Lawyers, Dogs, and Money

By Tracy Carter

Veronica possesses a natural affinity for training dogs—and a passion for locating missing people. As "Lawyers, Dogs, and Money" unfolds, Veronica trains peanut allergy alert and prison contraband sniffing dogs—and joins her search and rescue colleague, a Deputy Sheriff for Boulder County, in trying to ascertain the source of threats against Kadri Ilves, a co-worker of Sgt. Donovan's daughter at a high-end import/export business. The woman being targeted is a native of Estonia and has a long history of advocating for social justice causes. As efforts to harm Kadri escalate in an alarming fashion, Veronica's team and Sgt. Donovan desperately attempt to pinpoint the person behind the threats.

Veronica's father assists the investigation by researching Kadri's background, including her work to end racial disparity in prison sentencing, and legal claims she has filed relative to disputed lands in Estonia. Has Kadri put herself in the crosshairs of the California branch of the Russian Mafia? Can Veronica and her canine partner, Leda, save Kadri before events turn deadly?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9798350948592

Tracy Carter

Tracy Carter graduated from the University of Glasgow, Scotland with a Master's degree in History. Her lengthy career as a legal assistant has included stints at international law firms and prosecutors' offices, followed by jobs as the Horse Identifier at two thoroughbred racetracks—all while training dogs in obedience and rally. Tracy's first book is the Gold Medal winner in the 2023 Readers' Favorite International Book Award Contest in the Fiction-Animals genre. She lives near Cleveland, Ohio with her husband and Llewellin Setter, where she is an avid hiker and dedicated college football fan. You can learn more about the Veronica Kildare K-9 Mystery series and Tracy at her website www.tracycarterbooks.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I have said it before and I will say it again: dangling from a rope in midair is not all it is cracked up to be. In fact, it is the complete opposite—especially when that rope is pirouetting and twisting violently from side to side in the wind as if a demented puppet master can’t quite decide whether to smash us face first into a tree or scrape us across the jutting cliff edge getting uncomfortably close on our right-hand side. Muttering under my breath, I look anxiously sideways down the rope hanging below me and see Leda’s neat brown back paws about eighteen inches below my boots. Her head and shoulders are tucked in essentially right between my knees. Leda’s ears are twitching a bit, but she’s not crying or throwing herself around wildly (two things I have personally been considering for the past ten minutes of this buffeting descent by helicopter).

Believe it or not, she stretches out her legs next and curls her front paws around my right boot. Well, okay then—clearly no nerves out of her. Leda has always had a preternatural calm about anything work related, and sailing through the crisp Colorado air in looping spins seems to have had no effect on that trait. Our last encounter with a helicopter included a barrage of gunshots being leveled at us—not all of which missed—while we ran for our lives on the ground. So, my current antipathy toward these flying harbingers of doom is not that surprising. At least not to me.

Leda is my five-year-old Chesapeake Bay Retriever, and a search and rescue standout. We had no choice today regarding our unusual mode of transport. The sheriff of Cavan County, Colorado, urgently requested our help in the search for a missing backcountry hiker, Dylan Rose, who has been out of touch for three days. He is reportedly an experienced hiker but worryingly has not completed the last stage of the hiking plan he filed with the most remote and last chance ranger station at the edge of the vast and brooding range of the Ambush Mountains. This wilderness looks like it sounds, and it is the backcountry of the backcountry—the place only desperate villains, recluses, or hard-core hikers ever venture into. No easy way exists to climb into the last point it is believed the missing man hiked through and time is slipping away quickly.

Leda gained a lot of statewide notoriety after her locate and rescue last autumn of a famous scientist and expert trial witness, which incidentally resulted in murder charges being dropped against an innocent man. She does the hard work, and as I tell my dad all the time, I primarily just try to stay out of her way. Sheriff Burnside called me himself about this search, and I could not refuse. Hence the flying through the air on a rope situation.

Sunlight glints merrily off the underside of the chopper, mocking my dry mouth and uneasy feeling. An abnormally long pine bough snakes its spiky limb toward us as we sail past a little too close for comfort, and I ward it off with my foot. This feels like an alpine version of dodgeball; I would really like to avoid either one of us getting bashed in the face with the ball.

