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The two agents turned to see Foster Chase leaving a large panel van with a smiling cartoon dog and a stylized pawprint emblazoned on the side above HAPPY PAWS GROOMING—WE LEAVE YOUR PUP SMILING! in bubble print. He approached the house, his angry frown changing to confusion when he saw the FBI vests. “What is this?” he asked. “Can I help you?” He looked down at Turk. “Is this about an appointment? I usually prefer to come to the client.”
“It’s not an appointment,” Faith said, “We’re here to talk to you about some old clients of yours.”
He looked even more confused. “To me? Why me?”
“We have reason to believe that a series of recent murders in the local area are being committed by dogs trained by their owner to attack humans,” Michael explained. “The victims thus far all received grooming services from you in the past.”
“Oh God,” Foster said, paling. “How horrible. You don’t think it wasme, do you?”
“Maybe we should talk inside,” Michael suggested. “Behind closed doors.”
Foster looked between the two agents, then down at Turk. The chihuahuas had practically buried themselves in Turk’s fur, a state of being Turk endured with saintly patience. That sight apparently convinced Foster. “All right,” he said, “Let me get my two girls.”
He walked back to the van. Faith and Michael shared a glance.
“Should we go with him?” Michael asked. “Just in case he pulls a runner?”
Before Faith could respond, Foster opened the passenger door and called, “Martha! Trixie!”
Two Dachshunds appeared on the passenger seat. Foster carefully picked them up one at a time and set them on the ground. They trotted toward the strangers, their tiny legs pumping furiously as they greeted the strangers.
“They’re my newest,” Foster explained. “They get separation anxiety when they’re apart from me. I’m going to start weaning them next week when I take time off, but for now, I’m avoiding torn furniture and bladder control issues.”
Michael nodded, not sure how to respond to that.
“Are these all the dogs you have?” Faith asked.
“That’s it,” Foster replied with a smile. “Martha, Trixie, Benny, Joe, Teacup, Scooter, Pancho, Lefty—that’s the two chihuahas making friends with your Shepherd—Genevieve and Honey.”
Michael lifted an eyebrow at the second to last name. “Genevieve?” he asked.
“Yeah, it’s from a children’s book. The character’s name was Gigi Genevieve something-or-other. I was going to go with Gigi, but that reminded me of one of my less… fulfilling clients, so I went with Genevieve instead.”
“Would that client happen to have been Gigi Demetrious?”
“Demetrious,” he said. “Sounds familiar. Hey, did I offer you guys any coffee yet?”
“We’re all right, thank you,” Faith replied.
“Do you mind if I make some for myself?” he asked.
“Go ahead,” Michael replied.
Foster squeezed past the two agents, navigating the sea of tiny dogs with practiced ease. Michael could imagine how furious he might be at a man who couldn’t or didn’t care to avoid tiny dogs and left the crushed body of the one he stepped on for his wife to “clean up.”
“Gigi Demetrious,” Foster repeated, pouring water from a pitcher into the tabletop coffee maker. “Did she have a little King Charles’ Spaniel? A red one?”
Faith looked at Michael, who reddened when he realized he hadn’t gotten the name of the breed of Gigi Demetrious’s dog. “Ms. Demetrious was about five-foot-six with natural blonde hair and blue eyes. She lived in—”
“Yep, I know her,” Foster interrupted. His lips thinned in distaste. “She took shitty care of her dog. His fur was always matted when I got to her, and I could feel the poor animal’s ribs each time I bathed her. Honestly, I don’t think the dog would have even survived if the daughter hadn’t snuck him food every now and then.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Mr. Chase, can you verify your whereabouts last Sunday night, last Wednesday night and last Friday night?”
Foster swallowed, seeming to realize for the first time that he might be in trouble here. “At night? No, not really. Maybe the neighbors could confirm my van was parked in the driveway. I mean, I was here, but I was alone, and dogs don’t speak English, unfortunately.” He smiled at his weak joke, but his smile faded when the two agents didn’t return the expression. “Hey, what’s going on?” he asked. “Am I in trouble?”
“Do you think you should be?” Michael asked.
