Lost Dog (A Gideon and Sirius Novel Book 3) (31 page)

“Do you practice what you preach?”

“Not to the extent I should. And maybe that’s why I haven’t healed as well as I should have. I am absolutely a case of do as I say, not as I do.”

“I loved my job, but now I’m not sure if I can go back.”

“Give it time.”

“Everyone says I have to act now or I’ll be yesterday’s news.”

“It’s not so bad being yesterday’s news, but that doesn’t mean it’s what you should want.”

“I’m leaning toward taking the money.”

“Do you have your tropical island picked out?”

“That wouldn’t make me happy. But opening a no-kill animal shelter would.”

I smiled. “Your friends told me you were a sucker for happily-ever-after stories.”

“That’s true. And I guess I’ve always been searching for mine. What do you think of the name Angie’s Rescues?”

CHAPTER 44

MONDAY, MONDAY

When I left Heather Moreland’s house, it was a little after four. I stopped at a Greek takeout and picked up some kebabs, falafel, and baklava. I also got some lamb shavings. Sirius made quick work of those in the car.

The decision left to me—the decision I’d been avoiding—was whether to take the direct route to Lisbet’s apartment or make a detour along the way. All day I’d tried to ignore the date on the calendar. No, that wasn’t quite true. All week I’d been trying to not think about the impending date. Wasn’t my work done? Hadn’t I done my job and more? I couldn’t even carve out enough time in my schedule for physical therapy. Putting more on my plate wasn’t in my own self-interest.

I could surprise Lisbet by not being late for once. The two of us could drink an unhurried glass or two of wine. I would tell her how excited Heather Moreland got talking about her plans for Angie’s Rescues.

“Besides,” I told my partner, “I’m overdue for my pain medication, and I’m really feeling it. That’s another reason to drive straight to Lisbet’s.”

Sirius listened.

“The road to hell was paved with good intentions,” I said.

Sirius stared me down.

“Yes, it’s the second Monday of the month,” I said. “So what?”

My partner let the silence build.

“Yes, this is when the 187 Club meets. That has nothing to do with me.”

I wanted to believe that. I didn’t want to believe that.

“Monday, Monday,” I said, and took a deep, indecisive breath. “When you think of sixties music, it’s hard to do better than the Mamas & the Papas. And you know what they sang about Monday?”

Sirius was listening intently. That was good enough for me. “That’s right,” I said. “You can’t trust it.”

My partner made a little conversational
grr
sound.

“And let’s not forget the Carpenters and ‘Rainy Days and Mondays.’ Karen Carpenter only sang upbeat songs, but even she admitted that Mondays got her down.”

I wondered if Langston Walker had specifically chosen to meet on Monday because it’s a day most of us have the blues, and the purpose of the 187 Club was to deal with those blues. Or maybe it was just a date that worked on his calendar.

Sirius rested his muzzle on my shoulder, offering his touch of reassurance. “Let it be,” he was telling me, “let it be.” He said it even better than Paul McCartney sang it.

“Let it be,” I agreed.

Our course was decided.

As I neared the Jim Gilliam Recreation Center, I saw at least seventy-five people milling around the front of the building. That was almost enough to make me turn around. All the parking spaces were full, and I tried to tell myself that was another sign from the fates, but at that moment, faces in the crowd recognized me, and people began waving.

“They think we’re the cavalry,” I told Sirius.

I used a cop’s prerogative and parked illegally. And then with Sirius at my side, I began to slowly walk toward the gathering. I tried to not hobble, tried to stand up straight, and tried to not grimace from the pain of every step.

One person began clapping, and then another, and another, until everyone was cheering. To my ears the applause sounded overly loud, and I could feel myself flushing. Sirius wagged his tail, enjoying the moment.

The overflow crowd opened up a path for the two of us, guiding me to take a place at the top of the steps. It was clear too many club members had shown up to be accommodated in the community meeting room, and everyone had been milling around the front until now. They’d been waiting, even if they weren’t sure for what.

I looked down at the expectant eyes, and then took a deep breath while trying to collect my thoughts. Sirius barked. I wasn’t sure whether he saw a squirrel, or whether he was calling the meeting to order.

