The China Dogs Read online

  She lets her head loll to one side and scratches an itch on her neck. Mosquito bite that hurts like hell.

  “Melissa, the dog!”

  She gets herself together. “I let him go.”

  “Where? Miami Beach?”

  Scratching has made her neck bleed. She looks inquisitively at the blood on her fingers. It reminds her of needles and smack and the wonderfulness of forgetting life’s shit.

  “Melissa, did you let Tyson go on Miami Beach?”

  She looks up from her blood. “Naah. I let him out someplace else. I was jus’ drivin’. I stopped and Tyson was yappin’ and all. It was like he wanted to be free. So I opened the door and said, ‘Get the fuck outta here’ . . .” She smiles happily. “. . . and he did. He just fucking ran. Then I drove off.”

  Ghost’s heard worse stories in his time, much worse, but he still can’t believe the stupidity and selfishness of such an action. “Where, Melissa? Where was this?”

  She thinks on it. Her face grows sad as she reconnects with the dog. With the little bit of tenderness she had. “Near the shoppin’ center, out at Key Biscayne. I remember now.”

  Ghost nods to Annie.

  She knows what to do. There are two other photographs, facedown in front of her. She turns them over and slides them across to Melissa. “This is Alfie Steiner. Ten years old. He was playing soccer with friends when Tyson bit him to death.”

  Melissa stares at the picture then looks away.

  “The dog ever attack anyone else, Melissa?”

  Wet eyes turn and fix on the cops. “That sad. About that boy—that real sad.”

  Annie stays calm. “It is. Especially for the boy’s family. I asked you a question—has Tyson ever attacked anyone else?”

  “No.” She shakes her head several times to emphasize. “T—he was a gentle baby.” She smiles as images of him as a puppy swim into her addled brain. “Was that why you shot him? Coz of the boy? Coz of what happened?”

  Ghost answers. “It was, Melissa.” He thinks about telling her that had she kept her car door shut that day, then both the dog and Alfie Steiner would be alive. But he doesn’t. She’ll find her own route to guilt soon enough. “Detective Swanson is going to wrap up here. You’re going to get charged Melissa, with not having a license for the dog, not having it on a leash, and criminal recklessness.” He lets it sink in, then adds, “I’m going to have to review the case with my captain and it may be that we decide to add second degree murder to that list as well, so you’re going to need an attorney to represent you. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  She’s biting on a nail now and fumbling her way through a long fogged mind. “I didn’t kill that boy. It was Tyson. Fuck man, you already been judge and jury and given him the death penalty. I want to go now.”

  Ghost gets to his feet. “Do you have an attorney, Melissa, or you want us to get one for you?”

  She lets her head droop. Tired eyes find her lap, her feet, then the floor. “I ain’t got no representation.”

  Ghost nods to Annie and heads to the door. He knows she’s going to need a really good defense lawyer, and not just to fight the charges. Once Alfie Steiner’s family find out the owner has been traced, they’re sure to file civil proceedings that will take every last cent Melissa has.

  59

  Coral Way, Miami

  Zoe spends much of the day unpacking her finally returned trunk of clothes

  The other thing occupying her mind is Ghost.

  She thought he might call or text but he hasn’t. Nor has she. All that sudden shit this morning about giving her a key was too much to take. Way too scary.

  A key?

  What the hell was he thinking?

  They barely know each other and bam now he wants to give her a key. That’s creepy. Weird. Strange. Controlling.

  Isn’t it?

  Or was he just being practical? Nice? Friendly?

  Or more?

  She spent most of her day not thinking about all these things. Plus what he might be doing, what he might be thinking about, and whether she’s just completely misjudged him and is in danger of making a fool of herself.

  He’s definitely weird.

  But it seems a nice weird. He’s smart and weird. Stylish and weird. Strong and weird. Then again, wasn’t that late call he made, asking for her company, a sweet flash of vulnerability? A strong, smart guy who isn’t afraid of showing his vulnerability. Now that is seriously weird.

