Bending the Paw

by Diane Kelly

  Her partner stopped to speak to a man sitting at a counter in the building’s foyer near the doors. She had no idea what the humans were saying. She didn’t speak human. But the next thing she knew, the man had offered a spare stool to Megan and placed it next to a potted tree by the front windows. Megan told Brigit to lie down on the floor while she took a seat on the stool, lifting her binoculars to her eyes. Megan smelled of adrenaline and her body language told Brigit that whatever they were doing, it was important. Brigit didn’t know who Megan was looking for, but she hoped it was someone she’d get to chase.

  FORTY

  LUNCH DATE

  The Slasher

  He wasn’t taking any chances. He’d dressed in a business suit he’d bought at a thrift store so he’d blend in with the professional downtown crowd. He’d also arrived an hour early and circled the park, walking in increasingly larger circles around the block, then around a four-block area, scoping things out. It was a sunny day, and he kept his eyes peeled behind his dark sunglasses, searching for uniformed law enforcement. In case any of them were working undercover, he also kept an eye out for anyone who might be a cop in a disguise.

  He saw a white woman with blonde curls and a sketchpad sitting on a blanket in a grassy area of the park. She was dressed in Lycra and sneakers, and had a lean, athletic build. Like him, she wore sunglasses, but she seemed far more interested in the city skyline she was roughing out on her pad than she was in any of the people milling about the park. He supposed she might have dressed in exercise gear to be ready for a chase, and she could have a gun and handcuffs in her bright pink tote bag, but it seemed unlikely. Lots of women wore yoga pants these days. Besides, if the police were on to him, they’d send men, wouldn’t they? And big ones at that?

  He scanned the area. A beefy guy ambled along the perimeter of the park. A white hardhat sat atop his rust-colored hair. He also wore safety goggles, work gloves, and a bright orange safety jacket that hung down to mid-thigh. He carried some type of long-handled landscaping tool. He knelt down and appeared to be inspecting one of the automatic sprinkler heads under a row of bushes. Another muscular man stood behind a nearby hot dog cart. He wore a white paper cap and a white apron that bore ketchup splotches, taking the Slasher back to that bloody night in the kitchen and the spots he’d left on the walls and floor. A short line had formed in front of the cart, hungry workers looking for a quick, inexpensive lunch.

  After watching them for a moment or two, the Slasher dismissed the two men. They looked legit. He stopped at the corner of the bank building and pulled out his phone, pretending to be dialing a number. He held the phone to his ear and mumbled nonsense as he continued to scan the area.

  Shelby emerged from between buildings across the park, a takeout bag from a sandwich shop clutched in her hand, her strawberry blonde hair shining in the sunlight. He inhaled sharply, a gasp of joy. She’s here! Reflexively, he took a step toward her and began to lower his phone, when his senses caught up to him. Give it a minute or two. Make sure she wasn’t followed.

  He raised the phone back to his ear, occasionally saying, “Sure,” or “Yes,” or “That’s right” enough to make it look like he was having a conversation. Meanwhile, Shelby took a seat on a bench under a tree, not far from the artist, and proceeded to pull a sandwich and napkin out of the paper bag. It took every bit of restraint he had not to run to her and take her in his arms.

  He scanned the area again. Nobody seemed to be paying Shelby any mind. A black woman in a gray pantsuit stepped out of a building on the other side of the park, behind Shelby. She stopped next to the revolving doors to dig through her purse. A felt hat with a narrow brim hid her hair and shaded her eyes, and a lightweight blue fashion scarf was looped loosely around her neck, obscuring her jawline. Between the hat and the scarf, it was nearly impossible to make out her facial features. Could she be a cop? He tossed the possibility around in his mind before dismissing the thought. The woman hadn’t followed Shelby here. She’d already been inside the building. All those days holed up in the hotel have made me paranoid.

  Deciding the coast was clear, he said “goodbye” into his phone, and slid it into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. He wondered how long it would take for Shelby to recognize him with the short, dark hair and thick beard. He’d seen her glance his way with no reaction. Of course he was still sixty yards away, too far for her to get a good look. Surely she’d spot him as he drew closer, maybe even get a laugh out of it.

