High in Trial (6 page)

Roe shook his head. “He said he didn’t see the driver, but swore up and down he could
identify the passenger. There’s a description there.”

Buck glanced at it. “Pretty generic. Still, if he could’ve found whoever was in the
other car, that would have corroborated his timeline. And with everything else circumstantial…”
He shrugged. “I can’t see him serving time. I’m guessing you never found the other
car?”

“Never looked,” said Roe. “By the time we got around to it, he’d pled out.”

Police matters in a small town never moved with quite the same efficiency that they
did on television crime dramas. Buck flipped through the file once more, then looked
up at Roe. “What am I missing here? Some passing cokehead commits armed robbery on
his way home from dealing drugs, no other connections here… What made you put in a
notification request? You got some reason to think he might come back here? What’s
special about this guy?”

Roe sipped his coffee. “Yeah, I wondered the same thing at the time. I wasn’t the
one who wanted to keep tabs on him. It was Jon.”

Buck frowned a little. “Judge Stockton?”

“He was the judge on the case.”

Buck thought about that while Meg set a tall club sandwich and a steaming plate of
fries in front of him. “You boys need anything else right now? I’ve got some sweet
tea if you get tired of that coffee.”

“Thanks, Meg, it looks great.”

Buck reached for the bottle of ketchup on the table as Meg departed, and he said,
“So did this dude Berman threaten him or what?”

“Not in open court. That would’ve gone on the record. He just came to me real quiet
like a day or two later and asked would I do him a favor and let him know when the
man got out.”

“Wonder why,” said Buck.

“I asked. Never did get an answer.”

“Maybe he knew the family.”

“Maybe.”

Buck ate in silence for a while. Then he said, “So do you think you got the right
man?”

Roe leaned back again in his seat and released a quiet breath. “I don’t know.” His
tone was heavy. “At the time I did. You know how it is. We get a handful of violent
crimes a year around here, most of them drug-related. We put it out over the wire
and within the hour the Georgia boys picked up a DUI matching his description, same
kind of damage to the front fender, a wad of cash and a thirty-eight in the glove
box… Looked like a wrap to me. You don’t go chasing after the maybes when you’ve got
a suspect sitting in your cell. Maybe that’s not right. But that’s the way it is.”

Buck chewed thoughtfully. “You said ‘at the time’ you thought you had the right man.
Something happen to change your mind?”

He hesitated, then shook his head, frowning at the file on the table between them.
“Nope,” he said. “I didn’t see a thing in that file to make me think we got the wrong
man.” He drained his cup and stood. “Or that we got the right one, either.”

Buck swallowed quickly. “Hey, wait a minute. That’s it? Judge Stockton wanted to keep
an eye on this guy. He must’ve had his reasons. Don’t you think we should do some
kind of follow-up?”

“I don’t know what. Jon is the one who wanted to keep up with him, and he’s dead.
I guess his reasons died with him.”

“Maybe.” Buck put down the sandwich and opened the front flap of the file again. “But
I think I’ll give his parole officer a call anyway.”

“You do what you think’s best.” Roe smiled and clapped him on the shoulder as he passed.
“That’s why they’re paying you the sheriff’s money, son, not me.”

~*~

FIVE

Twenty-one hours before the shooting

M
y mother used to say that you can learn more from playing games than from anything
else in life, as long as you pay attention. For example, from chess you learn patience,
from tennis you learn how to keep your eye on the ball, from soccer and basketball
you learn no one wins by himself, and from football you learn good financial planning
because your career will very likely be short. I’ve learned a lot from running agility,
but perhaps the most important thing is not to give up until you cross the finish
line, because in this game it really isn’t over until it’s over.

