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...
My finger finally pressed the call icon. The phone rang once, twice. Each ring felt like an eternity.
“Thorne,” a gruff voice answered, his tone wary.
“Dr. Thorne, it’s Maeve Sarto-DeLuca,” I said, keeping my voice steady, professional. “I’m calling on behalf of Whiskers. He’s in distress.”
A beat of silence. He knew Whiskers. He knew my research.
“I understand,” he said carefully, his voice softening slightly. “Where is he?”
I gave him the coordinates from the collar’s telemetry, the Old Chicago Industrial Dump Site. I didn’t mention Helena or the lawsuit directly. I appealed to his core professional identity.
“He’s wearing a prototype biometric collar,” I explained. “It’s vital research equipment. More importantly, he’s a living creature, Dr. Thorne. Alone in this storm.”
The rain outside intensified, drumming a steady rhythm against the window. He hesitated. I knew the risk I was asking him to take. Helena’s influence was absolute. But Aris Thorne was a vet first, a DeLuca associate second.
“A prototype collar,” he repeated, the implication of valuable, sensitive technology hanging in the air. “Understood. Give me an hour. I’ll need a cover story for Helena’s people.”
“Tell them Uncle Silvio’s prize poodle developed a sudden, acute ear infection that only you can treat,” I suggested, recalling his earlier favor. “A rare, aggressive strain.”
A faint chuckle. “Clever, Maeve. Very well. I’ll be in touch.” He hung up.
I paced the confines of the annex. An hour. It felt like a lifetime. Helena’s guards were just outside, but they wouldn’t stop Thorne. He had his own clearance within the Outfit, his own set of privileges. He was indispensable.
Sixty-seven minutes later, a soft knock came at the annex door. I tensed, then heard a familiar voice.
“Maeve? It’s Aris. With a patient.”
I rushed to the door. The guards, surprisingly, opened it for him. They must have received orders from a higher channel, confirming his story about the poodle.
Dr. Thorne stood there, soaking wet, cradling a shivering, bedraggled Whiskers in a towel. My cat let out a weak meow, then purred, rubbing his head against my hand.
“He was clinging to a drainpipe,” Thorne said, his face grim. “Lucky for him, that collar survived.”
He carried Whiskers to the small examination table in the corner of the annex, which I’d previously used for minor lab work. He gently placed the cat down. Whiskers immediately began to groom himself, seemingly unharmed, if a little cold and wet.
“The storage chip,” I prompted, my voice tight with urgency.
Thorne pulled a tiny, waterproof flash drive from a secure pouch on the collar. “It’s all here. Encrypted, as always.”
He then did something remarkable. He took a photo of Whiskers, meticulously documenting his healthy state, then added it to a secure medical file on his own tablet. He was building his own ethical defense, his own professional record.
“I need to leave soon,” he said, handing me the flash drive. “Helena’s ‘poodle’ is getting restless. What exactly am I looking at here, Maeve?”
I looked at Whiskers, then at the small drive in my hand. “The truth, Aris. We’re looking at the truth.”
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours