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  He stepped, cautiously into the room. What had happened here, he could not imagine. He’d been there only a couple of times before to pick her up when her car was in the shop. From those couple of times, it had been obvious that Hill was a meticulous housekeeper. This wasn’t like her. Something was amiss.

  On one side of the living room was the doorway to the bedroom, on the other side was the bathroom. The kitchen/dining room was in the middle, separated by a half-wall with a countertop.

  Parker moved vigilantly toward the bedroom, fearing what he might find. Again the door was partway open. The bed was in every bit as much a mess as the living room. Pillows and covers were strewn across the floor. A large crimson spot blotted the bed sheet. Parker squinted as if that would help him figure it out. He shoved the door open and walked in. His heart trampolined into his throat. Several dark red spots were on the bed beside the large one in the middle.

  Blood!

  Movement.

  Something moved under the blanket that was lying to the side of the bed. His head snapped in that direction. The right eye and snout of a large white chow emerged from the blanket, and it started a low, extended growl.

  It was Hill’s dog, Sheik. But why was he growling at him? Parker had been around the dog a few times and the animal had always been friendly. He hoped Sheik’s aggressive behavior was because he hadn’t recognized Parker yet.

  His pulse rate shifted even higher. He panted. The dog was sure to see his pounding heart through his open mouth.

  Behind him, the front door slammed shut, and Parker spun around.

  Sarah Hill screamed.

  The dog barked and sprang out from under the blanket.

  Parker was caught completely off guard. He didn’t expect to see Sarah unharmed, especially completely nude and unharmed.

  “Tony! Well, what do you know? What more could a naked girl ask for, but a big, strong, handsome man panting in her bedroom doorway?” she asked, still a little nervousness in her voice.

  Evidently, Sheik now recognized Parker. The dog ran to his hand and nuzzled it for a customary scratch behind the ear.

  Parker stared, still dumbfounded. Hill hadn’t moved since screaming. Fifteen feet away, she just stood there holding a large white bath towel, a hand on her hip, one knee bent slightly, still very naked. Playboy would have been proud of such a pose.

  He surveyed her body. He had imagined what it must look like, firm and curvy. A dogcatcher’s uniform did little to enhance a woman’s figure, but it could not hide certain things. Her bare body was even more impressive than what he had imagined. With her almost platinum blonde hair flowing down onto her lightly tanned, smooth shoulders and her sanguineous, full lips and nipples, she was a rich dessert, long fantasized. A luscious strawberry shortcake. Her tan lines emphasized her breasts that were ample for her five-foot-three-inch frame, but firm and round like honeydew melons ripe and ready for a lusty feast. Her waist was trim, almost small enough for him to be able to put his hands all the way around. A small triangular tuft of blonde cotton was in place between her shapely thighs, and her nicely tanned, trim legs finished her perfectly created body.

  “So, Tone, did you break into my home just to pant at me?” she asked now with a more relaxed, devilish grin.

  She strolled toward him. With each step, she moved dangerously closer to a fantasy he had enjoyed before though only in his mind. As she came closer and closer, Parker fell deeper and deeper into her spell. She finally stopped, toe to shoe tip and looked up at him with beckoning blue eyes and a suggestive teasing smile on her face. He smelled the freshness of her recently bathed, powdered and perfumed body. His nostrils flared.

  She leaned against him, pushing her breasts firmly against his shirt and stomach. It felt as though her hard nipples were burning holes through his shirt and into his skin. A tempestuous heat radiated from the wounds and slowly enveloped his body. His hands longed for the pleasure this less sensitive part of his body enjoyed. His fingers stretched out from his hands, still down at his sides, like a child thinking of sneaking a forbidden cookie as soon as no one was looking.

  She flipped her long blonde hair over her shoulder, exposing one side of her creamy, smooth neck and she wet her lips, moving her tongue slowly from side to side, causing them to glisten.

  In a brief daydream, he reached out and grabbed her baby soft, but firm hips and lifted them to his middle and then fell passionately onto her bed. In reality, his hands clenched tightly into fists.