The average person might think that once your dog has knocked you off your feet and
given you a bloody nose the game is over and, all things considered, that might be
a good time to give up. But the average person, not having competed with Cisco for
almost two years, would have no way of knowing that we’d been in much worse spots
than that. I barely hit the ground before I sprang up again, shouting Cisco on. Cisco
took the last two jumps and crossed the finish line on his way to answer Brinkley’s
tempting call, and that’s how I came now to hold a blue ribbon in my hand. Not red,
not green, but
blue
. In dogs, as in life, you don’t always have to be the best to win; sometimes all
it takes is for everyone else to be worse than you are. And sometimes the gods just
smile on you. Cisco and I had taken first place in our jump height, and I suspect
the reason was a combination of the two.

“It’s probably not broken,” Miles said, gently placing a paper towel-wrapped plastic
bag of ice across the bridge of my nose, “but you’re going to have a shiner. Are you
sure you don’t want to go to the emergency room?”

I just grinned at him, hugging my furry golden hero with one arm while I admired the
blue ribbon I held in the other hand. “Did you see him? He was a magic dog! Like lightning!
Did I tell you what our time was? 58.3! And that’s with the course fault, which means
he really ran it in 53.3 seconds! What do you think of that?”

“I think you may have a concussion. You sound delirious.”

I laughed and hugged Cisco again. Cisco obligingly swiped my face with his tongue
and grinned at me proudly. He knew he
’d done
good.

Miles sank into a camp chair beside me and scooped out a soft drink from the cooler.
We’d returned to our temporary day campsite in the shady open-air livestock barn,
where I’d snagged one of the private stalls by being there before the gates opened
that morning. The stalls were clean and concrete floored, big enough for four or five
dogs and a couple of people in each one, along with crates, coolers, camp chairs,
and all the other paraphernalia required for a dog show. And, most importantly, they
were gated, so Cisco could wander around free while we were there. It was almost as
good as having an RV. Cisco’s travel bag, with his training treats, toys, collapsible
bowls, pick-up bags, a chamois square for drying muddy paws, and space blanket to
serve as sunshade or wind block, plus a battery-operated fan in case the weather turned
hot, sat atop his crate. Next to it was my travel bag, with sunblock, insect repellent,
extra socks, a spare Golden Retriever Club of America sweatshirt, first aid kit, emergency
shoelaces, and a couple protein bars. I never knew how long my day would last at one
of these big trials, so it paid to come prepared.

Behind us was a big grassy field for exercising dogs, liberally dotted with waste
cans and signs reminding people to pick up after their dogs. A couple
of
people were tossing flying discs or balls for their dogs; others were practicing
attention exercises or sit-stays. At the edge of the field, minivans and SUVs were
parked, most with their hatchback doors open and crated dogs inside. Some of the dogs
were seasoned veterans who knew the value of conserving their energy; others, mostly
border collies, passed the time in frantic barking.

“The first trial we ever competed in,” I said happily, “Cisco ran half the course
and then jumped in the ring steward’s lap.”

“I take it you’re not supposed to do that.”

“Not if you don’t want to get disqualified. It’s considered a major off-course.” I
ruffled Cisco’s ears affectionately. “Last year I was running Mischief when Cisco
broke out of his crate and ran the entire course by himself. Fastest time of the day.
Of course, he didn’t exactly run the course the judge had laid out, and we were excused
for the rest of the trial, but that’s when I knew he really had a talent for agility.
We’ve come a long way.”

“Doesn’t surprise me a bit.” He popped the top on the soft drink and passed it to
me, then took another for himself. “I always back the winner.” He turned on his phone.
“You looked really good,” he added, “up until the crash. Do you want to see the video?”

I removed the ice pack from my face and leaned over to watch the video. It was pure
poetry in motion up until, as Miles pointed out, the last five seconds or so. I couldn’t
help grinning as I relived our triumph and wincing when it got to the end. I knew
it was only by the grace of God and the judge’s good mood that the collision had resulted
in a mere five points off for bad handling rather than an elimination, which is what
I’d assumed the judge would call when I went down. If I hadn’t gotten up and finished
the course anyway, that’s exactly what would have happened.

Miles pressed a button on the phone. “Just sent it to Mel. She wanted to know how
Cisco did.”

I dug in my travel bag for Cisco’s brush. “Wait, you should send her a picture.”

