Credo’s Run

  Alex Wolfe Mysteries Book Eight

  Alison Naomi Holt

  Denabi Publishing

  In Memoriam

  This book is dedicated to Annie Ross, a woman whose smile brightened the lives of every person or animal lucky enough to have had the joy of knowing her.

  * * *

  It is also dedicated to the memory of three beloved friends who added so much love, humor, and charm to their mothers’ lives: Captain, Peanut, and Sage

  “Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.”

  – Anatole France

  Chapter 1

  I rubbed my eyes, then peeked from beneath my hand to see my partner, Casey Bowman, grinning like a fool. We sat in a conference room being briefed by a fed on a new program some fed-higher-up-in-the-food-chain came up with to help us find evidence we usually find all on our own. Our Sergeant, Kate Brannigan, and four other detectives were also present.

  Instead of briefing us in our offices at the Tucson Police Department main station, they’d put us in the bowels of one of the federal buildings downtown. The cramped room gave the impression that this program had about as much support from the presenter’s chain of command as a gay rights bill has in the US Senate. From the solid plastic stacking chairs to the two-person folding tables scattered throughout the room, nothing screamed, “kill this project,” like the tacky décor surrounding us. Overbright fluorescent lights rained headache-inducing white light down on us, and I wondered why it hadn’t given Casey one of her mega-migraines. When the presenter turned off the lights for his PowerPoint presentation, the windowless room became so dark I couldn’t see my fingers when I wiggled them in front of my face.

  The department had offered us up as guinea pigs for the project, and we’d all had to make arrangements to house a specially trained dog in our homes for the next two months; all of us except Kate, that is. She just had to supervise the project from afar.

  Casey and I work for Kate in the Special Crimes Unit, where we handle offenses that don’t fit into the parameters of the other “normal” investigative squads. Casey's face had lit with pleasure when Kate had mentioned the experiment several weeks earlier. What was one more dog in her menagerie of dogs, cats, birds, donkeys, goats, and probable hedgehogs and skunks?

  Me? I have two dogs, Tessa, a white, long-haired girl with several types of hunting dogs mixed up in her genealogy, and Jynx, a feisty Pappiwawa whose mother had been a papillon and whose father had probably been a chihuahua. Or vice versa. Jynx was a rescue who’d been foisted on me by another detective in our unit. I’ve come to love the little guy, and I wasn’t sure he would enjoy having another dog in the house. Jynx is a lightweight scamp who’d gladly take on a Great Dane if the dog pissed him off or stepped on him.

  That didn’t seem to matter to the fed in a grey pinstriped suit and tie standing at the front of the room telling me they’d decided one of these specially trained dogs would help me work my way through my caseload. He’d been up there for close to an hour now, and his droning monologue had just about put me to sleep when I heard my name being called.

  “Detective Wolfe?”

  I blinked several times, unsure what he wanted from me.

  The guy flipped the lights back on and re-checked his list. “Is there a Detective Wolfe here?”

  Kate, who was sitting on the same side of the table as I was, leaned around Casey and gave me one of her signature glares.

  I’d sunk down in my seat to get more comfortable while I slept, but to appease my sergeant, I uncrossed my arms and put up my hand. “That would be me.”

  The man peered at me through designer glasses the exact same grey and blue as his suit. I vaguely wondered if he had a matching pair for every color combination he wore. The harsh lights made his round face look like a bright white golf ball, and when he smiled, the emotion never quite reached his eyes.

  The feds have a holier-than-thou attitude that irks the heck out of me since they rarely have actual police experience under their belt. Whenever they show up at a bank robbery, which happens to be a federal crime, they begin by screwing up the evidence gathering and then move on to asking witnesses leading or otherwise inadmissible questions. Then they blame local law enforcement in court for their shoddy investigation. Just now realizing the irony of having the feds give us “tools to better gather evidence,” I returned his crocodile smile and raised one brow, waiting to see what he wanted.

  “Detective Wolfe, first, I’d like to thank you for volunteering to participate in this groundbreaking experiment.”

  “I was volunteered. And what do you mean groundbreaking? How is using dogs to find evidence groundbreaking?”

  He flashed his plastic smile again and adjusted his glasses while pretending to study the sheet in front of him. “If you’d been paying attention earlier, Detective,” he drew out the word with condescending patience, “you would have heard how other police dogs have one or maybe two specialties—finding drugs, for example, or explosives. The dogs you will be testing have been specifically trained to identify and alert you to many more diverse items and substances.” He removed his glasses and pointed them at me for effect. “One dog, ten to fifteen different uses.”

  I actually had been paying attention to some of what he’d said, and I leaned forward and interlaced my fingers on the tabletop. “Let me get this straight. You’re borrowing these highly trained dogs from their owners, their non-law enforcement owners, for us to experiment with, and then, if they’re still alive after two months of police work, you’re giving them back to their owners at the end of the experiment. What good is that? They go back to their owners whether the project is a success or a failure, and we’re back to square one—no dogs, no help from the feds.”

