“Yes?”
I said, “Sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for P. F. Sanchez.”
“That’s me. Who are you?”
“Kinsey Millhone,” I said. My impulse was to shake his hand, but that would have necessitated his opening the screen and I could tell he was already wondering if I was selling soap products door-to-door, while I was wondering if he was married. The Polk and the Haines hadn’t mentioned a spouse, and he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. The cornflower blue of his eyes was the same shade as Henry’s.
“Mind if I ask what the P. F. stands for?”
“Placido Flannagan. People call me Flannagan, or sometimes Flan,” he said. “I have an uncle and two cousins named Placido, so I use my middle name.”
“So you’re Harry Flannagan’s, what, great-grandson?”
“Let me guess. You’re an amateur genealogist. That’s usually the story I get when a stranger asks about Harry.”
“Actually, I’m a private detective.”
He scratched his chin. “That’s a new one. What brings you to my door?”
“I found your telephone number on an ID tag, buried with a dog. I was curious about the circumstances. In case you’re wondering, you’re listed in Peephole in two crisscross directories, which is how I came up with your address.”
“A dog.”
“A dead one.”
His mouth pulled down with skepticism. “Woofer’s the only pooch I own and you’re looking at him. He may be old, but as nearly as I can tell, he’s not dead yet. You sure about this?”
“Pretty sure,” I said. “The dog’s name was Ulf.”
He stood stock still for a moment and then squinted at me. “What did you say your name was?”
“Kinsey.”
He opened the door. “You better come in.”
I entered the house, stepping directly into the main room with Woofer at my heels. The dog padded the perimeter with his nose down, following the scent of an unseen creature, very possibly himself. The place was old. The thick walls were stucco and the ceiling was exposed timber, dark with age. The fireplace itself was a half-round of stucco tucked into one corner. The mantel was a curve of raw wood with a pair of antlers mounted above it. The furniture was Victorian, four chairs and two sofas lined up against the walls as though the center had been cleared for dancing. Three dingy rag rugs had been tossed on the floor and Woofer chose the biggest for the next phase of his nap. The room smelled like damp ash, the lingering scent of last winter’s fires.
Flannagan indicated that I should sit and I settled in a chair with an ancient black horsehair seat. Given my trivial mental processes, I was momentarily distracted by the notion of horsehair, wondering if the chair was literally upholstered in an equine hide. Couldn’t be done in this day and age, but our forebears weren’t troubled by the sorts of sentiments we harbor today, believing animals were intended for Man’s use. Even in death, nothing went to waste.
Flannagan sat down to my right on a rose-colored velvet settee with an ornate dark mahogany trim. The nap had worn thin in places, but the tufting was still crisp and all the buttons were in place. He rested his elbows on his knees, his gnarly fingers loosely laced together. “What’s your interest in Ulf? He’s been gone the better part of twenty years.”
“I know. If my information’s correct, he was buried in Horton Ravine in July of 1967.”
Flannagan was shaking his head. “That’s not possible. You’re mistaken.”
“According to the best guess, he was a German shepherd.” I reached into my jacket pocket and removed the blue leather collar with the tag attached. I handed it to him. He studied the disk, front and back, and then ran his thumb across the dog’s name.
“Shit.”
“I take it you know the dog.”
“He belonged to my son. Liam died in a motorcycle accident in 1964. Eighteen years old. He laid his Harley down in a patch of gravel on the 101 and skidded into the path of an oncoming car.”
I watched him without a word, letting him tell it his way.
He tilted his head this way and that to loosen tension, which created muffled pops. His blue eyes met mine. “Ulf wasn’t a shepherd. He was a wolfdog. You know anything about the breed?”
“Wolfdogs? No clue.”
“Ulf was what they call a high-content hybrid, meaning genetically he was more Canis lupus than Canis lupus familiaris. A hybrid is usually the result of a female wolf mated to a male domestic dog. I’m generalizing here, but as a rule, they don’t make good pets. They’re too high-spirited and demanding. Smart as all get-out, but they’re difficult to housebreak. Chain ’em up in the yard and they go berserk.”