Hounded

By Frederic Martini

It is 2066, twenty-five years after the Immune Collapse decimated the world population. The survivors spend as much time as possible in VR rather than in the real world.

Vic Malone is a newly-promoted detective assigned to robbery-homicide in the Brooklyn Police Department. He finds himself tangled up in a case that involves murder, illegal software, blackmail, and the mob. Fortunately for Vic, his partner is Officer Louis, a Neo-9. Neo-9s are genetically enhanced dogs, and Louis’ mom was a black Labrador. With hidden talents and a secret life, he is far more than just a K-9 sidekick.

With the help of the police, the FBI, self-aware AI avatars, and other Neo-9s, Louis and Vic must solve the case before the shadowy forces responsible for the crimes can find and put them down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9781685622572

Book preview

About the Author

Frederic Martini has always loved dogs and science fiction. He has published in the fields of human anatomy and physiology, vertebrate evolution, marine science, and history. Hounded reflects his experiences with dogs, high-tech science, and science fiction.

Dr. Martini’s hobbies include blue-water sailing, scuba, submersible diving, and trying to keep his two young labradoodle/border collie crosses from destroying the furniture.

More information on the author can be found at www.fredericmartini.com.

Dedication

To Dick Hover, who got me hooked on reading and storytelling.

Civis illustris, pal

Copyright Information ©

Frederic Martini 2023

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Martini, Frederic

Hounded

ISBN 9781685622558 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781685622565 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781685622572 (ePub e-book)

ISBN 9781685623104 (Audiobook)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022915098

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

[phone]

20230807

Acknowledgment

I’d like to thank my wife, Kathleen Welch, for spending hours minding our puppies solo while I worked on this manuscript. Thanks are also due to Amanda Ritter, who suggested that I revise the story to focus on Lou’s perspective, and Austin Macauley Publishers for their work on the final product.

Chapter 1

2064 Louis

As the winter sun came through the barred windows, the dogs on either side of me awakened and started pacing in their kennels, eager for breakfast. Then one down toward the end of the row started barking, and soon the morning chorus was underway. No way to sleep through that, and besides, this would be a big day for me. Time to start a new career.

I stretched and yawned and gave my head a quick shake to clear the cobwebs, and then slid myself off the single bed to stand on the concrete floor of the kennel. I thanked my lucky stars that my foster family had thought to arrange a bed for me.

The door on my kennel was missing; the staff had tired of replacing doors that I simply demolished if I wanted to leave. I left the kennel, headed down the hall, and turned a corner to enter the men’s locker room. The K-9 Academy wasn’t a big operation, and the locker room wasn’t much. There were a half-dozen lockers and some shelving for towels on the right, and two stall showers with privacy screens straight ahead. On the left was a divider-wall with four sinks, in two pairs with a full-length mirror between them. As I entered, I gave a quick glance to that mirror to see how I looked. To be honest, I looked a bit tousled, and I’d lost weight on this program. I really hate kibbles, but boot camp is boot camp. I doubted that anyone but Giselle, my partner, would notice the difference. But I sure was hungry.

My mother was a black lab, and I had her coloration, but the genetic manipulations that boosted my intellect had a number of other effects. My lab heritage was obvious, but my muzzle was a bit broader and my forehead a bit steeper than an unaltered Labrador. And then there was my size—at 175 pounds and 3’6" at the shoulder, I’d never be mistaken for a standard Labrador. But the feature that gets the most attention isn’t my size, but my eyes. I like to think of them as golden, although Giselle calls them polished brass or fool’s gold, depending on her mood.

I’m a Neo-9, a term originally used because we were intended to replace K-9 units. The program to develop enhanced dogs had begun more than 40 years ago. Researchers around the world were tinkering with genomes, treating genes like Legos, and trying different combinations. A Korean team had inserted blocks of human genes associated with brain development and intelligence into several different breeds of dogs. The dogs were large and very smart, but by the time the pups reached maturity, they were either unresponsive and virtually catatonic, or hyper-aggressive and potentially homicidal. The Korean team finally ran out of funding and abandoned the project. Cornell University decided to try, hoping for more success. The breakthrough came in 2035, when a professor at Cornell Veterinary School adapted a human VR rig to work on a young Neo-9 named Bonnie. Over time, Bonnie became a normal and well-adjusted adult.

