Bad Blood: Latter-Day Olympians Read online

  If Jesus had possessed a smidgeon of sense, he’d have run for the hills as soon as he saw the whites of my eyes. Instead, he sat behind his desk as though it was an executive model made of pure mahogany rather than veneer over pressboard and actually had the nerve to put me on hold with a raised finger while he continued his telephone conversation.

  Only the tightest rein on my fury and the fact that it seemed to involve Mrs. Strohmeyer’s missing hound kept me from disconnecting on his behalf.

  When he finally hung up, I took a deep breath, ready to lay into him with a stream of words and run-on sentences, but Jesus beat me to it.

  “Look, chica, I do not appreciate being thrown into the middle of your lover’s quarrels,” he said, looking for all the world like a pissy librarian glaring through pince-nez even thought he’d never be caught dead in the damned things.

  “What the hell?” I burst.

  “Apollo-freakin’-Demas, sí? I don’t know what you do to get a man so worked up but honest to god, chica, you are going to share the secret or I will key your personal information into every Internet dating scheme I find.”

  I shuddered. “Jesus, I promise that when all this is over I will take you out for one helluva thank-you dinner and tell all.” I hoped he didn’t notice my crossed fingers. “For now, can we get back to work?”

  He eyed me like a Rodeo Drive sales girl. “One thing first, I must know, stud or dud?”

  I groaned.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “If you assume you know nothing, you’re going to be right a good part of the time.”

  —Uncle Christos, in a huh? moment when discussing how to begin an investigation without preconceptions

  Even with time ticking away on the potential plot to remodel the California coastline, I couldn’t ignore the message leading possibly to Mrs. S’s hound. We’d finally gotten a hit on one of the “Lost Dog” posters. I didn’t think it was any coincidence that it hadn’t happened until Mrs. S had okayed a reward.

  So, I set Jesus the task of locating Thom Foolery, grabbed my supplies and set off after the hound of the Baskervilles. I half felt it should be a dark and stormy night, but it was neither. It was a typical gorgeous L.A. day. You might think that all that sunshine would get monotonous; you’d be wrong.

  My brain worked in strange and mysterious ways, especially when I needed a plan to capture the damned hound should the “nice doggie” approach fail. When Mrs. S had first signed on the dotted line, I’d asked her for a few things I thought would help, like a favorite chew toy or blanket that might be used to lure Honey into her carrier. What she’d brought was an old sweatshirt that smelled like its name. It had seemed odd to me at the time, the brand new carrier and the fact that the odiferous shirt, which she said Honey had appropriated, wasn’t covered in dog hair. I’d asked whether the dog was a beagle mix, the kind that didn’t shed, but she’d just looked at me funny and sworn that Honey was pure hound.

  Added to the new information I’d received from Christos’s police contacts about the girlfriend, who’d raised a hue and a cry the same week Mrs. Strohmeyer had hired me… Well, I wasn’t sure what it meant, but it didn’t add up, at least not to a nice round number.

  My job was limited to finding the elusive hound. Period. I had more than enough trouble already without looking for more. Really. Still, it was a mystery and I’d swear to bloodhound rather than gorgon in my own background based on that part of me baying in protest at the thought of giving up the hunt.

  I was headed toward East Hollywood, not too far from the Sunset Strip where I’d first heard the hound baying. Interestingly enough, the address of our tipster and that of Dick Strohmeyer’s girlfriend were the same—same building anyway. I wondered whether dog and master had been shacked up with the mistress—and if so why she’d cried bloody murder—or if the hound had followed a scent trail to his owner. I tried to tell myself to mind my own business and stick to the matter at hand, but that had never worked.

  Anyway, on arrival Jane Kleinschmidt was waiting for me outside the entrance to an apartment complex like any other. The lady herself could have come from central casting—that indeterminate age between middle and old, housedress, sweater, sensible slipper-shoes. She scanned the walkway, presumably looking for me, though she passed me over when I came into range, only to snap back a moment later as the cage I carried registered.

