CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Roman Kerry rubbed sleep from his eyes as he sat down in the chair across from the officers. Two armed officers stood behind him in case he decided to get stupid. "Well, look who came to visit," he said groggily. "Did you miss me?"

"Laura Evans," Faith said.

"What?"

"You might know her as Laura Hagerty?"

"Except I don't. Who is Laura Hagerty?"

"The ex-wife of Robert Evans."

"You might know him as Bobby," Michael added.

Roman's eyes widened. He might not know Laura, but he definitely knew Bobby. He caught himself and turned his face to stone.

"Before you decide not to talk," Faith said, "Let me paint you a picture. First, we know you're not the killer. That's pretty obvious, because we found Bobby Evans dead earlier this morning."

Roman's face flickered in surprise.

"So that's good news for you," Faith continued, "and here's why you want to help us find his killer. Right now, the Syndicate is going to be pissed. They've just lost three very important revenue streams in the Atlanta region because someone decided to turn into a slasher horror star and brought a lot of heat on their operations here. That someone is still out there causing trouble.

"Now, as it stands at the moment, they're going to want someone to answer for that, and you are, if you'll permit the irony, the biggest dog in the kennel. Frankly, whether you talk or not, I wouldn't give you very long to live."

Roman's eyes flickered again, and his shoulders slumped slightly.

"But," Faith continued, "if you help us out and as a result, we find the person who is responsible for all of this, we cut a deal. We can't make all of the charges go away, but we can make a lot of them go away. Suddenly, fifteen years turns into five, out in two if you behave yourself. And, we let it slip that a source within the gang gave us the information we needed to stop this murderer, so your bosses deduce that you helped put a stop to it. Maybe you don't get to be management anymore. Maybe that's not enough for you to keep your job. But even criminals have some standards. I'd be willing to bet you can keep your life."

Roman was silent for a long moment, but Faith could see in his eyes that he was breaking, so she didn't press further. Finally, he sighed and slumped. "All right," he said, "you can really help with the charges?"

"You give us our killer, we do everything we can to make this easier on you," Faith confirmed.

"Okay," Roman said, "Yeah. I knew Bobby."

Bingo.

"How?" Faith asked.

Roman shrugged. "It's good to have someone clean to work with. Someone who won't have a record pop up if a cop pulls him over. I always told Harris that Vinny was a bad bet. He had a past with the mob in Boston, not much, but enough that if he ran a stop sign, a lot of priors were going to show up. Me? I looked for civilians."

"Where did you find Bobby?"

"At a club. Harris ran sex in Atlanta, but a lot of us had fingers in the pie. I kept my eye out for someone divorced, older but not too old and overconfident who didn't have a record. You'd be amazed what guys will do for a young woman who won't say no."

Try me, Faith thought.

"So you found Bobby," Michael said, "what did Bobby do for you?"

"Whatever I needed him to do. Nothing too crazy. It wouldn't help me out if I ended up giving him a record. I just had him run errands."

"Give me an example of an errand."

"Well, I had him pick stuff up for me. Dogs, usually."

"You didn't want him to have a criminal record, so you hired him to steal dogs?" Faith said incredulously.

Roman chuckled mirthlessly. "It's a lot easier to steal things than you'd think, agent," he said, "Yeah, I had him pick up dogs. He actually got Franco." Roman nodded at Michael. "That was my champion dog until Vinny found that pit bull. Big dog. Wolfhound. I gave him a bonus for that."

"Who did he steal Franco from?"

Roman shrugged. "I didn't need to know, so I didn't ask. It helps to know as little as possible in this business, agent. That's why a guy like Vinny can work fifteen years for the mob and get off with a slap on the wrist, but a guy like me runs a few things for a few years, and the best the FBI can do is a reduced prison sentence and a felony record."

"So Bobby never mentioned anything about where he got the dogs?"

"I made sure he didn't. My exact words to him were, ‘I want the product to show up under my tree like Santa Claus, you feel me? I don't want a shipping label, a return address or a collar. As far as I'll ever know, the Lord just blessed me. Got it?' He got it."

Faith and Michael shared a look, then stood. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Kerry. We'll see what we can do about your charges."

***

The original home of Franco the Wolfhound turned out to be harder to find than Faith expected. No shelters reported any Wolfhounds found within the past six months, and there was no police report filed.

"We only take those reports if the dog is registered," Garvey explained. "There's no other way to know for sure that the dogs actually belong to their owner. It amazes me how many owners don't want to spend the thirty bucks and the hour of time to get the dog registered and inspected."

"I've learned that most people are convinced that bad things only happen to other people," Faith said.

Garvey shook her head. "How many people need to die for us to get over that idiocy?"

Faith chose not to comment on that. She and Michael browsed through local listings and social media clubs and finally found something.

The Wolfhound's name wasn't Franco originally. Fluffy Face was a six-year-old Irish Wolfhound who, like most members of his breed, was absolutely enormous. He was listed at three feet at the shoulder and a massive one hundred eighty-eight pounds. That made him over twice as big as Turk and half again as big as the largest Rottweilers. No wonder he had been a champion fighting dog.

