Page 27 of Vanish From Sight
He’d never really gotten along with her. The constant back and forth in the relationship between her and Ray was enough to give anyone whiplash. Though he couldn’t fault her entirely, Ray wasn’t the easiest person to live with and Noah assumed he’d acquired a few skeletons in his closet over the years.
“Well if he hasn’t shown up, then more than likely he’s still at the casino.”
“The Akwesasne Mohawk Casino Resort?”
High Peaks was in the middle of nowhere; the only casino even close to it was in Hogansburg about seventy to seventy-five miles north. A good two hours’ drive.
“No. The Ashford Royale. Near Whiteface Mountain Ski Resort. It’s a new build. He goes there a lot. I thought he would have told you.”
“No.”
“Well if you see him, tell him that I’ll be at my mother’s.”
With that said, she hung up. She was clearly fuming.
Whiteface Mountain Ski Resort was a good fifteen minutes northeast of High Peaks, nestled in the valley. It was one of the top ski resorts in the region. For the longest time, High Peaks had fought against having a casino built in the area. People felt it would only bring the small-town atmosphere down and lead to all manner of trouble. But where there were tourists there wouldalways be opportunity for deep-pocketed individuals to profit from it.
About to try Ray’s number again, he looked up to see the vet arriving. A white Tesla pulled in and a petite woman in her late thirties with a kind smile got out. She strode over to the small building; a sign above the door indicated that it was the Westside Animal Hospital. The office was a simple brick structure, with a small parking lot out front and a place around back for dogs to run in an enclosed area.
Noah got out and she gave a wave.
“Come on,” he said to the golden retriever he’d collected only ten minutes earlier. The one that had been found in the single-wide trailer. Inside he was greeted by the echo of barking dogs and the scent of antiseptic. The waiting room was bright and airy, with large windows that overlooked the street. The walls were lined with posters, ads for pet food and reminders to give them their yearly shots.
“I appreciate you opening today.”
“It’s all good. Is that our boy?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
She crouched and the dog wagged his tail hard. The vet gave him a treat from her pocket and ruffled behind his ears. “This shouldn’t take too long. Especially if he doesn’t have one. Where was it you said they found him?”
“Out near Pulpit Rock.”
“Long way. I have a few clients who go there though.”
The vet led them both into an examination room at the back. The room was clean and well-lit, with a steel examination table in the center and tools and supplies on shelves and lining the walls. The vet returned with a small handheld device which was used to scan the dog’s microchip between the shoulder blades. “Well, let’s see if we have anything.”
“What kind of information will that provide?”
“It’s not a GPS device. It gives basic details, the company that made the chip and account number. From there, we can get in contact, provide that number and then they usually will contact the owner that they have on file if the dog is lost. That information isn’t usually given directly to anyone else or vets but it depends on the situation.”
“It won’t give you the name of the owner immediately?”
“Oh no. Not that easy. The unique identifier in the chip has to be registered with the national pet recovery database. They prefer to only work with the owners but since this is a police matter, I imagine you could speak with them.”
The device beeped, indicating it had found a chip, and the vet quickly pulled up the information on her computer then made a phone call. Noah stood there running his hand over the dog who was panting. A moment later she returned with the phone.
Although it was highly rare that they would give out the information, under the circumstances, the woman on the other end of the line was more than helpful. A quick conversation and he was able to obtain the license number of the breeder, dog’s name, gender, date of birth, breed and the owner’s address and contact details including a cellphone.
As soon as he heard the name Sonny, it all fit together. The tattoo on the victim was the dog’s name.
“Did they give it to you?” she asked.
“Uh, huh. Name and address.”
“Good to hear.”
“It’s registered to an Alexander Hawthorne at this address,” he showed the vet.
