Writes her message and sends it off:
Hello Dan Strickland.
I have important news and some questions for you. I’ll be walking Felix at Alta Laguna Park at one this afternoon.
Bettina Blazak.
His answer comes thirty seconds later:
See you then.
She wonders if she’s making a bad decision. Maybe even falling into a trap. But she knows it’s paranoid to think that a war hero, ex-cop, self-defense teacher would steal a well-known journalist’s dog in a popular public park in broad daylight.
Paranoid indeed.
But after her meeting with Arnie, Strickland has some explaining to do.
She thinks of calling Billy Ray, maybe he could just sort of glide by and keep an eye out for her and Felix. Decides not to.
Strickland’s résumé proves he’s on the up-and-up, right?
And she’ll have Thunder with her in the Wrangler.
Dan Strickland rises from one of the picnic tables as Bettina approaches. She notes the cardboard box on the table. She drops Felix’s leash and he sprints to his former owner, who takes a knee and lets the dog lick his face, then rolls Felix over and scratches his underside.
“Mr. Strickland...”
“Dan.”
“Bettina.”
They sit.
“Dan, you were right. Felix was a DEA drug-sniffing dog until six months ago. His name was Joe. I’ve seen pictures of their Joe and he’s definitely Felix. Joe was about to be retired for poor behavior and depression. He either ran away from his handler or was dognapped. Shortly after that, DEA thought that their retired Joe was being used by the New Generation cartel to locate drugs and cash belonging to the Sinaloa Cartel. Up until the time he was shot last month. Possibly by the Sinaloans. Who have possibly sent two of their people to Laguna to deal with Felix in some way.”
“Deal in what way?”
“They don’t know.”
Strickland stands, brushes the dirt off his pants. His smile is slight. “Jesus, are you serious?”
“I’m scared. They told me to vary my patterns. Stay with friends or in motels.”
“That’s big of them.”
“That’s what I thought.
“No safe house for you and Joe?”
“Felix and me. No. They’re interested in a guy called the Roman.”
“The what?”
“He handled Joe for the New Generation. Nobody seems to know his real name.”
Strickland shakes his head and meets her stare, no amusement in him.
Bettina is proud to have better information than this know-it-all self-defense genie. And she must ask the big question, because that’s what she does, that’s how you find stories that matter.
“Maybe you’re the Roman?” she asks. “Technically, you could be.”
His expression is tight and unreadable but she sees anger in his eyes and hears it in his voice.
“Well, actually not, Bettina. I run a successful self-defense company. I’ve never used or sold drugs. I don’t have time to be running all over Tijuana with a dog, putting my gringo head in the crosshairs of cartel soldiers. But mainly, as I already told you, I lost Joe over a year ago and haven’t seen him since.”
Bettina vets his story and his tone. Does the math. “I had to ask. People surprise you, sometimes.”
“You surprise me, Bettina. With your naïveté and gullibility. Where’s that great reporter in you? Open your eyes and use your brain. Don’t make me up. If this Roman is a gringo, he’s more likely undercover DEA than a small businessman like me.”
Which makes sense to Bettina as she thinks of Arnie Crumley’s appearance and arrogance. Arnie as undercover Roman? Extravagantly far-fetched, but possible. Loyal to DEA or the New Generation, or only to himself?
Felix looks up at Strickland, ears limp with submission.
Bettina sees the worry on his face, knows that Felix has picked up on his former master’s anger.
But Strickland’s reaction helps a weight lift inside her, because she wants to believe that Strickland is a decent guy. Maybe more than decent. He gives her a somber glare.
“Okay,” says Bettina. “All right. My eyes and brain are not perfect, but they work just fine.”
“Well.”
“Pardon my questions and suspicions. The DEA has me rattled. I don’t rattle easy, but my imagination does have a mind of its own.”
“It sure does.”
“Reset?”
“I’m happy to. Let’s sit.”
Felix gives Bettina a hopeful look.
“Thanks for meeting me here on such short notice,” she says. “You barely had time to make the drive from San Diego.”
“I’m staying at the Montage here in town.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to be close to Joe and you. I was hoping you’d call.”
“Nice hotel.”
“It’s the ocean you pay for.”
“I stayed there once to write an article about it. Felt like a princess.”
“You’d be good one.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re uncommon.”
“Don’t flatter me. I know who I am.”
Strickland purses his lips and nods, gives her a gaze. His anger is gone and his eyes are gray and cool.
“You might not like what’s in this box,” he says.
Bettina has already registered the curious items, the most puzzling of which is wrapped in clear plastic and propped in a corner of the pasteboard box on the picnic table.
“Flowers?”
“I thought you’d like them.”
“You have the manners of my grandfather.” It looks like Strickland blushes but the sunlight through the clouds is strong right then.
“There’s also food and some things for Joe.”
“Felix.”
“Joe to me.”
“This is not a date, Dan.”
“No, it absolutely is not.”
Bettina shakes her head.
Strickland’s face is a map of contradictory lines. Something in his posture, as he pulls what looks like a Montage hand towel out of the box and covers the dumbass flowers against the sun, makes Bettina see him as not just another egocentric, self-obsessed man. He looks embarrassed.
“Let’s take a walk,” says Bettina.
They take the trail that leads down from Alta Laguna Park into Laguna Canyon. There are enough hikers and bikers and dogs to further dilute Bettina’s paranoia that Strickland is going to take off with her dog.
The canyon views are beautifuclass="underline" gray clouds, winter-green hills, a peek of the silver Pacific. Felix zigzags the narrow trail ahead of them, nose up, nose down, nose up again. Bettina is sorry for lecturing Dan Strickland on his manners. She wonders for the millionth time in her life why she’s so quick to take offense, and so quick to anger. But sometimes accepting of risk and willing to face danger. Wanting to face it. Like she gets things backward. Her mother used to tell her to slow down, Bettina, take a pill. But which one?
“I love my grandfather,” she says, the stiff canyon breeze in her face. She likes the way the wind snatches the words from her mouth, like they’re valuable. “I shouldn’t have bitched you out.”
“I’ve never done that before. Flowers.”
“In your whole life?”
“Whole.”
“Why today?”
Strickland stops and turns and the breeze moves his hair. “As a kid I thought I was just simple-minded. It took me forever to read and write. When I got to high school, I saw how different I was. Different shrinks had different names for it. ADHD was the one I heard most. I knew I didn’t have certain feelings other people had. Certain behaviors. Certain fears. I heard, ‘high risk tolerance’ a lot. I heard ‘impulse-driven’ a lot. ‘Low dopamine, high adrenaline.’ But when I looked at other people, I seemed to be as good as them. Sometimes better. I closed off my mom and dad and sister. I never asked anything of them or anybody. But the flowers were asking you to like me, and to thank you for letting me see Joe.”