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“I mean, I wouldn’t know why,” he said. “I just washed her dog. I didn’t… I mean… what happened?”
“What do you think happened?” Faith asked.
“Well, I’m guessing she was kidnapped or killed or something,” Foster replied. “Why else would the FBI be here?”
“Mr. Chase, did you know Gerald Conway or George Merrill?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Did I groom their dogs too?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
Foster lifted a hand nervously, the coffee forgotten. “Hey, man, I see a lot of people. I remember the dogs, but I only remember the owners if they’re assholes.”
“These two were assholes,” Michael confirmed. “Gerald Conway, middle-aged, condescending.”
“Do you remember what kind of dog he had?”
Michael looked at Faith, who shook her head. Tom hadn't gotten that information either. Christ, they were off to a shitty start on this lead.
“What about George Merrill? His wife had a teacup poodle.”
Foster’s eyes shot open wide. “Oh yeah! That asshole! God, he was a prick with a capital P! Did you hear what he did to Sharky?”
“We heard,” Faith said, “It makes his death seem sort of justified, wouldn’t you say?”
“He’s dead?”
Michael and Faith shared another look, and Michael decided to be more direct. "Mr. Chase, to be clear, we're investigating the murders of Gerald Conway, George Merrill and Gigi Demetrious. All three of them received grooming services from you at one point. Gerald Conway saw you at Goldwood Dog Grooming Company, George Merrill at Sunrise Groomers and Gigi Demetrious from your mobile service, Happy Paws. All three of them were killed by a pack of dogs, and all three of them, it looks like, were less than pleasant dog owners."
"That's putting it lightly, Agent," Foster said with a frown, seeming to forget the fact that he was suspected of being their murderer. "Gerald Conway. I remember him now. He abused his dog, too. He had a little Pomeranian. The poor thing shook like a leaf every time I saw it. It only relaxed when he left. George Merrill, as you know, crushed Sparky to death and left him there for his wife, the one who actually cared about him, to find. Gigi treated her dog like he was another accessory. He had been lost for three days when I showed up to groom him. She didn’t even bother to tell me he was missing. When I told her I was there to groom Trotter, she said, ‘Who? Oh, the dog. Yeah, he’s gone.’ Look, I didn’t kill them, but I’m not going to act like I’m sorry they’re dead.”
Michael had had enough of hearing that. Sure, these people were jerks to their pets, but they were still people. Their families might not have had the best relationships with them, but Genevieve was still hurt to lose her mother, and Jeanie Conway had built a life with her husband. So what if it was a rough life? It was a life, and someone who thought he was being some sort of avenging angel had murdered them in cold blood.
He narrowed his eyes and took a step toward Foster, who paled and backed up reflexively. “To be clear, Mr. Chase,” he said, “We think you might have murdered them. Start convincing us you didn’t.”
“I didn’t!” he replied, his voice almost a squeak. “Honestly! These are all the dogs I have! Even put together, they couldn’t kill an adult.”
“They’re not all the dogs you have access to,” Faith pointed out.
“I don’t take my clients’ dogs home!” he protested. “I go to my clients and do the work there. That’s the whole point! To groom the dogs where their owners can see and not have to be worried about their pets being mistreated. Also for me to see and report any abuse.”
“You never reported the abuse Gigi Demetrious leveled against her dog,” Michael pointed out.
Foster frowned a little. “What she did was mean, but not quite abuse. Trotter was thin but not starving. The daughter—who I didnotknow was named Genevieve before now, by the way—took enough care of him that I couldn’t justify taking him away.”
“But you’ve taken other dogs away,” Faith asked.
“No!” he said, his pitch rising to a squeak again. “No, I never took anyone’s dogs away! Look, if I thought someone was abusing the dog, I would have reported it to animal control. I’m not a hero. I wouldn’t have done some vigilante dognapping thing. Look at me. Do I look like someone who could murder people in cold blood?”
“You’d be amazed.” Michael replied. “Foster, we’re going to follow up with your former employers and review your interactions with the victims. Is there anything you want to tell us now so we don’t hear something from them and wonder why we didn’t hear it from you?”
Foster hesitated and looked to his left.Bingo.
Michael lifted an eyebrow, and Foster rolled his eyes and sighed anxiously. "Look, I got into it with Gerald Conway a little bit, all right?"
Michael cocked his head, and Foster said, "Okay, George Merrill too. But I didn't do anything! I just… yelled at them a little."
“Ooh, storytime!” Michael said, pulling a chair away from the kitchen table and sitting on the edge, his hands resting lightly on his knees. Typically interrogators wanted their suspects sitting and themselves standing to intimidate the suspects, but Michael found the uncanny valley of an upbeat investigator projecting harmlessness everywhere but his eyes to be more effective at breaking down walls. “I can’t wait to hear all about both events,” he told Foster. “Every single detail.”