  Picking up a stack of papers from the podium, he tapped them together with an irritated set to his jaw and then carefully laid all but one back down again. “Stop talking, Detective, and I’ll try and break things down into terms you’ll understand. As you know, we, the federal government, have been in a financial crisis the last several years.”

  Someone sitting to my left muttered, “The last couple centuries, you mean.”

  The fed ignored the remark, held his briefing sheet in front of his face like a heroic knight raising his shield, and continued from an obviously memorized script. “Despite that, we, those of us in federal law enforcement, have been given a mandate to assist our local law enforcement brothers and sisters with their crime-fighting efforts. To that end—”

  The man behind me scoffed and said, “Brothers and sisters, my ass.”

  I swiveled around and nodded at the detective, whom I hadn’t realized was my friend, Garlan, from the TPD arson unit, before turning to face forward again. I guess there were only three other detectives I didn’t know instead of four.

  The fed glanced over my shoulder at Garlan, ground his teeth, and then once more buried his face in his paperwork. “To that end—” he glanced up to see if there would be any other interruptions. When we remained silent, he continued, “—my director came up with a unique way to train these dogs without using taxpayer’s money. She solicited volunteers who have worked tirelessly for the last year training their dogs to seek out, identify, and then alert you to many unusual items that have all, at one time, been used as evidence in a court of law.”

  A ruggedly handsome detective sitting at the table to my left leaned back and crossed his beefy arms. When he did, he exposed a sheriff’s badge hooked to his belt. No wonder I hadn’t recognized the guy; he was from a different department than mine. Glancing at the other two unknowns, I realized they had badges from different agencies as well: Oro Valley and Marana, respectively.

  The deputy shrugged, “So, as usual, the feds think they can come in like some white-hat cowboy to teach us our jobs and save the day, right? You do realize we’re not even important enough for you to introduce yourself before pulling our asses out of some imagined fire, don’t you?”

  Our instructor’s face reddened, and his jaw jutted forward as he worked to control his temper. He took a deep breath and let it out with a quiet growl. “My name is Special Agent Mumford and as a Special Agent, I don’t have time to play these games with you people. I’ve done this briefing with other agencies around the country and have met with the same hostility you’re giving me today. Now, try and keep up, here, folks.”

  Yup. FBI. Color me surprised. “And you need us for this part of the experiment because we actually investigate crime while you guys sit behind a desk and—”

  A woman’s deep, commanding voice chimed in from the back of the room. “That’s enough, Detective Wolfe.”

  We all turned to see a tallish, plump African American woman in her mid-to-late fifties standing with her arms crossed beneath her more-than-ample bosoms. Her electric green eyes bored into mine with the kind of authority only real leaders possess.

  I stared back and reined in my irritation. No sense alienating a woman I knew nothing about. I took in her dark blue jacket, matching skirt, and pink button-down blouse that opened over a black camisole and was impressed with the seamstress who could tailor an ensemble that actually flattered this woman’s robust figure. A string of white pearls complimented her short, wavy grey hair, while a set of two pearls, one black, one white, hung from each earlobe.

  She held the glare for the count of three and then strode to the front of the room. As she turned to face us, she made sure to look each of us in the eye before speaking. She had a comma
nding presence, and I noticed a couple of the detectives, including my partner, sit up straighter as her gaze landed on them. “My name is Amanda Crawford. I am the assistant director of the FBI training division, and this is my project.”

  No one muttered anything into the silence that followed her matter-of-fact statement.

  She laid her forearm on the scratched, wooden podium and once again looked directly at me. “If any of you suffer from the same ill-conceived and uninformed opinions as Detectives Wolfe, McBay, and Farley, let me set you straight. I spent twenty-two years as an officer and commander in a major metropolitan police department. I worked patrol and investigations and retired as Captain of the Major Offenders Division. I then moved to the Federal Bureau of Investigations, where I again began at the bottom as a special agent and worked my way up through the various ranks to the position I now hold.”

  She stepped forward and rested a hand on her hip. “Now, that being said, I know where your opinions come from. I, too, had FBI agents with little to no street experience come and take over my cases, and at times,” she hesitated while considering her next words, “complicate my investigations. However, that will not be the case in this instance.”

  A smirk must have snuck onto my face because when I looked up from the papers in front of me, she held her head canted to the side. Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “You have something to say, Detective?”

  Oh, hell no. Did I look stupid or something? It was one thing to antagonize some low-level fed, and completely another to disrespect an assistant director of the FBI. I pushed up in my chair and shook my head. “No, ma’am.”

  Even as I answered, my curiosity was getting the better of me. So, the woman had creds. That was all well and good, but the real test would be to talk to someone who’d worked for her in her previous department. Failing that, I’d get ahold of one of my contacts in the FBI—agents who actually knew a crime scene from a desktop—and get their opinion. Interesting that she hadn’t given us the name of her previous department. That would make my digging a little harder, but only a bit. I was now a woman on a mission, and since we were still staring into each other’s eyes, I let a smile creep into mine.

