Above the Paw

by Diane Kelly

  As we made our way to our morning class, I pondered the significance. Was it coincidence that all of the kids who’d succumbed to the drug lived in the same dorm? Had they obtained the drug at or around the same time, ended up with a bad batch, while other students had obtained a purer product? There was no way of knowing. At least not yet. Still, it had me wondering whether our assumption that the dealer had a connection to my dorm was incorrect. On the other hand, at least my presence on campus had led me to finding the “ads” and put us that much closer to shutting down the illicit activity.

  I continued on to my poli psych class, taking a seat in the back as usual. A male student down my row kept nodding off during the lecture, his chin nearly reaching his chest before his head would jerk back again. A shame really. The topic was actually quite interesting.

  Between classes, I drove the Jeep to the closest post office that provided PO boxes. It was on Eighth Street, only a five-minute drive from campus.

  I waited in line behind a modern-day Mother Goose, a woman in her sixties with five young children in tow, three girls and two boys. The two boys shrieked and hid behind the woman when they saw me step up with Brigit. The two older girls stared. The toddler on the woman’s hip reached down with her hand, but was too high to touch my partner.

  The woman turned around, her eyes going from me to Brigit. “Beautiful dog,” she said.

  “Thanks.” I beamed though, really, any credit belonged to Brigit’s biological mother, whoever she might be. The only thing I’d done was make sure the dog was kept well fed and well groomed. I had nothing to do with her DNA. That wasn’t going to stop me from feeling proud of my furry partner, though.

  While one little boy tentatively peeked out from behind the woman, one of the others looked up at her. “Can we go to the park, Granny?”

  “As soon as we’re done here,” she replied, reaching down and using her thumb to wipe what appeared to be peanut butter from his cheek.

  It was weird to think that one day I’d be a grandmother, regaling my grandchildren with bedtime stories of busting bombers and burglars and drug dealers. That random thought led me to wonder who their grandfather would be. Would it be Seth? Hmm …

  I was crazy about the guy. Or at least as crazy about him as I’d let myself be about anyone. A smart woman kept her head, maintained control, right? And now, at this phase in life, my primary focus was my career. Still, Seth and I had agreed to be exclusive, and he’d been slowly opening up to me, letting me close. He was good to Blast, getting up early to take him for walks and to the dog park when surely Seth would rather sleep in. That selflessness and sacrifice was a sign he’d be a good father one day. He’d dropped out of high school to join the army and thus escape his cold and distant grandfather, but Seth’s lack of education did not translate into a lack of intelligence. He understood the science of bomb technology better than most people could ever hope to, and he was a whiz with anything mechanical, whether it be cars, assembling a doghouse, or fixing a toilet that wouldn’t stop running. So, yeah, maybe. Maybe I could see growing old and gray with him.

  “Can I help you?” The counter clerk’s voice brought me out of my reverie.

  I stepped up to the counter. “I need to rent a PO box.”

  “What size?”

  Uh, gee, big enough to accommodate a small quantity of illegal drugs? Of course I couldn’t say that. “A small one will do.”

  “All right.” He pulled a form out from under the counter and held it out to me. “You’ll need to fill out this application and show me your identification.”

  I picked up the pen that was chained to the counter and quickly filled in the blanks on the form, using the name and address on my fictitious driver’s license. When I was done, I handed the completed form back to the man along with my license. It occurred to me that submitting false information on an official U.S. government document was a federal criminal offense, but surely there’d be some accommodation for local law enforcement working undercover.

  He verified my identification, and I paid for a six-month rental in cash. Our transaction complete, I slid the receipt into my wallet and took the two long, golden keys he offered. “Thanks.”

  I headed back into the main lobby and located my box. It was at the bottom of the row, requiring me to crouch down to test the keys. Yep, they worked. Good.

  I pulled up my e-mail account on my phone and sent the dealer a message with my new PO box number, and stating that I was on my way to leave my payment as instructed.