Dozens of Neo-9s were subsequently produced at Cornell, using a variety of different base breeds and human DNA sources. The pups were foster-parented by the research staff and their close contacts. Unfortunately, the program became the focus of an anti-genetic modification campaign. Facing public outcry about Frankenstein Hounds and abuse of man’s best friend, the program was shut down after having produced only 60 Neo-9s. We are, as they say, a rare breed.

After that quick personal assessment, I walked around to the other side of the stem wall where there were four toilet cubicles and a trough urinal. I used the urinal, careful to keep my raised foot from touching the grungy stainless back plate. I then backed into one of the toilet stalls. There was just enough space in the cubicle for me to park by butt on the toilet. To flush, I’d have to exit the stall, turn around, and return to hit the lever.

Although I could use the toilet, there was no room to close the door, so privacy was out of the question. Fortunately, privacy during ablutions is more an issue for humans than for canines. But the first time one of the staff saw me using the toilet, he was struck speechless. For a while, every bathroom break became a tourist event, with staff showing up to see it for themselves. After a few weeks, the novelty had worn off, and the staff arriving to start work this morning hardly glanced in my direction.

The first order of business for arriving staff each morning was getting the dogs fed before the barking reached critical levels. Once in their work clothes, the trainers went into the kennel area and put a large tub of kibbles in each compartment. They then retired to the staff dining area to eat Egg McMuffins with donuts and coffee. The smells drove me wild, and I decided to forego that disgusting tub of kibbles this morning. That decision was itself a form of celebration. Once I’d left the Academy, I was determined never to taste another kibble for as long as I lived. Eating real food and spending more time in VR with Giselle were tied at the top of my To-Do List once I left the Academy.

The dogs would start working with their handlers by 0730, but I would be gone by then. When I left the locker room, I turned right, away from the kennels. I walked past the Women’s locker room and on through the swinging door into the lobby. It was a small room with a couch, a coffee table with copies of K-9 Cop Magazine, Police K9 Magazine, Dog World, and Field and Stream. I’d read them all, and found most of the articles inane if not misguided. I did like the Field and Stream issue dealing with salmon fishing, however. I love salmon. Just thinking about that made my stomach growl. I suppose there was time to go back for a quick kibble snack…but I told myself to stay strong.

Captain Harwood, the head of the Academy, had an office off the lobby, guarded by a reception desk. There was no one minding the desk; probably still enjoying her egg McMuffin. Harwood’s door was open, so I padded into the office. Harwood was standing by his desk, putting a file in his briefcase. The office smelled of oiled wood, antique carpet, a bit of pipe tobacco, and a hint of Bourbon. Harwood looked up as I entered. Ah, Officer Louis, good, I won’t need to send someone to fetch you.

I did my best ‘Sit’ in front of his desk and gave him my full attention. He seemed to find my gaze unsettling. Yes, well, big day for you, big day. For us too, first Neo-9 graduate of the Academy. And the last, I suspected. You’ve been assigned to a Patrolman at the Brooklyn PD. He’s never worked with a K-9 before, so you will both deal with a learning curve. I stayed absolutely still, maintaining an unblinking stare. Now he looked concerned that I might disapprove, and I could detect increased perspiration. While fumbling with the clasp on his briefcase, he hastily added, We would have preferred a more experienced partner, but we called every precinct in the state, and this was the only opening.

A simpler explanation was that stories about me had spread to the departments upstate but had yet to reach Brooklyn. I blinked, breaking the eye-lock, and nodded my agreement. He relaxed and ventured a small smile. Good, that’s great. Since you are graduating informally, I’ll do the honors if you don’t mind.

Harwood picked up a folded package and stepped around the desk. I stood, and remained motionless as he shook out a large vest that went over my back with a padded belly band secured by Velcro straps. Another pair of straps with magnetic clasps went across my chest. Between the Velcro and the magnets, I could easily doff the vest to enter tight spaces or do a water rescue. The sides were reflective, with POLICE in bold letters, and the cloth was a Kevlar/carbon fiber blend that would protect against blades and small caliber rounds. A bit garish for my tastes, but potentially useful. Once the vest was on, I was officially a K-9 officer.

