All characters named in this chapter were created by Janet Evanovich, Except Helen a.k.a. Elena created by AutumnDreaming and Charlie, created by Charles Martin in the novel "When Crickets Cry".

Two days later, my cell phone buzzed. It was Morelli, inviting me to a meeting at the station.

The invitation came in the form of a suggestion that I should bring in an FTA around 10:30 a.m. That would give me a valid excuse for being in the vicinity.

When I arrived, Trenton's former police chief, Joe Juniak, ushered me into the meeting, and I recognized the speaker as being the US Treasury agent Stephanie had worked with some time ago. When he finished, newly promoted Narcotics Detective Robin Russell, one of the few females at Trenton PD, gave an update on efforts being made to train one of the department's K-9's, a German Shepherd named Achilles. He was being trained to sniff out the new mix and was expected to be out on the street by the end of the week. Any tips were to be handed off to Russell.

I was sitting in an SUV with Tank and Lester six hours later, waiting for an armed and dangerous FTA, wanted for robbery, assault, and attempted murder, to visit the gym on Stark Street. I'd paid his on-again, off-again girlfriend to rat him out, and she'd called about 30 minutes ago.

My pager went off and displayed the message, "NJSP K-9 UNIT FT DIX JBTB1". Translation: The New Jersey State Police Canine Unit at Fort Dix Just Bit the Big One." Tank looked at his read out and looked over at me.

"Morelli?"

I shook my head. "I don't think so. The timing is off. Morelli would have known about the dog training days ago. It was just announced to the other officers this morning at the meeting."

"PD's got a mole?" he asked, scratching his head.

I turned back to Tank. "I don't think so. I have a bad feeling."

I started the SUV and dialed the control room, speaking into my hands-free. "Make sure Steph and Elena don't leave the Rangeman building. Stun them and cuff them if you have to. We're going on-scene."

We drove 25 minutes to the Canine Unit Training Center in Wrightstown, just outside Fort Dix, and parked three blocks away, watching the ambulance and rescue crews working on the back side of the building. It looked like a bomb had ripped away the back of the training compound, the area most likely to have held the dogs.

Morelli had picked us up on the highway and pulled in beside us. We all got out and watched.

"You tell Terry about this?" I asked.

"Nope." He watched the fire department putting out a smoldering pile of rubble that had landed about 25 feet from the structure.

Morelli was carrying a police walkie-talkie that was buzzing with communication. They had at least three people confirmed dead, and they were making guesses as to how many more based on partial remains. They weren't concerned about the count on the dogs just yet, but none were reported alive. Injured officers from other parts of the building were being treated by the ambulance, most being transported in police cars to the hospital afterwards.

"I don't suppose it would be much of a stretch for someone to figure drug-sniffing dogs were going to be used sooner or later," Lester said.

"It doesn't feel right," I said again. "It happened too fast and the target was too specific."

When it appeared the survivors had all been cleared and the fires were out, Morelli and I walked over to the scene and identified ourselves. Morelli began assisting the other detectives, and I followed as an observer, staying out of the way.

Rescue workers and firemen were trying to clear cinder blocks and rubble from a stairwell that lead to the lower level. We finally made it past the debris and down the corridor leading to the K-9 training facility. The doors had been blown out of the frames and glass was everywhere; on the floor, embedded in the walls and ceiling, and as sparkling dust blowing around in the air we were breathing. We had to back out and put on dust masks before we went any further.

It was gruesome inside the pens. Morelli had a real soft spot for dogs, and I could see him fighting to keep from tearing up. No one spoke, just pointed and gestured. The stench of blood and burnt hair was sickening. One of the photographers came down first and took pictures. Then we lifted some of the debris off the crushed pens, trying to free the bodies. It was hard to say if the blast itself or the falling structure had done the most damage. The going was slow. Tank and Lester served as relief for some of the rescue workers up top, and Morelli and I worked as a team bringing up body bags.

We were almost done, we thought, when we removed a large section of sheet rock and heard a low growling. We froze and listened. Behind the broken section of wall, we found an injured dog. The German Shepherd was wearing a Kevlar vest with the name Achilles on it.

"You're shitting me," I breathed.

"We have a big problem," Morelli said to me, slowly and calmly, trying not to disturb the dog.

"I see that," I agreed, backing up very slowly, my hand on my gun.

"We need that dog, Manoso," he whispered, warning me against shooting him.

"If he comes for me, he's a dead dog," I said, making my intentions clear.

