As I hung up the phone, Nina peeked in through my office door. She’d been upstairs in her own small office when I’d gotten back from Esther’s. At least that was what Bev, who was staffing the welcoming area, had told me.

Nina’s face looked drawn, as if she was the one who’d just been raked over the coals by a detective itching to make an arrest. I wondered if I appeared as frazzled. I hoped not.

“Everything’s fine.” The fib rolled over my tongue as if it were a smooth latte. “Come in and sit down for a minute.” When she’d settled into one of the chairs facing my desk, I asked, “Are you doing okay?”

“Sure.” The word was belied by the droopiness of her smile. “Well . . . not exactly. I don’t know how you stand it, Lauren.”

“Stand what?”

“The taint around here. Efram’s death. The cops asking questions. Do you know . . . Well, they seem to want me to tell them you lured Efram here that night so you could stab him.”

My blood must have stopped pumping through my veins, since I immediately felt full of icy shards that formed a blockage. “I see. So . . . what have you said to them?”

“That you couldn’t have. They’re barking up the wrong tree if they suspect you.” This time her smile was a little less ghastly, and I joined her.

“Thanks,” I said. But I doubted whether her support would make even a tiny change to Detective Garciana’s opinion. “I didn’t do it. Period. And now all I have to do is prove it.”

“But you’re supposed to be—”

“Innocent until proven guilty. I know that. But that’s only in court, or so I gather from some of the crime shows I watch. It doesn’t deal with popular opinion. And it certainly doesn’t mean a cop won’t keep accusing you till you get a jury to acquit you. Rather, me. So—well, you’ve known me long enough to realize I’m not the kind of person who’ll just sit here, wringing my hands and petting the dogs till I’m arrested, tried, and convicted.” When she didn’t say anything, I stared pointedly into her face. “Right?”

“Yes, but what—”

Before she could finish her sentence—which I assumed would be something like, “What the hell can you do to stop them?”—I turned the computer monitor on my desk so she could see it.

I’d been Googling Efram. Maybe knowing more about him would help me learn how to get the cops searching elsewhere for his killer.

“I haven’t found much on Efram,” I told her. “He had a Facebook page, and he’d posted some pictures that were taken here, ones with him playing with dogs. Guess he was trying to build a good, if false, image for some reason. In real life, when he wasn’t pretending to take good care of our animals, he was an air-conditioning repairman, so he also has pictures up of wielding tools near an air compressor.”

“So maybe someone whose air-conditioning he ruined followed him here and killed him,” Nina surmised. “I suspect he was as good a repairman as he was an animal caretaker.”

I smiled grimly. “You’re probably right. About his skills, I mean. But who’d have followed him here to kill him, for something like that, at least? Although . . .”

Her mind must have gone in the same direction as mine did. “Hey, I haven’t checked out the application and other forms he filled out to become a volunteer here,” she said. “Have you?” At my headshake, she continued. “That should at least tell us where he lived, give a person to notify in case of emergency. That kind of thing.”

I’d looked over his form when he’d started helping but hadn’t paid a lot of attention to it since his presence was a result of our legal settlement. We hadn’t even required that he take a class for volunteers—a must for everyone else. But his application should have been one of the first things I thought of to learn more about the guy, even before Googling him. At least I now had another way to research him besides going to the meeting I’d scheduled via a phone call I’d made a little while ago.

“Has the information been put on the computer?” That was our standard procedure. I turned my monitor back to face me and began to open our online personnel files.

“Probably.” Nina edged her way behind me.

Efram’s background had been added to our database. I found it right away. I quickly printed the page, which contained his former address, his employer’s information, and the person to notify in an emergency: a woman named Mandy Ledinger. His girlfriend? But who’d have chosen to be that friendly with Efram?

I would find out soon who Mandy was—and why Efram had included her.

“If you’d like,” Nina said, “I could continue the search you started and give you anything else I find on Efram, both through the Internet and our records.”

“I’d love it. But first why don’t we cheer ourselves up by visiting our residents?”

A big smile smoothed out Nina’s pinched face. “Lead the way.”

We were outside in the shelter area less than five minutes later. I started down the row of barking dogs, taking pleasure in my usual greeting of each one after encouraging them to quiet down. Their placement had been reorganized a little, at my direction. We’d gotten a couple more adoptions started, and having all our enclosures filled near the entrance usually made a bigger impact on potential adopters. It emphasized how many animals needed a new home. Besides, changing vistas now and then enriched the dogs’ lives.

“Lauren, hi!” Si Rogan had just turned the corner at the far end of the row and motioned toward us with one hand. The other was occupied with a leash attached to a Great Dane mix—Hannibal. “Come here. I want to show you how well Hannibal is doing.”

Hannibal was a large and rambunctious one-year-old whose owner had dropped him off a couple of weeks ago in a relinquishment. Another victim of the economy, the twenty-something owner had lost his job and house and was moving in with his parents—into an already small apartment, in a building where pets weren’t allowed.

