The Last Good Dog, page 1
Praise for Alan Russell
“[Russell] has a gift for dialogue.”—New York Times
“Really special.”—Denver Post
“A crime fiction rara avis.”—Los Angeles Times
“One of the best writers in the mystery field today.”—Publishers Weekly (starred)
“Ebullient and irresistible.”—Kirkus Reviews (starred)
“Complex and genuinely suspenseful.”—Boston Globe
“Credible and deeply touching. Russell has us in the palm of his hands.”—Chicago Tribune
“He is enlightening as well as entertaining.”—Tampa Bay Times
“Enormously enjoyable.”—Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine
“Russell is spectacular.”—San Diego Union-Tribune
“This work by Russell has it all.”—Library Journal
“Grade: A. Russell has written a story to satisfy even the most hardcore thrill junkie.”—Rocky Mountain News
THE LAST GOOD DOG
Books By Alan Russell
Gideon and Sirius Novels
Burning Man
Guardians of the Night
Lost Dog
Gideon’s Rescue
L.A. Woman
The Last Good Dog
Hotel Detective Mysteries
The Hotel Detective
The Fat Innkeeper
Detective Cheever Novels
Multiple Wounds
The Homecoming
Stand-Alone Novels
Shame
Exposure
Political Suicide
St. Nick
A Cold War
Stuart Winter Novels
No Sign of Murder
The Forest Prime Evil
THE LAST GOOD DOG
A Gideon and Sirius Novel
ALAN RUSSELL
Three Tails Press
New York, New York
Copyright © 2021 by Alan Russell
All rights reserved. Please comply with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of this book in any form (other than brief quotations embodied in critical reviews) without permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Three Tails Press, New York, New York
For author contact and press inquiries, please visit alanrussell.net.
To the friends of Gideon and Sirius. If you are reading this, and have been with them on their journeys, you are one of those friends.
CONTENTS
Praise for Alan Russell
Books By Alan Russell
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Prologue
Get Your Kicks
Barstow, California
115 miles northeast of Los Angeles
March 14 (the Ides of March)
Vicente “Sarge” Garcia was sitting in his easy chair when he heard the sound of whistling on the street. His front door was open, as it was for six months of every year. It was his contention, voiced frequently, that Barstow was either hot as hell or cold as a witch’s tit. He’d lived in the area for most of his adult life, so he knew what to expect from the weather. For much of his military career he’d been assigned to Fort Irwin National Training Center, located to the northeast. When he retired from the military, Sarge hadn’t seen any reason to move. His ex-wife had, but she’d had more of a problem with Sarge than with Barstow. It had been more than a decade since Sarge’s last grown kid had flown the coop.
Sarge enjoyed hearing the whistling. These days whistling seemed a forgotten art. When he was a kid, lots more people had whistled, or at least that’s what he remembered. There was plenty of noise in Barstow, but most of it wasn’t the pleasant kind. The area had seen better days. All the houses could use a coat of paint, and a lot more.
Sarge shifted in his easy chair, lifting his head to try to catch a glimpse of the person. His security screen door obscured his view, and his crappy eyesight didn’t help. As the whistling grew louder, Sarge realized the tune was familiar.
I know that song. That meant it had to be an oldie. You know you’re getting old when you have to think just how old you are. He’d been born in 1946, one of millions in the first wave of baby boomers.
Sarge wasn’t the only one preoccupied by the whistling. Most of the dogs on the street were barking—not that it took much to get them going. His dog Spike had died a year ago. If he were still alive, Sarge knew he’d have joined in the chorus.
It bothered Sarge that he couldn’t remember the name of that song. He had half a mind to call out to the whistler, but something stopped him. His was the last home on a dead-end street, and the house next to him hadn’t been occupied for some time. Judging from the approaching sound, the whistler was coming up his walkway.
Sarge wasn’t expecting anyone. Few visitors came to his house, and in all the years that his usually morose mailman had been coming around, Sarge had never heard him say anything other than, “Afternoon.” The word good never preceded it. The mailman would be more inclined to hum a funeral dirge than whistle an upbeat tune.
The name of the song was on the tip of Sarge’s tongue, even though it had probably been twenty years since he’d last heard it. At least his curiosity was going to be satisfied.
The whistler arrived on his doorstep, and the whistling stopped. Sarge squinted, trying to see through the dark screening. But then he was able to make out the purpose for the visit. His caller was holding up a Bible.
Shit, thought Sarge. There was no way he could pretend to not be home. So much for leaving the front door open to catch a breeze.
The Bible thumper smiled at him. “Hello? I hope I’m not intruding.”