  Sensing the change in my mood, Crawford nodded slowly. “Good.” Her gaze traveled to the deputy sitting next to me. “Detective McBay?”

  He uncrossed his arms, folded his hands on the table in front of us, and said, “No, ma’am.”

  Crawford nodded and returned to the podium. “Do you mind if I take over from here, Special Agent Mumford?”

  Although Mumford tried to hide his relief, his rapid-fire answer told the true story. “No, ma’am. Not at all.” He backed away from the podium and indicated it with a wave of his hand. “It’s all yours.”

  Amusement flickered across Crawford’s face as she watched his retreat. She picked up the pile of papers he’d left on the podium, glanced through them, and found the one she wanted. She retrieved a pen from her jacket pocket, crossed out something on the page, and wrote a couple of words.

  I was too far back to read what she’d written, but when she pulled out a second sheet and repeated her actions, it became apparent that she’d changed his presentation. I wondered whether she’d modified the dog assignments and fervently hoped she hadn’t just assigned me to the most problematic pup in the group. Someday I’d learn to keep my mouth shut and my head down. I think life would be a lot easier that way.

  A.D. Crawford spoke while finishing up with the second change. “Part of the reason for this trial is to determine whether these dogs will respond to different handlers at different times. This is a two-month project, and at random intervals, we may be exchanging your dog for another one in the group.”

  Casey put up her hand.

  Crawford raised her brows and nodded slightly. “Detective Bowman?”

  Casey, who’d already been sitting up straight, swiped her bangs off her forehead. Her close-cropped blonde hair fit her face and her personality perfectly. She’s someone who takes pride in her appearance, not because she cares about the opinions of others, but because she has an inner sense of ‘right’ and does her best to live up to those ideals. “Yes, ma’am. What I don’t understand is why you’re using dogs that will return to their civilian owners, and why switch the dogs between detectives? Dogs bond with their owners, and I’m sure they’ll bond with the handlers, if only on a temporary basis. Don’t you think it’ll be difficult for them to handle all the changes?”

  Leave it to Casey to be more concerned for the dogs than for the experiment itself. Me? Sure, I care about the dogs, but not to the extent she does. To her, it’s dogs first, experiment second. To me, it was take care of the dogs to the best of my ability, live through the next two months, and then return to my normal, somewhat chaotic routine.

  “To answer your first question, Detective, as Special Agent Mumford explained, we have a mandate from our director to assist local law enforcement with your crime-fighting efforts. Unfortunately, we have very little funding to do so. You and about one hundred other detectives around the country are participating in the prototype, if you will, of a program that, if successful, will be implemented in local and regional departments throughout the United States. We couldn’t buy one hundred dogs and spend the money on training them, only to discover that this new model of K9 detecting won’t work.”

  The big man sitting next to me harumphed, but only loud enough for me and the guy on his other side to hear. He crossed his arms again but remained sitting ramrod straight. The word ‘special forces’ came to mind, and I made a mental note to ask him whenever we had a chance to talk.

  Crawford smiled at Casey, and I was glad to see the woman had taken a liking to my partner. “And your second question is exactly why I chose you for this assignment, Detective Bowman. But don’t worry. If this project goes live, the dogs will have one primary handler whom they’ll live with but will be switched between detectives as the need arises.”

  “Casey. Just call me Casey.”

  “Casey, then. I need people who will put the well-being of the animals above the experiment. Seven members of your local communities have taken a year of their lives and, with the help of our trainers, dedicated their evenings to honing their dog’s abilities far beyond those of a normal police K9.”

  Holding up her finger to quiet the grumblings that ran around the room, she quickly amended her statement. “I don’t mean to say they’re better than the working police K9 as far as their specialties go. Those dogs are highly trained, capable officers. I’d find it difficult to outdo the level of training they get within your respective departments. On the contrary, the dogs assigned to you will augment the police K9 units, not attempt to replace them.”

  She held up the papers. “These dogs are not only pets. They are part of someone’s family. Each owner has a compelling reason to offer up their dogs for this experiment. Some have been victims of crime themselves and have been actively looking for a way to give back to the detectives who helped them through their ordeal. Others believe their dogs are capable of doing so much more than they’re currently trained to do. They jumped at the chance to expand their pets’ abilities. But really, every owner is unique and came into the program with their own ideas and expectations. And I expect each of you to honor their sacrifice by taking this program seriously and by loving and protecting these dogs as if they were your own.”

  I glanced to my left, expecting the deputy to once again scoff at her words. But instead, to my surprise, his eyes narrowed, and his lips thinned with a look of…what? Determination? Acceptance? Understanding?

  Crawford must have seen me covertly checking him out because she said, “Deputy McBay. You owe your life to a dog, do you not?”

  “Many times over, ma’am. In the Middle East.”

  “I chose you for this position because of that.” Her emphasis on the word “you” set his selection apart from the reason she’d chosen Casey. “The owners have entrusted their loved ones to us, and I believe you understand, deep in your gut, that we need to treat these animals with the same devotion…and protection…as we’d give to a member of our own family.”