Chapter 1
I am not a killer.
At least not a killer of animals. I save their
lives whenever humanly possible, especially pets. Their sole
purpose on this earth is to love and be loved, like perpetual
children.
People are something else.
Right now, I’d have gladly used my own hands—nice,
strong ones for someone in her forties, since I do a lot of
enclosure cleaning, lugging and opening of animal food containers,
and other physical labor—to strangle Efram Kiley, the man who stood
in front of me. His expression was the picture of innocence even as
he squared his thin yet sturdy body, as if attempting to hide the
filled floor-to-ceiling cages in this torture chamber of a mega
shed from my view.
Impossible, considering how many there were.
He couldn’t hide the smell, either. It was awful.
The caged puppies and their parents obviously had no choice but to
eliminate their wastes in the same place they lived and ate and
suffered. The only surface beneath them was wire mesh that
undoubtedly hurt their feet. No comfy rugs or mats for them.
And the sounds. Their cries. Their barks.
The outraged comments and shouts of the three Los
Angeles Animal Cruelty Task Force members who’d leaped in like
superheroes to reinforce regular animal control officers, all
intent on saving these poor creatures.
Efram must have read the fury in my expression. Or
maybe he’d learned enough about me, in the past few months, to know
what I was thinking.
He quickly turned, and before I could say anything,
he’d plucked an adorable beagle puppy from one of those appalling
crates and gently placed her into my arms.
What could I do but nestle the squirmy little body
close to my face, stench and all? “You poor little thing,” I
whispered against one of her long ears as I used my free hand to
extract a small towel from the tote bag over my shoulder and wrap
her in it.
“She’ll be all right now, Lauren,” Efram assured
me. As if he had anything to do with this rescue. Instead, the
opposite was true. He was a party to the horror of this puppy mill.
Even so, he said, “Isn’t this just a terrible place?” He shook his
head slowly, as if he was as upset as I about the condition of this
hell house and the innocent beings who lived here.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Terrible. So why do you work
here?”
“I don’t.”
“Then are you one of the owners?” I demanded.
“You know better than that, Lauren.”
What I knew was that he was involved. I didn’t need
to know exactly how, although I doubted he owned the place. But I’d
have bet he profited from it somehow.
I glared into Efram’s doleful brown eyes as I
shifted the puppy in my arms. Towel or not, that smell was getting
to me. But I wasn’t about to release her till I saw she would be
taken care of.
She was just one of dozens of puppies here that the
ACTF and animal control officers were handling with great care and
angelic concern. And I would, eventually, have to hand her over to
them.
Efram was in his twenties, with dark, messy hair
that hung over his forehead. He worked out a lot and favored
T-shirts with torn-off sleeves to show off his muscular biceps. His
jeans were worn, his sneakers new.
He did a lot of work for me at HotRescues these
days—the no-kill animal shelter I had helped to open a few years
ago and now ran.
Oh, yeah. Efram was an animal care apprentice
tending to creatures in need. He even had a choice about it: either
learn how not to abuse pets and help care for them while they
waited to be adopted, or forgo the substantial amount of money that
was part of the legal settlement we’d entered into a while
back.
Guess which he’d chosen.
Last year, Efram had threatened to sue HotRescues
and me for rehoming his dog, Killer, without attempting to find the
lost pup’s real owner. I, in turn, had been furious about the
condition of that poor dog, now called Quincy, who had been brought
to HotRescues as an apparent rescue from a public shelter, or so
I’d chosen to believe. The settlement of our dispute had been fair.
It resulted in Efram’s being paid to learn how to really care for
animals. I’d even thought that, after all we’d taught him, he had
become genuinely contrite for having abused Quincy. He certainly
had seemed to throw himself energetically into his quasi-volunteer
work with HotRescues.
I wondered now if every bit of it had been an
act.
“You’re Lauren Vancouver, aren’t you?” One of the
uniformed animal control officers I’d glimpsed outside approached
me. She was tall, her ginger hair pulled starkly back from her
round face.
Efram looked relieved, as if this official, who
could arrest him, was easier to deal with than me. Maybe she
was.
I expected J. Gibbons—the ID on her nametag—to
demand that I leave. Now. Civilians weren’t particularly welcome
here, in the middle of an official investigation. I knew
that.
