Gemma. I don’t love you. Not like that.”
She stared at him. For the first time she admitted to herself that he was really saying it. But she was still far from believing he meant it.
With the ease of long practice, Dante yanked his thoughts away from his brother, Dominic, who lived about three blocks from the rather dingy apartment he now stood outside, waiting to search. He tried never to think about him or the rest of his lawbreaking family. He’d long ago accepted that he was the odd one out, the one who had not only chosen not to break the law but uphold it. Sometimes Dominic and his snooty wife, Agostina, looked at Dante as if it were the other way around, or as if his very existence in the Mancuso family was some kind of accusation.
As perhaps it was.
Flash nudged his leg. He looked down at the dog. He knew most people would laugh at him for thinking it, but he would swear this time the dog’s solemn expression held concern, as if the animal had sensed where his thoughts had turned. And maybe he had. Like most dogs, Flash was sensitive in areas beyond his prodigious nose.
As he waited, Dante wondered idly if the local judges ever got tired of issuing search warrants in the so far fruitless efforts to relate just about every criminal in Red Ridge to the Larsons. He sure got tired of asking for them, even knowing most of those scumbags were probably part of the Larson operation.
And the ones who aren’t are probably related to me.
“Well,” Duke said, in the brisk tones of someone changing an uncomfortable subject, “our cursory search was a bust, other than finding out the guy’s apparently addicted to chewing gum. Never seen so many wrappers. Oh, and that microwave is a hazmat zone.”
“So,” Collins said, “I guess you’d better turn the nose loose.”
Flash was on his feet before Dante had to say a word. Collins looked startled. “Enough people call him ‘the nose’ that he’s learned it means he’s about to go to work,” Dante explained.
Collins looked impressed. “Mind if I stick around and watch? Never actually seen him work.”
“Just stay out of his way,” Dante said, his good-humored demeanor now replaced with the all-business attitude that told Flash he’d brook no nonsense. Bloodhounds were notoriously strong headed, and it took an equal amount of stubborn in a handler to get the best out of them. In the beginning he’d had to outlast Flash on a few occasions to get the dog to understand this was a human who would persist until he did what was asked of him.
But I’ve got a lot of practice in stubborn.
Dante shook off the moment when his family tried to trample into his thoughts again. Now was all about Flash. That he also made sure the dog had plenty of fun in his life—which meant hours of purposeless sniffing and romping—had brought them to a place where they were a smooth, efficient working team. And it was time to do that work.
He stepped across the threshold, a now eager Flash at his side. He didn’t bother to have him sniff the officers who had already been inside so he could tell him to ignore those scents; he knew Flash had already done that. Dante wasn’t sure how the dog processed it, but he knew which scents to ignore.
When he gave the command to search, the dog set off instantly. Dante watched, thinking as he often did that if he mapped out the dog’s travels, there would be no pattern. And yet to Flash, the paths were as clear as a well-lit interstate. And every inch of those paths must be sniffed at length. In such an enclosed space, Dante supposed it took more time to sort out the trails. He knew the animal’s incredible nose could track a scent hundreds of hours old, but the suspect had been in this place not even three hours ago, so it should be hot and fresh.
But as he watched, a different sort of pattern emerged. As if he’d been here to observe, he saw a model of life here in this small apartment emerge. Saw the most frequent paths walked—couch across from the flat screen to the kitchen and back, and almost never to the narrow table in the eating nook. Couch to the bathroom and back. Bathroom to the bedroom in the back, which had been enough to make even the casual-living Dante’s nose wrinkle. Did the guy never do laundry? Poor Flash, he thought. Although he supposed to the dog the stronger the smell, the headier it was, no matter that to a human it was nearly gagworthy.
He wished there was a way to train the dog to go for the faintest scents first, but he knew that was counter to Flash’s every instinct. And so he’d settled into the routine, letting the dog do it his way, because he almost never failed. And if he did fail to find something, it was because there was nothing to find.
Dante watched the dog work in the kitchen now—this was the only time Dante didn’t have to worry about the animal’s impressive counter-surfing skills, as he never strayed when working—wondering not for the first time if a negative result of a bloodhound’s scent work would be as acceptable in court as a positive. If he didn’t find something, was that proof in reverse? Would there come a case when a bloodhound’s nose would be used in court to prove someone’s innocence rather than guilt? He supposed it was only a matter of time, if it hadn’t happened already. He should look that up—it was always good to keep on top of things like that so—
Flash pawed at a cupboard door. Dante went still. And then it came—the dog’s look back over his shoulder that told him he’d found something. He crossed over to the dog, gave him a pat. He gloved up then crouched and pulled open the door. Bare seconds later he’d shoved aside a saucepan that looked like it had once bounced down three flights of stairs. Then he pulled out the only other thing in the cupboard. And stared as Flash proudly nudged it with that nose.
A five-pound sack of flour.
“Seriously, dog?”
Flash gave him a mournful look. But then, he always looked mournful. Others called it solemn, others dignified, but to Dante it was always mournful. And just now it was as if the dog was hurt Dante didn’t trust him.
“All right, all right.”
He picked up the bag, straightened up and put it on the counter. Pondered. What the hell would a guy who didn’t have even a saltshaker in his kitchen, and nothing in his fridge but beer and leftover pizza, be doing with a bag of flour? Cutting drugs? That made no sense—the stuff was entirely the wrong texture. It looked practically full, anyway.
Collins made a smart-ass comment from the living room about whether they were searching or baking cookies. Dante flipped him a hand gesture. They both laughed.
He studied the bag for a moment longer, then unrolled the haphazardly folded top. Hesitantly—even with the gloves, he was a little wary of what might be in there, judging by the state of the microwave alone, let alone the rest of the kitchen. He was hardly manic about housecleaning, but this was a cut below.
He was glad not to see anything moving, although there were a couple of suspect dark specks amid the white. He bent again, picking up the battered saucepan. Then he pulled out one of the plastic evidence bags he always carried and used it to line the pan. Finally he picked up the flour and started to pour it into the bag-lined saucepan.
“Sarge’s car just pulled up,” Duke called out.
Dante grunted an acknowledgment, his attention on going slowly. By the time a third of the bag was emptied, he was beginning
