knows his name. Came in whining that someone stole his dog, a black pit with grey eyes.”
“I’m surprised he cared enough to report it.”
“As you said, money talks. The dog was worth something to him.”
“Humph,” was all I got.
“You know, I could technically arrest you right now, Miss Harper.”
She pushed to a stance, turned to me and jerked her chin up, those red lips pressed into a thin line.
“Do it.”
We stared at each other a moment, both daring each other to make a move. Two stubborn, bull-headed type A’s.
Ol’ Brutus couldn’t be in better hands. If anyone was going to break him, it would be her. I wondered how many proud men Sunny Harper had house broken over her life.
“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “Just bring Max up to the station the day after tomorrow to sniff Griggs’ clothes and we’ll call it even.”
“Done.” She glanced at her watch. An appointment? Or done with me? “Well, it was good speaking with you, Detective.”
Done with me.
“Call me Jagg, for the tenth time. And keep your eye out for a blue sedan.”
I took another glance at my soul-brother.
“Have a good day, Miss Harper.” I turned into three pairs of beady eyes and three wagging tails. I dipped my chin. “Tango. Athena. Max.”
I felt Sunny’s eyes boring into my back as I started down the river bank.
I turned, catching her stare.
“Hey, Sunny?”
Her brows arched.
“You might want to move those wind chimes you’ve got hanging above your truck. Hate to have anything happen to that beauty. And that reminds me, I have one more question to ask you. What church do you go to?”
I watched her wheels start to turn. “Religion isn’t confined between four walls.”
“Or within the three knots of the triquetra symbols you’ve got hanging from those chimes.”
“You’re observant, Detective.”
“Jagg. Eleven. And it’s the job. What’s with the triquetra?”
“Why don’t you just come out and ask me if I’m a witch?”
“Are you a witch, Miss Harper?”
“Sunny. And no.”
“Do you practice Wicca?”
“What does this have to do with anything?”
“Gathering facts.”
“The triquetra symbol represents life, death, and rebirth—and protection.”
“It also represents the Wiccan Triple Goddess and the interconnected parts of human existence, as practiced in witchcraft.”
She narrowed her eyes in a way that reminded me of the moment after I tackled her in the park.
I smiled. “Just looking out for that Chevy. Love to take it for a spin sometime.”
“I’ll bet you would. Good day, Detective.”
I turned, her obedient soldiers watching my every step.
17
Jagg
The rest of the morning was spent visiting used car dealerships inquiring about blue, four-door sedans, leaving three more voicemails with Briana Morgan of Harold and Associates, leaving two with Arlo Harper, who was also avoiding my calls, and then working my other cases I’d let drop over the last twenty-four hours. This last fact emphasized by the nineteen voicemails I had when I finally got back to the station, at three in the afternoon. The temperature had hit a sweltering ninety-five by noon, and the feels-like temp well past one-hundred. As suspected, air conditioners were breaking all over town, causing a spike in nine-one-one calls and two fist fights at the local HVAC company. Tempers were running short.
I yanked at my wrinkled collar as I slid behind my desk. Ignoring the phone, I pulled out the black and white images I had of the Black Bandit, then checked Griggs’ height and weight from his case file. Then, I pulled up a few full-length images and videos of him from social media. I went back and forth between both sets of pictures for what felt like a full ten minutes. The weight was undoubtedly different. The Bandit was leaner than Griggs, narrower shoulders. The way they walked, moved, all different. There was also no sign of a limp on Griggs’ left hip. I’d asked the ME to confirm this as well during the autopsy. Not that I needed the information after comparing the photos. Combining all this with the fact that his truck had been parked at the trailhead while Sunny had spotted the blue sedan across the street confirmed that Julian Griggs was definitely not the Black Bandit.
I ran my hands through my hair and leaned back, feeling a headache brewing along with the ache in my back.