  Having secured a post office box, I drove to Tio’s Taco Stand. On the way over, I noted two men standing on the platform underneath a billboard, using rollers on long handles to apply a new vinyl facing to the sign. As they unfurled the artwork, a five-foot-high image of Senator Sutton’s grandfatherly face smiled down at me. No doubt his campaign manager had chosen this location to counteraffect Essie Espinoza’s billboard across the street. The two candidates smiled at each other across four lanes of traffic in a virtual face-off.

  Though it was only eleven when I arrived, there was already a line at the counter and most of the booths and tables were occupied.

  At a two-top in the back sat Detective Hector Bustamente, a plastic card bearing the number 16 on it in a metal stand in front of him. Like Detective Jackson, Bustamente had recognized both my ambition and my willingness to work unpaid overtime and taken me under his wing, letting me assist in earlier cases. Together, we’d figured out who’d been stealing purses and pickpocketing wallets at the stock show and rodeo.

  Bustamente was a hefty man with thick lips and little fashion sense. He wore white crew socks with his brown loafers, the socks peeking out from under his too-short navy pants. One of the buttons on his button-down collar had been overlooked, the corner curling up slightly. But what he lacked in appearance, he made up for in brain power.

  I realized he was here to keep an eye on the restroom, to try to figure out which of the people using the facilities was picking up the cash. No doubt he’d alternate with Detective Jackson, maybe watch with binoculars from a car across the street to avoid any of the restaurant employees becoming suspicious of him for hanging around too long.

  He made no eye contact, continuing to peruse the newspaper, and I walked past. Nobody would ever suspect the two of us were in cahoots.

  As I headed down the hallway, I wondered why the e-mail from funtimemolly hadn’t specified the men’s or women’s restroom. After all, the same phone number had been written on the stalls in the boys’ bathroom in the lobby of the dorm, too. But when I discovered they had only one restroom and that it was a unisex facility, things made sense.

  The room was not only in use, but an older, white-haired man was waiting his turn. I stood next to him, jittery with the knowledge that my money drop here today would get us that much closer to identifying and busting the dealer.

  I stepped into the small space and locked the door behind me. In the corner, under a towel dispenser, was a large plastic trash can. It was lined with a garbage bag. Chances are the staff only changed the bag and never actually removed the can from the room. Hence, why the dealer chose this spot as a money drop.

  I crouched down and put my hand on the side of the can, tilting it backward against the wall. I peeked underneath. There were no other bills there. I wondered if the dealer assigned this drop point for me only, or if other buyers had left their payments here, too. I supposed there would need to be several drop points or the dealer would risk a buyer coming back later to steal other customers’ funds.

  I pulled a roll of tape and four rolled-up twenties from my purse, carefully taping them along the inner rim of the garbage can where they wouldn’t be as obvious if someone tipped the can. As directed in the e-mail from funtimemolly, I sent a reply notifying the account holder that the cash was ready for pickup. My work here done, I left the restroom, passing Bustamente once again as a waitress brought his order to his table. Looked like he’d opted for the enchilada special. Yum.r />
  So long as I was out and about, I figured I’d check in on Seth. While working undercover was exciting, I hated that it kept me from my boyfriend, my friends, and my family. It was essentially a 24/7 gig, requiring total personal sacrifice. Well, almost total.

  I pulled into the parking lot at Forest Park and found an empty spot near the entrance to the swimming pool. Today was Seth’s day off, and he often spent his free time swimming. It was his exercise of choice, his release, his chlorine-scented moment of Zen.

  I stepped to the chain-link fence that surrounded the pool area and peered inside. A mother held on to a flopping toddler wearing inflatable water wings. An adolescent boy called, “Marco!”, his group of friends calling back, “Polo!” Sure enough, in one of the far swim lanes, a muscular back with an army eagle tattoo arched upward, disappearing a second later under the surface only to reappear an instant later. The butterfly. Seth’s best stroke.

  I circled around to the back fence, watching and waiting until he swam ten more laps and stopped at the end of the row to take a break. “Hey, you!” I called.

  His head turned my way. He scrubbed a hand over his face to sweep away the water droplets and gave me a smile. “Hey, yourself!”

