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to concentrate on searching the Suburban. I heard one of them report to Guarini: “Nothing.”
    “Blackie must’ve been running low on cash,” Favuzza said.
    “Don’t take nothing for granted,” Guarini said. “You get me a name. You got that? Could’ve been Blackie. Could’ve been someone else. This is a message to me, and I want to know who the fuck sent it. Get me that name.”
    When I’d finally transferred both dogs to my Bronco, I did exactly what Guarini had ordered. I got into my car and drove home. When I got there, instead of going next door to ring Lieutenant Kevin Dennehy’s bell, I led Rowdy and Kimi directly to our own house. Once inside, I thought about calling Kevin. I didn’t do it. In one respect, I did, however, disobey Enzio Guarini: I remembered what had happened; I did not forget the sight of Joey Cortiniglia’s body. I told myself that my mind, at least, was free.
     

CHAPTER 5
     
    Sex and death. About a hundred and thirty-three days before Joey Cortiniglia took a fatal bullet in the brain, Rowdy had reveled in the delusion that he’d died and gone to heaven, which is to say that he’d been bred to CH Jazzland’s Embraceable You. Emma, as she was called, had flown from the state of Washington for the carefully planned tryst. In case you are unfamiliar with the reproductive rites of the Exalted Order of the Purebred Pooch, I should mention that creating new lives from Rowdy and Emma had undoubtedly involved more forethought than had gone into eradicating life from Joey Cortiniglia. Here in dogs, the breeder of a litter is the owner of the bitch—a technical term, not a slur, and certainly not a derogation of Emma, who even before finishing her championship had gone Reserve Winners Bitch—technical term, see?—at the Alaskan Malamute National Specialty, an honor roughly translatable from dogspeak to Standard English as Next to the Top Female Who Hasn’t Finished Her Championship as Judged at the Annual Ritual Gathering of Persons Infatuated with Alaskan Malamutes. In other words, Emma had been singled out as excellent against heavy national competition. Furthermore, after finishing, she’d won an Award of Merit at the National, too.
    Rowdy, too, had finished his championship and had acquired an impressive list of titles after his name for achievements in... well, if I start on Rowdy, I’ll never get back to Joey Cortiniglia. Emma’s owner, Cindy Neely, and I had exchanged and pored over pedigrees and health information. Emma and Rowdy were free of hip dysplasia, eye disease, hypothyroidism, and other afflictions. As to safe sex, neither was infected with brucellosis. Temperament? Each was as sweet as the other. My own Kimi, I might mention, had a streak of single-minded intensity that in my opinion made her an iffy candidate for breeding. The trait suited me perfectly. I adored Kimi for it. I drew on her strength. But she was just too much dog for most people, even for most malamute people. So, I didn’t want to breed her.
    As to Joey’s murder, what forethought had gone into that? Any? Grab a gun. Pull the trigger. Well, a bit more. Joey’s killer had also been armed with bones for my dogs. Big deal.
    One final point of comparison. Cindy Neely and I had signed a stud contract that spelled out the terms of the breeding. Had Joey’s killer also had a contract? My contract had given me a choice of a stud fee for Rowdy’s services or a puppy in lieu of cash. I’d wanted a puppy. But Rowdy, Kimi, Tracker, and I live on the first floor of my three-story house. The bank and I own the place, and without the rents from the two apartments, the bank would soon own the whole thing. The yard is fenced, but it’s small; near Harvard Square, I’m lucky to have a yard at all. It would be impossible for me to toss a third malamute into my existing pack because Rowdy wouldn’t accept another male, and Kimi wouldn’t tolerate another female. I had no room for an outdoor kennel. Still,