I had not been a stellar student, but I doubted that any of my actions were detailed in my official record. Dogs were usually at the academy for six to eight months. I was graduating after a month, and for some of the staff that was way too long. To me, the K-9 Academy was like being back in kindergarten, but with classes held in a prison that served lousy food. Sit? Stay? Down? Find the cocaine? Track a scent trail? Don’t panic at loud noises? Give me a break. I’d obey a few times, enough to demonstrate full mastery of the ability, and then ignore the trainers until they gave me something new and interesting.

Several of the trainers were old school tough guys who thought negative conditioning earned respect. It bothered them that I never treated them as Gods, which was the attitude they expected from their charges. My foster family enjoyed streaming old Saturday Night Live episodes, so I thought of them as the Three Amigos. They firmly believed in learning through pain. Dogs who didn’t do what they were told were abused—kicked or tased or whacked with whatever came to hand.

The leader of the group was Bob Racusin. Bob wasn’t huge—just under 6’ and around 180 pounds—but he was mean as a snake. He’d grown up in a rough neighborhood in what remains of Detroit. I don’t think he liked dogs, but he really liked having power over others, and he’d found abusing dogs to be very satisfying. He stank of stale beer and testosterone, and none of the staff wanted to cross him or sit near him. Even humans avoided the cloud of B.O. that surrounded him like a fog. I have no idea what his idle time in VR was like, but suspected that whips and chains were involved.

Bob was seconded by Kapono Matele. Kapo, as he liked to be called, was 5’10" and easily 300 pounds. He was part Polynesian, and his family was from somewhere near Salt Lake City. Kapo wasn’t mean, but he was pig-headed and stubborn, and he had a short fuse. The third Amigo was Jeb Dankin. Jeb was large enough to pose a threat but dumber than a potato. He’d grown up in Pitman, a town on the last island remnant of the Pine Barrens of New Jersey. His parents had home schooled him. He seldom said anything except when giving a command to a trainee or voicing support for something Bob or Kapo had said. Unlike Bob or Kapo, I think Jeb liked dogs. He was simply trying to train the dogs the way his parents had trained him.

There were four other trainers who loved dogs and would never intentionally hurt them. Three were women, and all four avoided the Amigos as much as possible. Mary Wilson was my favorite. She was petite and soft-spoken, smelled of lavender, and her pockets held tasty treats that were dispensed with abandon. Dogs loved working with her because she was calm, precise in her commands, and patient as her trainee struggled to figure out what she wanted.

Every dog worked with every trainer, so they would not associate commands with a particular individual. Each session lasted 45 minutes, and in the course of a day each dog would have four sessions that were fun and engaging, and three sessions that were unpleasant but that had to be tolerated.

In the first week, the Three Amigos learned that yelling at me accomplished nothing. I’d demonstrate a skill when asked, but only once. Then I’d lie down until I was given a different command or for the bell that told the trainers to shift to the next student. My intransigence fascinated Mary and her friends, but infuriated the Amigos.

In the second week, I had a disagreement with Kapo, who decided I was disrespecting him by lying down and refusing to fetch a Kong for the second time. Except when working on noise habituation, trainers didn’t carry guns, but they did have tasers. Kapo thought he’d bring me to heel by tasing me in the butt. That certainly got my attention, but I’m well-padded there, and the pain level was no worse than the bites of horse flies around Ithaca Lake during summers at Cornell. I wasted no time and, pivoting, seized the hand holding the taser with my jaws, firmly enough that my teeth indented the skin. He stood stock still, a terrified look in his eyes.

Very carefully, I squeezed and eased, squeezed and eased, and with each squeeze I pressed a little harder. I didn’t think I’d have to break the skin, and I was right. He got the message and let go of the taser. I slid my jaws from his hand very carefully, until I was holding only the taser. I then clapped my jaws together and turned the taser into electronic scrap. Spitting out the debris, I turned away from him, lay down, and closed my eyes. I may have looked like I was taking a snooze, but I was listening for any movements that suggested he was going to escalate matters. But I don’t think he moved a muscle until the bell rang and he had an excuse to leave.