Achilles was bleeding from a large gash on his head. One ear was almost severed, and he still had glass sticking out from the wound. He had taken a lot of glass on one side, and his fur was matted with blood and ooze. He was lying on the side that hadn't taken glass. He wasn't acting right, like he was having trouble seeing. He probably had one hell of a concussion, and I wasn't even sure if he could hear. His eardrums were probably ringing like mad, if he could still hear at all.

We backed out slowly. There was no way to shut the dog in, and no way to bring him out as he was. We called for the veterinarian who was on site, and he cautiously followed us down. He had declined to bring a tranquilizer gun with him because it could kill the dog if he had a severe concussion.

"We need that dog," Morelli said again. "He's the only one we have trained to sniff out Jezebel's Rope."

"Well, you'll have to train a new dog," the vet said. "This one won't be back on the streets for weeks or months, if ever."

"We don't have time, and we don't have any more samples to train with," Morelli argued.

"Don't tell me," I moaned. "It was all in there?"

"Yep," he said. "All of it."

"What about the lab?"

"They had what little they needed, but it's not enough to train with," he said.

"So, unless we find more, this dog's the only one who can sniff it out?" I asked.

"He's it," Morelli said. "We have to get that dog."

I knew that most drug-sniffing dogs only responded to their handler, and many are trained to be hostile to all other people so that they can't be called off or used by criminals in the field.

"Where's his handler?" I asked.

"There," Morelli pointed to one of the last body bags we had brought up.

"Great."

I watched Morelli pace back and forth a little, trying to think of a solution. There is always a solution. We couldn't drug the dog, and we couldn't man-handle the dog. Hell, we couldn't even approach the dog.

"Hold it," I said, the thought flashing through my mind like a shot. "I have a suggestion, but I don't think you're going to like it."

"Try me," Morelli pressed.

"I have an employee rumored to have a way with animals. She might be able to help us out, if she's willing. Should I call her?"

"Her?" Morelli stared at me in stunned silence for a beat. "Who?"

"Her name is Elena. She's Rangeman's skip tracer. Been with us a few months now."

"Does Steph know?" He asked.

"Know what?" I asked, giving him a warning look. He didn't ask the next question that had surfaced in his mind, so I gave him the answer. "Elena is Steph's partner…and her new roommate."

"Steph's not living with you?" he asked, surprised. Too pleasantly surprised as far as I was concerned.

"No, she never was." I owed it to Steph to tell him the truth. "That doesn't mean what you hope it means, either." I owed it to myself to assure him of that. "So, should I call Elena?"

Morelli consulted with the vet and the State Police Chief who was in charge of the site. Finally, he came back over to me with their consent.

Elena and Steph arrived with Hal. Hal hovered over Steph as I introduced Morelli and Elena. Elena had to fill out several forms that said she was volunteering her services and wouldn't sue if she was injured. Then the three of us cautiously descended the stairs, walked slowly down the corridor, and listened at the door to the room where we had left Achilles. He was still lying where we had found him, and he was still breathing.

Elena took a long look, and then pointed for us to go back up.

"Okay, here's the deal," she told us, taking charge of the situation. "I need a large dog crate set up right at the top of the stairs. I need the door open and ready for us. When I bring him up, I may have difficulty getting him in the cage." She paused, looking around for effect. "Do not help me," she said slowly and clearly. "He's a big dog, and he's heavy, and I'm going to slip on the glass, and I might even drop him or fall." She looked around again, looking us each in the eye. "Do not help me. Do not approach. Don't do anything at all until I have him locked in the cage."

She walked over to the vet. "I need some towels and peroxide so I can clean him up before I put him in the crate."

"You'll be lucky to make it up here with him at all. He's not going to let you clean him up," he said, almost laughing at her.

"If it will help him to be more comfortable, I will clean him up," she said with every confidence. She gave him a defiant look, one I had become accustomed to seeing, and grabbed two bottles of peroxide and a stack of clean towels from his truck. "I get the feeling you won't be helping him out anytime soon," she said in a huff.

She walked back to the entrance, and I put my hand on her back. "Calm down," I said, rubbing her back. "Take a deep breath." She did, and then popped her neck and tried to release as much tension as she could. "I'll go with you," I said, but she shook her head.

"You can't go," she said firmly. "Just me."

"If I hear anything," I said, intending to blow that dog away if he even thought about tearing into her.

"You won't do anything," she said firmly. "I've got this." She looked me squarely in the eyes.

