You check around in the front part of the house. I’m heading back to her room,” Holly said.
She walked past Sara’s room, hesitated, and then kept going. She really didn’t have an idea about what she was looking for or might find. She rummaged around the dead woman’s desk again. She looked underneath the bed, only to find it as spotless as she’d figured it would be. She searched drawers and found everything neat and orderly. She headed into the closet and flipped through suits, pants, shirts, blouses, some casual things, all of it fairly high-quality stuff. This gal liked to look good.
She bent down and glanced through the woman’s shoe collection, all pairs neatly in their original boxes. She had quite an extensive collection—Prada, Charles David, Vincent Longo. Where was she getting the cash for the shoporamas to Nordy’s and Saks?
Holly was on her knees and opening one of the last shoeboxes. To her surprise, she found this box didn’t contain shoes, but rather photos—very explicit photos of Shannon McKay, and other women and men, involved in a variety of sexual positions. She flipped through the first stack, the second, and then came across a whole roll of photos with none other than William James and his receptionist doing very nasty things to Shannon McKay. Some of them involving whips, some showing chains. She bagged the photos and pocketed them. She stood to go show Chad the goods, when she heard an odd noise. It sounded almost like whining. No, a whimper. It was a whimper. It was an animal sound. Holly stopped, listened. The sound was coming from beneath her, but from inside. Shannon and Sara had owned a dog. She opened the French doors off of Shannon’s bedroom and stepped out onto the patio. The rain drowned out the whimper.
Holly went outside, rain pounding down around her, and got on her hands and knees to peer under the crawl space of the house. She saw two eyes staring back at her. She laid flat on her belly and scooched under the home. “Here, baby. Here, puppy. I won’t hurt you.” She was under the house now. The little dog was still whining and shrinking away from her. He was hurt and frightened. Holly reached out her hand. He snapped at it. Then Holly stretched a little further and grabbed the dog, pulling him out from under the house. She could see the small terrier was caked in dirt and something else. It looked like blood. She tucked him under her jacket, knowing that the dog might contain evidence on him, and headed into the house. “Chad! Chad! We gotta go.”
“Holly?” he yelled. “What the hell is it? What’s wrong?”
They met at the car. Their eyes locked across the pouring rain. “You drive.” She pulled the keys from her jacket pocket and tossed them to Chad. He caught them, and they simultaneously opened their doors and slid into the car. She held open her coat jacket for him to see the small Yorkie Terrier. The poor dog was shaking, hurt, and in shock.
“Oh, shit. The poor guy looks really hurt,” Chad said.
“Not only that. If I’m right, this isn’t his blood caked on him.”
“Shannon’s?”
“Or Sara’s.”
“Where to?”
She gave him Brendan’s office address. He put the flashing light on the roof of the car and sped down Washington and onto the Pacific Coast Highway, leading into Point Loma. Five minutes later, the downpour not letting up, they pulled in front of the vet’s office. Holly got out and charged through the door with the pup still under her jacket. There was only one person in the waiting area with a caged cat that was loudly complaining about his visit to the vet’s.
She felt the dog squirm under her jacket. “Shh, shh, it’s okay.” He obviously wasn’t too pleased about being there either. Funny how dogs and kids had that sixth sense about doctors and vets.
“Can I help you?” A young, high cheek-boned, blonde-haired woman looked up from behind the front desk. The door closed behind Holly as Chad came in out of
She walked past Sara’s room, hesitated, and then kept going. She really didn’t have an idea about what she was looking for or might find. She rummaged around the dead woman’s desk again. She looked underneath the bed, only to find it as spotless as she’d figured it would be. She searched drawers and found everything neat and orderly. She headed into the closet and flipped through suits, pants, shirts, blouses, some casual things, all of it fairly high-quality stuff. This gal liked to look good.
She bent down and glanced through the woman’s shoe collection, all pairs neatly in their original boxes. She had quite an extensive collection—Prada, Charles David, Vincent Longo. Where was she getting the cash for the shoporamas to Nordy’s and Saks?
Holly was on her knees and opening one of the last shoeboxes. To her surprise, she found this box didn’t contain shoes, but rather photos—very explicit photos of Shannon McKay, and other women and men, involved in a variety of sexual positions. She flipped through the first stack, the second, and then came across a whole roll of photos with none other than William James and his receptionist doing very nasty things to Shannon McKay. Some of them involving whips, some showing chains. She bagged the photos and pocketed them. She stood to go show Chad the goods, when she heard an odd noise. It sounded almost like whining. No, a whimper. It was a whimper. It was an animal sound. Holly stopped, listened. The sound was coming from beneath her, but from inside. Shannon and Sara had owned a dog. She opened the French doors off of Shannon’s bedroom and stepped out onto the patio. The rain drowned out the whimper.
Holly went outside, rain pounding down around her, and got on her hands and knees to peer under the crawl space of the house. She saw two eyes staring back at her. She laid flat on her belly and scooched under the home. “Here, baby. Here, puppy. I won’t hurt you.” She was under the house now. The little dog was still whining and shrinking away from her. He was hurt and frightened. Holly reached out her hand. He snapped at it. Then Holly stretched a little further and grabbed the dog, pulling him out from under the house. She could see the small terrier was caked in dirt and something else. It looked like blood. She tucked him under her jacket, knowing that the dog might contain evidence on him, and headed into the house. “Chad! Chad! We gotta go.”
“Holly?” he yelled. “What the hell is it? What’s wrong?”
They met at the car. Their eyes locked across the pouring rain. “You drive.” She pulled the keys from her jacket pocket and tossed them to Chad. He caught them, and they simultaneously opened their doors and slid into the car. She held open her coat jacket for him to see the small Yorkie Terrier. The poor dog was shaking, hurt, and in shock.
“Oh, shit. The poor guy looks really hurt,” Chad said.
“Not only that. If I’m right, this isn’t his blood caked on him.”
“Shannon’s?”
“Or Sara’s.”
“Where to?”
She gave him Brendan’s office address. He put the flashing light on the roof of the car and sped down Washington and onto the Pacific Coast Highway, leading into Point Loma. Five minutes later, the downpour not letting up, they pulled in front of the vet’s office. Holly got out and charged through the door with the pup still under her jacket. There was only one person in the waiting area with a caged cat that was loudly complaining about his visit to the vet’s.
She felt the dog squirm under her jacket. “Shh, shh, it’s okay.” He obviously wasn’t too pleased about being there either. Funny how dogs and kids had that sixth sense about doctors and vets.
“Can I help you?” A young, high cheek-boned, blonde-haired woman looked up from behind the front desk. The door closed behind Holly as Chad came in out of
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