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If you’d told me two weeks ago that I was going to become so damn attached to a damn dog-that-wasn’t-a-dog, I’d have told you that you should reevaluate your outlook on the world. Because I didn’t give a damn about other people. Not usually. Not that I went actively out of my way to be a complete dick, just… I defaulted to partial dick.
Most people just don’t do it for me. I don’t hate them, but I don’t like them, either. Some people, I hated. Most people just… Don’t matter. They’re warm bodies who pass through my life, and I try not to make either of us any more miserable than we already are.
Yeah, of course there were exceptions. My folks. Elliot. Ward and Doc.
And now a fucking Xoloitzcuintli shifter whose name I didn’t know.
I was getting soft.
And that was going to be a problem.
7
After a long conversationwith about three different people in the lab we used to process bloodwork from crime scenes, I’d sorted out a deal to get them to take blood from my hairless friend and test it. I was working on the assumption that they might be able to ID the beta blocker that the vet’s office couldn’t. Hopefully.
If we could figure out what the fuck it was, there might be a way to counteract it or purge it from Anubis’s system, or possibly even trace it to a specific organization or person. If we could get it out of him, he might be able to shift, and then we could actually get a goddamn witness statement, and he could stop living in my apartment.
I scowled, annoyed at the mixed emotional twinge that drew from me.
Yes, I wanted my apartment back, but I’d miss the furless wonder.
Maybe I’d get an actual dog.
Or a hamster.
Or a fish.
Or maybe I’d just watch some Animal Planet and drink until I talked myself out of emotional pet adoption.
Fuck, I could do that last one now.
Maybe that was going to be my plan for the next time I had a night off.
I clipped on the doggo’s leash—with the same apology I gave him every time I used it—so we could make the mile walk to the crime lab.
It doubled as an excuse to get the fuck out of the office and let Anubis take a shit somewhere that wasn’t the tiny strip of grass next to our parking deck. Anubis was happy enough to hobble-trot along beside me, tongue lolling as he sported his ridiculous sweater and a new set of Caro-knitted booties against the January cold.
It was marginally warmer—it was actually supposed to hit 34 as a high temperature—but it hadn’t gotten there yet. At least the dry cleaner had successfully managed to clean my coat, which was a fucking miracle, so I wasn’t freezing my ass off.
I had it fully buttoned against the chill, my gloved hands in the pockets, Anubis’s leash looped around one wrist. He hobbled along, and I kept my pace slow so that we walked beside each other—my legs are pretty long, and while he wasn’t a short-legged dog, going tripod wasn’t doing his pace any favors.
He stopped to sniff at yet another tree, and I looked down. “Do you really have to get fully into the sniff-and-pee part of the dog thing?” I asked. I don’t like moving slowly, so I was already a little irritable, not that it was his fault. But I didn’t see why we had to check out every tree and trash can on the way.
Anubis looked back up at me, his head cocked to the side, one ear partly flopped over.
“Yeah, I know you’re fucking adorable, but seriously, bud. Less sniffing and peeing, okay?”
Chuff.
He actually did stop doing it, although the park was apparently a little too interesting in terms of smells for him not to sniff at a couple of things on our way through it. I figured that was fair, especially since he didn’t pee on anything, which was good because people tend to get really annoyed when you let a dog pee on playground equipment.
We arrived at the lab, and I held open the glass door on the extremely nondescript whitish building to let Anubis go through first. He let out a little chuff on the way in, as though thanking me for holding the door. Which is probably exactly what he was doing.
We got a few sideways looks on the way through the lobby, but I ignored them. I had a reason for being here that was a hundred percent related to a criminal investigation. I’d convinced the lab that I was working on the assumption that maybe the dog belonged to one of the unsubs, since he didn’t belong to any of the victims. If we could ID the beta blocker, we might be able to match a prescription for it… or something. At least get a sense of where the drug itself came from, which could lead us to a person or place. That last part was even sort of true.
I walked into the lab proper and up to the woman sitting at the intake desk. Her ID badge said her name was Greta Johnson, and she looked like she wasn’t about to take any nonsense, a slight furrow on her brow, her natural hair held back by a bright pink band that complemented her cocoa skin and matched the flowers on her mask.
“Detective Hart,” I introduced myself, then gave her my badge number.