Finally, we have been lowered to within two yards of a minuscule clearing on the diagonal face of a high mountain meadow, and that green grass resembles a cozy blanket ready to cushion us on landing. I sincerely hope that is the case.

Good girl, Leda. Almost there, mama, I say brightly, mainly to keep myself calm. Hovering over the drop zone and pulling the release cord to set us down is the most troublesome part of the whole process, and I can feel my hands sweating, clammy inside my gloves. The air is snappily cold at this altitude. My cheeks sting with the chill, but the rest of me feels flushed. The scar tissue I have unluckily managed to accumulate on both shoulder blades smarts across my back. At long last, Leda’s feet dangle just above the shortish grass as the helicopter hovers above the glade, and I bring my focus to the uncoupling maneuver. Tugging the release cord attached to my harness, I lower Leda to the ground while grasping the swaying line tightly, and then drop thankfully with a grunt to one knee next to her. Straightening up quickly, I disengage Leda’s harness and my own completely from the clutches of the rope and gather her bulk tightly into my arms, pressing my face into her warm brown fur in relief. Freed from its burden, the rescue helicopter bobs higher in the sky like a balloon unmoored from a tether and starts to peel off east as I sketch a farewell wave to the pilot.

That was not all that enjoyable, was it, girl? I remove her dog goggles carefully and rub her head.

Leda gives herself a violent all-over shake, loops at high speed around the clearing to limber up, and skids to a halt in front of me, ready for action.

You’re a brave one. I ruffle her fur, pull out the collapsible water bowl stowed in my backpack, and pour her a drink from her bottle.

She watches me calmly out of her inscrutable yellow eyes as I remove my helmet and pull my tangled auburn braid over my shoulder. Leda is more than just my pet. She is my partner, my balance, and on more than one unpleasant occasion, my savior. I dig around in my stuffed pack and pull out my compass, creased area map, and the large baggie containing the scent article belonging to our target—a Colorado Rockies ball cap with the salt-stain pattern of dried sweat dotting its purple edges. Another chopper can be heard approaching on the same flight path we just used, and I call Leda to the side of the clearing as our search and rescue support person, Sgt. Tim Donovan of the Boulder County Sheriff’s Office, comes sailing through the sky toward us. It is almost more nerve-racking watching his approach than it was living it myself. But he disconnects from his harness safely and strides across the glade to our position with a huge grin on his tanned face, his red crew cut fairly bristling with intensity.

Come on, girl. We’ve got work to do.

Chapter 2

I attach Leda to her long line, present the target’s ball cap for her snuffling examination, and give her the Find command. Her nose tilts up into the air, and she moves out strongly uphill at an angle through the cadre of ponderosa pine lining the edge of the clearing. Tim drops in behind us quietly; he has had loads of practice supporting us on searches. Tim is visible out of the corner of my eye, scanning the edges of our surroundings. It is a huge relief to me to have his steady presence trailing us as we trail the missing hiker. Tim does not miss much, and I can confidently focus on just my dog.

A strengthening breeze carries the acrid odor of smoke on its wings. I glance back at Tim hastily and catch a grimace of concern flash across his normally stoic face. That smoke is the reason Sheriff Burnside implored us to be lowered into this remote area with all haste today. A forest fire has been relentlessly scorching through the Cache of Gems National Forest in an adjacent county for the past five days. Predictions of its future movements (as tenuous as those predictions often are) show this mountainside and its surroundings in the path of the unrelenting fire. It is much less common to have such a raging forest fire in the spring, but over the last decade in the West, the dangerous months of summer have expanded into one continuous season of worry over wildfires for the states hit hard by drought.

The search area was defined for us by the hiker’s last GPS-provided coordinates from his satellite messenger device before contact was lost, and helped narrow down the grid tremendously. Tim and I agreed, after much discussion, to make a blitzkrieg trip into this search zone—until such time as the forest rangers radio us to evacuate via the same choppers that dropped us here twenty minutes ago. I try not to let my anxiety about our looming deadline to withdraw from this mountain range travel up the line to Leda. She is extremely attuned to my thoughts and feelings; it is hard to hide anything from her.

