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Authors: Linda O. Johnston

BOOK: Never Say Sty
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“Fine. Wagner’s eaten, so why don’t I watch him here while you feed Lexie, and then we’ll put them both inside and go.”
I hesitated. “Lexie’s great with other dogs, and it looks like Wagner is, too, but he
is
a German shepherd. They can be aggressive, especially without human supervision.” I’d studied different breeds as part of my pet-sitting profession, although I’d never had a purebred shepherd as a customer.
“He’ll be fine with Lexie. I doubt she’ll try to go alpha on him, and even if she does, he’s well trained. He attacks only when I tell him to.”
Startled, I stared into Dante’s gorgeous face, only to find him looking at me sincerely. “But he does attack sometimes?”
“Only during training exercises. I thought it would be good for him to learn such things.”
Then maybe some of what Althea had found on Dante as a former special ops operative who worked with K-9s was true. Well, heck, Althea was good enough at what she did for me to be certain that all she discovered
was
true.
Was Wagner one of Dante’s former K-9 partners? And was his training sufficient for me to feel secure that he wouldn’t attack Lexie?
“They haven’t been around one another enough for me to be comfortable leaving them alone together,” I said firmly, so Dante wouldn’t dare to argue. If he did, I’d simply refuse dinner.
But he got my message. “Okay, let’s take them along and find someplace with outdoor dining facilities, like last time.”
“Sounds good,” I said.
 
 
WE ATE OUTSIDE an informal sandwich shop along Ventura Boulevard. I probably shouldn’t have worried about the dogs not getting along alone. They were becoming close friends, sniffing at each other occasionally, and engaging in joint begging when food was about.
And Dante and me? How close friends were we becoming? Anybody’s guess.
The eating area wasn’t extremely busy, a good thing. Traffic slipped by along the boulevard, and I speared forkfuls of a pretty decent chicken Caesar salad.
“So,” Dante said after a sip of dark beer, “Charlotte and I have been mulling over replacement judges. We’ve brought Rachel into the discussions, too, and even our host, Rick Longley.”
And did you dispose of that undear departed judge who’s being replaced
? But I didn’t ask. “Who are the suggestions so far?”
He took a bite of a smoked turkey panini, which also made my mouth water—not for the food, but for the hungry yet satisfied look on Dante’s face as he bit into it. “One’s Charley Sherman,” he said after he stopped chewing, “if he’ll do it.”
My eyes opened wide. “Charley? But I enlisted him as a producer.”
“He’s stayed behind the scenes. And he won’t have biases about who wins. And as a former trainer for Hennessey Studios who occasionally got oncamera, he’d be a natural.”
I’d met Charley a while back when his wife, Connie, and he had become law clients because of a claim against a Santa Barbara resort that failed to deliver a fun time as promised. I’d helped resolve that, and we had become friends.
“I like that idea,” I said. “If he’ll go for it. Who else have you thought of?”
“There’s an old buddy of mine who might work. Maybe you’ve heard of him—Brody Avilla.”
“Brody Avilla’s a friend of yours?” Despite being a longtime Hollywood resident who sometimes saw stars in the supermarket, I was impressed. The guy was—or at least he used to be—an actor in all sorts of action features, ones in which he always triumphed over evil and won the girl. Kinda like the old westerns, but not all his shows were set in the past.
“We’ve known each other a long time. The fact he starred in a remake of
Rin Tin Tin
and another film about the Iditarod race made me think of him. He likes animals, and people associate him with them.”
“I don’t think I’ve seen him in anything for a while,” I blurted. A dumb thing to say. Lots of Hollywood sorts lost favor with fans eventually, especially as they aged. Women more than men, though. And Brody Avilla was definitely all man.
“He’s been busy with . . . other things,” Dante said, in a tone suggesting he wasn’t about to elucidate those things for me.
“But you think he’d be interested in something like this TV show?”