  He put his hands on the edge and lifted himself straight up and out, his shoulder muscles and biceps flexing with the effort. The teenage female lifeguard on the stand nearby stared and reflexively mouthed her whistle. As a cop, I had experience with a whistle, too, and could firmly attest that a piece of cold, hard metal was a poor substitute for Seth’s warm, soft lips.

  Seth stepped over, water dripping from the hem of his green swimsuit. Despite being a serious swimmer, he refused to wear a revealing Speedo. I was glad he kept his privates private. Victoria wasn’t the only one who should have secrets.

  He hooked his fingers over the chain link and leaned in close. “Kiss me,” he ordered, putting his mouth to one of the holes between the wires.

  “You’re not the boss of me,” I said in return, though I kissed him anyway.

  “You wearing those ugly panties I bought you?” he demanded.

  “Every day.” I pulled out the waistband of my shorts to show him.

  “Good.”

  The lifeguard scowled and turned her attention back to the pool, blowing a tweet at a boy scurrying along the edge. “No running!” she hollered.

  “What are you girls up to?” Seth asked.

  I lowered my voice. “We made a cash drop a few minutes ago. We’re buying some drugs.”

  He frowned in concern. “How dangerous is this case, anyway?”

  I raised my palms. “Who knows?”

  “That doesn’t make me feel better, Megan.”

  “Would you rather I lie to you?” I asked. “Police work is dangerous. You know that. B-but it doesn’t look like we’re dealing with hardened felons from the street. Probably more like some overgrown juvenile delinquent.”

  He digested that for a moment before his face softened and he reached a finger through the fence to twirl a lock of my hair around it. “I miss you.”

  I reached through the metal mesh and put my index finger on his chin dimple, my own way of connecting physically with him. I looked into his green eyes and said, “I miss you, too.”

  We simply stared at each other for a moment before he spoke again. “My mother wants all of us to have dinner together.”

  “Really?” I said, lowering my hand. “I’d like that.”

  Seth’s mother had given birth to him when she was only in her teens, and had basically abandoned him with her parents afterward. She’d been in and out of his life since, but never with any consistency. Though I wanted to hate her for how she’d treated Seth, for the attachment issues he suffered as a result, it was hard to fault a girl who’d been a child herself when becoming a parent, especially when the baby’s father had not been involved and her own father had treated her horribly. I realized none of that excused what she’d done, but it did explain it.

  She’d recently returned to Fort Worth, expressed a desire to reconcile with Seth and to do her best to make amends. Seth had not exactly been receptive, but I’d encouraged him to try. What good could come from hanging on to the anger and resentment?

  “As soon as your undercover gig is over,” Seth said, “we can make plans.”

  “That sounds great.” I checked the time on my cell phone. “I better get back to campus. I have an afternoon class starting soon.”

  “Say something brainy,” he said, a grin playing about his mouth. “You know how it turns me on.”

  I racked my brain for a tidbit from my political psychology class. “Polythink syndrome.”

  “God, Megan,” he moaned, resting his forehead on the mesh. “I’ve never wanted you more.”

  I gave him another quick kiss, waving as I stepped away.

  “Stay in touch!” he called after me.

  * * *

  Early Wednesday evening, Essie Espinoza arrived on the campus amid an entourage of staff, large men dressed all in black who appeared to be private security/bodyguards, and a dozen Fort Worth police officers, including Officer Spalding and the Big Dick.

  Something was up. I just didn’t know what.

  A temporary stage had been erected on a wide greenbelt where we students waited to hear Essie speak. Food trucks were parked along one side, their service windows closed for the time being. Along the other side was a table where student supporters were selling T-shirts, water bottles, travel mugs, and window signs bearing Essie’s slogan. ESPERANZA ESPINOZA—OUR HOPE FOR THE FUTURE. What the heck, I decided. I forked over a ten-dollar donation and in return got one of the travel mugs for my roommate. That way she could take her coffee with her in the morning.

  After speaking with a group of university police and school officials, Essie ascended the stage, flanked by Derek and Spalding, both of whom wore mirrored aviator sunglasses, making it impossible to tell where they were looking.

  She stepped up to the standing microphone and raised her arms. “Good evening, Texas Christian University!”

