The FBI and DEA agents around the table snorted their opinion of Shajuanna’s motives.
“Those carved-up pups were all Argentinean mastiffs.” The speaker, an FBI agent named Hadley who had headed up the FBI portion of a successful multistate dogfighting ring a year before, reared back in his chair. “If they are so damned valuable then why are they used to smuggle cocaine? I don’t buy a word coming out of her mouth. This is a front. Pure and simple.”
Cole absorbed without comment the pointed look the FBI advisor sent her way. There was no point in challenging him. Everyone at the table was convinced that Shajuanna and Eye-C were using these sports dog activities as a cover for everything from illegal gambling to drug trafficking. They had, as Lattimore now reiterated, the means and opportunity. As for motive? Money.
Lattimore clicked to bring up a chart that represented Eye-C’s revenue flow for the past six years. “As you can see, despite the street creed of a rap sheet, Eye-C’s rap career hasn’t recovered from his forced absence from the charts.”
“Money’s a bitch.” Cole didn’t lift her gaze quick enough to identify the speaker.
“Even money says Shajuanna’s going to file for divorce if he can’t keep her upgraded,” the FBI agent, Hadley, offered in response.
Ignoring the general laughter, Cole scrolled through the pictures she had been given to download on her computer tablet. The photos of Shajuanna were of a tall and beautiful woman dressed in that expensive-to-know pampered way of all celebrities. Okay, so yeah, she looked like a gold digger. That was the life. It didn’t mean she was a gold digger. But what was she?
Every shot of Shajuanna included one or more of the dogs in question. Some were on a leash. In a few she was in the ring, coaching one of her dogs in mid-performance. Finally, there was a close-up of her hugging an Argentine mastiff. The dog was big and muscular and pure white, with small pink-rimmed eyes.
Cole winced at the severely docked ears. And there was Shajuanna, squatting down beside the animal in six-inch platform heels and a very expensive fur and diamonds, planting a big kiss on the dog’s face. She wasn’t just posing. She clearly had affection for her pet. And the dog—Cesar the notation said—seemed as close to smiling as was possible for a dog with a big pink lolling tongue. Happy dog. Not a tortured killer.
Something didn’t add up.
She rechecked the notes she had typed into her notebook so far. Comments by Eye-C about how his wife had made him think differently about dogs. Shajuanna’s statements about her intentions to rehabilitate the public perception of these dogs. She’d even hired a celebrity image consultant who had gotten one of her pets placement in a national commercial. Why would they draw so much public attention if they were doing something illegal?
“Too easy.”
She did not realize she had spoken aloud until silence in the room made her lift her head. Ten pairs of male eyes were staring at her.
Lattimore spoke. “Do you have something else you’d like to contribute, Officer Jamieson?”
Scott, who sat across from her, gave Cole a slight shake of his head in warning. That only spurred her to speak up.
“Why would Eye-C be so obvious? He’s got to know law enforcement’s going to be looking at him for the slightest indication he’s slipped back into something illegal. Why draw attention to himself by breeding dogs known for their popularity in dogfighting if he intended to use them to smuggle drugs? Not smart.”
“Smart?” Hadley’s bark of laughter sounded as rude as it was meant to be. “Smart’s not a category I’d put Collier in. He needs money. His music’s gone bust so he falls back into old habits. Pre-music enterprise, he dealt drugs. Once a slinger always a slinger.”
“But—”
“When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras, Officer Jamieson.” Lattimore gave her a sharp glance to see if she understood his meaning. Don’t look for unlikely possibilities when the probable answer is the obvious one. “Collier’s our prime suspect. His wife is our conduit to him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Cole ignored the smirks exchanged around the table though her face stung. It wasn’t embarrassment, it was anger. They might know what they were doing as far as drugs and task force business went. But she knew dogs and their handlers. On Shajuanna’s side, at least, there was a genuine interest in and affection for her dogs.
“We need eyes and ears on the ground at dog competitions where the wife shows her dogs, something that will give up probable cause to go after them in a more aggressive way. Actually finding puppy drug mules at an event might be too much to hope for. But if any of the animals carried drugs at one time, or was kenneled with those who did, traces of cocaine should remain with them. The vet told us the packets aren’t always leakproof. The potency should leave a permanent trail.”