"Be careful," I told her.

"I know what I'm doing." She walked slowly down the stairs. Turning at the bottom, she took one of the towels and started wiping the glass from the stairs. She swept a clear trail in the glass all the way into the room, and disappeared from my sight. She peeked back out, and pointed for me to get back. She didn't want Achilles to see anyone until she had him locked up.

It was hell waiting. I was as close as I could get. My Glock was ready in my hand. I closed my eyes and listened, motioning for silence. I didn't hear anything for a few minutes. Then I heard growling. Low sustained growling. Then I heard singing. Elena was singing softly, and I could hear glass sliding softly every so often. She wasn't stepping on the glass. She was pushing the glass out of the way, probably with one of the towels. It sounded like she was crawling towards the dog.

The low growling was constant, but it didn't get any louder and he didn't bark any warnings.

"She's almost there," I whispered to Morelli.

I could hear her saying his name, Achilles, and telling him what a good boy he was and that she was there to help him. She was shooshing him and whispering encouragement to him, and never stopped talking to him. The growling continued. I could sense she was getting closer.

This trained and wounded attack dog could inflict a lethal bite in less than a second. I was really regretting calling Elena. I should have just shot the damn dog and been done with it. Damn Morelli and his soft spot for dogs. That's why he had been saddled with that worthless, orange garbage-disposal, Bob. Other than leaving unspeakable messes on Joyce Barnhardt's lawn and keeping Steph company, Bob was absolutely worthless.

My thighs were cramping after about twenty-five minutes of crouching by the doorway, listening with every nerve on stand-by as Elena cleaned Achilles' wounds. He whined, whimpered, growled, cried, and even barked a few times, but she kept talking to him the whole time, even reprimanding him a few times, which I thought took serious guts. She took command of him, just like she had taken command of the situation. It wasn't ego, it was all heart. She just wanted to help that stupid dog, and nothing short of physical force was going to stop her.

I heard the rip of velcro as she tried to remove his Kevlar vest. He complained loudly as she worked to free his legs. It was ten more minutes before I heard her singing, "We're coming out now, everyone get out of the way. I don't want to see you," over and over to the same tune she'd been singing earlier. When she was sure we'd heard her, she switched back to the original encouraging words she had been saying to Achilles when she'd entered.

I could hear the dog's whining and groaning change to alarm when he saw the dog crate. But she immediately changed her tune and verbally expressed her disappointment in him. There was an escalation in the volume of their exchanges as Achilles tried to get away. She held him tight and continued expressing her disappointment very loudly. Then she commanded him to stop. It was as simple as that. She insisted that he stop, and we didn't hear anything else but her struggling with him up the stairs and his whining due to the pain.

I didn't wait for her to give the all clear. The second I hear the latch shut on the crate, I came around the corner and pulled her up the remaining stairs to the light. Her hands and arms were bloody, but she didn't look like she was bitten or cut. She wiped her hands on the damp towel I handed her.

She didn't look back as the vet lead the men pulling the crate from the hole. Achilles barked and growled viciously, trying to bite off any fingers that got close to the holes of the crate.

"Morelli," she called. He walked quickly over and checked her hands, just as I had done. "He's not hurt that bad. His legs aren't broken, and he's able to hear some. But I think he's lost vision in one eye, and he's confused and scared right now. Mostly he's in shock."

"There's no way they're going to allow him in the field anytime soon, and probably never if he's lost an eye and hearing." Morelli had already made up his mind. "I'll try to get him released, if possible, to my care, but it won't be easy."

"Will they put him down?" Elena asked, fearing that was exactly what the assessment would be.

"Not if I have anything to say about it," Morelli assured her.

He took a long look at Steph, and then followed the vet over to his vehicle where an intense negotiation was soon taking place.

"I wonder if he'll get along with Bob," Steph frowned, understandably worried, as we drove away.

"Bob will ruin what was one of New Jersey's finest in a matter of weeks," I told her. "Once he was learning how to bring down Trenton's most dangerous drug cartels. Now all he'll be bring down are Morelli's dining room curtains."

The girls were laughing in the back seat of the SUV. It was a tension-breaker.

"We were all bad asses once," Tank lamented with a shake of his head. I knew what he meant. Bad asses drive around strapped with guns and knives looking for trouble. But here we were, playing chauffeur to a couple giggling girls, rescuing dogs, and playing matchmaker. Hell, I was even contemplating marriage.

I almost smiled.

To be continued...