U Is for Undertow (Kinsey Millhone 21)

“No, no. There’s no dispute,” I said. “Sanchez told me he gave you authorization by phone.”

“I don’t remember his doing so, but that sounds right.”

“What about your records?”

“Those are gone. When I retired, some charts were forwarded to other vets on request and the rest I put in storage. I held everything ten years and then boxed up the lot and called a shredding company. It probably wasn’t necessary, but I didn’t like the idea of personal information going into the trash.”

“Can you think of any reason why Ulf wouldn’t have been picked up and cremated? Some special circumstance?”

McNally shook his head again. “That was the protocol.”

“Most people keep the ashes?”

“Some do and some don’t. What makes you ask?”

“I was just curious. I don’t own a pet so I have no idea how these things are done.”

“People get attached. Sometimes a dog or cat means more to you than your own flesh and blood.”

“I understand,” I said. “Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time.” I reached for my shoulder bag and found a business card before I got to my feet. “I’ll leave you this in case something else occurs to you.”

He rose at the same time, still talking as he walked me to the door. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

“You gave me more than I expected. It’s frustrating, but I guess I’ll have to live with it.”

“What hangs in the balance? That’s what you ought to ask yourself.”

“I don’t know yet. Maybe nothing.”

“Don’t let it keep you awake nights. It’s bad for your health.”

“What about you? Do you sleep well?”

He smiled. “I do. I’ve been blessed. I had a wonderful family and work that I loved. I’m in excellent health and I have all my faculties about me, as far as I know,” he added wryly. “I managed to set aside enough money to enjoy my dotage so it’s a matter now of staying active. Some people aren’t as fortunate.”

“You’re a lucky man.”

“That I am.”

Getting in my car again, I wondered how lucky he’d feel when he heard about the trouble his son Walker was in. If he’d been informed, he gave no indication of it.

On my way back to the office I made a second trip to Mid-City Cat Clinic, this time turning into the alleyway behind the place. The name of each business was stenciled on the back door so it was easy to spot the shed Dr. McNally’d mentioned. I parked and got out, inspecting it at close range. It was smaller than the housing used for garbage cans, mounted on the wall to the right of the door. The wood construction was straightforward, with a simple metal hook that fit into a small metal eye. There was no other locking mechanism visible and no evidence there’d ever been one. There wasn’t even a hasp where a padlock or combination lock could have been inserted and secured. I pulled the wooden knob and the door opened with scarcely a sound. Except for dried leaves and spiderwebs, the interior was empty and didn’t appear to be in use. At the back of the shed, the door that had opened into the clinic in Dr. McNally’s day had been boarded over.

I studied the alley in both directions. Across the way I could see a series of private garages, with gated walkways leading into backyards, most of which were separated by fencing. This was a public thoroughfare, utilitarian in nature but accessible from either end. Anybody could have known about the pickups—pet hospital staff and clientele, animal control officers, neighbors, adjacent businesses, trash collectors, vagrants. Cleverly, I’d narrowed the field of corpse-napping suspects to a couple of hundred unknown individuals. The question still remained: why would someone steal a dead dog and transport it to Horton Ravine for burial?

Unless, as Sutton had suggested, the two men felt compelled to substitute Ulf’s remains for whatever, or whomever, they were in the process of burying when the six-year-old Sutton stumbled onto the scene. I’d dismissed the notion when he’d mentioned it, but now I reconsidered. An adult male wolfdog would have been far bigger than a four-year-old child, but since I didn’t have a way to determine what had actually happened, maybe it was time to approach the question from another point of view: not the motive for the dog’s removal and subsequent burial, but the choice of the spot. Why there and not somewhere else?

17

After lunch I drove to Horton Ravine, taking Via Juliana as far as the Y where Alita Lane branched off. I parked in front of Felix Holderman’s house, locked the car, and ambled up his driveway. To my right, at the far end of the house, the overhead doors were open on his three-car garage. A late-model sedan sat in the first bay and the other two had been converted into a workshop. Felix had his back to me but he sensed my presence. He looked up and lifted a hand to signal that he’d be with me momentarily, and then returned to the task in front of him. He wore dark blue denim overalls, a long-sleeve shirt, gloves, and goggles. In an open cabinet to one side, sheets of colored glass were stored vertically.