Leda trots off briskly, wagging her tail, however, which buoys my spirits and briefly tamps down my worry about the faint wafts of woodsmoke starting to traverse over the edge of the horizon. She halts momentarily, turning her head from one side to the other while sampling the currents, then steps out confidently directly up the side of Ambush Mountain. I skid across a flat rock while scampering behind her on a vertical slope, but stay upright, and keep clambering uphill at the end of the line.

Good save, Tim murmurs behind me, while sticking to us like glue.

Leda works back and forth sniffing the breezes deeply to stay in the scent cone—the scent which is carried downwind from the starting place, our missing hiker. The cone is narrow at the point of origination and widens with distance. The air currents swooping over the top of this mountain could carry the scent over the top of us, making it harder for her to zero in on it. And I worry that the tinge of smoke tainting the air as she quarters up the slope is making her task more difficult. Leda soon allays my concerns, though, making a curving right turn around a rocky bluff and increasing her pace. I need to add more hills to my daily jogs. This dog can move out when she is on the scent! And she is definitely on the trail now. We just need to find the missing hiker quickly and get the heck out of here.

The air turns heavy and ominous, certainly not crisp and clear any longer. A compact flock of Red-breasted Nuthatches bursts out of the scattered trees above us, bird after bird in rapid-fire succession. They fly off quickly downhill, flashing their white and black striped heads. The neatest thing about these birds is their propensity for smearing the outside and inside of their nest holes with blobs of pine resin, presumably to keep out predators or other birds. Let’s hope the fire does not take out every last conifer they call home in this county. Four alarmed mule deer run by on our perimeter, showing the whites of their eyes and snorting nervously. It is undeniably not a good sign that wild animals are fleeing in the other direction, but I try not to think about the natural disaster most likely taking aim at this wilderness. Leda still seems unaffected, and tacks uphill for another twenty minutes, working back and forth to stay inside the scent cone, as the wind marginally alters its direction. Without warning, Leda pulls me strongly between two gnarled shrubs growing out of a bulging projection of earth perhaps fifteen feet high and fifty feet wide. She presses forward through the foliage, and we arrive at a small opening slicing into the side of the peak. Leda gives her three sharp locate barks just as Tim pushes in beside me and states, That’s an abandoned mine, Veronica.

Chapter 3

I had been so intent on watching Leda that it takes me a moment to spot the dark cavity carved into the rock face, camouflaged by even more straggly bushes and barred simply by two rotting and crisscrossed pieces of timber. That barrier does not look like it would pass an abandoned mine safety inspection.

I see it now, Tim. Leda is telling us that our hiker ventured inside. I’m praying that we do not get a bad result.

Tim is furiously prying the splintered wood sections off the front of the mine with a utility tool he carries in his pack. Stay positive, Veronica. Leda has a great track record finding people alive. Remember Randy Jeffers! This will make it a lot easier than having to crawl through these pieces of timber, Tim states as he pops the first board off the side of the mine entrance.

Excellent point, I reply as I hand Leda a treat and hurry forward to start pulling on the second board while Tim pries the end of it loose. It releases with a snapping crack, and we lean forward into the dark mouth of the cavern simultaneously, shining flashlights pulled from our belt loops. Frankly, this whole scenario is starting to feel like the intro to a low-budget horror movie. The distant sky has begun to flare with accents of orange, and the scent of fire is getting noticeably more pungent. Leda presses up against the back of my leg intently as Tim and I take a few cautious steps into the mine.

Dylan, are you there? Can you hear us? Tim calls out to the hiker loudly and hopefully.

We both wait with bated breath, listening to water drip down the inside walls of the deserted mine. Thank heavens I’m not claustrophobic; it’s tight in here and the cloying scent of decay permeates the air. The walls seem to be perspiring a cold miasma of misfortune and confounded hopes. Suddenly, a return shout echoes from the depths of the mine—not clear, but that is a human voice responding. We look at each other in startled disbelief and lean deeper into the darkness to hear more clearly.

Keep calling out, Dylan, Tim directs as he sweeps his Maglite back and forth around the sides, floor, and roof of the decrepit mine. Rockfall litters part of our path forward, but at least it is passable. A small animal skeleton, a rodent by the look of it, reclines off to the side. His foray into this chasm did not end well.

