It was coming up on six thirty, but Delores had told Scarlett that she was an early riser. She’d probably be feeding the dogs by now. Scarlett dialed, hoping to at least leave a message if Delores was still asleep. But the phone was answered on the second ring by a voice that sounded surprisingly wary.

‘Patrick’s Place Animal Shelter. How can I help you?’

‘Delores, this is Scarlett Bishop.’

‘Scarlett,’ the woman replied on an exhale. ‘I saw Cincinnati Police on the caller ID and I thought . . . Well, I’m just glad it’s you.’

Scarlett frowned. ‘I called from the office. My cell only gets two bars here and I didn’t want to lose you. I didn’t mean to scare you.’ It had been nine months since Delores’s assault, and while her body’s rehab was coming along, Scarlett questioned how well she was dealing with the emotional trauma of being left for dead.

‘You didn’t really scare me. I mean, the guy who attacked me is dead, so what can happen, right? I was just . . . Never mind. I’m just being foolish. So what can I do for you this morning? I hope Zat’s working out all right for you?’

Scarlett wanted to press for more details about what had scared Delores, because clearly something had. But the woman deserved her privacy, so Scarlett simply answered her question. ‘Zat is wonderful,’ she assured her. ‘He seems to have made himself at home.’

‘No shoe-chewing?’ Delores asked, amused.

‘Not even one. That’s Deacon’s complaint, not mine. I was smart enough not to choose a puppy.’ Choose, nothing. Scarlett hadn’t chosen Zat. The three-legged bulldog had chosen her. ‘I’m actually calling to pick your brain about—’ Scarlett stopped herself, wincing at her poor choice of words. Delores had been shot in the head, and while the bullet hadn’t pierced her brain, her skull had suffered trauma when her attacker had thrown her to the pavement, kicking her under a parked van to hide her body. The woman’s brain had been badly bruised. ‘I’m sorry, Delores. I can’t believe I said that.’

The snicker on the other end untangled the knots in Scarlett’s gut. ‘It’s okay. Really. It’s actually pretty funny. So you want to pick my poor addled brain about what?’

‘Groomers,’ Scarlett said, relieved.

‘I’m not doing any grooming yet. I haven’t built up enough strength.’

‘I don’t need you to groom an animal, but I do need to know about the area groomers, especially those that might cater to wealthy clients with expensive dogs.’

‘Okay,’ Delores said slowly. ‘I don’t know everyone, of course, but I have lots of friends in the business who might be able to help you. Any specific breed?’

‘Standard poodles.’

‘I know several groomers who do standards. But . . .’ A hint of fear edged into her voice. ‘They won’t know I gave you their names, right?’

‘No, they will not know. But listen, if you don’t feel comfortable working with me, I can find another groomer. It’s okay.’

‘No, no. I’m just being silly.’ She laughed self-consciously. ‘If you tell me what you’re looking for, I may be able to help you. I’ve groomed quite a few standards in the past. I had three who went Best in Show.’

Scarlett’s ears perked up. ‘Would you know if a dog was a show dog by looking at a picture of it?’

‘It depends on the quality of the photo. I could certainly tell you if it’s not. Did a standard poodle commit a homicide?’ The lightness of the question was a bit forced. Delores was nervous, but still willing to help them. Scarlett respected that.

‘No,’ Scarlett said, keeping her tone equally light, then let her seriousness return. ‘But I need to find its owner.’

‘I’ve taken hundreds of pictures of dogs at shows. You can take a look through them, if you think it will help. Kind of like a mug-shot book.’

Excitement had Scarlett’s heart thumping. ‘Do you have time to meet with me this morning?’

‘I can after eleven. I have a PT appointment this morning and won’t be back till then. If it’s urgent, I can cancel my appointment.’

‘Tell you what. You keep your appointment, but also keep your phone with you. If I need your help earlier, I’ll call you.’

‘Sounds perfect. Take care, Scarlett.’

‘Delores, wait. Did you have a chance to call that friend of mine? Meredith.’ Her new friend Meredith Fallon counseled mostly children and adolescents, but occasionally took on adults.

I should know. She’s taken me on, whether I like it or not. But Meredith did it in a way that made Scarlett know it was because she cared. Scarlett wasn’t sure Meredith even knew how to flip her therapist off-switch, even in a casual setting. So Scarlett watched what she said, not ready to reveal the full extent of her inner turmoil. Not yet anyway. Maybe not ever. The risk to her career was too high.

A small pause. ‘Not yet,’ Delores admitted. ‘I’m not ready yet. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry. I can respect not being ready.’ Scarlett had to, or she’d be a total hypocrite. ‘When you are, she’ll be waiting. For now, you do what you need to do to make it through each day.’

A long, long pause. So long that Scarlett thought the connection had been lost. ‘Delores? You still there?’

‘Yeah. I guess I was just wondering if . . . I mean if you . . .’ A sigh of frustration. ‘You just sounded like you understood. I was wondering if you’d ever been, you know, a victim?’

Scarlett’s lungs began to burn and she realized she’d been holding her breath. She didn’t want to answer that, but Delores had been through hell and deserved an honest response. ‘No. I’ve never been assaulted. I’ve been smacked around from time to time, but that’s in the line of duty and the smackers usually ended up in cuffs with my knee in the small of their back. I’ve guess I’ve just seen too much.’ Way too much. ‘Contact me when you get back from PT, and I’ll meet you at your shelter at eleven.’

She hung up and stared at her screen, still frozen on the enlarged still of the poodle. She needed to go through all of these videos. Starting with the one in the alley.

But I don’t want to. Which was ridiculous, wasn’t it? She was a homicide detective and saw death every day. But seeing a victim already dead was far different from seeing her die. And sometimes one victim’s pain cut more deeply than others. She had the feeling that Tala was going to be one of the hard ones. The girl’s pain had hurt Marcus too, even before he’d been shot. She knew that about him.

So do your job. Get her justice. Knowing that Tala’s killer had been punished wouldn’t ease her pain, or Marcus’s, today, but eventually it might.

But Scarlett’s hand guiding the mouse didn’t cooperate, switching to her email instead of opening the video file. There were no new emails from Marcus. No sign of the list of threats that he had promised. Maybe he forgot. Or he said his assistant kept the list. Maybe she hasn’t sent it to him yet. But he did say he’d have the list to her within the hour. Maybe he sent it and it got lost in the ether somewhere.

Okay, that last one was reaching.

Why don’t you just ask him? Her phone’s two bars would be enough to send a text.

Scarlett Bishop here, she typed. Just wondering if you’ve sent the file with the list of threats against you. I got the video files but haven’t received the list. She stared at the message for a moment. She should probably have said ‘Detective’ instead of using her first name. It would be more proper. But she didn’t want to be proper. She’d had Marcus O’Bannion on her mind for nine months. He may have been making the first move when he’d called her, or he might just have been asking for her help. She’d never know unless she made the next move. Without overthinking it any more than she already had, she pressed SEND.

Now do your damn job.

She returned to the list of video files, resolutely clicked on the one taken in the alley, and prepared herself to watch Tala die.