Sarge raised himself from his easy chair. Instead of talking through the screen door, it would only be polite to unlatch its deadbolt and have a face to face. He could do that much for someone interested in his salvation.
His caller said, “Good morning! Or is it afternoon yet?”
Sarge said, “I think it’s just about noon, so I guess it’s sort of both.”
“That’s true enough. But what’s even more true is that it’s later than you think. I wonder if you have a minute to talk about the Kingdom of God.”
Sarge’s body language must have announced his reluctance, something his visitor picked up on.
“I promise that I won’t overstay my welcome. In one minute—or at least no more than two minutes—I will be on my way.”
That was good enough for Sarge. He stepped aside and let the caller into his house.
The whistler’s word proved good; Sarge’s visitor was out of the house in just under two minutes.
Sarge didn’t see his caller to the door. His inert body lay in a pool of blood that was growing larger by the second. He was still alive, if just barely, and aware enough to hear the whistling begin anew. That’s when he remembered the name of the song.
“(Get Your Kicks on) Route 66.”
When he was younger, Sarge had traveled Route 66 from Chicago to California. In the fifties it really had been the Mother Road. There was even a shoutout in the song’s lyrics to the city of Barstow, which had been one of the route’s waystations back in the day.
Sarge’s breathing became labored and his consciousness blurry. He didn’t yell for help. It was too late, and he was too tired, and there wasn’t anyone around to hear.
The whistling was becoming faint. Sarge had always been partial to Nat King Cole’s version of the song. That man had a velvet voice.
As Sarge’s consciousness faded and he neared his last journey, it wasn’t the angels who sang to him, but Nat King Cole. And what a chorus it was.
Won’t you get hip to this kindly tip
And go take that California trip
Get your kicks on Route 66
Chapter One
Girl Power
On
For the past year, almost nothing had gone as planned. Not that I was complaining. Far from it. Still, it was a constant balancing act. One moment I felt I was in a state of confusion, and in the next, a state of grace.
Welcome to fatherhood.
I wasn’t the only one learning how to be a dad. My long-time German shepherd partner and I exchanged tired looks. I had commandeered the sofa, while Sirius was doing his best to nap on the floor nearby. A year-old adolescent dog was using his ear as a chew toy. Sirius’s pup offered some sound effect growls along with the chewing. I didn’t yet have that problem. My baby didn’t have teeth, but you don’t need teeth to rule the roost.
In the master bedroom, Lisbet and our pittie rescue dog, Emily, were both taking a nap. The males were supposed to be handling the offspring.
Good luck with that.
The baby stirred on my chest. I was playing the role of mattress, which was better than being a chew toy. Sirius gave me another look that suggested I was shirking my duties as dog trainer.
“Don’t look at me. You got yourself in this fix.”
Sirius’s lady love, Goldie, was sequestered in the home of our down-the-street neighbors. Goldie’s intended love connection had been the AKC champion golden retriever Prince Reginald, but Sirius had thrown a little monkey wrench into those royal plans, overcoming a gauntlet of fencing and closed doors in order to woo her. Now the chickens had come home to roost, or at least one rambunctious pup had.
“No take-backs. It’s the law.”
To make good on the consequences of Sirius’s romancing, we had agreed to pay five thousand dollars for the right to our pick of the litter. Before seeing the pups for the first time, Lisbet and I had decided we wanted a male puppy. Then we went to visit the brood of eight golden shepherds—and saw her. She had the “feathers” of her mother and the coloring of her father. Her face was a composite of their breeds, almost half and half, but her ears bespoke her German shepherd heritage, rising straight up, although that wasn’t what caught our attention. Blazoned on the pup’s chest was a golden star. Lisbet and I looked at each other.
“A star is born,” I announced.
The fates had spoken. Sirius begot Star. The same Star who was now trying to separate his ear from his head. My partner looked to me to act as referee. Instead, I raised my index finger to my lips and said, “Shh! Don’t wake the baby.”
Seven months ago, Lisbet had given birth. We hadn’t gone so far as to paint the baby’s room blue, but according to folklore and conventional biological wisdom, we were expecting a boy. During Lisbet’s prenatal visits, the baby’s heartbeat was always under 140 beats a minute; a sure sign. Her cravings corroborated that—she couldn’t get enough of pretzels or other salty foods. As if that wasn’t conclusive enough, Lisbet carried the baby low and out front.
Definitely male, everyone told us.
They were definitely wrong when seven-pound-seven-ounce Greta Iris Gideon entered the world. And Dad was in seventh heaven.
