Page 42 of So Smitten

“We only take those reports if the dog is registered,” Garvey explained. “There’s no other way to know for sure that the dogs actually belong to their owner. It amazes me how many owners don’t want to spend the thirty bucks and the hour of time to get the dog registered and inspected.”

“I’ve learned that most people are convinced that bad things only happen to other people,” Faith said.

Garvey shook her head. “How many people need to die for us to get over that idiocy?”

Faith chose not to comment on that. She and Michael browsed through local listings and social media clubs and finally found something.

The Wolfhound’s name wasn’t Franco originally. Fluffy Face was a six-year-old Irish Wolfhound who, like most members of his breed, was absolutely enormous. He was listed at three feet at the shoulder and a massive one hundred eighty-eight pounds. That made him over twice as big as Turk and half again as big as the largest Rottweilers. No wonder he had been a champion fighting dog.

The picture posted of him on the social media page of Atlanta Dog Lovers didn’t look like a fighting dog. He was smiling the wide grin that Faith saw anytime Turk was in an especially good mood and seemed utterly devoted to a little girl who hugged him tightly.

The post was from two months ago, and it broke Faith's heart. The owner, Donald Peterson, begged for information on Fluffy Face, his granddaughter's dog. Fluffy Face was as gentle and loving—the post said—as his name suggested. Jeanie, the granddaughter, hadn't stopped crying for him. Any information would be met with a reward.

Faith doubted the information they had to share would be met with a reward. She sighed and wiped her hand across her eyes.

“Assholes,” Michael said viciously. “God, I wish I could feed them all to the dogs they abuse.”

“Yeah,” Faith said, “I’m right there with you.”

The page listed an address a few miles from the station. Faith and Michael headed there with Turk, who seemed alternately more subdued and more restless than usual. Faith wondered if he knew that they were hunting people who hurt dogs. She thought of Turk, so recently lost and in the clutches of a sadistic serial killer. She recalled the joy and relief she felt when he returned safely to her. She could easily imagine how her heart would break if he had been found dead.

This was going to hurt.

They reached Donald Peterson’s house just after lunchtime. School was still in session, so at least they didn’t need to worry about Jeanie finding out.

Donald Peterson opened the door, and the look on his face when he saw the officers pierced Faith to her core. He sighed and slumped forward, looking every bit the old man he was. “Well,” he said, “the FBI is here. Either that means you found my anti-war letters from Vietnam, or you found my dog somewhere he shouldn’t be.”

Faith lifted an eyebrow. “You’re aware of the dog fighting ring?”

“I’m aware of dog fighting rings in general,” Donald said, “I don’t know about any of them, but when Fluffy didn’t come home and no one managed to see a two-hundred-pound dog, I figured someone picked him up for no good reason.” He shook his head. “Well, come on in.”

The agents followed him inside. Turk walked straight to Donald’s side, looking up at him with big, sympathetic eyes. Donald smiled down at him and reached down to ruffle his fur. “Dogs are wonderful, aren’t they?” he said.

“Yes,” Faith agreed. “I’m so sorry about yours.”

Donald sighed. “I’m more worried about Jeanie. She’s only six years old. She’s going to just be devastated. I’m not gonna tell her what happened, obviously, but I’ll have to tell her that he’s gone for good. She still prays every night for God to bring him home safely.”

He slumped into his easy chair and buried his head in his hands. Faith and Michael sat on the couch and waited for him to look up. “I’ll get her a new dog,” he said, “I know a guy who breeds Wolfhounds. I’ll find a puppy for her, and we’ll do it right this time. I’ll register it, I’ll build a better fence and keep it locked. I’ll… hell, I’ll buy a gun if I have to. Christ.”

He pressed his hands to his face again, and Faith could see his lower lip trembling.

“When did Fluffy go missing?” Faith asked.

“Two months ago,” Donald said, confirming the evidence from Laura Hagerty and the online post. “We came home one day, and the backyard gate was opened and Fluffy was gone. We thought he had got out to chase a squirrel, so we just put his food out and waited for him to come home. When he didn’t, we called the police, but the police said they couldn’t help unless he was registered.” He sighed. “So, we did it the old-fashioned way. I guess the online ads were new-fashioned, but you know what I mean. Dammit, I knew he was gone. I told Jeanie that he was probably just lost, and if we prayed hard enough, he'd find his way home. I guess I hoped he would."

“Mr. Peterson, did you ever meet a man named Robert Evans?”

“Evans? No. Is he the man who took my dog?”

“Yes,” Faith confirmed.

Donald’s eyes went dark. “Is he here?”

“No,” Faith replied. “He was murdered last night.”

“Hmm,” Donald huffed. “Well, I hope you won’t think too poorly of me if I say I’m not sorry. Do you need me to confirm my whereabouts?”

Faith looked at the old and frail Donald and shook her head. “No, we don’t suspect you. However, I do want to know if you can think of anyone else who would have wanted to get revenge for Fluffy.”

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