Black Cat Weekly #26

OF DOGS & DECEIT, by John Shepphird-1

OF DOGS & DECEIT,

by John ShepphirdThe Barb Goffman Presents series showcases

the best in modern mystery and crime stories,

personally selected by one of the most acclaimed

short stories authors and editors in the mystery

field, Barb Goffman, for Black Cat Weekly.

“Jack O’Shea, Deception Specialist,” she said, reading my card aloud.

“What can I do for you?” I asked.

She’d insisted we speak in person as it was a “personal matter.” We met in a park in Santa Monica. I’d agreed because it was a short drive from my office in Culver City.

Dede Dobson was a frazzled mother in her thirties. Her mop of curly auburn hair was tied back, and she wore a faded Oregon Shakespeare Festival sweatshirt. We sat on a park bench as her two young children, a boy and a girl, climbed the playground equipment nearby. Assorted mothers and nannies were seated around the other benches with kiddie snacks and bottled water.

“So, you wrote this book?” She pulled a worn trade paperback from her faux-leather purse.

“A couple of years ago.” The publication was my tell-all confession—a stab at redemption that hovered near the New York Times best-seller list for about fifteen seconds.

“So, you’re a con man? Really?”

“Back in the day, but I’ve changed my ways. Now I root out deception as a licensed private investigator. How can I help you?”

“We lost our dog.”

A dog? “Lady, I don’t do that sorta thing,” I said, getting up. I sensed on the phone she was quirky. I didn’t expect her to be crazy. Another waste of my time.

“It’s not what you think.”

“You need a pet detective,” I said. “I suggest you stay away from the ones who claim to be psychic.”

“You wrote in your book about the scams you’ve pulled,” she said. “One was pretending you found a lost dog. You claimed you were a trucker and came across the stray at a truck stop. You told the owners that you scanned their pet’s embedded microchip for their contact info. Then you convinced the owners to wire you money to ship the dogs back home.”

“I’m not proud of it, but I’ve done that.” It’s a standard scheme that depends on the gullibility of the pet owner and only good for a few hundred bucks but worth the phone call. Reach out to enough desperate folks who’ve lost something they love and you’re bound to find a sucker. People will shell out a fortune when it comes to pets. Veterinarians have that angle covered, that’s for sure.

“That’s exactly what happened to me,” she said. “I wired six hundred dollars to a guy. I need you to find him.”

“Understand he doesn’t have your dog.”

“I know. We’ll probably never see Rufus again,” she said, looking out to her kids. “My children miss him most of all. The day at the airport, when the crate never arrived, it really broke their hearts.” She pulled out a photo to show me. “He’s a purebred golden retriever, champion pedigree, and such a good dog.”

“Did you go to the police?”

“They were no help.”

“You wire the money through Western Union or MoneyGram?” I asked.

“Western Union. The funds weren’t picked up in St. George, Utah, where he said he was. It was collected in Costa Mesa. How could I have been so stupid? It’s because I’m an optimist. My flaw is that I don’t see the bad in people. Cookie?” She offered a Tupperware of homemade treats.

I thanked her, accepted one, and sat down. Costa Mesa is in Orange County, less than an hour south. I’d never been there. “Where’d you post notice of your lost dog?” I asked, biting into the cookie. It was incredible, maybe the best chocolate chip cookie I’ve ever had; chewy but crisp around the edges.

“We posted signs around the neighborhood and went to the pound, but they didn’t have him.”

“Classifieds? Craigslist?”

“No.”

“Realize you’re never going to get the money back. And the chances are...”

“I know,” she said. “But I need to confront the man who did this. It’s all about looking him in the eye to let him know how much he hurt my children. We loved our Rufus so very much,” she said getting emotional but clearly trying to hide it. “This bastard took advantage of us in our hour of weakness. He kicked us when we were down.”

“It’s probably best to get another pet and move on.”

“It’s not about Rufus. It’s about settling a score,” she said. “Will you help me?”

“I’m not the police. I can’t have Western Union pull surveillance video. And honestly, I’m not sure where I’d start.”

“I have his name.”

“I doubt this guy used his real name. Probably a stolen identity.”

“How do you know?”

“Because that’s what I did.” She gave me a quizzical look, so I continued. “I faked a postal uniform and pretended to be delivering mail. In reality I was stealing personal information, credit card statements, that sort of thing.”

“I don’t remember reading about that,” she said, lifting the book.

“I couldn’t include everything in there. Mail theft is a federal crime and the feds don’t take that stuff lightly. Last thing I need is a postal inspector looking into my business. Does your mailbox lock?”

“Yes. We live in an apartment. I have a tiny key.”

“Good. Most mailboxes don’t lock. All should.”

She bit her lip. “Then I bet there’s other activity under the alias. Maybe that’s the way we track him. I would do it myself, but I don’t know where to start. The cops won’t help, and my ex is of no use.”

Only then did I notice she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

“I know it’s a long shot,” she continued. “If you can’t help me then I’ll have to find someone else who can.”

“I’ll need a retainer of a thousand dollars, cash.” I figured asking for a grand would scare her off. In my new line of work the retainer is always negotiable, and sometimes the only money I’ll ever see from the client.