  He’d taken three steps in her direction when the sprinkler-repair guy strode over to the hot dog vendor. He placed his order and reached into his back pocket to remove his wallet. As he did, the bottom of his jacket lifted, revealing a gun holster. Shit-shit-shit!

  His body temperature spiked as his pulse sent his blood through his veins at the speed of light. Thoughts zipped through his mind, too, at the same speed. Had he dismissed the woman in the hat too soon? Was she a cop, too? The artist was glancing around the park now, nonchalantly chewing on her pencil eraser, but was it an act? Was she actually a police officer?

  Realizing he’d faltered in his step, he reached into his breast pocket and removed his phone again, pretending he’d received a call. He put a finger to his opposite ear, as if to block out sound so he could hear the nonexistent caller better, but in reality hoping the hand would block his face. The last thing he needed now was for Shelby to spot him from across the way, to clue in any cops with a flicker of recognition. Looking down, he strode across the pavement in front of the bank and turned down the side of the building, moving as fast as he dared so as not to draw attention to himself.

  Their plan had seemed cunning and clever, their communications virtually undetectable, sure to pass right under the nose of law enforcement. How the hell had the cops discovered the secret messages?

  FORTY-ONE

  ONE DOWN, ONE TO GO

  Megan

  From my vantage point inside the bank, I repeatedly scanned the park and streets, watching and waiting for someone to approach Shelby. She sat on the bench, eating her sandwich slowly, tiny bite by tiny bite, as if trying to make it last as long as possible, to give her a reason to remain on the bench. A dark-haired businessman strode past in front of the building, his head ducked as he spoke on his cell phone, the device to one ear and a finger to the other. He blocked my view for a brief instant, but then there Shelby was again, still nibbling at her lunch. Meanwhile, across the park, Derek, disguised as a maintenance worker, wolfed down a series of three sloppy chili dogs he’d bought from a vendor. Sauce dripped from the hot dog in his hand onto his orange safety jacket. Sheesh. At least he looks legitimate.

  Summer, one of my fellow female officers, sat cross-legged on the grass, pretending to be an artist sketching the nearby trees. She’d dressed in yoga pants, an athletic top, and tennis shoes, ready to drop her sketchpad and pencil to run and wrangle a suspect if needed. Detective Jackson was in place near the doors of a building behind Shelby, hiding in plain sight so to speak. She looked about purposefully, as if waiting for a lunch date herself. In actuality, she was scanning the surroundings for someone who might be aiming for the bench, preparing herself to close in when he appeared.

  As the lunch hour wore on, more and more people milled about the park. To some, it was a destination, a place to eat their lunch outdoors and enjoy some direct sunshine before returning to their offices or cubicles. For others, the park was simply a shortcut, a way to get from their office buildings to the nearby lunch spots faster than taking the sidewalks along the streets.

  A tall, middle-aged woman approached Shelby and addressed her. Could this woman be the person who’d e-mailed Shelby? We’d been expecting a man. Had we made an incorrect assumption? The woman seemed unconcerned whether anyone might be watching her. Shelby, on the other hand, glanced around before responding to the woman with some quick words and a hand gesture, inviting her to share the bench.

  I raised my binoculars to my eyes for a closer look. The older w
oman took a seat at the other end of the bench. The two said nothing more to each other. While the older woman pulled what appeared to be a day planner from her purse and jotted notes in it, Shelby finished her sandwich and crumpled up the wrapper. Looked like the woman had merely been asking if the other half of the bench was taken so she could sit and get organized.

  A quarter hour passed. Shelby’s gaze surveyed the area as she sipped her drink. When she lowered the bottle, her eyes welled with tears and her lip quivered. Whomever she had been expecting had not arrived … again. I’d never seen someone look so lost and lonely.