The name Greta lasted for maybe the first hour of my daughter’s life. With her initials, GIG, perhaps her nickname was inevitable. Our baby became Gigi. At the time, I wasn’t even aware of the movie Gigi. Nor did I know that in the film Maurice Chevalier sang “Thank Heaven for Little Girls.” It was a favorite of mine now, sung for my favorite little girl in the world. I can’t sing, but I don’t care, and neither does Gigi. Receiving one of her smiles is more payment in this life than I ever could have hoped.
My cellphone began vibrating, and I saw Ben Corning’s name on the display. The harsh reminder of the outside world intruded into my familial cocoon.
“Sh—” I said, managing to change the word to “Sugar.”
Lisbet had taken to reminding me that “little pitchers have big ears.” When her not-so-subtle hints didn’t sink in, she offered up the potential consequences of my potty mouth.
“Do you want our daughter’s first word to be shit?”
That was enough to make Dad a recovering curseaholic. But announcing “sugar” to a call from Special Agent Ben Corning didn’t feel right. He only called when there was bad news. Our last conversation had taken place a month earlier, when he’d told me about the death of Vicente “Sarge” Garcia, the most recent victim of a serial killer we’d nicknamed the All-In Killer. Garcia’s life had been taken because of a twisted game of poker the killer was playing. Each death corresponded to a pair of cards, in Garcia’s case six-six.
I picked up the call and in a soft voice asked, “Where?”
With the Garcia homicide in Barstow, the All-In Killer had finally breached California’s border. For two years the trail of homicides had been progressing in a westerly pattern, with each death getting closer to me.
“I can barely hear you,” Corning said.
“That’s because I don’t want to wake up my daughter. Where?”
“San Bernardino.”
“Sh—ugar.” San Bernardino was only about seventy-five miles from where I was.
And even more importantly, from where my daughter was.
“I just sent you the file on what we have,” Corning said.
“I’m on dad duty, so how about giving me the CliffsNotes version.”
“The victim was a thirty-six-year-old African American woman named Jasmine Lincoln. We think she was chosen because of her surname. The killer wasn’t cryptic about using the motif of five-five, especially in regards to currency. Two nickels were left on the victim’s eyes. Our initial determination as to why the coins were put there—”
I decided the CliffsNotes weren’t succinct enough. “There’s an ancient tradition of coins being placed on the eyes of the dead. They were supposed to be a payment to Charon to ferry the souls across the river Styx.”
“I’m impressed,” Corning said.
“Credit world history and a report I wrote in parochial school that was plagiarized from some encyclopedia.”
“Really? An encyclopedia?”
“Back in the Dark Ages when I went to school, that’s what we used instead of the internet. How did the victim die?”
“Gunshot. A silencer was used, just like in the Garcia homicide. There were no witnesses, and so far, we don’t have any leads.”
“Also like the Garcia homicide.”
Corning didn’t bother to answer.
“Nickels,” I said.
“As predicted.”
That’s what poker players called a pair of fives in Texas Hold ’Em. We didn’t know who the All-In Killer was, but we did know he had a connection to Ellis Haines, a serial murderer Sirius and I had put behind bars. Texas Hold ’Em was, not so coincidentally, Haines’s favorite card game.
“Looking ahead, what names do we have for a pair of fours?”
“Take your pick: sailboats, midlife crisis, magnum.”
Two of the three nicknames were obvious. Forty-four was a good age for a midlife crisis. And people were still quoting Clint Eastwood’s line about the .44 Magnum revolver being the most powerful handgun in the world.
“Sailboats?” I asked.
“Some people think the fours look like sails.”
I thought of some lyrics from an old song, and offered up a wishful thought from it: “‘The canvas can do miracles, just you wait and see.’”
Not that sails were made from canvas anymore.
“What?” Corning said.
“I was thinking about sailing.” Sails or shrouds? I wasn’t sure.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” he said. “Four-four hold cards are also called the Luke Skywalker hand.”
I thought about that poker name for a few seconds before giving up. “I don’t get it.”
“May the fours be with you.”
“Shit,” I said, forgetting for a moment about little pitchers and big ears.
I winced, then tilted my head to better see Gigi. My angel was still sleeping. I would definitely feel like I’d failed as a father if shit was my little girl’s first word.
Five minutes and no more curse words later, Corning and I finished our conversation. I had a report to read. Corning promised that he’d keep me updated. He didn’t exact the same promise from me. The Feds seemed to be of the opinion that because of their investigative specialists and expertise, they were the only game in town. While it was true that they had virtually unlimited resources and their own task force assigned to the All-In Killer, I was the one with the vested interest in getting answers. Because of that, I was running a parallel investigation on my own. I considered my next steps.
