“You, too.”
He made a kissing sound, too, just before he hung up.
She stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray-almost never used-next to the bed. She looked up into the mirror and ran her hands over her skin from shoulders to crotch. Then she stretched like a cat-a very proud cat, pleased with what she saw. Time to get up.
She sang a little song to herself as she made her way to the shower.
She loved her work.
CHAPTER 16
Monday, April 24
7:20 P.M.
OFFICE OF THE EXECUTIVE EDITOR
LAS PIERNAS NEWS EXPRESS
JOHN was still in his office when we got back to the paper. Mark and I spent a few minutes filling him in on recent events, then Mark went to his desk to make a few changes in his story-and to try to contact Jane Serre for comment. I was still talking to John when Mark leaned his head in the doorway.
“She’s got a photo of her son she’s willing to give me. Want to run it?”
John glanced at the clock on his wall. “Hurry. I’ll hold the front page as long as I can. If you can talk her out of one of her ex, even better.”
As Mark left, John sighed and said, “There goes the whole front page.”
He stood up, ready to go out and start ordering changes.
“I’m headed home, then,” I said.
“Kelly, hold up.”
I looked back at him.
“I know you and Ben Sheridan are close friends, and that probably prejudices you against this dog woman, so I still want Mark to cover this-”
“I understand. I was glad to be of help today, but it’s Mark’s story.”
“Thing is, he’s tied up tonight tracking down the widow. But after listening to you talk about this Sheila Dolson, I find myself being as cynical as Ben. Mind putting in a few minutes on research before you head out this evening?”
“A few minutes?” I laughed.
“Just make a start, anyway. By all rights, we should at least cover what happened out there with the dog tonight. We can be careful about how we phrase things, but…I smell a setup here, and let’s just say I don’t want the paper to be burned if it turns out she’s a fake.”
The paper had been caught up in a scandal of its own making not many weeks earlier, and I knew John was being extremely cautious these days. “Sure,” I said, “I’ll look into it.”
“Good. And tomorrow morning, let’s talk about that follow-up piece about the missing children you pitched to me earlier. With this story on the Serres, maybe we can make a go of it.”
THE name Sheila Dolson didn’t produce any likely hits on any search engine. That amazed me. She had the kind of need for attention that surely would have put her name up on the Web if not in a newspaper, and stories of dogs finding people-even dead ones-would usually find space in a paper.
I considered trying a business search. Most search-and-rescue work was done on a volunteer basis, but Sheila claimed she was also a trainer. I was about to enter “obedience training”-although I quickly realized I’d probably have to sort through a lot of hits for bondage sites-when I had a sudden inspiration. I looked up the home phone number for Melna Knox, a friend who started out at the Express but had moved to Chicago a few years ago and now worked for the Tribune. She’s a dog lover, and when she lived here, her dogs had been in dog shows and competitions.
Sheila had told me she moved here from the Chicago area and had once mentioned to me that she did agility training, which implied the possibility that she had dogs in competition. Melna’s dogs might be involved in something completely different, but there was a chance Melna might know Sheila from that world of highly trained dogs. If so, Melna might be able to give me some insight even a news file wouldn’t provide.
Or tell me she had never heard of Sheila, and remind me that in a city the size of Chicago, they could work in the same building and not know each other-but I wouldn’t be any worse off for trying.
I dialed, and she answered on the fourth ring.
The hello was sleepy.
“Melna? It’s Irene. Sorry-I didn’t think you’d be in bed at”-I glanced at a clock and did the arithmetic-“ten o’clock.”
“Irene? Oh…usually I’m not. But I’ve had the flu.”
“Sorry you’ve been ill.” I felt guilty. I should have just used the computer to search for information. Maybe Altair had his own Web site.
“What’s up? Must be a story if you’re calling me at this time of night.”
“Just trying to get some background. Dog world stuff.”
“Unless it’s agility competition, there’s probably not much I can help you with.”
“That’s exactly what I’m looking for. Do you know a dog handler named Sheila Dolson?”
“You’ve got the name wrong, I think.”
“No, I don’t think so. Dog is a German shepherd named Altair.”
“Now I know you’ve got it wrong. Her name was Chula-C-H-U-L-A. Not Sheila.”
The name difference surprised me, but it wasn’t what caught my attention. Amazing how one small verb can make you feel cold. “Was?”
“She died-she was murdered near the beginning of the year. Sad case.”
I fell silent, trying to take in all the implications.
“Irene? You there?”
“Yes. Sorry. Wasn’t expecting that answer. Did she live in the Chicago area? Did the Trib cover the murder?”
“Yes to both. Several articles. I think we ran an obit on her, too. I didn’t know her, really-she was involved in SAR, so her agility work was related to that, but people say that she and the dog were a great team.”
“You know what happened to the dog?”
“I can’t help you much there. I remember hearing that some relative might take him, and there was gossip that the SAR community wasn’t all that happy about that. Felt he should go to someone who knew how to work with him.”
She woke up enough at that point to ask me why I wanted to know, and I simply said that I thought I had met the relative with the dog and was trying to get some background. She seemed skeptical but settled for an assurance that I’d call or e-mail her if anything connected with Chicago came up. We spent a little time catching up with each other after that, but between her illness and my deadline, we couldn’t talk for long.
The name Chula Dolson brought up forty hits, mostly from Illinois papers and television stations. I used the Tribune obit as my starting point.
It was dated January 18. A photo of a woman with her arm around Altair was included with the story. The dog in the photo looked exactly like the one I had met earlier in the day. But the woman next to him was at least twenty-five years older than Sheila Dolson.
Chula Dolson had the face of a prizefighter who hadn’t won many rounds. She might have been a handsome woman before her nose had been broken and healed crooked, before someone had given her a rope of scar tissue that ran diagonally across the left side of her face and pulled at one eyelid.
She died at the age of fifty-one. She was the founder of the nonprofit Forensic Search Associates of Illinois, Inc., and according to the article, a beloved trainer who had shared her expertise with hundreds of other dog handlers.
She had established what she referred to as “an interdisciplinary search team,” using dogs, forensic anthropologists, a helicopter pilot, and a wildlife specialist, and a variety of other experts. She talked corporations into funding their equipment, travel, and other costs. The organization helped various law enforcement agencies throughout the state and had received honors from a number of civic groups. The article noted that she avoided the spotlight and always made sure the group’s sponsors received glory in exchange for their generosity.
I stopped and reread that line. It would have been enough to assure me that I was dealing with a different person, even if the photo and the age of Chula Dolson hadn’t run with the obit.
The obit included a number of tributes to her from those in law enforcement, who spoke of the help they had received from her work with Altair.