When a Mob Matriarch Frames Her Animal-Behaviorist Daughter-in-Law for Animal Cruelty over a $150,000 Torn Gown to Enforce a Zero-Asset Divorce, a Hidden Collar Camera and Forensic Medical Record E...
The annex room was quiet, too quiet. The soft patter of rain against the window was the only sound.
I powered on my specialized lab tablet, its screen glowing faintly in the dim light. This wasn’t just any tablet. It was calibrated to interface directly with the micro-frequency tracking grid of my prototype biometric collars.
My heart hammered against my ribs. If Whiskers’s collar was destroyed, or if he was truly gone, then a crucial piece of my research, and potentially my defense, was lost.
I navigated through the secure interface, my fingers flying over the holographic keyboard. “Initiate Feline Biometric Collar Sweep – Whiskers’s Unique Identifier,” I muttered to the tablet’s voice command, keeping my voice low.
A high-pitched whine emanated from the tablet’s internal scanner, barely audible. It searched, sweeping across the local frequency bands. The display remained blank for agonizing seconds.
Then, a flicker. A faint green dot appeared on the map, two miles away from the estate. It was marked “Old Chicago Industrial Dump Site.”
“Alive,” I whispered, a wave of relief so potent it made my knees weak. The telemetry data began to stream in: heart rate, respiration, body temperature. All within normal feline parameters, albeit slightly elevated due to stress. Whiskers was alive.
More importantly, a small icon on the screen glowed: “Video Memory – 97% Full.”
The collar was still recording. It had witnessed everything.
This meant Helena’s story of the “tossed cat” was likely a half-truth designed to obscure the real events caught on camera. My mind raced, piecing together the timeline. The gown certified as destroyed *before* the incident, the claim of Whiskers’s violence, and now, the collar’s video memory.
I needed to retrieve that collar. But I was locked in, with Helena’s guards likely watching every move.
I thought of Dr. Aris Thorne. He was the DeLuca Outfit’s senior veterinarian, a man respected for his skill, but more importantly, for his unshakeable professional ethics. He had tenure, a reputation beyond the Outfit’s immediate reach. He also owed me a favor for that complicated surgery on Uncle Silvio’s prize show dog last year.
He would understand the importance of retrieving a living animal in distress, especially one with sensitive research data. It was a long shot, involving him crossing Helena, but it was the only way to get the evidence without exposing myself further.
I accessed my secure contact list, finding Dr. Thorne’s encrypted satellite phone number. This call was a risk, but the alternative was letting Helena destroy the evidence and my life.
My finger hovered over the call button.
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