For the best chance at a good adoption, Hannibal needed to be a lot better behaved. Si, great trainer that he was, had willingly taken on the task.

Forgoing my usual cherished petting of each dog along the way—for now—I hurried toward Si. So did Nina.

“Let’s go into the rear visiting area,” I suggested. It was at the far side of the storage shed, a place where we always had potential adopters meet with the animals they’d chosen to see how they got along in a location of less stress than the enclosures. We also took advantage of it for other uses—like now.

Nina and I let Si and Hannibal precede us. I watched as the big dog moseyed quietly at the trainer’s side, heeling as if he’d been brought up from puppyhood doing it. Yay, Si! I thought.

I’d have hurled a lot more “yays” at him, too, if I hadn’t worried about breaking Hannibal’s concentration a short while later. The visitors’ area was charming and parklike, with a small grassy area along one side—one that didn’t take a lot of water to maintain in drought-stricken Los Angeles but was large enough to permit abbreviated doggy games of chase the ball. The rest was paved but contained a picnic area with benches and a table.

Nina and I took seats on a bench while Si put Hannibal through his paces—sit, stay, down, roll over, heel, and speak. Nothing unusual or outrageous, but the formerly rambunctious large dog was clearly eager to please his trainer. Surely he’d be even happier to obey a new, loving owner.

“That’s so great!” I told Si when the demonstration ended. Nina bent to give equal congratulations to Hannibal. “You’ve done a fantastic job.”

“Thanks.” Si looked down toward the walkway almost modestly, then turned his gaze back at me. “You know you’re welcome to watch me give lessons here, or at my own place. I can teach you what I do. It’s not hard, especially for someone who loves animals the way you do. Anytime.” His tone was calm and bland, but there was almost a pleading in his expression.

“I appreciate it, Si. But with all your wonderful work, I don’t need to become an expert at training animals. I can spend my time figuring out how to save more.”

My turn to lavish attention on our new star Hannibal. But I could feel Si’s hurt as I turned away.

“Hey,” I said. “Maybe Nina would like to learn. How about it?”

“You’d teach me how to train animals? Would you really, Si?” She sounded so enthusiastic that it was contagious.

“She could help work with the ones you both train when you’re not around, Si.” I grinned at him.

His smile wasn’t nearly as eager as ours, but he said, “Great idea. Next time I’m here, we can work out some lessons.”

“Thank you!” Nina rushed toward him and gave him a hug.

I wondered why I hadn’t thought of it before.

I couldn’t help feeling a little smug as I headed back toward my office. I saved animals. That was my life’s work. All I’d ever wanted to do.

But besides being my second in command, Nina had seemed a bit unfocused here. Maybe she could have a whole new direction by learning to be a trainer.

My name appeared a lot.

I’d just walked through the shelter area again. Wanted to do it once more. The animals’ company made me feel better.

Maybe I should take lessons on training from Si after all.

I realized then that I was succumbing to unfortunately familiar emotions that I totally hated, a growing sense of despondency and resignation. I was a murder suspect. How could I take control and fix that?

The worst-case scenario part of my mind had taken over.

I’d felt equally helpless years ago, during my second marriage, when I wasn’t sure what to do.

But I’d decided then to make a change, retake control over my life. End that fiasco of a marriage. Yet nothing as relatively controllable as a divorce could help me now.

What could I do?

I minimized the latest news page on the computer, one taunting me that it was just a matter of time till I was arrested. My computer wallpaper appeared—a photo of the first dog who’d been adopted from HotRescues: Carlie’s dog, Max, part cocker spaniel and all adorable. Around Max, the icons on my desktop glared up at me like a bunch of irritated kids demanding attention.

Icons that included shortcuts to HotRescues’ online business folders.

Folders I’d started years ago, as a result of the plan I’d developed to impress Dante so he’d choose me to be the start-up shelter’s chief administrator.

I suddenly stood, my legs casting my chair backward, as I stared at all those icons.

I needed the equivalent of an investigator’s business plan! A way to take control of my own search for Efram’s killer.

I’d start with an organizational chart, then determine what kinds of information I’d need on potential suspects, how to approach and gather it . . . and how all that knowledge, studied and digested, should surely lead to the murderer. Or at least give me enough ammo to get the cops looking another way.

My BlackBerry rang, and I picked it up from my desk where I’d laid it after making some calls.

Carlie. I was never a believer in out-there things like ESP, but she often called when my mind was hyperventilating—and even more when she was the focus of some of my thoughts.

“Hi,” I said. “I was just thinking about you. Or at least about Max.”

“Yeah?” she said. “He sends his regards—his barks, rather. So . . . how’s your murder investigation coming? Have you solved it yet, saved your own hide, and gone on to bigger and better things?”

That was Carlie—always intuitive, always to the point.

“I’m just getting started,” I told her. “By the time you get back here, I’ll have my strategy all put together. It’ll knock your socks off!”