Above the Paw

by Diane Kelly

  I ate a spoonful of my oatmeal. “I wonder where Miranda got the Molly,” I asked, carefully watching Emily’s reaction. A dealer would realize I was asking where I, too, might score. An innocent person would think it was an innocent question.

  Though she shrugged nonchalantly, she seemed to be carefully watching me, too. “It’s probably not hard to find.”

  What does that mean? College kids could be somewhat cryptic.

  She glanced down at Brigit, who was staring at the stack of bacon and drooling. “Can I give her a slice of bacon?”

  “I’m sure she’d love it.”

  “Will she bite my fingers?”

  “Not if you toss it.”

  Emily picked up a piece of bacon and threw it up into the air. Brigit rose onto her hind legs and adeptly snapped it into her mouth on its way down.

  “She’s quick,” Emily noted.

  “And always hungry.” I poked at my oatmeal with my spoon. “What was Miranda like?”

  “What do you mean?” Emily asked.

  I shrugged. “Well, I know she did drugs. But did she do a lot of them? Was she street smart?”

  Emily snorted. “Street smart is the last word I’d use to describe Miranda.”

  Now it was my turn to ask, “What do you mean by that?”

  “This may sound mean, but she came off as, like, a twelve-year-old. Coming to college was her first time away from home other than a few sleepovers. She said her parents would never even let her go to summer camp. They called her constantly to check in. It was really annoying. She even cried her first night in the dorm.”

  Poor girl. I doubted Emily had done anything to make her roommate feel more comfortable. If anything, she’d probably made her feel worse.

  Emily gave me a pointed look. “What’s with all the questions about Miranda?”

  Uh-oh. Had I been too obvious? I raised a nonchalant shoulder. “Just curious.”

  Luckily for me, Emily let it go.

  When we finished our breakfast, we turned in our dirty dishes at the appropriate window and headed out into the lobby.

  “Need to use the restroom?” Emily asked.

  “Might as well.” I’d had a big glass of orange juice and it was a long time until class would be over.

  We stepped into the public restroom off the foyer. I parked Brigit outside a stall and headed inside. When I turned around, I froze. There, on the back of the door, among a variety of graffiti and next to the standard If you sprinkle when you tinkle, someone had written FOR A GOOD TIME, CALL MOLLY (817) 555–2567.

  This message was not so cryptic, at least not to someone in the know. I whipped my cell phone from my backpack and, when a loud toilet flushed, snapped a pic. Quickly, I returned my phone to my bag.

  Had Emily steered me into this bathroom on purpose? I had no way of knowing for certain. But with the two of us having discussed Molly only minutes before, it was difficult to write things off as mere coincidence.

  I finished my business, washed my hands, and retrieved Brigit’s leash. Emily and I walked out of the restroom and exited the dorm together, parting ways on the front steps.

  “See you later!” I called.

  “Yep!” she called back.

  I debated my options. A big part of me—the impatient part—wanted to duck between some bushes and call the number right now. Another part of me—the smart part—realized I should probably run things by Detective Jackson before taking any action. After all, this investigation was hers to manage. I was merely a willing minion tasked with collecting information or evidence.

  As I headed to class, I texted the photo I’d taken in the bathroom to the detective, along with a message. Found this written in lobby restroom. Next step?

  A minute later I received a reply. Call the number. Set up a buy.

  Ok, I texted back. My hand a little shaky, I dialed the number. On the first ring, the call went to voice mail. “Hello,” a voice said. It was either a low-pitched female voice or a high-pitched male voice. Given that the speaker seemed to have used one of the voice-changer apps to disguise his or her voice, it was impossible to tell. “Molly can’t get to the phone. Send her an e-mail at funtimemolly@gmail.com.” The recording went on to spell out the e-mail address. There was no invitation to leave a message at the beep, so I didn’t.