“Not a problem. My residual check should be coming any day now.”

“Residual?”

“From the Screen Actors Guild.”

“You an actress?”

“I used to be on a series before I had kids. Thank God it’s still in syndication. When my check comes I can pay you.”

Maybe it was the cookie she gave me. Maybe I was bored. Why I agreed to take the case I have no idea. Work had been scarce, and I figured this might be another step toward my salvation. I couldn’t arrest the guy, but I could give his name to the police. I could do something honorable, maybe even worthwhile.

To release cash, Western Union requires a driver’s license or passport, so I returned to my office to do an online search of the name she gave me, Raymond Kling. I found a handful of Raymond Klings but none residing in Costa Mesa or Orange County. There was a doctor in Denver, a student in Seattle, and an engineer in Houston. I ran arrest records and background checks but came up with nothing.

For the scam to work you’ve got to convince the owner that their dog is in a distant location, the farther away the better, as long as it’s believable. They’re supposedly sending you the cost of a crate and a one-way plane ticket. When I ran this scam I dug up leads from newspaper classifieds and city animal control postings on the web. The first thing I’d ask the pet owner was if they’d embedded an identification microchip in their dog. If they said yes, I proceeded with impersonating the Good Samaritan, saying I found their dog. I claimed I already spent my own money for a veterinarian to scan the chip for their contact information, so right off the bat, they felt they owed me something.

Dede said she’d advertised with flyers and went to the pound. My next step was the Santa Monica Animal Shelter to see if they had a lost-and-found forum.

After twenty minutes in the waiting room a tattooed administrator was available to talk to me. She was an attractive, dark-haired woman in her twenties who introduced herself as Vera even though Florence was etched on her bowling shirt. She had tattoos on each arm, but the real shame was the thorny black tattoo etched up her neck. It was off-putting and distracted from her natural beauty. I was both attracted and disappointed—but mostly disappointed.

I explained I was a private investigator looking into fraud and asked if there had been any false lost-and-found claims. She hadn’t heard of any and offered to show me the animals in the shelter in the event Rufus might be there.

“Do you post the strays you find on a web site?” I asked as we made our way to the back.

“We’re not really set up for that. We give Police and Fire our inventory daily in case people contact them. Sometimes they do.”

A cacophony of barks greeted us as we entered the kennel. Crates were stacked three high, one area for dogs, another for cats. Dozens of eyes followed us as we strolled through the aisles.

After more small talk there was a lull in the conversation. She asked, “Do you have love in your life?”

That caught me off guard. I hadn’t known love since the fatal car crash years ago that killed my girlfriend and tweaked the bone structure in my face. That was the incident that changed me forever. I don’t sleep well at night. As ridiculous as it sounds I’ve been diagnosed with Restless Legs Syndrome, among other things. The nightmares continue to this day. I’ve been seeking redemption ever since.

“Well,” I stammered, “I’m not in a relationship.”

“No, I’m talking about companionship. Dogs and cats offer unconditional love. Unfortunately many people are not equipped to handle an animal’s needs so they end up here.” We slowed at a slender dog sniffing us through the cage. “We get all kinds, huge Great Danes, tiny Chihuahuas. It seems once a TV commercial makes a breed popular we see a wave about six months later.” She consulted a clipboard. “This one was found on the beach. She’s a racing greyhound. Her name’s Buttermilk Suzie.”

The dog’s ears perked up. She could tell we were talking about her.

“Suzie chased mechanical rabbits at dog tracks in Arizona,” she added.

“If she’s a stray then how do you know her name?” I asked.

“We do our share of detective work too.” She opened the cage, reached in, and turned up Suzie’s ear. Under the flap in the pink skin there was a number etched in black.

“That a tattoo?” I asked.

“When greyhounds are licensed, the racing board etches their ID number under the ear. This is how the stewards confirm the dog set to race is the same as in the racing program. Race horses have a similar mark, but it’s on the inside of their lip.”

“Do you think getting that tattoo hurts the dog?” I said, then immediately regretted it, having forgotten about hers.

“Dogs, like humans, have very few nerve endings in the ear. When I got my work done here,” she said, pointing out the tangle of black thorns up her jugular vein, “it hurt like a bitch.”

I nodded, didn’t know what to say, averted my gaze.

“We traced Buttermilk Suzie from the number,” she said. “They emailed her history.”

“Couldn’t the racing board tell you who her owner is?”

“Unfortunately, no. After Buttermilk Suzie retired, the owner sold her. That’s where the trail ran cold.”

I reached into the cage and gave Buttermilk Suzie a light stroke on her head. She was grateful and licked my hand. “What’s going to happen to these dogs?” I asked, even though I was pretty sure I knew the answer.

“If not claimed, or adopted, after ninety days they’ll be humanely euthanized.”

“Even her?”

“We’ve informed the Adopt a Greyhound program, but they can’t harbor anymore at this time. We’ll try again at the end of the week.”

“End of the week?”

“When her time is up.”

“It’s gotta be hard, I mean…you must get attached to some of these guys.”

“We’re told not to, but I can’t help it,” she said, emotion softening her hard exterior. “Every day more cats and dogs cross our threshold. Unfortunately, we’re not able to place them all, but we do what we can.”