I was making it a point to chronicle our big weekend on Facebook and had already posted
pictures of our arrival at the hotel, loading up the SUV, arriving at the fairgrounds,
our crating area in the livestock barn, our practice jumps, and many of the dogs who
were competing against us. I would post the picture of our blue ribbon double the
size of the other photos, but Melanie deserved the first look.

Miles’s phone chimed with a text message. He grinned as he read it, then held it out
to me. Melanie texted:
Is Cisco okay?

Spoken like a true dog person. I was the one crumpled on the ground in the video,
but she was worried about my dog. I couldn’t fault her for that. I finished brushing
down Cisco, straightened my Air Bud cap, and picked up the blue ribbon. “Okay, send
her this.” He snapped the photo of me kneeling with my arm around Cisco, holding the
blue ribbon in front of his chest and grinning around my puffy nose and purple eye
like I’d just won Olympic gold, and sent it off to Washington. I said, “Send it to
my phone, too. I want to put it on Facebook.”

“Done. Both videos too.”

“Thanks.” I got up and leaned outside the half door of the stall to hang the ribbon
from one of the overhead nails that were provided for that purpose. I saw that some
of the other competitors had already accumulated four or five ribbons, and some of
them had even brought banners with their dog’s name or their kennel name emblazoned
on them to hang over the stall entrance. Really, the lengths to which some people
will go in this game… I wondered where I could get a banner with Cisco’s name on it
before tomorrow.

From where I stood I could see the parking area with its line of minivans and SUVS
with the back hatches open, part of the dog walk area and play field, and the corner
of the jumpers-with-weaves ring, which was empty now. In less than an hour, Cisco
and I would be making our second and last run of the day in that very ring. I saw
Brinkley and his handler, heading toward the field with a Frisbee, and waved. She
waved back and called, “Congratulations!” and I returned, “Thanks!” I wasn’t sure
whether I should ask her to make sure to keep Brinkley out of sight during our next
run or offer to pay her to stand with him at the finish line.

That was a joke, of course. I would never cheat in agility.

But the thought, along with a glimpse of Neil Kellog’s girlfriend, Marcie, taking
one of her border collies out of a crate in the back of a minivan, reminded me of
something that had been nagging at me all afternoon. I turned back. “Say, Miles…”

But his phone buzzed just then and he held up a finger as he glanced at the screen.
“Need to get this one, babe.”

I rolled my eyes—he knows I hate it when he calls me “babe”—and he answered, “Miles
Young.” He edged past me through the gate, brushing a kiss across my eyebrow as he
did so, and took the call outside.

I made sure the gate was closed firmly behind him, settled Cisco down with a chew
bone, and dug into my bag for my own phone. I sank back into my chair and enjoyed
the video of our win one more time, then pulled up the other video Miles had sent.
I watched Flame zip around the course as though she’d memorized it herself. I watched
her stutter at the finish line and turn back, clearly frustrated, to return to her
handler. I watched it again. I slowed it down. I zoomed in. I froze the action. By
this time Miles had returned and I called him over.

“Look at this,” I said.

“Honey, no offense, but I’ve seen it.”

“No, seriously, look.” He bent to look over my shoulder, and I made him watch the
last few frames of the video in slow motion and then froze it at the point at which
Flame was almost to the finish line and Neil, half turned from the camera, extended
two fingers down toward the ground. “I saw him make that same hand signal this afternoon,
and Flame came right to heel. Ginny said all his dogs are trained to hand signals,
that’s how he can send them around the course without saying a word—as long as they
can see him, of course. So when he fell, he started calling the commands—but he never
told her to take the last two jumps. She was trying to do that on her own, until she
made the turn at the last jump and he was suddenly in her line of sight again. Then,
here…” I pointed. “He called her back with a hand signal no one could hear.” I frowned.
“That must be what Marcie meant when she said, ‘I saw what you did.’ And why she was
so mad—apparently they have some kind of contract about the dogs, and she was claiming
he was in violation. But why in the world would he do that? Flame is partly his dog,
too.”