Hair of the Dog Read Online Free PDF Page B

would have bet that oversized glass bowl on a pedestal in the corner was Chihuly. Dan pulled out his iPad and rechecked the list of losses. He was pretty certain he remembered other artwork kept in the kennel office and lost in the fire. Yep, there it was. Five prints by Bridget Riley; the last appraisal put each at roughly sixty-seven hundred dollars—or somewhere close to a thirty-three thousand, five-hundred-dollar loss. Still, it was less than the insured worth of one greyhound.
    The woman behind the desk on the phone looked up and motioned him toward a chair. He didn’t mind the wait. All the better to size up his surroundings. The room was monochrome—gray, black, white—with enormous splashes of color from the art scattered around. The eight-foot-long desk was chrome and glass, the sofa a black leather “sling” purely Scandinavian with matching chairs. He couldn’t name the artist but the large bronzes of two greyhounds sitting on the edge of the desk were spectacular—each over two feet tall.
    But it was the woman who held his attention. Who was it who said a pet owner starts taking on the characteristics of his charge as he grows older? He remembered his mother kiddingly saying if she didn’t get her upper lip waxed regularly, she’d end up looking like the family pet—a Schnauzer named Toby.
    So this was Dixie Halifax. Ash blond, thick hair worn short and brushed back from a somewhat long and narrow face, eyes a pale gray under pencil-thin brows. Gray-striped suit, white silk blouse, red plastic framed reading glasses perched low on an aquiline nose, pearls at each ear and a long rope of them looping almost to her waist. A four-carat diamond on her right hand. The lady liked the finer things in life.
    He’d memorized the Wikipedia entry: born in 1952, lawyer, known for having worked several high-profile cases, was a junior clerk during the O.J. trial. She’d spent years representing various “mob-stars.” Married to an F. Marconi (1983), but widowed before the age of thirty. No other marriages. No children. Earned a reputation for getting a couple of family “godfathers” out of prison on technicalities. Recognized more recently for her work with dog tracks across the United States mediating Grey2X demands to clean up the industry. In addition, she was a top breeder and importer of greyhounds. The Halifax kennel was touted as dog racing’s winningest one.
    She held the phone away from her face, “Mr. Mahoney, isn’t it? I’m so sorry for this—I’ll only be another minute.” A smile that could have been a grimace before Dixie covered the mouth-piece, stood, and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows at the far end of the office. Out of ear-shot, not that Dan had been listening in. The accent was right out of the South—maybe Memphis or Little Rock. Nothing soft or lilting like an accent from Mississippi or Georgia. There was a distinct twang to this one. A sound that made you lock up your back molars before you even realized you were grinding your teeth. But there was certainly nothing to dispel the greyhound analogy, viewing Ms. Halifax from behind. Lithe, sinewy calf muscles, broad shoulders above tiny, waspish waist…yes, she could be the human counterpart to the dogs she raced.
    The extended call did give him a few more minutes to admire the five ceramic greyhound vases on the credenza behind the desk. Vases? They were half the size of cookie jars. Then it hit him. These were urns, not vases. Each had a ribbon; one had two ribbons tied around its neck. Their racing colors. Dan was sure of it. He had to be looking at what United Life & Casualty was just about to pay two hundred and fifty thousand for. He leaned forward. Each ribbon had last Tuesday’s date stenciled in gold. And there was a gold plate around each dog’s neck engraved with its name.
    â€œFinished, at last. Again, I am so sorry. I