  Using my phone, I logged in to the e-mail account I’d set up for my alter ego. After discussion with Detective Jackson, we’d decided to use an address that would not identify the account holder as my alter ego, Morgan Lewis. The fact that I was asking questions around the dorm might already have raised suspicions, no matter how subtle I was trying to be. If I openly identified myself in the e-mail, that could be the icing on the cake if the dealer thought I’d come to the dorm undercover, looking to make a buy. Better to remain anonymous. I’d chosen a generic e-mail address, the word “bluebonnet” in honor of the state flower, followed by three random numbers.

  I mulled over what to say in my message to funtimemolly. Hmm. I was totally out of my element here. Finally, I decided to go with: Would like to meet up with you by this weekend, Molly. That would leave the ball in their court as far as how they wanted to handle the deal. And if it turned out that the message on the bathroom wall was truly for a girl named Molly, it would sound innocuous enough.

  I texted Jackson to inform her what I’d done.

  Good work, she texted back. I’ll trace the phone number.

  Having done what we could for the time being, Brigit and I continued on to class. Though it was only five minutes before the lecture was scheduled to start, we were among the first to arrive. Looked like early classes plus summer session led to a lot of late arrivals. I took a spot near the back of the room where I’d be less conspicuous.

  A horde of students poured into the room right as the wall clock turned to eight. Many, both boys and girls, wore baseball caps in an attempt to hide the fact that they’d woken up too late to comb their hair. The abundance of wrinkled clothing said that many of their outfits had been worn yesterday and retrieved from floors in a rush this morning. One boy walked in, shamelessly dressed in what were clearly pajama pants given that they were made of flannel and bore cartoon superhero images.

  Brigit lay at my feet, napping, as the lecturer launched into a comparison of elites versus activists. While I found the subject fascinating, my partner clearly did not. At one point she began to snore, drawing the attention of students around me and more than a few snickers until I nudged her awake with my toe. She looked up at me bleary-eyed as if to ask What did I do?

  As the class went on, I looked around at the students. Though only a few years younger than me, they looked like children. My years since college, the things I’d seen while on the police force, they’d aged me well beyond my years. As a cop, I knew things they’d never know, should never have to know. Things nobody should ever have to know.

  I wondered who among them had never tried drugs and never would. Who among them had tried drugs once or twice out of curiosity or peer pressure. Who among them regularly used drugs. Who among them had become addicted and would spiral out of control until they ended up in jail, rehab, or a coffin. I hoped there were few of the former and none of the latter, though I suspected the large class held some of each type.

  Two hours later, the lecturer wound things up and the class ended. I led Brigit back to the Jeep and drove to my house, which was only a mile and a half from the university, yet far enough that few, if any, students lived in my neighborhood. Leaving Brigit in the car, I hustled into the house, grabbing a Phillips head screwdriver from the kitchen junk drawer and a pair of disposable gloves from under the sink. After giving Zoe a quick scratch under the chin, I returned to the car.

  We returned to the campus. As we approached the dorm, I spotted two campus policemen talking with a male student outside. The strained look on the boy’s face told me he was in trouble. Did they find something in his room? Is he the dealer I’ve been looking for?

  Seem
ed I had a lot of potential suspects, but no concrete conclusions. Until I did, until whoever was selling Molly to these kids was behind bars, I had to keep working.

  I slinked around behind the student, trying to be as invisible as possible as I entered the dorm. Hooking a left, I led Brigit into the girls’ restroom. Forgoing the stall I’d used that morning, I ducked into each of the others. The back door of each one bore the same message and phone number. FOR A GOOD TIME, CALL MOLLY (817) 555–2567. I wondered if the same message appeared in the boys’ restroom.

  I took the stairs up to the second floor, passing five boys in the stairwell and exchanging friendly “heys.” Emily wasn’t in our room, but I couldn’t take a chance on checking the air vent yet, not until I was certain she was in class. I stashed the screwdriver in my desk drawer and glanced at the clock. It was straight up eleven. On the early side for lunch, but given that I had a one o’clock class and had eaten an early breakfast, I figured I might as well head down to the dining hall.