  The evening news is all about new dog attacks, and to understand Ghost and his work a little more, Zoe finds herself checking stories on the Internet. It seems like the whole canine world is turning on the hands that feed them.

  Jude is staying over at Jake’s again and then they’re off to the Bahamas for a few days, where his company is fitting air-con in a new hotel. It means she has the run of the place, and guiltily raids the snacks cupboard while she scribbles things down.

  Two bags of chips and a Snickers bar later, Zoe knows that there are around eighty million pet dogs in the U.S., with about five million a year lost or abandoned, and close to three million euthanized by shelters. Like Ghost had said, the figure has been jumping year after year as the recession deepened. Fertile dogs have two litters a year and produce between six and ten pups. It doesn’t come as a surprise to learn that big dogs are really popular. Labs come number one in the nation’s Top Ten, German shepherds three. Retrievers four. Boxers six, and bulldogs ten. Then, just outside that elite group, come the mastiff and Doberman pinscher.

  She pours herself a glass of wine from an opened bottle of Chilean red and digs some more. From what she can work out, pit bulls and rottweilers cause three-quarters of all attacks on kids and 80 percent on adults. Additionally, they account for 77 percent of all attacks that cause bodily harm, three-quarters of the maimings, and two to three deaths a week.

  Zoe pours a second glass of red and is about to close down her computer when her phone comes alive with a ring tone she knows is Danny’s. “Hi there, what you up to?”

  Restaurant noise, laughter, and plate clatter all precede his answer. “Congratulations, Zo’, you’re about to get yourself a ­sister-in-law.”

  “What the fuck?” She sits in shock.

  On the phone line, Danny sounds as wired as a speed addict. “I’ve just proposed and Jenny’s said yes.”

  “You what?” Zoe can’t believe it. What an idiot. He’s going to marry some tramp she hasn’t even met.

  “Listen, sis, she’s here with me, I’m gonna put Jenny on so you can say hi.”

  “No. Don’t. I don’t want to speak to her. Get serious Danny—you know what a fucking mess Mom and Dad made of ­marriage—”

  Jenny McCann already has the phone to her ear and is listening to every word.

  “—any girl who says yes to marriage after such a short relationship is even more stupid than you—”

  “Hi, Zoe, this is Jenny. I can’t wait to meet—”

  Zoe cuts her off.

  Fuck.

  What a nightmare. Some freeloader she’s never met is about to screw up her brother’s life, and she’s already trash-mouthed her.

  And on top of that it’s almost midnight and Ghost hasn’t phoned.

  60

  Police HQ, Miami

  It’s past midnight when Ghost and Annie finish charging Melissa Clay with second degree murder.

  He drives home feeling darkly depressed. Had the woman not broken up with Dwayne, she wouldn’t have driven off with the dog, wouldn’t have opened the car door and let it go. Alfie Steiner would be alive and she wouldn’t be heading to prison and bankruptcy.

  The woulds and would-nots are as thick and cloying as the humid Miami air. He showers, puts on shorts and a T-shirt, and feels desperately hungry.

  In the kitchen he picks fresh fruits from a
wooden bowl, cuts slices of cheeses he bought last weekend at the European Deli in Lake Worth, and decants a twenty-year-old port he got at a wine auction almost a year ago.

  He takes the food and drink to a handmade oak dining table and then goes to the study to search for some specific volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica. He has the same volumes online but prefers the touch and feel of real books.

  Dogs are still on his mind.

  Dogs that start as pets and end up as killers.

  Dogs that ruin lives.

  Ghost has to know more about them, has to study the history of this strange enemy in order to work out why man’s best friend is suddenly turning into mankind’s worst enemy.

  Books in hand, he returns to the table and pours a luxurious dribble of Delaforce’s aptly named “Curious and Ancient.” As it breathes a little more, he slices off what he hopes is a complementary piece of Blue Shropshire Stilton.