The picture posted of him on the social media page of Atlanta Dog Lovers didn't look like a fighting dog. He was smiling the wide grin that Faith saw anytime Turk was in an especially good mood and seemed utterly devoted to a little girl who hugged him tightly.

The post was from two months ago, and it broke Faith's heart. The owner, Donald Peterson, begged for information on Fluffy Face, his granddaughter's dog. Fluffy Face was as gentle and loving—the post said—as his name suggested. Jeanie, the granddaughter, hadn't stopped crying for him. Any information would be met with a reward.

Faith doubted the information they had to share would be met with a reward. She sighed and wiped her hand across her eyes.

"Assholes," Michael said viciously. "God, I wish I could feed them all to the dogs they abuse."

"Yeah," Faith said, "I'm right there with you."

The page listed an address a few miles from the station. Faith and Michael headed there with Turk, who seemed alternately more subdued and more restless than usual. Faith wondered if he knew that they were hunting people who hurt dogs. She thought of Turk, so recently lost and in the clutches of a sadistic serial killer. She recalled the joy and relief she felt when he returned safely to her. She could easily imagine how her heart would break if he had been found dead.

This was going to hurt.

They reached Donald Peterson's house just after lunchtime. School was still in session, so at least they didn't need to worry about Jeanie finding out.

Donald Peterson opened the door, and the look on his face when he saw the officers pierced Faith to her core. He sighed and slumped forward, looking every bit the old man he was. "Well," he said, "the FBI is here. Either that means you found my anti-war letters from Vietnam, or you found my dog somewhere he shouldn't be."

Faith lifted an eyebrow. "You're aware of the dog fighting ring?"

"I'm aware of dog fighting rings in general," Donald said, "I don't know about any of them, but when Fluffy didn't come home and no one managed to see a two-hundred-pound dog, I figured someone picked him up for no good reason." He shook his head. "Well, come on in."

The agents followed him inside. Turk walked straight to Donald's side, looking up at him with big, sympathetic eyes. Donald smiled down at him and reached down to ruffle his fur. "Dogs are wonderful, aren't they?" he said.

"Yes," Faith agreed. "I'm so sorry about yours."

Donald sighed. "I'm more worried about Jeanie. She's only six years old. She's going to just be devastated. I'm not gonna tell her what happened, obviously, but I'll have to tell her that he's gone for good. She still prays every night for God to bring him home safely."

He slumped into his easy chair and buried his head in his hands. Faith and Michael sat on the couch and waited for him to look up. "I'll get her a new dog," he said, "I know a guy who breeds Wolfhounds. I'll find a puppy for her, and we'll do it right this time. I'll register it, I'll build a better fence and keep it locked. I'll… hell, I'll buy a gun if I have to. Christ."

He pressed his hands to his face again, and Faith could see his lower lip trembling.

"When did Fluffy go missing?" Faith asked.

"Two months ago," Donald said, confirming the evidence from Laura Hagerty and the online post. "We came home one day, and the backyard gate was opened and Fluffy was gone. We thought he had got out to chase a squirrel, so we just put his food out and waited for him to come home. When he didn't, we called the police, but the police said they couldn't help unless he was registered." He sighed. "So, we did it the old-fashioned way. I guess the online ads were new-fashioned, but you know what I mean. Dammit, I knew he was gone. I told Jeanie that he was probably just lost, and if we prayed hard enough, he'd find his way home. I guess I hoped he would."

"Mr. Peterson, did you ever meet a man named Robert Evans?"

"Evans? No. Is he the man who took my dog?"

"Yes," Faith confirmed.

Donald's eyes went dark. "Is he here?"

"No," Faith replied. "He was murdered last night."

"Hmm," Donald huffed. "Well, I hope you won't think too poorly of me if I say I'm not sorry. Do you need me to confirm my whereabouts?"

Faith looked at the old and frail Donald and shook her head. "No, we don't suspect you. However, I do want to know if you can think of anyone else who would have wanted to get revenge for Fluffy."

Donald chuckled. "Well, most people I know would be pissed off about anyone stealing a dog, but enough to do something about it? No. Hell, even if I could, I don't know that I would put myself or my granddaughter in danger. I wish we lived in a world where good people could get revenge on bad people, but in my experience, revenge just turns good people into bad people."

"That's been my experience too," Faith agreed.

"Did you tell anyone about the missing dog? Anyone close to you?"

"No. It's just me and Jeanie. My wife died ten years ago, and my daughter and her husband died six years ago. My daughter covered Jeanie with her body. That's how Jeanie survived the car crash." He stared ahead. "God, I would give anything to be able to do the same for her now. If I could just sacrifice my own life and bring Fluffy back, I'd do it in a heartbeat."

Faith leaned forward and placed a hand on Donald's shoulder. "She loves her grandfather too, Donald, and she's going to need you now. Please don't blame yourself for what happened."

Donald turned pained eyes up to Faith. "I wish that knowing that made me feel better," he said, "but it doesn't."