Of course, this interaction was a major topic of discussion in the staff room, with the Amigos wanting to ‘teach him a lesson.’ The other trainers seemed impressed with my initiative. The female staff were secretly pleased that someone had gotten the better of Kapo, who was prone to be a bit handsy. The Amigos took the matter to Captain Harwood, but they got nowhere. Harwood was under no illusions about the nature of the Amigos, and the only reason they were still at the Academy was because their union rep wouldn’t let him fire them. Bob and Kapo had been patrolmen in Albany, but they got in hot water for unnecessary violence. Since firing wasn’t an option, they were transferred to the K-9 Academy where they would no longer interact with the voting public. Jeb, on the other hand, had wanted to work at the Academy. Unfortunately, Bob and Kapo had convinced him that they were the top dogs, and he joined their pack shortly after he was hired.

The incident that prompted my departure came in the fourth week of my Academy adventure. Basically, the Amigos decided to have a little fun and teach me some respect. The lesson for the day was subduing criminals on command. I watched the other trainees practice take downs. Each dog was being trained to run up, grab a padded left arm, and then pull or drag the offender around until given the order to Release. Boring, but good exercise, and not totally useless. As usual, I would be the last to be selected, and by then it was close to lunchtime. Quite a few of the staff showed up around 1130, which I found curious. It hadn’t occurred to me that there might be lunch hour entertainment planned. Alarm bells started ringing when I saw Mary and her friends looking apprehensive.

Finally, it was my turn, whereupon I found myself facing all three Amigos wearing full protective gear and brandishing rubber batons. The closest one had his left arm extended. Naturally, it was Jeb who had been given the role of sacrificial goat. They expected me to go for his arm and then beat the stuffing out of me with their batons. Yeah, right. Their problem was that they still thought they were dealing with a big dog. They knew I was smarter than the other dogs, but it never occurred to them that I might be smarter than they were.

When I got the take-down command, I ignored the proffered arm and did a reconnaissance circle, trotting around the trio. As I expected, they closed ranks, facing outward, left arms extended and batons at the ready. Bob was the real threat, so I stopped circling when I was in front of him. I turned, went into a half-crouch, and locked eyes with him. Something in my gaze got through to him, and he swallowed and shifted his feet. Time for the show. I pulled back my cheeks, bared my fangs, and started growling. It’s quite a sound, probably 80db at a frequency that is felt as well as heard. Nobody at the Academy had seen or heard it before.

As soon as Bob’s eyes widened, I charged. Everyone knew I was big, but I hadn’t shown them how fast I could be. I stayed low and, ducking under the padded arm, I rose to hit him full-tilt with a shoulder charge. The impact lifted him off his feet and threw him into Kapo and Jeb, who were turning to see what was happening. All three went down in a tangled pile with me on top. My weight helped to keep them down, although once the shock wore off, they started thrashing around.

Bob was shouting obscenities and making various threats as I lay across them, my weight on Bob’s midsection, his weight on Kapo’s hips, and our combined weights on poor Jeb’s legs. I felt sorry for Jeb, but not too sorry. Bob was working himself up into a frenzy, torn between trying to push himself up and concentrating on throwing punches. After the first ineffectual left-hand blow landed, I rolled my head to the side and snapped my jaws inches from his nose. I made sure to open wide so he could admire my 3" canines. He went very still. Growling softly, I sat up, putting my front paws just below his ribcage, my weight compressing his diaphragm.

While I was suppressing Bob, Kapo had been struggling to rise, I turned the grown to a snarl, went into a crouch, and then pivoted left. My front paws came off Bob’s chest and landed on Kapo’s shoulders, and I drove forward and slammed him back down. I bared my teeth inches from his throat, and he stopped struggling and started making whimpering noises.

For his part, Jeb didn’t even try to get up. He raised his head far enough to look at me, and I looked back at him while shaking my head from side to side. Even Jeb could understand a firm No. When all three were immobile, I backed off and assumed my best parade-ground Sit. That’s how things remained, the Amigos prone, Bob wailing for someone to help them, and me standing guard, until Mary Wilson and her friends ran over, laughing, and said, Louis, I think the exercise is over. Would you like half of my ham sandwich? From my perspective, the whole exercise had gone well. I had made my point and taught the Three Amigos to do a Down-Stay in less than a minute. Surely that was some kind of record.