  At first he’s not sure the creamy nuttiness of the cheese sits well with the port’s sharp but jammy spice, then after a second tasting he decides it’s a good choice.

  Good but not great.

  Ghost starts with the basics. The American Kennel Club recognizes 148 different breeds of dogs and splits them into seven basic categories: terrier, toy, working, herding, hound, sporting, and nonsporting. The smallest breed is the Chihuahua, the tallest the Irish wolfhound, and the heaviest the St. Bernard.

  Trawling through canine history he finds that early Egyptians, Greeks, and Persians all used dogs in their armies. The Romans specifically trained the big Molossus—Canis Mollosus—and sent packs into battle wearing crude metal armor and spiked iron collars. Similarly, Attila the Hun deployed the mastifflike creatures in bloody and brutal campaigns.

  Further down the timeline, Spanish conquistadors trained armored dogs to kill and disembowel South American natives. The British used dogs when they attacked the Irish. The Irish in turn used their native wolfhounds to attack the horses and knights of invading Normans. All manner of leaders from Frederick the Great to Napoleon and Elizabeth I used dogs in battles.

  Police first deployed dogs in Victorian England, when the Metropolitan London Police used bloodhounds in the hunt for Jack the Ripper. Most American cops didn’t get canine units until post-WWII, after witnessing how the Nazis used military dogs for control and punishment.

  Ghost cuts himself a generous slice of Brie de Meaux, which he eats without biscuits, and instantly wishes he’d opened champagne rather than port, or better still chosen the Camembert. Nevertheless, he still understands why Louis XVI’s dying wish was for a spoonful of Brie.

  He slices some green apple to clear his palate and reads that during the Second World War the Russians used dogs strapped with explosives to destroy German tanks, while during the Vietnam War the Americans used more than five thousand battle dogs. Back in 2011 the U.S. Navy SEALs used a Belgian Malinois war dog in Operation Neptune Spear, the strike that killed Osama bin Laden.

  Across the room his phone buzzes with a text.

  Zoe?

  He walks across and picks it up.

  HOPE U HAD A GD DAY.

  HAVE INTRSTNG DOG STUFF 4U.

  WILL MAIL 2MORROW.

  Z

  He’s pleased to get the message. It means she forgives him for spooking her with the offer of a key. The look in her eyes had surprised him. Made him think she’d run for the hills. Maybe he should have behaved like he normally does.

  Guarded. Closed. Impassive.

  Only she doesn’t make him feel like that. She makes him feel like he’s known her for years.

  THANKS

  He sends the one word reply and then regrets it.

  It wasn’t enough.

  He’d meant it to be cool. Grateful but not overeager. Warm but not pressing. He’d stopped himself from adding a kiss because that would have looked desperate. He’d pulled short of suggesting dinner tomorrow or later in the week because he thought she’d feel pressured. But now he stares down at the phone and THANKS looks more ridiculous than any or all of those other things.

  Ghost tidies the remains of his dinner and drags himself off to bed.

  Almost inevitably, he lies in the dark with his eyes open and his head banging.

  When he shutters his lids, the faces of Kathy Morgan, Alfie Steiner, and Matt Wood await him. Lost souls stand in the dark tunnels that separate him and sleep.

  And he knows that tomorrow there will be new, bloodless faces for him to meet, new horrors to absorb, new puzzles to try to make sense of.

  And he realizes one other thing. Life’s too short to make stupid mistakes.

  He picks up the phone and sends another text.

  WOULD LOVE TO SEE YOU AGAIN WHEN YOU’RE READY. X

  PART THREE

  And Caesar’s spirit, raging for revenge,

  With Ate by his side come hot from hell,

  Shall in these confines with a monarch’s voice

  Cry “Havoc!” and let slip the dogs of war,

  That this foul deed shall smell above the earth

  With carrion men, groaning for burial.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Julius Caesar, Act 3, Scene 1

  61

  Beijing

  The two glamorous young women giggling in the ascending lift inside the Raffles Hotel regard themselves baopo—high-class hookers—who only sleep with VIPs and ultrarich businessmen.