But this wasn’t the first animal rescue that I’d
crashed. Nor would it be my last.
“Yes, I am.” I mentally prepared my argument to
stay here.
“Ralph told me to come get you.”
That would be Officer Ralph Alazar, who’d gotten to
know me on some of my forays to the East Valley Animal Care Center.
I’d seen him outside, too. He was a good guy, didn’t usually give
me a hard time.
Even so, I hesitated. Should I go find out what he
wanted or remain here and see how I could help more with the pup in
my arms and the others?
Officer Gibbons’ next words quickly convinced me
that I should head outside. “The SmART team just arrived. Ralph
thought you’d want to be there.”
I absolutely would. SmART was the Small Animal
Rescue Team of Los Angeles Animal Services. All animal control
officers were trained to conduct some rescues, but SmART was called
in for situations beyond normal, where special expertise and
equipment were needed.
Like puppies trapped in storm drains.
I threw an accusatory glance at Efram as I gave the
baby in my arms one more hug, then handed her to one of the
rescuers.
Efram wasn’t looking at me. Instead, he was helping
the uniformed ACTF members remove puppies and older dogs from the
cages, check to make sure they were alive, then place them gently
in cleaner crates, stacked on wheeled dollies, before taking them
outside to change their lives forever. As if he’d come here, like
me, to help out.
I knew better, but I’d have to let the ACTF,
including its Animal Services members and LAPD cops, do their job.
I was aware from the tip I’d gotten that at least some of them
suspected Efram’s complicity in this situation.
Following Officer Gibbons, I hurried out of the
well-insulated backyard shed that had appeared so inconsequential
from the outside—a moderate-sized steel structure that looked like
a rural barn’s younger brother, complete with red sides resembling
painted wood. It was at the rear of a nondescript two-story
commercial building that could have held anything from a bakery to
an accounting firm. I suspected it contained only the office of the
puppy mill owners. Could be they even lived there. The place was
large enough.
It was a wonder that the nearby neighbors, even in
this commercial area, hadn’t complained to authorities before about
the sounds and smells emanating from here. Maybe they had. Or maybe
they’d indirectly collaborated in silence because they, too, were
hiding things.
At least one of them—finally—had been horrified
enough to report this place. Or maybe it was a visitor. Or a
curious passerby. Someone complained and that was why rescuers had
converged here at last.
I hurried over the concrete-paved driveway,
skirting an animal control officer confronting two people—an
obviously angry man, who was gesticulating and shouting, and a
crying woman. Were they the puppy mill owners? I’d heard that a
married couple was at least partly to blame. Efram wasn’t in this
all by himself.
I exited through the open gate in the tall picket
fence that was in dire need of painting. I’d used the gate along
the main avenue to enter, but this one opened onto a narrower side
street, now an ER triage of activity, especially in the area of the
gaping slash of a hole along the curb that led to the storm drain.
Despite all the conversations, the sound of crying puppies wafted
from somewhere below street level.
Poor little creatures.
They’d been down there when I’d arrived. I’d heard
some Animal Services people trading shouts about it as they headed
that way. At the time, I’d been single-mindedly intent on
confronting Efram. But now, I wanted to know what was
happening.
I excused my way through the crowd of onlookers
being herded out of the way by animal control officers. On the
sidewalk was a stenciled, stylized picture of a leaping dolphin,
labeled, “No dumping. Drains to ocean.” But someone apparently had
started dumping puppies there, hoping the current below would drain
away some of the evidence of what was going on in the nearby shed.
I felt my teeth clench at the very idea. Had it been Efram? The
emotional couple in the driveway? Once again, my urge to do
something in response surfaced. Fortunately, I’ve always had a lot
of self-control. Even in situations like this.
Even more important, I’d achieved what I’d set out
to do initially—confirm Efram’s inexcusable presence here. Now, I
wanted to do all I could to help in this rescue.
At least whoever had done this hadn’t gotten very
far before Animal Services arrived. Otherwise, there wouldn’t have
been so many small canines still shoehorned into that faux
barn.
Muffled puppy cries continued to rend the air. They
were alive, and, somewhat luckily, the sounds emanated from a storm
drain and not a sewer. If the animals were trapped in a sewer, I
understood that the SmART team members would have to wait for
appropriate Department of Water and Power personnel to help deal
with any gases and other dangers.