  Was the person who was supposed to meet Shelby here running late? Had they hit some type of snag? I waited and waited, watching and wondering. Brigit went stiff when she spotted a squirrel sneaking across the closest corner of the park to grab a French fry someone had tossed its way. I knew Brigit wanted to bark and run outside to chase the rodent, but I’d given her the commands to be quiet and still, and she knew better than to make any moves or noise while under those orders. Liver treats were at stake and, while they were a sure thing, she had yet to catch a squirrel despite approximately ten thousand attempts.

  Shelby pulled her phone from her purse several times to check the time. Finally, she logged into her phone and appeared to be reviewing her e-mails, probably looking to see if another had come in, explaining why the person she was supposed to meet had not arrived for their rendezvous. She returned her phone to her purse, leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, and dropped her head into her hands, her shoulders visibly shaking as she sobbed. The woman sitting on the bench next to her looked over and said something, probably asking if Shelby was okay or needed help. Shelby kept her head in her hands, but shook it in a “no” gesture. The woman’s face contorted in concern.

  A long moment later, Shelby lifted her head and reached into her takeout bag, removing a napkin that she used to wipe her face. She pulled a compact from her purse and opened it to check her appearance. After dabbing under her eyes to remove traces of runny mascara, she dropped the compact back into her purse, gathered her things, and stood. She tossed her trash into the can nearby and walked slowly and somberly away in the direction of her office.

  A few seconds later, my cell phone jiggled with a group text sent by Detective Jackson to the rest of us. Summer—follow Shelby. I’ll trail you. Derek and Megan—stay here another half hour, see if anyone shows up.

  We all did as we were told. Unfortunately, our efforts here at the park were for naught. When nobody suspicious showed up within thirty minutes, Derek carried his tools and headed off down the sidewalk. Brigit and I exited the front of the building and aimed for my squad car, which I’d left in the parking lot of a church several blocks away, where it wouldn’t be spotted. As we made our way, Brigit raised her snout in the air and sniffed, her nostrils flaring as she took in the scents. She stared off to the left for a few beats before looking up at me, as if awaiting instruction. More likely, she was awaiting a treat to reward her for behaving so well despite the squirrel. She had indeed been patient and silent, exactly as instructed. I fished a liver treat out of my pocket and tossed it to her along with a “Good girl, Brigit.” I ruffled her ears, too, for good measure.

  We were nearly back to the cruiser when my phone jiggled with another text from Detective Jackson. Shelby’s back in her building. Summer and Derek—you two are dismissed. Thanks for your help. Megan—meet me at the station.

  * * *

  A half hour later, Jackson and I slouched in chairs on either side of her desk, feeling defeated. We’d checked Shelby’s e-mail account, but found no new communications from the elusive individual who’d evaded our ambush. What had gone wrong? Could the person have spotted Brigit and me hiding behind the potted tree in the bank lobby? Had he noticed that Summer had a gun, pepper spray, and handcuffs in her bag? Or identified Detective Jackson despite her face being obscured by her scarf and hat? Had he realized that the idiot dripping chili onto his clothing sported a utility belt and holster under his oversized orange safety jacket?

  Jackson threw up her hands. “I’m out of ideas. I suppose all we can do now is go to Shelby and hope she’ll break down and reveal who the e-mails were from. She’s an intelligent woman, and she knows something about the law. She’s probably put two and two together and realized law enforcement is on to the covert e-mail messages. But if she refuses to identify the person, or says she doesn’t know who they came from, we’re out of luck. With her rock-solid alibi and no proof of an affair or a hired hit, we’d never be able to get a conviction.”

  “This might sound crazy,” I told her. “But what if the messages are from Greg?”

  “Might sound crazy?” She cut me a scathing look. “That absolutely sounds crazy, Megan. Unless they have Wi-Fi in the great beyond, there’s no way Greg could have sent those messages. Nobody can lose nearly a gallon of blood and live.”

  “True,” I said. “If they lose that blood all at once. But what if the blood loss was spread out over a longer period of time?”

  The scathing look morphed into another look entirely, this one curious and intrigued. She sat up straight in her chair. “What are you saying, exactly?”