  Their “owner” tells them they have the natural beauty to one day reach the top of their profession and become baoernai, “second wives,” to rich and powerful politicians, executives, and local government officials.

  It’s heading toward midnight as they are ushered into the seventh floor Presidential Suite of the hotel. They have no idea who their middle-aged client is. The teenagers know only what they’ve been told. He’s important. Someone high up inside the party. Someone it’s in their interests to pleasure to the best of their ­abilities.

  And that they mustn’t speak.

  On no account must they utter a word, unless they’re told to.

  Their “owner,” a former army colonel named Huan Lee, tries not to catch the eye of the man he’s leaving them with. He bows respectively as he shuts the door, then waits outside in the plush Presidential Lobby.

  General Zhang is in civilian clothes, not military attire.

  He takes off the jacket to his plain brown suit and drops it on a chaise longue. He paces as he looks the girls over and imagines what he’s going to do to them.

  They are exactly as he ordered.

  Young, plump specimens; generous in waists and breasts, shiny black hair in beaded pigtails, both dressed in crisp green schoolgirl uniforms.

  They are perfect for venting his anger. For cooling the terrible rage that broils inside him.

  He is a soldier. Like the dogs he is turning on the Americans, his instincts are those of an aggressor, a fighter, a conqueror.

  He has a need to hurt.

  “You!” He points to the more round-faced one. “Sit there.”

  The girl pads across the plush cream carpet to a dressing table chair.

  As she sits, Zhang uses precut lengths of rope to bind her wrists and ankles to the wooden frame.

  Hungry-eyed, he turns to the other girl. The one without any sign of fear.

  He grabs her one-handed by the throat and slaps her face.

  The shock in her eyes excites him.

  Enough for him to hit her again.

  Only when she cries does Zhang feel excited enough to want her. Aroused enough to squeeze her neck some more and haul her to the giant four-poster.

  He keeps his grip while he sexually brutalizes her. His eyes never leave the girl on the chair. Watching her watching him raises his arousal. He is already intoxicated with the thought of what he’s going to do to her.


  62

  Greenwich Village, New York

  Danny’s careful not to wake her.

  He slips out of bed and gently folds the quilt back around the naked, sleeping body of the woman he’s just asked to marry him.

  His future wife.

  Just the thought of it makes him feel different. More grown up. Almost complete.

  Mrs. Jenny Speed.

  He creaks his way across the apartment. First, to use the tiny bathroom, then to find postcelebratory Advil in the kitchen before settling behind his computers.

  Then he does what most people do online. He scans the dailies. Checks his mail. Flicks through Facebook and wakes up.

  After that he does what the normal people don’t do.

  He hacks.

  Time to earn the retainer Libowicz is paying him. He works from the list he’s been furnished with and launches invasive programming right into the central nervous system of some of the biggest firms in Brazil, India, China, and Russia. An hour from now he’ll have access to all the mail accounts of their top executives. That’s a good place to start. Execs file everything. And everything they don’t want people to see, they very helpfully dump in recycle bins, delete file caches, or personal folders. All of which he can open quicker than they can say “Flash drive.”

  As his Macs work their magic he returns to the kitchen, this time for coffee.

  A phone rings.

  For a split second he hopes it’s his sister, calling to apologize, to say what an ass she’s been and how she’s really happy for him.

  But it’s not Zoe’s ring tone.

  It’s a buzz.

  And not any old buzz.

  It’s the buzz of the new burner. The cheap cell phone he bought yesterday before he met Jenny. The one he’ll throw away tonight right after he gets himself a new one.

  It’s in the bedroom.

  With Jenny.

  There’s no question of being quiet now. He knows he has to get it. Quick. Before she does.

  He walks straight into the room and sees the lit-up display glowing inside his jeans pocket. Thank God he didn’t leave it by the bed.

  Jenny stirs but doesn’t wake.