The administration, although sympathetic, could not officially condone my actions. Captain Harwood gave me a stern reprimand, which would have been more effective if he hadn’t been fighting a grin the whole time. The bruised criminals were pushing to have me flunked out or, better still, put down as a menace. But setting trainees against multiple opponents armed with batons wasn’t an approved part of the curriculum, and the fact that I’d emerged victorious could be seen as a plus rather than a minus from a training standpoint. In the end, the decision was that everyone would be better off if I graduated and became someone else’s problem.

I followed Captain Harwood to his car for the ride from the K-9 Academy, which is on the east side of the Hudson between Albany and Troy, and the Brooklyn Police Department headquarters. It was just me and Harwood in the car. I sprawled in the back and looked out the windows while Captain Harwood asked for some music, tilted his chair back, and dozed off.

We took Interstate 90 south and then the exit onto the Teconic State Parkway. We passed through beautiful woodland forests, with little signs of current habitation, although I did see a number of derelict houses in the process of being overgrown. So far it looked like the area around Ithaca, where I grew up. I was 20, and getting to the Academy had been my first overland trip, and this would be my first visit to a bona fide city in the Real. I had trouble imagining what it all must have been like before the Immune Collapse wiped out 90% of the world’s human population. Children learned the basic details in primary school; I’d had a course in the topic in my first year in VR high school, when I was 5 years old.

The short version of the story was in 2035, a novel, lethal virus exploded out of Africa in a pandemic that made the COVID-19 years look tame by comparison. In the first year, all anyone knew was that two billion people were dying of an unidentified hemorrhagic fever. In the second year, researchers determined that an unknown virus was causing an immune cascade that disrupted blood vessel integrity. The condition, called Viral Hemorrhagic Fever, or VHF. The virus was particularly lethal for older adults, it spread like wildfire, and it mutated so frenetically that it outpaced vaccine development. In that second year, during which another two billion died, society went into convulsions.

Rumors spread that it was a bioweapon attack by the Russians, or the Chinese, or the CIA, or the Jews, or the Elites, or Aliens, or even the Deep State. The net result was a wave of uncoordinated, unscripted, uncontrollable violence. Cities burned, and many governments fell. The US fared better than most because it had funded programs and hardware to deal with civil disturbances after the election riots of 2020 and 2024. But the big cities still burned, and the population still crashed.

VR use had become widespread early in the Covid-19 pandemic, and businesses were expanding into VR operations a decade before the Immune Collapse, to increase revenues and avoid the annual problems with infection spikes, hospitalizations, and lockdowns. The VR system was hosted by a global network of satellites launched by a tech entrepreneur, with backup servers in every major country.

Once the risk factors for VHF were known, the remaining high-risk survivors retreated into VR bubbles. The level of protection provided depended largely on how much money you were willing to spend. The rich could live full-time in VR, while the not-so-rich had to do the best they could and trust their luck. By 2040, when the US population stabilized at around 60 million, most people were spending far more time in VR than in the Real.

After the Collapse, real estate was literally there for the taking, and the empty houses, apartments, and warehouses that survived the fires fell into disrepair or were bulldozed into rubble piles that were swiftly overgrown. Many of the small towns on rural highways like Route 9 simply disappeared, the only signs of their former existence lingering in the form of exit signs, off-ramps, and mounds of overgrowth reminiscent of ancient Mayan ruins.

As we continued South, I started to see small single-family housing settlements, the houses well-spaced and the grounds well-tended. Then, 45 minutes into the trip, we entered New York City, traveling down through the Bronx. Unlike the society at large, the skyline of Manhattan hadn’t really changed much in fifty years, although more than half of the skyscrapers were empty and deteriorating. I saw few other cars on the roads. There were a few drones flying between the buildings, perhaps doing automated deliveries, but otherwise it looked very quiet and peaceful. A few minutes later, we crossed the river on the Kennedy Bridge and pulled to the curb in front of the Brooklyn PD. The station, on Empire Boulevard, was a sprawling four-story complex with a lot of red brick and green tinted glass.