  She brought her hands up to both sides of his neck and slowly moved them to his shoulders, pressing firmly, feeling his solid build. She watched her hands while she rubbed them down his biceps and over to his pectorals.

  She seemed to study for a moment, then gazed back up into Parker’s anxious eyes, cocked her head and gave a long, jagged sigh. Her warm breath blew against his throat and the chest hair protruding slightly from the neck of his shirt. It made a hot flash ignite from within and caused his flesh to burn. An uncomfortable tightness grew in the crotch of Parker’s trousers.

  Hill’s grin widened. She must have noticed it also. “So are you going to bring me to the height of ecstasy with that throbbing love muscle bulging in your pants?”

  Parker’s throat constricted. His lips were dry, but saliva built up in his mouth, and he had an insuppressible urge to swallow. What would it hurt? No one would know. How could anyone find out? This was his chance. His chance to have Sarah. Beautiful, sexy, sassy young Sarah.

  He swallowed hard. Licked his lips. “Swiss Army knife,” Parker said with a forced grin, still under the spell Sarah’s body cast over him, “fifteen blades.”

  “Ewww! Scissors, fork, knife, spoon, and French tickler, I’ll bet.” Hill stared into his eyes, still holding a wide grin.

  Why had he said fifteen? Fifteen as in fifteen-year anniversary, with Julie. His beautiful, loving wife, Julie. Mother of his cherished children. Trusting, faithful, always there, Julie.

  “I need you…,” Parker blurted out, finally breaking from the trance, words easily misunderstood under the circumstances.

  Hill brought one hand up and ran her finger down his nose to his top lip, rolling the bottom lip out slightly.

  “You need me, huh? I didn’t think I was ever going to hear that from you.”

  “Wild animal—attack.”

  Hill pulled Parker’s bottom lip down nearly to his chin with her finger. It finally snapped back with a plip.

  “I shoulda figured. Last time you showed up here on a Saturday you wanted to take me to a dog fight,” she said in a disappointed tone. She sidestepped around him and pulled a pink blouse out of an open closet and draped it on a chair beside the bed. “Tony Parker, you really know how to show a girl a good time.”

  The danger passed; the spell was broken. Still, he could not take his eyes away from of her. He gaped, eyes wide, lips parted, questioning God for creating such a beautiful woman, laying her on a platter before him, then giving him a conscience.

  “Jack called it in and asked for me. The animal is dead, whatever it was, and so are three people,” he said in a monotone, still staring.

  “Good lord, they don’t know what it is?” She pulled a pair of faded Levi’s from a dresser drawer.

  “They haven’t told the dispatcher yet. It’s just down the street. I thought you might like to come along.”

  “Oh sure, there’s nothing I’d rather do on a Saturday morning. What about the guys on duty?”

  “I thought that—we’d handle it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Parker looked away while Hill stood, pulling on her jeans. “So what the hell happened here?”

  “Kind of a personal question, isn’t it, coming from a guy who’s just broken into my apartment?”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. The door was open and the living room all messed up. Then, the blo.…”

  “Oh, Ken must have left the door open when he left.”

  “Ken?”

  “Yeah, Ken
Hardessy. You’re not jealous are you?”

  “Oh gee, Lt. Hardessy? You’ve got to be kidding. That asshole has been married four times. He’s just a womanizer. He’s using you.”

  “That he may be, but he isn’t married right now. And I can’t have you.” She winked at Parker as she slipped on her white and pink Nikes. “Besides, I know he’s using me. And I’m using him. It’s just for sex.”

  Parker moaned, frowning and shaking his head. Lt. Hardessy was a vice officer and a K-9 unit dog handler. Everyone that worked for the city or county knew him and his reputation as a playboy and a back stabber.

  By now Hill had given her long blonde hair a couple of quick brushes, patted some powder on her face and grabbed her purse, ready to go.

  “What about the blood?” Parker asked, timidly.