I’m here. Please help. A return yell pierces the gloom. Be careful. The cave floor drops away not far inside the mine.

Tim and I start scanning the ground in front of us carefully.

Hang on, Dylan. We’re coming, Tim hollers back.

I put Leda in a Down Stay and sidle up next to Tim as we move gingerly another twenty yards into the dim reaches of the mine. He forcefully throws his right arm up to stop me and motions with his flashlight at a gaping pit dead ahead.

I see your light. I’m right here, Dylan’s voice ricochets up out of the Well from Hell.

Tim drops to his knees, edges forward, and peers over the rim with his light.

We’re going to get you out. Sit tight, Tim instructs Dylan as he turns to me. He’s about thirty feet down. I can see him perched on a flat ledge on the left side of the shaft. Grab the rope out of my pack. We’ll also need to find a place to tie it off.

My fingers fumble in my haste as I rummage through Tim’s belongings and drag out his heavy-duty climber’s rope. Let’s make a loop, toss it down, and we can belay it around that large boulder just to your left, I suggest. Then Dylan can get his feet flat to the wall and help us by ‘walking’ up it.

Good thinking, he responds. Just be careful, Veronica. Your dad will never forgive me if I lose you in here! Dylan, are you injured? Can you grab a line if we lower it down?

Dylan yells up to us, I’m good, just stuck here for the last two days. And ready to get out!

Tim finishes creating a large loop in his rope and lowers it down into the inky hole. I grab the other end and wrap it around the base of an immense boulder. That should give us a ton of pulling power. Leda whines anxiously under her breath from her viewpoint along the side wall.

Hush, girl. We’re okay, I reassure her quickly.

Veronica, he’s got the rope around him. Help me start pulling. Tim sets his light down on the side of the tunnel. We arrange the line around the back of the humongous boulder, using the rock as a cog to reel in the rope, and start dragging backward with our combined might. I need to start lifting more weights for exercise; I feel the pull in my biceps and sweat beading my forehead even in this chilly, dank setting.

It’s working. I’m coming up, Dylan shouts out in excitement. One last heave and his head sticks up above the lip of the chute.

Brace your feet on the boulder and hang on, V. I’m going to pull him up and over. And like a charm, Tim does just that. The three of us lie panting on the ground for a moment before Tim and I scramble to our feet and hurry to check on our found hiker. This was a record time, even for Leda. Locate and drag the missing person out of a bottomless pit in less than an hour. We support him between the two of us as we stagger back outside into the light. Leda leaps up at my call and hastily escorts her humans away from that scary spot.

Chapter 4

"A re you hurt anywhere?" Tim questions the other man as I remove a water bottle and protein bar from my backpack and carry them over to the hiker.

He sits down blinking at the shock of the abrupt daylight and shakes his head in response to Tim’s inquiry. Tim checks his pulse as Dylan guzzles water greedily. Leda pushes up against my hand with a worried furrow creasing her brow, causing me to scan the heavens swiftly. Insidious haze filters in, clouding the atmosphere, and the sun overhead has dimmed as if velvet curtains have been pulled dramatically across a picture window. Just then, Tim’s radio crackles on his belt. Jake Brown, the coordinator of the wildland firefighter team choppers that deposited us here, is talking quickly and urgently.

We need to get you out, Sergeant. The wind has begun shifting erratically, and the window has closed on your search, I’m afraid. What is your status?

We read you, Command. One missing hiker found alive and well. Can you still collect us where you dropped us off?

Great news! Yes, we can. What is your ETA to get back to the clearing? Jake’s voice reveals his elation that our long-shot rapid search mission has actually paid off. At least one thing is going right for him today.

Give us twenty-five minutes. We’ll haul ass down there, Tim replies while lifting the hiker to his feet.

Dylan’s face is grimy and he looks fatigued, but his bright white smile flashes as he signals us he is ready to move. And surprisingly, he keeps up relatively well as we hurry downhill toward the pick-up point—one advantage to our target person being a dedicated athlete. Leda surges ahead of us, trying to keep the pack of humans moving. Every gust of wind carries the telltale reek of smoldering foliage, and we are nearly jogging as we burst out into the designated rescue zone. Tim calls in to the fire command center to let the pilots know we are ready and to ask them to have an extra harness prepared to lower for Dylan. They arrive forthwith, and I am thrilled to see the helicopters this time.