  The crowd roared in welcome, including both Alexa and Paige, who stood next to me.

  “Traitor,” I teased Paige.

  “What can I say?” She shrugged. “Essie makes Senator Sutton seem like a boring old geezer.”

  “Maybe you should intern for her instead.”

  “That’s a thought.”

  From the stage, Essie surveyed the crowd. “I’m glad to see such a great turnout tonight. But in good conscience I feel I must warn you. An hour ago someone called my campaign headquarters. While the caller did not directly issue a death threat, he said that if I continued my campaign he would find a way to stop me.”

  Whoa. That explained the bodyguards and extra police presence. The crowd murmured in surprise and concern. Politics is a dirty, dangerous business.

  Essie raised a palm over her head. “Never fear, my friends! ¡No tengas miedo!” She paused for effect, and when she spoke again her words were slow and deliberate. “Nothing can stop me. Nothing can stop us. And nothing can stop progress. ¡Nada!”

  The crowd’s response nearly deafened me. I could only imagine how it sounded to superior canine ears. I reached down and pushed Brigit’s head up against my leg, blocking her left ear and putting my hand over her right to drown out the sound.

  Essie proceeded to give a rousing speech, one directed squarely at the millennial crowd gathered on the TCU campus before her. “The student loan crisis has risen to epic proportions. You students should not have to mortgage your future to get an education!”

  The crowd erupted in supportive noise.

  “You deserve the bright futures you’ve dreamed of!”

  We roared again in agreement.

  “Tomorrow belongs to you!”

  While the crowd applauded and whooped again, I found myself wondering. If tomorrow belongs to these students, who does today belong to?

  Over the next twenty minutes she continued to speak
, touching on the lack of employment opportunities for young people, the need to stop the loss of jobs to overseas labor markets, to create more jobs for Americans, to open Chinese markets to more American goods. She raised the issue of Senator Sutton’s proposed China– U.S. Partnership, the bill he’d referred to in shorthand as the CUSP when he’d mentioned it during his Fourth of July speech at Panther Pavilion.

  “Unfortunately,” Essie continued, gripping the sides of the podium as she leaned into the mic, “Senator Sutton has made no progress on the CUSP. Despite his best efforts, China has adamantly refused to back down from its tariffs on American products.” She raised her palms. “Look, Monty Sutton is a nice guy. I’ll give him that. But nice doesn’t always get things done. It’s time to get rid of old ideas and old ways of doing things, and bring some fresh, new ideas to Congress.”

  Though she hadn’t directly called Montgomery Sutton a doddering codger, her repeated use of the word “old” certainly seemed intended to plant that seed in people’s minds. Frankly, I found the ploy distasteful. Senator Sutton was no spring chicken, but he wasn’t anywhere near being put out to pasture yet, either. Why did politics have to be so ugly? I’d thought Essie Espinoza was different from other politicians, was above the name-calling and backstabbling and mudslinging. Maybe I’d been wrong. Then again, maybe I was overreacting. It’s not like she’d come right out and called him a geezer.

  I cast a glance at Paige to gauge her reaction. She hadn’t seemed to take offense at Essie’s stabs at her boss. Given the comments she’d made about her intern job previously, her lack of commitment to Senator Sutton didn’t really surprise me.

  “Cheap foreign labor has wreaked havoc on our manufacturing sector,” Essie continued, “putting factories out of business and Americans out of work. But”—she wagged her index finger—“this isn’t all about self-interest. Chinese workers are being exploited by large corporations, forced to work in bad conditions and paid so little they can barely survive. That’s not fair, either. Something must be done to protect workers both here in the U.S. and in China. That’s why my first order of business as your new senator will be to propose a bold new bill to level the playing field, to impose the same kinds of taxes on Chinese imports here that they impose on American goods in their country. I’m calling this bill the American Tariff Against Chinese Commodities Act, or ATACC. Because our economy is under attack, kids. American jobs are under attack. Human rights are under attack. Your very futures are under attack.” She jabbed an outraged finger on the podium. “I’m the candidate who will fight the good fight and win—” She paused for effect before lifting her finger to point at the crowd and crying, “For you!”