  “Blood?” Hill followed Parker’s eyes over to the bed. “Oh that. That’s cherry-flavored body lotion. You know, the kind that gets hot when you blow on it.” She stood on her toe tips and puffed into his ear as she walked by. “I guess ol’ ‘Hard-assy’ got a little carried away.”

  Parker moaned again, preceding her out the door.

  “Mama will be right back, Sheik,” Hill said and closed the door behind.

  The drive to the scene was quiet. Parker had little time to consider what had happened in Hill’s apartment or what it meant, if anything, between Sarah and him. If he weren’t married, there was no doubt in his mind, the two of them would be lovers, perhaps even more. Parker did feel jealous.

  He drove with both hands on the wheel, looking straight ahead. He cleared his throat several times, wanting to say something but never did. He wanted to say something, anything, so his jealousy wouldn’t be quite so apparent. To show that his mind was clear of it. He couldn’t. The casualness of her sex life bothered him, especially when she was involved with someone as unsuitable as Lt. Hardessy, as if anyone would be suitable for her in his mind.

  Evidently Hill felt the upper hand in their relationship now and wanted to punish Parker for not giving in to her many previous advances. She sat on the inside half of her bucket seat, against the console, as close as she could get without being too obvious—not blatant, but obvious enough to make him uncomfortable. She held the smile of a cat with a belly full of canaries, glancing at him sleepy-eyed. Her hand rested on Parker’s side of the console. She leaned on it, drumming her fingers ticklishly close to his right thigh.

  It was working. Tony Parker, a happily married man, felt punished for not having an affair.

  CHAPTER 7

  By the time Parker and Hill pulled up to within half a block of the little corner house

  in the peaceful old neighborhood, the street was jammed with ambulances and cop cars. Police had already taped off the yard with the Police Line, Do Not Cross yellow crime-scene tape. One policeman stood up after being down on all fours beside a patrol car. He held a Glock pistol carefully with a pencil through its trigger guard.

  Parker trotted up to the porch of the old house with Hill carrying the tranquilizer gun behind him. The tall black detective stepped out the door, wearing white plastic gloves.

  “Damn, Jack, what happened?” Parker asked.

  “You tell me, Tony. You tell me,” Simpson said, putting his hand on Parker’s shoulder.

  Parker and Hill started to go around Simpson to the open door when Simpson stopped them, putting his arm across the doorway.

  “Wait a minute, Sarah. It’s pretty gruesome in there.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said, pushing past Parker. “I can handle gruesome.”

  Simpson looked at Parker and shrugged his shoulders. He glanced back at Hill and turned sideways, allowing her to look in.

  She raised her hand to her mouth, appearing nearly overwhelmed.

  Parker looked in over her shoulder, eyes wide, without comment.

  The bodies hadn’t been removed. The coroner, a short, obese man with a cue-ball head, was kneeling as he inspected the sergeant’s torso. A couple of uniformed officers stood nearby with their Latex-gloved hands on their hips and expressionless faces. Another man flashed pictures of the bodies from different angles in the room.

  There, on top of the sergeant’s body, lay the young rookie with the monster’s mouth still stretched across his face. One of the beast’s fangs had pierced his right temple. A single trail of nearly dried blood made a line down the side of his head, in front of his right ear and down the back of his neck.

  “Who?” Parker asked.

  “Jim Morowsky and a rookie, John Cox’s son,” Jack answered.

  Parker cringed. He knew Morowsky was a good friend of Jack’s. He didn’t know the kid, but he’d met his father.

  “Great Dane,” Parker observed.

  “Damn big one, too,” Hill added.

  They entered the room slowly. One of the officers raised his hand to stop them, but he dropped it when Simpson followed them in.

  “It’s okay guys. You know Tony Parker, Animal Control Director. And this is one of his men,” Simpson said. After the officers smirked, Simpson corrected himself with, “Uh, one of his women—ah, shit, Officer Sarah Hill.”

  Parker narrowed his eyes at Jack. He knew Jack was aware there was more than just the usual working relationship between the two. This was probably a Freudian slip. Parker had known Jack Simpson since the last football game of their senior year in high school. They had been best friends ever since. They’d joined the Marines together under the buddy system and served in Vietnam at the same time, Simpson in an infantry ‘grunt’ unit, and Parker as a dog handler, sniffing out booby traps and VC. Now, once in a great while, they got to work together when bad things happened between animal and man.