“He’s coming to our studio tomorrow to audition,” Dante said with a self-satisfied grin. “Charley Sherman, too.”
“Wow. I’ll be there. It’d be great for Charley to become a judge.” I inserted the last somewhat defensively as I
caught Dante’s raised-brow expression that suggested I was just like every other lust-filled fan of Brody’s. Which, maybe, I was, although I’d no intention of admitting it. Especially to a man with whom I felt a lot more realistically lustful. “So how did you meet Brody Avilla?” I asked.
“We worked together a long time ago.”
“You were in the film industry?”
“No, he and I . . . well, let’s just say our friendship precedes our current successful careers.” Dante took a decisive bite of panini that suggested he’d elaborate no further.
At least this gave me something to Google tonight. Learning about Brody’s early days could give me greater insight into Dante’s. Maybe they’d both worked in special ops with K-9s, as Althea had unearthed about Dante. That would mean Brody’s similar film roles had come naturally.
In the meantime, this discussion had reminded me of some mystery surrounding Dante’s past. And perhaps his present. “What about you?” I asked. “You’d be an ideal judge for
Animal Auditions
. Your background with pets is perfect.”
“That’s exactly it. I like to stay in the background.” His tone invited no argument. Which resolved not a scintilla of the suspicions in my mind. He didn’t want Corina to interview him oncamera. He didn’t want to be oncamera on his own TV show, except hidden as a member of the audience. He didn’t even want his voice heard over the radio. Why?
We didn’t discuss
Animal Auditions
and plausible judges any further. Our topics gravitated naturally to the area in which we both shared a deep and delighted interest: pets. Dante described new products that HotPets was starting to stock, more wholesome food and fun-filled toys. Which got us both speaking more to our own delighted dogs, who assumed they were about to receive treats from the table. We were both judicious about amounts, at least.
At last we were finished eating. It was time for Dante to drive us home in his silver Mercedes. He’d come sans chauffeur tonight. As he pulled up to the gate, he said, “When we were talking about judges, both Charlotte and Rachel let me know what a wonderful landlady you are. That led into a discussion about why you’re renting out the main house on property you own. Now that you’re a successful attorney again, plus a pet-sitter, wouldn’t you like to resume living in that”—he pointed toward my property’s main abode that I now adored from afar—“than that?” He pointed toward my home-sweet-garage apartment.
“Someday,” I said with a shrug. I wasn’t about to get into a discussion of my still dismal finances with this megamillionaire. I got along just fine, of course, but couldn’t swing living well if I again started paying my home loan without assistance via rent payments. I loved the way I now practiced law, but it was a fraction as lucrative as being an associate with a major law firm had been. Sure, I supplemented it with pet-sitting income. And although I’d already refinanced my mortgage, I still felt a whole lot more comfortable financially this way than I would by modifying my lifestyle by kicking out Rachel and her rent-paying dad, Russ.
If only I wasn’t so concerned about financing a new car . . .
“How about if I become your lender?” Dante’s dark eyes looked earnestly into mine. “I’ll pay off your loan and we’ll work out payment terms.”
I blinked, blindsided. This guy could buy TV shows and pet empires . . . and he thought he could also buy me?
Okay, Kendra
, something inside warned.
Could be the guy is just trying to be nice
.
But even “nice” didn’t trump “controlling.”
I needed to stay on his good side for the sake of
Animal Auditions
, and of my friends and acquaintances who had put so much into it. That meant I couldn’t kick him where it hurt and shriek accusations at him.
Besides, that really would be overreacting.
Instead, I said in what I hoped was a reasonable tone, “Thanks, Dante, but I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m fine where I am.”
He gave a short laugh. “You’re looking for ulterior motives where there aren’t any, Kendra. I admire your independence. And I can counter any arguments you might have against this suggestion. Think about it. It’ll stay on the table.”