At a van parked nearby, three people—two men and a
woman—dressed in brown T-shirts with white letters and the round
logo of Los Angeles Animal Services, Small Animal Rescue Team,
pulled equipment out. The shirt worn by one of the men indicated
that his name was Renz, and he was the team leader. They all wore
red caps. Another man, dressed in a more standard Animal Services
uniform, observed them, issuing orders.
They seemed ready to roll quite fast, as if
experience and sympathy drove them. Approaching where I stood in
the crowd, the two men unfastened the grate around the storm drain
while the woman, the slimmest of the three, strapped on a harness
and a red hard hat. Using equipment they’d carried here, they
lowered her into the drain.
“I see them!” she called. “Four. There’s a small
ledge down here and they’re all on it, out of the water. Were there
any more?”
“Unsure,” shouted the man in charge. He looked
around, his gaze alighting on the team leader.
“That’s the number Animal Services was told,” Renz
replied.
In only a few minutes, small beagle puppies, much
like the one I’d snuggled so briefly inside, were lifted one by
one, in a collapsible and flexible cage attached to a cord, out of
the drain and into the arms of waiting Animal Services
people.
I couldn’t resist. I’d had a taste of hugging one
subject of this imperative rescue and wanted to savor it—and these
little ones would probably be even needier. When the third was
extracted, I slipped over to where the action was.
Officer Ralph Alazar was one of the animal control
officers helping the SmART team. He looked at me, bared sparkling
white teeth as he grinned beneath his fuzzy black mustache, and
interpreted my pleading expression correctly. He handed me the
puppy he held. He then slid over to take possession of the last one
brought to the surface.
I pulled another towel from the tote bag over my
shoulder and wrapped it around the pup. Even so, the poor, small
creature shivered in my arms. It was another little female, with
long brown ears and soulful eyes. If she’d been in the water she’d
had time, while waiting, to dry off somewhat, but she was still
damp. I hugged her even closer than I had the other one, murmuring
reassurances.
“Who are you?” demanded an angry voice. I looked up
to see the guy apparently in charge of the SmART team glaring at
me. He was over six feet tall, so he wouldn’t have fit easily into
the storm drain. On the other hand, his knit shirt seemed to hug
substantial muscles, so I could imagine him rappelling down a
mountainside to help save an animal that had tumbled into a ravine.
The ID tag clipped to his shirt identified him as Captain Kingston.
A captain? From what I knew of the hierarchy of Animal Services, he
was definitely the go-to guy here.
“I’m Lauren Vancouver, Captain. I run HotRescues, a
local private animal shelter. I came here to help.” Never mind that
I was told of what was going on, unofficially, by one of my
employees who happened also to volunteer at a city shelter. He
didn’t need to know that. Nor did he need to know that I’d had an
additional agenda: checking out Efram’s presence.
His glare didn’t waver. I could feel him assessing
me, even as I still held a puppy bundled in my arms like animal
control officers did with the others nearby. I knew exactly what he
saw—not that I could interpret what he thought about it. He
appeared around my age, maybe a little younger, so he should
respect his elders. Besides, I look okay for my age. I keep my dark
hair clipped short so it doesn’t get in my way. My high cheekbones
made me think I had model potential when I was younger and cared
about such things. My green eyes glared into his brown ones.
Yeah, I assessed him right back. And found the guy
good-looking. As the officer in charge, he had every right to give
me a hard time for interfering in this rescue. But I wouldn’t admit
that to him.
The puppy in my arms squirmed some more, nuzzling
against my chest as if seeking to be fed, like a human infant. I
looked away from the scowling captain and down at the baby beagle.
I smiled and hugged her tighter. “We’ll find your mama for you
soon, sweetheart.” I looked back at the man, glanced at his name
badge again, and said, “Right, Captain Kingston?”
Guess he must have had a heart that melted for
animals, too, since his look softened. “I’m Matt. And, yes, we’ll
find this pup’s mother as soon as we can.”
Eventually, I had to yield the puppy to official
care, but not before her companions from the storm drain had also
been stowed away for transporting to a city shelter.