  “What’s his name?” Parker asked, looking down at the old man, wincing from the rank carrion.

  “Alvin MacGreggor,” Simpson answered.

  “The throat the only wound?”

  Simpson nodded. “Apparently.”

  Hill gagged. “Looks like it was enough.”

  “Has anybody touched or moved anything?” Parker asked.

  “We turned the CD player off,” Simpson said. “It was blasting out some kind of Irish folksy gibberish when we came in. The old man must have been nearly deaf.”

  “Can we turn on some lights and raise the shades?” Parker asked.

  Simpson nodded to the officers, and they responded.

  Dark red blood was splattered on the walls and woodwork—blood from arteries squirting out life as if from giant squirt guns. It had struck the walls in streams and then dripped down, as in an abstract painting that the artist had really put his heart into.

  “I can’t figure some people out,” Parker said, with one corner of his mouth curled. “A three thousand dollar sound system, a thousand dollars-worth of Enya, Sinead O’Connor, the Chieftains, RiverDance and….” Parker looked in surprise at the CD case. “…Slim Whitman, hmm—definitely not my mug of beer—and living in a dump like this.” He glanced around the room. “Look at the stuffing coming out of his chair and those ratty window shades.”

  The three walked over to the two officers lying on the floor.

  “Looks like the Dane dragged the big guy,” Parker said, noting the blood and guts trail. “That was one strong dog. What do you figure Morowsky weighs?”

  “With or without his head?” the coroner questioned.

  “Shit, Doctor Walker,” Simpson scolded, “I worked with these guys, this ain’t no time to joke around.”

  “Sorry Simpson. In my line of work, you can’t take these things too serious—it’ll get to you. I’d say he’d go about two sixty.”

  “I’d like a time of death on the old man when you have it pinpointed, Doctor,” Parker said.

  “You going to take the dog’s head for rabies tests?” Walker asked.

  “Might not be rabies,” Hill said, staring at the dog.

  “Maybe not,” Parker said, “but we’d better do it anyway.”

  “Not rabies? What th
e hell you mean, not rabies?” Simpson asked. “A dog does all this because of an attitude? What else could it be?”

  “I don’t know,” Parker said. “A dog would need one hell of a good reason to do something like this. Could be abuse, maybe a brain tumor. I’d hate to speculate.”

  He bent down and observed the bullet wound in the dog’s side. A lump blocked his throat as he stroked the dog’s flank. He blinked and exhaled long. “Good shooting, Jack,” he said blankly, “right through the heart.” He patted the dog’s shoulder, then looked up at Simpson.

  Simpson smiled back proudly, then took a more serious face. “This is one damn big son-of-a-bitch, Tony,” he said. “I didn’t know they got this big.”

  “Oh yeah, he’s big all right,” Parker answered, looking back at the dog. “Got a tape, Doctor Walker?”

  Within a few seconds, the doctor shoved his hand in front of Parker with a small, metal tape measure in it. Parker took it and pulled out the tape. He laid it along the dog’s front leg to its hackles.

  “Not all that unusual, though,” he said. “He’s probably around thirty-eight or nine inches at the shoulders. You don’t see a lot of them this big, but he’s a couple of inches shy of any kind of a record.”

  Parker checked the dog’s ID tags. They were typical dog tags, telling the dog’s name, owner’s name, address, vet’s name, and rabies vaccination date. Typical, except for the separate nametag that appeared to be gold, pure twenty-four-carat gold, with a two or three-carat diamond dead center.

  “Whoa, look at this,” Parker said amazed. “This thing’s worth more than all the jewelry I’ve bought Julie over the last fifteen years.”

  Simpson read the nametag, “Beelzebub. Hell of a name for a dog.”

  “Rabies booster just two days ago,” Parker said. “Hey, Dr. White Cloud’s the vet. Cantankerous old coot.”