  “Oh, you’re— Somehow, I thought you’d be bigger, you know, more butch.”

  Ooo-kay.

  My lack of response seemed to unsettle her. “Anyway, ah, hello. I’m Jane Kleinschmidt, but I guess you know that if you’re here.”

  “Yes, ma’am. You reported a hound?”

  “Lord yes. I’d gone down to get my laundry and there he was, followed me into the stairwell. He’s still there unless someone let him out. I certainly didn’t. I would have called Animal Control, but I’d seen your posters and taken the number. Just in case, you know, since there’s reward money and all.”

  That last sentence was a prompt if I’d ever heard one. I assured her that once the dog’s identity was verified, she’d get her reward.

  “Oh good. This way.”

  The lobby of the place wasn’t much to look at beyond the mosaic floor. Walls that I’d kindly call taupe made the space darker and closer than it had to be. A few well-placed wall sconces would really—aw hell, Jesus was rubbing off. A heavy door to the right of the elevators let us in to the stairwell, imaginatively painted in stark white with industrial grey railings. It was dead silent.

  “What floor was he on when you last saw him?” I asked.

  “He followed me as far as the third and then sat whimpering at the doorway. I didn’t let him out.”

  Jeez, I’d take the elevator for two floors let alone more. Mrs. Kleinschmidt was one tough old bird.

  “Honey?” I called experimentally.

  A tentative woof answered.

  “Honey,” I called again, feeling completely stupid. I’d thought before that the hound must have been the husband’s, but I rethought that now. With a name like Honey, it had to be Mrs. S’s damn dog.

  This time the response was skittering feet, the sound of dog coming on fast—enthusiastic, I hoped, rather than aggressive. And finally I made the acquaintance of the long-lost hound, who stopped on the landing just above to regard me mournfully, wrinkles upon wrinkles, sagging jowls and big soulful eyes. Okay, conceivably cute in a homely sort of way.

  “Come here, boy.” He cocked his head and I swear gave me the once-over. When his eyes hit the cage he let out such a racket that I immediately held it behind me for Mrs. K to take. She missed the cue entirely, so I shook the carrier. “A little help here?”

  Finally, the weight of the carrier was taken from me. I hadn’t shifted my eyes off Honey, and he hadn’t taken his off me, though he had backed up until his rump hit the wall.

  “Okay, Honey, no cage,” I soothed. “But your mommy wants you back. Don’t you want to go home? Hmm? Nice, warm, all the dog biscuits you can eat.” I didn’t mention the bath, even though eau de dumpster was starting to drift my way. Wherever Honey had been hanging out, it hadn’t been with his owner.

  Honey snorted, an inelegant move that involved actual—ew. Anyway, he seemed less than enchanted with the idea of going home.

  “What about steak? You like steak, right? I’m sure your mommy will be so glad to have you back, she’ll cook you up a nice rare T-bone.”

  He whimpered and allowed me to take two steps forward before he bolted back up the steps. I cursed and raced after him, only to stop short at the third-floor landing where he waited, looking from me to the fire door and back to me. Okay, so we were playing doggie charades.

  “You want to see your daddy?” I asked, feeling dumber by the second. “I’ll tell you what—you let me get this leash on you and I’ll take you to see him.” Right, like he could understand me. Still, he cocked his head consideringly. I could hear Mrs. K making her way up the stairs toward us
. Fearing her appearance would make the dog bolt again, I tried to hold him on eye contact alone.

  “Come on, Honey.”

  To my amazement, he started toward me, slowly, not fully committed. I held out one hand for him to sniff, though I wasn’t sure his olfactory sense was still intact after the garbage he had to have wallowed in. My other hand prepared the leash. Once he’d sniffed and even given my hand a tentative lick, I held the leash out for him to see. He gave it a sidelong glance but otherwise ignored the move.

  “Is it him?” Mrs. K asked behind me.

  Honey and I both turned to give her a look.

  “I think so. I’ll need to confirm,” I answered evenly, reaching into my pocket for two of my cards. “One of these is for you to keep. The other is for you to write down your information, including social security number so that I can send your check.”

  “My social?” she asked suspiciously.

  “One thousand dollars. Yup, you’re going to have to claim it for taxes.”

  “Damn.” It sounded wrong coming out of little Mrs. K.

  While she set the carrier down and frisked herself for a pencil, I focused back on Honey, who almost looked to be smiling. At least his wrinkles didn’t seem to sag quite so much.

  I’d have smiled in return if the cilia in my nose hadn’t been singed off by his scent. Instead, wrinkling my own nose, I reached for Honey. I cringed as I walked my fingers through his muck-stiffened fur to find a collar to hook the leash onto. But there was none.

  The little lightbulb in my head finally flared. If I hadn’t been in the midst of so much weirdness lately, I never would have considered it. Which led me to wonder how many other things I’d missed in my ignorance.

  Honey sat patiently now that he’d gotten his point across by pantomime, so I looped the leash around his neck and hooked it back on itself in lieu of a collar.

  “Here’s my info,” Mrs. K cut in. “How do I know I’ll get my money?”

  “Mrs. Kleinschmidt, you’ve got my information. You already know the number you have is good because you reached me there. If I’m not straight with you, report me to the Better Business Bureau.”

  “Don’t think I won’t. Cage thingy’s on the landing.” She humphed off up the staircase, muttering under her breath about having to sanitize the building after that filthy dog.

  “Well, Honey,” I said, “why don’t we go talk with your lady friend?”

  Strictly speaking, it wasn’t necessary, of course. I had the dog bound now, but I wanted to be really certain of my hypothesis before I confronted Mrs. Strohmeyer. Besides, there was that whole curiosity thing. Not to mention I was reluctant to load that smell into my car.

  So, I walked the dog, right through the fire door and up to apartment 3G.

  Marla Kelly answered on the second knock, dressed in a sweat suit much like mine the day of Circe’s murder, only her stripes were lime green. Her bottle-red hair flared artistically around her face.

  The first words out of her mouth were, “Lord, what is that stench?”

  I looked down at Honey, who was wagging his tail furiously and pulling at the leash, eager to brush up against Marla.

  “Ew! Get your damned dog away from me.”

  “Honey, heel,” I ordered.

  Instead, he lurched again, brought up short when the leash became a noose. Marla cringed back, making ready to slam the door in our faces.

  “Wait!” I cried, “I’m here about Dick Strohmeyer.”

  She froze, even though Honey was now sniffing at a very delicate area.

  “May we come in?”

  “Fuck no.” She swatted at Honey. “Your dog needs to be hosed down. What about that son-of-a-bitch?”

  I understood what Santos and Robbins had said about her mouth.

  “You mean the Strohmeyers’ dog, right? Honey?”

  Marla shuddered. “Not on your life. If Dick had a dog I never would have set foot in that house. Is this some kind of joke? Did his wife send you? You tell her I haven’t seen the fucker in, like, a week and a half. So, if he’s run off it’s with some other bitch. But—” she leaned in from the waist, trying to keep the rest out of Honey’s range, “—I think she offed him. He wouldn’t have run out on me, I can tell you.”

  She hadn’t sounded so sure of that a moment ago, but I didn’t think it would do me any good to point it out.

  Marla stared at me in challenge a beat longer before asking. “Is there anything else?”

  I shook my head no and the door slammed shut before I could bring it back center.

  “Wow, you sure can pick ’em, Dick.”

  I didn’t have time for this. I had bigger fish to fry. Not to mention, accusing your client of husband transmogrification was probably not the best way to assure payment. But though I’d already decided that Dick was appropriately named, I just couldn’t leave him as he was. Based on scent alone, I guessed he sucked at being a dog.

