Ricci and Glenn found the breeder waiting at his door when they drove up at nine o’clock. As they exited their car, Ricci turned on his cellular and saw a half dozen new voice messages for him. The log showed four with Thibodeau’s office number. The two most recent ones had come from a phone with Caller ID blocking—Breen at Gordian’s house, he would have bet. Ricci wasn’t prepared to return any of them. The Parkville Vet Clinic didn’t open till ten, but he figured the cops outside would have awakened by now. Or if they hadn’t, they’d have been found by their fellow police checking up to see why they hadn’t responded to routine radio checks. Erickson would know the clinic had been broken into, recognize it was a slick job, smell right away it was tied to the kidnapping. But Ricci had left nothing out of place, and that would throw some question marks into his head. Anything Erickson thought couldn’t be more than be a guess. And whoever made Julia disappear would probably top his suspect list. Would UpLink be on it? Not as an organization. Ricci thought he might rate on his own, though. Maybe high enough for Erickson to conduct some inquiries before eliminating him . . . even if that other detective, Brewer, was too afraid of getting jammed to admit he’d given him a peek at that crime scene diagram. Erickson nosing around UpLink could be trouble, and Ricci couldn’t afford to worry about it until later.

He turned off the phone, snapped it back into his belt clip, and a moment later joined Glenn at the door.

“Hi, I’m John Anagkazo.” The breeder smiled through a thick beard, putting out his hand for them to shake. “I saw your car from way down the road . . . I’m guessing you must be Misters Ricci and Glenn. With Uplink International, is it?”

Glenn nodded and showed his Sword ID.

“Corporate security, Mr. Anagkazo,” he said.

“Sure, sure. You told me over the phone. I hear super things about you folks.” Anagkazo looked curious. “C’mon in . . . and call me John, please. No need to wrestle with the second name.”

Ricci was looking past him through the door at the head of an enormous, large-boned German shepherd.

“Long as your friend won’t mind,” he said, nodding at the dog.

Anagkazo smiled.

“Bach’s fine,” he said. “Won’t bother anybody who doesn’t bother me.”

They followed him into a living room with a strong Southwestern feel—earth-toned geometric patterns on the rugs and upholstery, hand-crafted solid-wood furniture. The shepherd trailed behind them, waited for Anagkazo to lower himself into his chair, and stretched out beside him, nuzzling a leather chew toy on the floor.

“It must’ve been quite a ride for you out of San Jose,” Anagkazo said. “I can put up some fresh coffee . . .”