He leaned over as if intending to adjust something on his amazing computerized dashboard, but instead stroked the back of my neck as his head bent toward mine.
Well, hell. It would be awfully ungracious to beat a hasty retreat, and so I allowed the man to give me a good-night kiss.
In fact, I found myself participating. Heatedly.
And in yet another one after Dante and Wagner accompanied Lexie and me up the stairway to our apartment.
“Good night, Kendra,” Dante said in a low, sexy tone that all but elicited an invitation from me to come in. Better yet, a shove into my apartment and onto the kitchen floor for uncensored, flaming sex.
Instead, I said softly, “Good night, Dante.” And then Lexie and I fled inside.
 
 
THAT NIGHT, AS it neared my bedtime, my cell phone rang. Dante? My heart started to race till I picked up the phone. It wasn’t his phone number, or even Jeff’s.
It didn’t look familiar. I nevertheless answered.
“Kendra, it’s Ned Noralles. My sister . . . well, my detective friends”—he spat the word like an epithet—“are even more stupid than I ever was when butting heads with you on a murder case. They’re zeroing in on Nita, of all people. No way could she have done it. My sister and I need some legal advice. Can you help?”
Chapter Twelve
OKAY, SO I’M not a criminal attorney. Never have been, never wanted to be, and besides, I know a wonderfully wise and winning criminal law expert I have used myself when I’ve had to—Esther Ickes. Of course I’d referred Ned and Nita to her.
She had a court appearance scheduled for the next morning, so I found myself with Ned at the North Hollywood police station bright and early. I wasn’t exactly representing him. I was there as a friend, and as Esther’s temporary surrogate. And if I had to give him legal advice . . . well, I’d do it judiciously.
He’d dressed as if on duty, in a dark suit. He somewhat mirrored his counterpart, Detective Howard Wherlon, who had shown us into a glassed-in room and motioned us to sit on the chairs around the table. Howard’s suit was his habitual gray. “Turning yourself in, Ned?” he asked with a smile that was an eerie change from his usually glum expression.
“Nope. I’m here conducting my own investigation, since you obviously won’t resolve this case without my taking charge.”
“Don’t count on that, Noralles,” spoke a voice from the doorway. Detective Vickie Schwinglan sashayed into the small room and lowered herself into the chair at the head of the table. “Besides, you’ve lawyered up.” She aimed a vicious half-nod in my direction. “Which, as you know, tells investigating detectives a whole hell of a lot this soon in a case.”
“Good thing you’re not judge and jury.” I stared daggers into her snide pale eyes. “They’re supposed to weigh genuine evidence before rendering judgment and not make inferences based on what they want to believe—or ignore a person’s constitutional right to counsel.”
“You think that’s how it really works?” The shake of her head didn’t dislodge even a single hair from her tortoiseshell clip. “I didn’t think you were so naive, Kendra.”
At least she wasn’t reminding me she’d told me to stay out of this investigation altogether. But, hey, I was arguably here in official attorney capacity.
“Maybe I’d like to be a little ingenuous,” I retorted. “But I know as much as anyone that our judicial system is far from perfect. And with cops who turn on their own without the slightest proof, I can’t help thinking there’s something really wrong in this room.” I turned my head so my glare next fell on Wherlon.
“Enough,” Ned commanded. “We’re all on the same side, even if some of us don’t know it.” I smiled into my lap at his dig that was gentler than mine. “I know I can’t be officially involved in this investigation since I have an obvious bias. But how you could ever even consider my sister . . . ? That makes even less sense than wrongly accusing me.”
Whoa, I thought. Was he protesting so much because he, too, wondered whether Nita could be the killer? Somehow, my gut told me to consider this further . . . later. I only hoped the detectives didn’t start thinking similarly.
“If we share information,” Ned continued, “we’ll solve Sebastian’s murder faster than if we all go our separate ways. Agreed?”
“What would you like to tell us, Ned?” Vickie asked, much too sweetly.

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