  I went into the bathroom and knocked on the door that connected to Paige and Alexa’s room. “Paige?” I called. “Alexa? Want to go to lunch?”

  There was no answer. Looked like they were out. At least with a dog for a partner, I was never alone. I clipped Brigit’s leash back on her and downstairs we went.

  In the cafeteria, I looked around for familiar faces. I saw April and Jasmine, but given that they’d been no help the day before, I didn’t see any point in sitting with them. I gave them a friendly wave, and fixed myself another salad at the salad bar. Brigit got another meat-only sandwich.

  Glancing around the room, I spotted the curly-haired boy who had been in line in front of me before. He caught my eye and smiled, angling his head to indicate the seat across from him. I had to admit I was flattered, even though I had no intention of pursuing anything with this boy given that Seth and I were in a committed relationship. Still, what could it hurt to flirt a little? It’s not like anyone would know and, after all, I was only doing my job here. The guy might have known Miranda or Ashleigh or Colby, might have known who sold them the Molly.

  I led Brigit over to his table and sat down. “Hi,” I said, giving him a smile.

  “I’m glad you came over,” he replied, smiling in return and extending a fisted hand across the table to greet me. “My name’s Hunter, by the way.”

  I gave Hunter a fist bump. “I’m Morgan.” I ruffled Brigit’s neck fur. “My dog here is Britney.”

  He reached down a hand toward my partner. “Can you shake, girl?”

  TWENTY-ONE

  SHAKE, RATTLE, AND ROLL OVER

  Brigit

  Could she shake? Of course Brigit could shake. She could also sit, lie, speak, roll over, and play dead. She was no slouch, no silly lapdog who could only blink its eyes and look cute. She was a master performer. And that didn’t even include the things she could do in her police work, like search, track, and take down a suspect.

  Shake? Sheesh. Give her a challenge. This was college, after all.

  Brigit raised her right leg and held it up in front of her. The boy took it in his hand and moved it up and down. Why humans chose to greet each other in this odd way she’d never understand. Why not just sniff each other’s butts, like dogs did? You could tell a lot from a canine anus, like the dog’s gender and reproductive status and emotional state. Butts were the faces and Facebook status updates of the dog world.

  Brigit hopped up on the chair next to Megan and waited until her partner had torn her sandwich into bite-sized pieces for her. Yep, Brigit had her partner well trained.

  Megan and the boy talked while Brigit ate the bites of turkey and bread. When she finished her sandwich, the boy gave Brigit a couple of his fries. It was nice of him to share.

  After lunch, Megan took Brigit back outside and let her off leash in a grassy area to pee. A group of students were playing Frisbee on the long lawn. When the Frisbee sailed over the head of the one nearest her, Brigit figured she might as well help the guy out. She ran, leaped into the air, and grabbed the Frisbee between her teeth. Easy-peasy.

  Yep, college was fun!

  TWENTY-TWO

  JOB DISSATISFACTION

  The Dealer

  Everyone seemed to be riding his ass today. He’d just finish one call when another would come in on its tail. Why the hell he’d ever gone into this line of work was beyond him.

  Oh, yeah. He’d done it because he wanted to be the type of guy people looked up to, someone who helped people, who made the world a better place. A hero. He’d thought the job would give him that opportunity, along with some respect and clout and authority. What a joke, huh? The only thing this job had given him was hemorrhoids.

  TWENTY-THREE

  CLOSING IN

  Megan

  I was standing at the curb on University Drive, waiting to cross after my afternoon class, when Derek Mackey pulled up in his cruiser, rolling to a stop as the light turned red. His face puckered in irritation as he reached for the mic on the dash and responded to dispatch. Looked like he was having a hectic day.

  Too bad, so sad.

  I had to admit, I was enjoying this undercover gig. Besides the change of pace and scenery, it was exciting to get to focus on one big goal rather than being pulled in a million different directions and dealing with minor matters all day. I liked the thrill of being a spy. And I liked that I got to wear shorts and sneakers to work instead of that hot polyester police uniform.