  “What if Greg and Shelby scripted the crime to collect the insurance? What if the blood was a prop? What if Greg withdrew his blood a little at a time over several weeks or months so he could cover the kitchen with it and make it look like he’s dead when he really isn’t?”

  Jackson cocked her head. “Spectroscopy can be used to date a bloodstain with reasonable accuracy, but I don’t know whether there’s a way to date blood samples. I’d have to find out.”

  “That might not be necessary,” I said. “When Brigit and I were in Shelby and Greg’s kitchen the night he disappeared, Brigit kept returning to blood sample twenty-three, as if she were comparing it to the other samples. There might be something different about that sample, something that would distinguish it from the others and prove that Greg’s blood had been drawn at different times.”

  She picked up her phone and dialed the lab, putting the lab manager on speakerphone. “Tell her your theory, Officer Luz.”

  I provided the lab manager with my latest theory, that Greg Olsen’s death had been faked. “My K-9 kept going back to sample number twenty-three after sniffing the other samples. What types of tests can you run to compare twenty-three to the other samples? To see if it’s different somehow?”

  “I can run a test for blood-alcohol content,” the woman said. “I can also run a test for legal drugs, medicines. I could run a basic metabolic panel, too. The panel tests for blood sugar levels, as well as sodium, potassium, calcium, carbon dioxide, things like that. Those levels vary over time. If the results aren’t uniform, it would prove the blood was not released from his body all at once.”

  “Can you put a rush on it?” Jackson asked. “I want to speak to Greg Olsen’s wife this evening, and it would be helpful if we had the results first.”

  “I’m short a tech,” she said. “Darn flu took him down. But nothing else we’re processing is particularly pressing. We’ll make this our top priority.”

  We thanked her and signed off.

  I stood. “We’re short several officers, too. I better get out on patrol until we hear back.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” Jackson said.

  As Brigit and I headed down the hall, Captain Leone called out from his office. “Luz! Get back here!”

  We retraced our steps until we stood in the captain’s doorway. “Yes, sir?”

  “Two of the officers scheduled for tonight’s swing shift called in sick. Can you cover for one of them?”

  “I’d be glad to, sir.” With an expensive wedding on my horizon, I wasn’t about to pass up a chance to earn some overtime pay.

  He looked down at my partner. “You on board, too, Sergeant Brigit?”

  She wagged her tail, raised her head, and woofed as if to say, “Of course! You can always count on this K-9 team.”


  The captain gave us an appreciative nod. “You ladies make my job easier.”

  I hoped he’d remember this when I requested two weeks off for my wedding and honeymoon come fall.

  Brigit and I had been back on the beat for a little over an hour, cruising the streets and keeping a keen eye out for a pickup with New Mexico plates, when an odd call came in. Dispatch sounded both amused and confused. “Got a call about some folks making a citizen’s arrest at Park Hill Drive and University. Who can respond?”

  A citizen’s arrest? This is a first. While it was true that the Texas Code of Criminal Procedure allowed any person to arrest an offender who committed a felony or an offense against the public peace in their presence or within their view, the practice was certainly not the preferred method for rounding up a criminal. When people took the law into their own hands, matters could escalate and violence could ensue. Someone who misinterpreted a situation and wrongfully restrained another could find themselves charged with an unlawful arrest. The person making the citizen’s arrest could also be liable for any injuries incurred by the person they captured and restrained.

  Brigit and I were only a quarter mile away and headed in that direction. I grabbed my mic from the dash and squeezed the button. “Officer Luz and Brigit responding.”

  In no time, Brigit and I pulled into the parking lot of a small café. There, I was surprised to find Althea Nomikos and two of her neighbors, one male and one female, standing in front of an SUV that sat crossways behind other vehicles parked in the designated spots, preventing them from backing up. She raised an arm when she saw my cruiser and flagged me down. As I pulled up and unrolled my window, she danced a little victory jig that involved arm rotations and pelvic thrusts, an odd combination of disco and dirty dancing. Brigit stood up in her enclosure behind me, eager to see what was happening outside.