  Before I let Dick into the car, I popped the trunk and exchanged the dog carrier for the emergency blanket I kept back there and spread it over as much of the backseat as I could cover. I also rolled down the windows. When I finally let him inside, I told him to stay, threatening him with a bill for brand-new seats when he was back in man form if any smell or stain lingered. I was tempted to use the gorgon mojo to enforce it, but I didn’t need the world to know of the power and didn’t trust Dick as far as I could throw him.

  The drive from East Hollywood to West was the longest of my life. I’d swear we hit every light. I’d called Mrs. S while stopped at one of those lights to assure that she’d be home. My eyes were watering by the time we pulled up in front of her building.

  My phone went off just as I pulled up into her lot. Honey started baying, and I told him in no uncertain terms to shut it or get used to having his butt sniffed. He clammed up, but eyed me like he’d pee on my shoes at the first opportunity.

  I checked the readout on the phone: Jesus.

  “Watcha got?” I asked.

  “Only all the personal data on Thom Foolery. Wasn’t easy, let me tell you. All he gives on his website is a Hotmail address and a P.O. Box. Luckily, I have this hacker friend—”

  “Stop. What I don’t know I can’t testify to in court.”

  Jesus sniffed. I knew I was going to pay for not acknowledging his genius. Last time I’d ticked him off, he’d number-coded the copier so that I couldn’t use it without going through him until I figured out his combination.

  “Jesus, it’s not that I don’t appreciate it, because I do. You’re absolutely fantastic to put yourself out like that.”

  “Too little, too late, chica. I think a bonus must be involved.”

  Well, in theory, as soon as I submitted my report and bill to Apollo, I’d have some money to burn. That was, if we weren’t all dropped into the drink, in which case the point was moot.

  “Fine. When all this is over, you’ve earned yourself a bonus.”

  He was awfully quiet.

  “Jesus?”

  “You ruin all my fun. Now how do I lord this over you?”

  I cursed colorfully in Greek. Men.

  “I’m hanging up now,” I told him. “When I do, would you pretty please with sugar on top leave a message with all the information on my voice mail. I’ll let it ring through.”

  Jesus sighed dramatically. “On the condition that you either teach me to swear in Greek or curse me out in English so that I know when it’s time to swear blood vengeance.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh at the mental picture of Jesus all dressed up—or rather, barely dressed—as Rambo. He rang off in a huff.

  “Well, Dick, shall we face down Mrs. S?”

  He gave a soft woof and no resistance as I got him out of the car. The gentleman who held the outer door open for us nearly gagged as we slid past, Dick all the while trying to sniff him and me too preoccupied manipulating the carrier through the entry to keep the canine at bay. I smiled in apology.

  When I rang the
bell for the Strohmeyers’ condo, Mrs. S buzzed us up without even asking who we were.

  She stood in the doorway as we approached, eyes only for the hound. The bad streak job in her hair seemed to have mellowed out. Her feet were bare. While she wore a button-down shirt, it was untucked over jeans. I guessed it was as casual as she ever got.

  “Honey, you’re home,” she said quietly. Then, as we got right up to her, she added, “Couldn’t you at least have cleaned him up first?”

  “Not in my job description. Can we come in?”

  Dick looked up at her balefully as she took the leash from me. I half expected him to go for her throat, but he must have been smart enough to realize that it wouldn’t convince her to undo her handiwork. He tugged and growled as she led him away, probably to be locked up in the bathroom.

  Mrs. S winced as she came back down the hallway, followed by the sound of claws scratching at and likely ravaging her bathroom door. She indicated that I should sit, apparently determined to ignore the sound.

  “Thank you,” she began. “I’ve—I’ve really missed that dog.”

  I looked her dead in the eye. “Mrs. Strohmeyer, I know all about Honey. Now, I’m going to watch you write out checks to Karacis Investigations and to Jane Kleinschmidt, who earned the reward money. Then I’m going to give you twenty-four hours before I call the police to tell them the prodigal husband has come home. You’ve got until then to return him to normal.”

  She stared at me like I had three heads.

  “I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re nuts.”