Rachel Alexander 05 - The Wrong Dog

identical to the original and, in this case, each other?
    If Mel had had Sugar with him the night I’d run into him on Horatio Street, that would explain why she had gotten friendly once the door was open. I wasn’t a stranger. We’d met before.
    I glanced around the apartment again. There were no photographs anywhere, not on the walls, none on the dresser or the nightstand.
    If Mel lived here, around the corner from where I ran into him, might I have just met him by accident?
    No way. There were far too many “accidents” in this case already. I had to assume that the meeting was intentional, which meant that one way or another someone knew where I was headed, someone who’d called Mel and told him to show up there, too, see what the hell I was up to, find out what I knew.
    I wondered if he’d thought it was funny, bringing Sugar along, knowing I’d think she was Bianca, one more clone joke to add to the ana, but not one for the next veterinary conference, a very private joke this time.
    I got up and walked back the way I’d come in, locking the door. Then I went straight for Mel’s bathroom, opening the mirrored cabinet and checking out the medications, looking for anticonvulsants in particular. After that, while the dogs continued to play, I began to look for papers, anything that would tell me who this man was and how and why he had gotten connected to Sophie. And to me.

Chapter 29
    I Probably Shouldn't Have Let Him Do That

    I knew I shouldn’t take Sugar with me when I left. I had no right to do that. Hell, I had no right to be in Mel’s apartment, and worse, to go pawing through his things, make a list of the numbers he posted by his kitchen phone, write down the addresses that went with those names and numbers from the address book I found in his nightstand.
    But I felt awful about leaving her alone, even after walking and feeding her. I stayed while she ate her food, wolfing it in great gulps as if she was starving, as if she didn’t know where her next meal would be coming from. Watching her eat, I wondered when she’d eaten last. Unless Mel had hired the services of a dog walker, it couldn’t have been today. I checked my watch. She’d be fine for eight hours, even nine. I’d just have to make sure I got back here before going to bed and give her another walk.
    I was wondering if I should give her some more food before I left when I heard it. Sugar and Dash heard it, too, someone coming up those creaky, worn-out stairs. I couldn’t leave. There was no place to go. I grabbed Dashiell as he headed for the door, pulling him by his collar. I headed for the bathroom, yanking him backward until he was inside and closing the door. Then, because I had no idea who was coming or what they were after, I signaled him to jump into the tub, followed him in, and pulled the shower curtain closed around us. Then, trying to slow my breathing, I waited.
    I heard Sugar barking. Once, and once again. That meant it was someone she knew. Sure enough, I heard a key in the lock, then the doorknob turning. Then I heard his voice, talking to her. Or perhaps to himself, asking where the damn leash was, sounding annoyed that he couldn’t find it. Or perhaps it was something else. Perhaps he was still annoyed that his bullet had hit the wrong target, that he’d failed to kill me but had killed Mel instead, and that before getting the chance to try again, Dashiell had chased him out of Sophie’s apartment.
    There was a rumble coming from Dash’s throat. Still holding his collar, I hoped I was feeling it, not hearing it. Joe probably still had his gun with him and I didn’t have mine. No matter how he felt, Dashiell had to shut up, and fast. I pulled his chin up so that he had no choice, he’d be looking me right in the eye. Then, with my other hand, because if I could hear Joe, he could surely hear me, I put my hand up like a stop sign and moved it from side to side, our version of that’ll do, the command that calls the Border collie off the sheep. I used it mostly when we were playing and he was being obsessive, to let him know I was quitting and he had to, too. His brow wrinkled, but he obeyed. Keeping my hand in his collar, I could feel that the rumbling had stopped.
    I could hear Sugar’s nails as she padded around the loft, following Joe.
    “Here’s the damn thing,” he said: “I thought I was going to have to use a rope.”
    He must have put the leash on her and then dropped the handle because I