The crew expertly drops the lines while the birds hover overhead, and we manage to get Leda, Dylan, and ourselves clipped in and reeled up in short order, via the hoist systems operated adroitly by the helicopters’ crew members. Apparently, I just need an encroaching forest fire to make me think of helicopters more favorably. As we pass around the perimeter of the previously burned, and still glowering, area in the adjoining national forest, scorched trees are visible for miles, lurching forlornly toward the sky or listing toward the ground, grim charcoal shadows of their former selves. The helicopters bear us a safe distance away from the advancing fire and set down at the Cavan County Safety Center. Sheriff Burnside comes dashing out of the building, clapping one hand to his cowboy hat as he nears the turbulent air chopped up by our descent. His impressive white ponytail flutters in the air behind him, a remnant of his hippie days growing up near Berkeley, California. His constituents immensely admire his diligent work in keeping their county safe and have no concerns about his age or his hairstyle eccentricities.

Veronica and Leda. The dynamic duo strikes again, he greets us joyfully while helping Dylan steady himself as he crawls out of the helicopter. Sheriff Burnside escorts us inside after we offer our last words of gratitude to the helicopter pilots before they fly off to assist with the firefighting operation.

Leda paces next to me happily, relishing my praise and light thumps on her shoulders and haunches. A fresh-faced female medic, sporting a blonde pixie cut highlighted by a hot pink streak at the temple, greets Dylan at the door, gets him into a chair, and starts assessing his physical condition. Leda drinks thirstily from her water bowl as soon as it hits the floor. Once the young but clearly very competent medic has given the thumbs up on Dylan, the sheriff sits down next to him. While offering him a scrumptious-looking Granny Smith apple, he begins questioning the recovered hiker. Good, I want to know how he fell into that hole myself.

We’re sure glad to get you out of there safe, son. I heard the pilots on the radio say you were recovered from down a mineshaft. How the hell did that happen? You’re lucky that Veronica and Leda were willing to drop onto that mountain at short notice and search for you despite the conditions. They are the best and most famous search team in the state of Colorado. Tim included, of course.

I smile at Dylan and point down at the reclining Leda while mouthing the words, It’s all her to him. I am also chuckling internally because, as a highly trained field assistant, Tim is a huge part of our team. On any given search, he might be responsible for: navigation, first aid, the preservation of a potential crime scene, coordination among a myriad of agencies, writing up our reports, and the all-important protection against bears. Although unless you inadvertently get between a mama black bear and her cubs, members of that species in general are not overly interested in being close to humans, or large dogs! Tim grins over at me wryly, not offended in the least by the sheriff adding his name as an afterthought.

In between bites of the crisp apple, Dylan recounts his harrowing tale to us. "As you know, I planned to hike that back section of the Ambush Mountains for a week, as per the hiking plan I filed with the rangers. I am a PhD candidate in mining engineering at Colorado School of Mines, and I recently ran across an ancient book at the university which collated anecdotal evidence and historical mining claims to create a map of smaller deserted silver mines in northwest and central Colorado. The era of the silver mining boom in this state was from 1870 to 1893, and about 23,000 inactive or abandoned mines endure, forgotten and often hidden away in what is now wilderness. A portion of my doctoral thesis covers the abandonment and securing of these obsolete mines, so I decided to check out two or three from the old map during my hike in this region. The first two presented no problems, and I took a bunch of impressive photos. But the third one nearly killed me.

"I can’t believe I made such a rookie mistake! I skidded on a patch of muck on that cave floor, dropped my flashlight, and fell right into the pit while I was trying to find it in the dark. As I fell, I scraped my satellite messenger device off my belt, and it dropped who knows how many feet to the base of that shaft. I’m pretty sure I heard it hit water at the bottom. It’s just lucky I landed on a fragment of a ledge; otherwise, I would have been a goner. It was a long two days waiting on that rock shelf and hoping against hope that rescue would come. No way could I climb out. Believe me, I tried. How did you find me anyway?"

The rest of us laugh and look at the dozing dog, who is flat out on her side now, with her paws twitching in her sleep.