“I’m no Langston Walker,” I said. “His shoes are too big for anyone to fill. But the reason that all of us are here is that although Langston is no longer with us, we can’t let his dream die.”

Heads in the crowd nodded; faces encouraged me to go on.

“At last month’s meeting, Detective Walker said that everyone came to this monthly meeting for different reasons. Tonight, though, we are all here for Langston.”

I told them how the case against his murderer was proceeding. Everyone already knew what James Rhodes had done, but heads still shook, and faces expressed shock and bewilderment. I spoke to that pain. I’m not much of a public speaker, but words started pouring out of me. Where they came from I’m not sure. My words assumed a kind of poetry that I was sure I did not possess. I think Langston Walker spoke through me, offering one last address.

“We have all been betrayed by a murderous Judas,” I said, “but we can’t let him tear down what we have built. This club was formed so that it might lift its membership up. All of you share a bond. All of you are members of a club that claims a terrible price and unimaginable dues. No one wants to join this club, and yet we must retain this refuge for those in despair. We cannot let this light in the darkness be extinguished.”

The clapping started up again. It wasn’t for me; it was for the survivors of the 187 Club.

I had found my ghost, and it had found me.

“Let us bow our heads now,” I said, “and offer up a moment of silence to remember Langston.”

I lowered my head and did my remembering of Langston, and then directed a thought his way: “You better help me, because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

Then I lifted my head, and waited a few more moments for everyone else to raise their heads.

“Now it’s your turn,” I said. “I want to hear Langston stories and memories that make us laugh and cry. Who is going to start us off?”

A tentative hand went up. I smiled and acknowledged the woman behind the hand, and she began to talk.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

When I first envisioned the Gideon and Sirius novels, my good friend and longtime agent, Cynthia Manson, encouraged me in the writing of them. And then Cynthia asked me to take a chance on a new publisher. Andy Bartlett of Thomas & Mercer bought
Burning Man
along with some titles from my backlist; I’ll always be grateful to him.

Once again I have to thank Caitlin Alexander. She is a wonderful editor, and a wonderful person.

And speaking of editors, Gracie Doyle has done a great job of transitioning into her new position. I have never heard anyone say a bad word about Gracie. In the publishing business, that should qualify her for sainthood.

My kudos go out to all of those at Thomas & Mercer who have allowed me to flourish as a writer. Thank you, one and all.

I would also like to thank Jean Jenkins, a friend of mine who happens to be a fine editor and rewrite consultant, for sending me an article about the unfortunate death of a cop on the job and the reaction of his loyal K-9 partner. The loyalty that dogs often exhibit is astonishing.

My thanks also go out to Dr. Sue Spray for her veterinary insights on display in this novel (any mistakes are mine and not hers!). “Dr. Sue,” as she is known to all her two- and four-legged friends, offers her wonderful mobile veterinary service (PetDoc2U) in the North County of San Diego. Our three dogs give their beloved vet three enthusiastic paws-up.

I would also like to offer a tip of the hat to retired police Sergeant Brian Kutney. Brian and his wife, Janee, have been kind enough to send pictures and tell stories of their wonderful K-9 charge, Aja, a beautiful female German shepherd police dog. And thanks again to Bob Connely, who is always available to answer my dog-training questions.

Finally, I’d like to thank my readers. It’s great hearing from you. Please keep your notes and those cop–K-9 articles and stories coming. You can reach me at my website,
www.alanrussell.net
, through my email at
[email protected]
, or by “liking” me on Facebook at Alan Russell Mystery Author.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo
©
2012 Stathis Orphanos

Critical acclaim has greeted bestselling author Alan Russell’s novels from coast to coast.
Publishers Weekly
calls him “one of the best writers in the mystery field today.” The
New York Times
says, “He has a gift for dialogue,” while the
Los Angeles Times
calls him “a crime fiction rara avis.” Russell’s novels have ranged from whodunits to comedic capers to suspense, and his works have been nominated for most of the major awards in crime fiction. He has been awarded a Lefty, a Critics’ Choice Award, and the Odin Award. A California native, Russell is a former collegiate basketball player who these days plays under the rim. The proud father of three children, he is also an avid gardener and cook, and fortunately is blessed with a spouse who doesn’t mind weeding or washing dishes.