Kidnapped

We waited.

The next sound I heard was a car starting, and I ran across the porch and peered out along the side of the house. I heard an engine roar as someone drove off down the alley beyond the backyard. Although I didn’t see headlights, it sounded to me as if it had pulled away from the house.

“What are you doing?” Hailey called to me.

“I have an awful feeling our interviewee just left,” I said. “You keep trying the front door. I’ll go around back and see if her car is still here.”

Hailey was more than happy to let me be the one to go back out into the rain.

Altair’s barks changed as I cautiously opened the unlocked gate and made my way along the side of the house. He sounded frantic. Not a comforting sound. I hoped to God she wasn’t about to let him loose on me. I almost turned back but decided that if she wanted publicity, then even she would foresee that having her dog attack me would not be a good way to end up on the front page.

The back half of the house was dark. I started to make the trip across the big backyard toward the little garage off the alley, to see if her SUV was gone, but I glanced back at the house and got a surprise: The back door was wide open. I cautiously walked toward it.

“Sheila?” I yelled.

Altair’s barking suddenly took on a sharp, distressed sound that made me quicken my steps. I wondered if he was in pain. Probably not any smarter to approach him if he was, but the sound was heartrending, and I wasn’t about to leave him without at least trying to find out why he was so distraught.

I climbed the steps to the back door. I couldn’t make out much, just that I was on the threshold of the kitchen, and called Sheila’s name again. Altair was nearby, judging from the sound. I called his name, and the barks changed to loud whimpering.

“What did you do to him?” Hailey called from the front of the house.

I ignored her and fumbled for the light switch. I managed to turn on the back-porch light, but that was enough to see that Altair was crated. His whimpers grew louder and more varied, as if he would do just about anything to get some point across to me.

Over the general stale-smoke scent of the house, a different, sharp smell came to me. Someone had fired a gun in this house, and not too long ago.

I stood frozen for a moment.

Then I let the dog out.

In retrospect, it was a singularly stupid risk. He could have easily attacked me. Instead, he ran toward a hallway. I found another light switch and followed. He was already at the door of a room, clawing at it as if he would tu

The television was much louder, the gunpowder smell much stronger. Altair was whimpering and shivering, his tail tucked between his legs, his ears flattened. He lay down beside the recliner and looked back at me.

Sheila Dolson lay unmoving. She had been shot through the left eye. The back of her head was a bloody mess. I made myself check for a pulse, but there was none. Her hands were empty. I didn’t see a gun anywhere. I hadn’t really expected to.

There were muddy marks on the carpet. I avoided stepping near them.

I shakily stepped back out of the room and yelled to Hailey to call 911.

“And tell them what?” she asked petulantly.

“That you’re blind and suffocating because your head is stuck up your ass!”

As much as it felt better to be angry than shaky, I forced myself to clearly and calmly add, “Tell them to come to 717 Poplar Street in Las Piernas. Tell them a woman has been shot and killed here.”

Her mouth formed a soundless O.

“After you call 911, call the paper. Tell John that Sheila Dolson has been murdered. Ask him if he wants us here, or if he’s sending Mark.” I waited until I saw her actually pull the phone out and begin dialing.

I found a leash for Altair hanging on a peg near the front door. I took it with me back to the den and coaxed him out of the room. He was still acting skittish.

Hailey called out to me that the police and Mark were on the way, and asked if we could leave. I kept hold of my temper and told her no. I let her into the house by using a pen to move the latch on the dead-bolt lock, and warned her not to touch anything. “Probably would be best if we didn’t do a lot of walking around, either, just in case they can get footprints or something.”

She looked pointedly at the damp prints I had left all over the hallway but didn’t say anything. She seemed suddenly to realize that I had a big German shepherd standing next to me. She eyed Altair a little nervously and said, “Does he bite?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. But he’s upset-even if I knew him better, that would make it hard to predict what he’ll do.”

“I’ll just wait here by the door,” she said. “To let the police in.”

Altair was panting, probably part of his fear reaction, so I thought I’d see if he’d drink some water. Besides, I needed to be where I could get to some air. I went into the kitchen again. I saw the light switch but left it off. If the killer had turned out the light, the crime-scene investigators wouldn’t thank me for putting my mitts on the switch.

Altair went halfway into his crate and drank a little water. Most dogs that are used to crates feel safer in them, but when I tried to get him to step farther into it, he backed out in a hurry.

The kitchen was neat and clean, except for the mud that I-and someone else?-had tracked on the floor. An area of one of the counters had a phone, a notepad, and some business cards next to it. I took a notebook out of my purse and copied the numbers I saw on the top few sheets of the notepad, being careful not to touch it with my fingers, and to use only my pencil to lift the pages. Sheila had written initials next to most of the numbers, but even with just the initials, I recognized two newspapers, a radio station, and the local television news. Six or seven numbers were unknown to me. I looked at the business cards, moving them with the end of my pencil. One for a veterinarian, another for a groomer.

I could hear Hailey moving around the house. So much for waiting by the front door. She came into the kitchen and stared at me for a moment, her face pale, her eyes big and dark. She said, “I’m scared.”

I felt sorry for her. If she were the huggable type, I would have given her one. She’s not.

“Did you look in the den?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I know I should, but…”

“Not necessarily,” I said. That wasn’t exactly true, but it wasn’t completely false, either. One or two of our bosses would probably have preferred that we teamed up to look in every nook and cra

Hailey seemed relieved, but I could tell doubts lingered.

“This story will be given to Mark, Hailey, and not to either of us.”

“Thank God,” she said, her voice quivering.

I racked my brains for small talk appropriate for homicide scenes. “Have you ever owned a dog?”

“Little ones,” she said. “Two Yorkies. Binky and Boo-Boo. They live with my parents.”

The Las Piernas Police Department arrived before she finished telling me the ninth “cutest thing” that Binky did.

I considered it a rescue.