Tim replies, Well, it was 99 percent Leda the Wonder Dog. But that satellite messenger device you were wearing was crucial. It transmitted your last known GPS coordinates on your online hiking map before you apparently chucked it down a 300-foot-deep hole. Consequently, no data was received for the last two days, but at least we had a place to start looking for you. That is as much as the brown dog needed. Luckily, you were fairly close to the last known coordinates, and Leda trailed you in double-quick time. What a relief to get you out unscathed!

I’m as relieved as you are, Dylan replies fervently. I cannot thank you enough—especially Leda. I read the stories about how she found that missing scientist last October in the Roosevelt National Forest. Thank you for calling her in, Sheriff Burnside. I would have been less worried waiting for rescue if I knew Leda was coming.

Hearing her name, Leda gets up, gives a languorous stretch, and leans against Dylan’s leg so he can pet her. It is awesome to watch her become more social as she gets farther away from her dark days as an abused and neglected dog slated for euthanasia the same day I adopted her.

Shortly thereafter, Tim and I say our goodbyes to Dylan and the sheriff and gather up our belongings in preparation for our drive back to Boulder.

Another satisfied customer, Veronica. Time to hit the road for home, Tim says as he starts up his SUV.

That was one for the annals, for sure. Hey, I meant to ask you, how are the girls doing with their philanthropy project for school? I ask.

It’s going great. The four of them went to the animal shelter two weeks ago and started taking cute or cleverly costumed photos of the shelter pets to put on social media. The idea was to increase views and likes for the adoptable animals and encourage more adoptions. My favorite picture they snapped was Diego, the Dachshund puppy, with a little sailor’s hat on. He’s already gotten a wonderful home, as have thirty-five others—including one calico cat who has gone to a nursing home as their new resident pet. The shelter is thrilled, and I think they’re hoping the school will partner with them annually and make this an ongoing philanthropy. Sylvia and I are simply relieved they haven’t asked to bring any more puppies home, after you found Petra for them on that Pointer rescue website. Tim chuckles.

Those daughters of yours are so creative; I knew their photos would be a big hit, I respond before smiling back at him wearily and then promptly fall asleep in the passenger seat.

Chapter 5

Tim deposits Leda, me, and our belongings at my dog training facility, Dogged Pursuit K-9, on the outskirts of Boulder, and heads home to his wife and two sets of teenage twin daughters. (You heard that right. It can be bedlam in the Donovan house.) We climb up the stairs to my home, a converted former day spa with an exemplary view of the Flatirons. My father, Bob, is sitting in a recliner reading a novel, a pool of lamplight illuminating his dark hair. His faithful Golden Retriever, Ripley, leaps up from his favorite pose with his chin on top of Dad’s feet and jogs over to greet Leda.

Hi, honey. Congratulations to you and Leda. Tim called and filled me in on the search. What an amazing job to find that hiker alive and basically unharmed. I confess I was worried about you three heading into the vicinity of that fire. I just heard on the TV that they finally have it 40 percent contained. Of course, I did roughly keep track of your location from here by means of the map data sent over by your satellite messenger device.

Ever since the events of last fall, when a gang of ruthless kidnappers was hunting Leda, Dr. Randy Jeffers, and me through rugged Roosevelt National Forest, Dad has insisted on including a satellite messenger tracking device with the other gear he has integrated into my ever-expanding backpack. It is nifty, to be fair, and eases his mind when I am in the backcountry doing search and rescue missions. Tracking points are sent via private satellite to a website and then displayed on a map for him to follow along. We can even send and receive text messages. That would have come in very handy six months ago. I have drawn the line at taking it with me when I run errands around town, however.

That’s wonderful news about the partial containment. Finally, the firefighters are making progress. The fire command and Sheriff Burnside took extensive precautions to keep us safe, and Leda was amazing. It was like she knew we had to get it done fast. We even did well with the helicopter drop in and load out. Still not my favorite thing in the world, but we did it, I respond with a grin as I pat a wriggling Ripley. He pants gently up at me, ecstatic to have more company.

Dad looks over at me proudly. "I had total confidence in you. By the way, the Duncans sent you an e-mail. Gemma is doing an awesome job in Florida checking their orange groves for citrus greening disease. She’s working so efficiently that their son has even been able to use her to scan the groves