I followed Harwood up the stairs and through the double-swinging doors into the lobby. The smells inside could have felled a moose. I slowed and processed the information that threatened to overload my senses. I could detect:

Pine Sol disinfectant, rising off the linoleum floor

A mélange of human sweat, fear, and deodorant

A hint of urine wafting from behind a bench in the far corner, and

DONUTS from someplace nearby

With the smells categorized and filed, I picked up the pace and caught up with Harwood. He indicated a spot along the wall near one of the benches opposite the reception desk, and told me to stay put while he went to the desk to ask about the whereabouts of my future partner.

I was nervous, and I wasn’t used to the feeling. Relax, I kept telling myself, six months ago you were standing in a packed lecture hall at NYU, defending your thesis. Surely that was tougher than this. But somehow, this meeting had me rattled. Despite my best efforts, my tail was twitching. my right ear was itching like crazy, and my right foot was doing a little drumming action on the hardwood floor as I scratched it. Finally I saw Captain Harwood approaching. Harwood was followed by a young patrolman who looked to be in his mid-twenties. I snapped into my best Sit and waited for developments.

As they approached, I took my first reading of the guy I was expected to work with for the indefinite future. He was of average height, probably 5’8", and at 165 pounds he would weigh less than I do. He had dark hair and a tan complexion; he looked fit, outdoorsy, and self-assured. I could see his eyes widen slightly as he saw me, but he kept a nonchalant expression on his face. I think he was as nervous as I was.

When they reached me, Captain Harwood said, Officer Louis, I’d like to introduce you to Officer Victor Malone. Malone started to lean forward, either to give me a pat or shake a paw, and I was suddenly over my nervousness. I got to my feet quickly, and saw Malone freeze at the sudden movement. I took two steps forward, my head perfectly still; Harwood looked disconcerted, but I ignored him. When I reached Malone, I gave his chest a loud sniff (Axe deodorant, Brut aftershave, bacon breath, and a spot of yolk on his shirt), and then tilted my head back just enough to stare into his eyes. His patina of self-assurance was long gone, and he had no idea of what he was supposed to do next. It was not lost on him that with my shoulders level with his ribcage and my nose at his chin, his throat was just a snap away. He held my gaze, and I saw confusion, then contemplation, and finally recognition.

Harwood had no idea what was happening. He knew what I was capable of, and he knew better than to try and pull me away, so he focused on a sputtering apology. Malone cut him short with a wave, without taking his eyes off mine. Captain, it’s fine. We’re fine. He gave a wry smile. Officer Louis was reminding me that he’s not a pet dog. Good, I thought, he got the message. I slid back into my best parade ground Sit and offered him a paw. He took it in both hands and gave it a solemn shake. Officer Louis, I am looking forward to working with you.

Captain Harwood, still a bit confused, regained his composure. Well, Patrolman, I will leave Officer Louis in your charge. He opened his briefcase and gave Malone a small folder. This folder has his training records and bio, and his local address is listed on the first page. That’s where you’ll pick him up mornings and drop him off at the end of each shift. Malone took the folder and the two men shook hands. Good luck, Officer Malone. I hope it works out for both of you. With that, he turned and headed for the door. If I am any judge of body language, he looked like someone who’d just had a great weight taken from his shoulders.

Chapter 2

2064 Louis

When Harwood was gone, I turned back to Vic, as I now thought of him, to await developments. Let’s go to the car, he said, and take a cruise through the neighborhood. The squad cars are in the parking lot behind the station. He turned toward a swinging door at one end of the duty sergeant’s counter. That half-height door provided access to the rest of the station house.

The duty sergeant, a brassy woman whose name tag read Taggart, was seated just to the left of the small door. She hit a button and the door unlatched with a buzz. There wasn’t room for the two of us side by side, so I let him lead. Taggart rested her chin on her hand and watched me with a slightly awed expression. I would have ignored her, except for the fact that I could now see where the so-delicious donut smells originated. A huge box of glazed donuts and bear-claws was open on her desk. My stomach was rumbling like a freight train, as it had been almost three hours since my usual breakfast time.

Might as well start working the crowd, I thought. I came to a stop; Vic walked on a few paces before turning around to see why I wasn’t close behind him. By then I’d taken a seat facing Taggert. She was short, and with her head in her hand, we were eye to eye. I opened my eyes extra-wide, relaxed my mouth and let my tongue slide out one side, and brought both front paws up in a classic begging move. I gave a