“Be good now,” I whispered to her as I slowly
handed her to J. Gibbons—Janeen. She’d told me her name. “Stay out
of trouble. No more swimming, got it?”
The animal control officer grinned as she took
possession. “We’ll make sure she behaves.” I watched the morose
little beagle eyes until Janeen turned her back.
I observed for a while as other animal control
officers loaded the crates filled with dogs and puppies from inside
the shed into a van. Regular cops had arrived and kept onlookers
back. ACTF members appeared to be interviewing people—neighbors,
maybe. Helicopters hovered overhead, and I wished I could tell them
to go away. Their noise must be disturbing the rescued
animals.
It was certainly disturbing me. Especially since
I’d been involved before in situations where choppers arrived, and
not only those from the LAPD. I doubted any today were from
D.A.R.T. The other Animal Services rescue group—Department Air
Rescue Team—came in when large animals like horses needed help, not
abused puppies. Had the media gotten wind of this operation?
Probably. News traveled fast. Hadn’t I heard about
it myself in an unauthorized manner?
I saw Ralph Alazar come through the gate,
accompanying Efram. I knew better, but I approached them.
“Thanks for letting me know when the SmART folks
arrived, Ralph,” I said, not looking at Efram. “The rescue was
amazing. And successful, thank heavens—assuming there weren’t more
puppies down there than the four brought to the surface. There
weren’t any more that washed away before help arrived, were
there?”
That last was snapped directly at Efram. I watched
his face. He gave a small shake of his head before he apparently
caught himself, and I compressed my mouth into an ironic grin. I
had my answer.
“So what’s the official theory?” I addressed my
question to Ralph. “I suspect it was my buddy Efram, here, who
tossed those puppies into the drain. I know word got out before you
arrived that you guys were coming. Was he planning to protect his
butt, intending to toss every one of those poor animals down there,
so they’d drown?”
I turned my gaze back onto the man I’d once thought
had come around fairly well in his treatment of animals. His mouth
was open, his expression startled, as if I’d read his mind.
He didn’t say anything, though. I continued, “I’ll
assume you’re admitting it, Efram, since you’re not denying it.”
And I’d seen his reaction. “Your effort at getting the animals out
of their cages while I stood there was pitiful. Did you really
think you’d convince me you gave a damn? I’m not sure whether
you’ll be prosecuted as an animal abuser, but I know the truth and
so do you. You can bet I’ll tell Dante, make sure you don’t get
another dime of settlement money, at least until you’re proven
innocent. Which you won’t be.”
Dante DeFrancisco was the wealthy benefactor of
HotRescues. Efram had threatened him with the rehoming lawsuit,
too. Dante had helped to work out the settlement by funding our
attempt to rehabilitate this abusive S.O.B.
“That’s not the way the legal system works, bitch,”
Efram growled.
“It’s the way I work. And I’m the one with
Dante’s attention. Maybe we’ll even sue to get back the money you
didn’t earn. You certainly didn’t learn how not to harm
animals.”
“You’d better keep that ugly mouth of yours
closed,” Efram demanded. He suddenly feinted one way, causing Ralph
to grab at air instead of Efram’s arm, which he’d aimed for.
Instead, Efram grabbed my arms and started shaking me. Hard.
Painfully.
“Hey!” Ralph again tried to take control of Efram,
who planted himself behind me, still holding on.
I’d had enough. I was sorry I wore soft-soled,
comfortable shoes along with the jeans and the HotRescues T-shirt
I’d put on in anticipation of working at my sanctuary later that
day. Shoes with more substance—too bad I owned no stiletto
heels—would have been more effective. Even so, I prepared to kick
backward, hoping to collide with his groin. Of course, I’d be
satisfied with bruising his shins if I did it hard enough.
Instead, he was suddenly lying facedown on the
ground, being handcuffed by Captain Matt Kingston, with Officer
Ralph Alazar’s help. My arms were free.
So were my legs, but I resisted kicking him.
“Thanks,” I said to the animal control officers. To
Efram, I said, “Don’t bother coming back to HotRescues. Ever. Even
if you somehow manage to avoid getting prosecuted for animal
abuse—I’ll make sure you’re arrested for assault. Next time you see
me, I’ll be testifying against you in court.”