  Brigit and I crossed the street in front of the Big Dick’s cruiser. He didn’t spot us among the students. Sheesh. For a guy who also aspired to make detective, he could be darn oblivious.

  I took long strides back to the dorm, Brigit trotting to keep up with me. Inside the room, I pushed my desk chair over to block the door in case Emily came back from class early. The last thing I wanted was for her to catch me searching the air vent.

  I grabbed the screwdriver from the drawer, climbed on top of my desk, and reached over the dusty top of the bookcase to remove the screws at either end of the vent. I pulled the cover off. Given that the top of the vent sat only an inch below the ceiling, I couldn’t get my head high enough to see inside the air duct. I’d have to stick my hand in. I only hoped I wouldn’t be bitten by an errant mouse or spider.

  I slid a glove onto my right hand, reached into the duct, and felt around.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Bingo.

  I pulled out a small green plastic bottle. The lack of dust on it told me it had been placed in the vent not too long ago. The printed label on the outside identified the contents as vitamin C capsules, but I didn’t buy that for a second. The bottle might have once held vitamin C, but now it held five small white capsules that had to be Molly.

  I reached down, stuffed the bottle into my backpack, and stood back up to screw the vent into place again. My immediate mission accomplished, I plopped down on my bed to think things over.

  Had the bottle been full of pills, I’d say we’d caught our dealer and the case was closed. But with only five pills in the bottle, it looked more like I’d happened upon Miranda’s personal secret stash. Hmm.

  Rather than risk being caught taking the bottle to the police department on campus, I texted Detective Jackson for guidance. Found five pills in air vent in my dorm room. What should I do with them?

  A couple of minutes later, she sent a reply. Bring them to the station. Make sure you’re not followed.

  I did as ordered, keeping a careful eye on my rearview mirror to make sure I wasn’t being followed. As an extra precaution, I parked my telltale red Jeep in the lot of a fast-food place a block down from the station and circled around the backs of the buildings where it was less likely I’d be seen.

  Derek’s gleaming black pickup caught my eye as I passed through the parking lot. The truck was his pride and joy. He’d decorated the thing with a pair of rubber truck nuts that hung from the trailer hitch in the back. Clearly, he was ov
ercompensating.

  Something about the truck looked different, though. What was it? It took a moment for me to figure it out. The rims. The truck bore a set of shiny new chrome rims. They’d probably set Derek back a grand or more, a significant sum for public servants like us. But, like they say, the only difference between men and boys is the size—and in this case the price—of their toys.

  It crossed my mind that the street value of the drugs that had disappeared, the ones I’d confiscated from Graham Hahn and given to Derek to take into evidence, approximated the value of the rims. But surely if Derek were dirty, he’d have the sense to hide it better, wouldn’t he?

  I found Detective Jackson at her desk and handed her the bottle of pills. “What do you think?” I took a seat and signaled for Brigit to sit beside me.

  The detective unscrewed the top and peered inside. “If this is vitamin C, I’m Beyoncé.” She slid the bottle into an evidence bag, using a fine-point marker to fill out the form on the side to document the chain of custody. “I’ll send this to the lab. They can check it for prints and tell us for sure if it’s Molly.”

  I had little doubt the lab would confirm our suspicions regarding the pills, but we’d need their results in order to go forward with arrests. Of course that assumed we’d eventually figure out who to arrest. We weren’t there yet. If there were any fingerprints on the bottle other than Miranda’s—Emily’s, perhaps?—those prints might prove useful.

  “Did you get a response to your e-mail yet?” Jackson asked.

  I’d checked my account several times since sending the message to funtimemolly this morning, but it couldn’t hurt to take another look. I pulled up the account on my phone. Nope. No response. “Still waiting. What about the phone? Any news there?”

  She held up a sticky note on which she’d jotted some information. “It’s one of those cheap burner phones, a basic Samsung bought at a Dollar General store. Service is paid through a TracFone airtime card.”