“I think Chanel would appreciate that,” Peabody said as she rose. “You’re good friends, both of you.”
When they trooped back down the stairs, Peabody sighed. “They don’t know anything, Dallas. They want to know something, they’d turn themselves inside out to find something that would help.”
“There isn’t anything for them to know. We’ll finish it out, hit the vet office, the theater, but it’s long odds. If she knew her killer, it was casually, more like peripherally. Someone who came into the restaurant or to a performance, to the vids, all to observe her. She didn’t keep a diary, but she posted every damn thing on social media. Where she had dinner—while she was having it. Her classes, rehearsals, something that happened at the restaurant, a date, a shopping trip. It’s all there, so he could follow her tracks, pick just the right moment. The one that mirrored the scene in the book.”
They stopped at the pet clinic on the way to the theater. Eve had Peabody interview the distraught assistant while she herself warily eyed the waiting room full of cats, dogs, and what appeared to be large, furry rodents. One of the cats hissed like a snake inside its carrier, but the rest, as cats often did, simply looked bored or superior.
Dogs, in Eve’s mind, had three basic modes: dangerous, insanely happy, or just insane.
She caught the crazy-eyed look in one about the size of a small horse, wondered vaguely why anyone would want a dog they could essentially ride around the house.
When she made the mistake of meeting those crazy eyes for a split second, it danced its great gray bulk in place, then charged, dragging its squeaking owner out of her chair.
In defense, Eve slapped a hand to her weapon, but the horse-dog covered the ground like a sprinter, heaved itself up, planted its enormous front paws on her shoulders. And lapped its wide, wet tongue from her chin to her hairline in one noisy slurp.
“Sampson!” Uselessly, the woman tugged on the leash, pulled at the thick collar. “Down, Sampson, down! He doesn’t bite!”
If he bit, Eve thought, she would no longer have a face.
“He likes you.” Breathless, the owner pulled and tugged. “Sometimes something just clicks with someone he sees. He’s still a puppy.”
Eve looked into eyes shining with a terrifying, crazy love. “A puppy.”
“He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Sampson, down! He’s gentle as a lamb.”
“Step on his back foot,” the assistant advised.
Willing to try anything, Eve put her boot on one of the enormous paws. Sampson dropped down, wagged, leaned his considerable weight lovingly against Eve’s legs.
“Mrs. Pinksy, you have to be the alpha.”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. I do apologize,” she said to Eve.
“Uh-huh. Peabody?”
“Yes, sir, we’re done.”
Relieved, Eve sidestepped, turned for the door. Sampson blithely galloped with her, dragging his owner behind as she begged him to stop, sit, heel, behave.
Once again, Eve looked down into the eyes gleaming with mad love.
She pointed, said, “Sit!”
He dropped his huge ass onto the floor, slapped his axe of a tail. “Stay,” she ordered.
As she escaped, she heard the assistant say, “That’s an alpha, Mrs. Pinksy.”
“He was sweet,” Peabody began. “Big and sloppy and sweet.”
“He licked my entire face.” Eve ran her hands over it, grateful her skin appeared to be intact. “I think he might have licked my eyeballs.”
She shuddered it away as they walked. “I lost track in there, but from what I heard, she couldn’t add anything.”
“Nothing. She bought the emergency, and why wouldn’t she? She tried to get more information, but he broke the call. She followed protocol, contacted Lola, then went in to set up an exam room, and possibly surgery.
“She also checked their records. They have two patients named Prince, but one’s a cat, the other’s a ferret. No canine patients by that name.”
“We tie it up, then we layer over Jenkinson and Reineke’s work on Rosie Kent. The killer crossed both vics’ paths, and DeLano’s. We find the intersections.”