The Long Paw of the Law

by Diane Kelly

  She came down the steps. “Thanks for coming!” she called.

  We met halfway on the path that led to her entry. She held out a French-tipped hand and introduced herself. “I’m Felicia Bloomquist.”

  “Officer Megan Luz.” After we shook hands, I said, “I understand you were robbed?”

  She nodded. “I went into the garage this morning and found everything of value gone.”

  “Not a fun way to start a day, huh?”

  “You can say that again!”

  My gaze shifted to the garage door. There were no dents, no scratches, and no keyless entry pad that could have been decoded. “Does your garage have a service door?”

  “No,” she said. “The only way into the garage is through the garage door or the door from the kitchen. Nothing from the house was taken.”

  “Let’s take a look around.”

  The woman waved me inside. I followed her into the living room, which was bright with both light and color. The walls were painted in a vivid teal hue, while her contemporary sofa sported flamingo-pink fabric. We made our way across the wood floor and into the small kitchen, where colorful pottery adorned the open shelves. A stackable washer and dryer towered in a small alcove off the kitchen. At the back of the alcove was the door that led to the garage. Felicia opened it, stepped through, and flipped on the light switch.

  As I passed through the doorway after her, I reached out and tapped my knuckles on the door to test it. The door was solid, reinforced steel. A glance at the knob told me it bore a heavy-duty dead bolt. The trim bore telltale gouges and scratch marks, indicating someone had tried to gain access to the interior of the house, but had lacked either the tools or the time. The only things left in the garage were a large rolling garbage can, a broom, and a plastic recycling bin. No lawnmower, rakes, or other gardening tools.

  I turned to Felicia. “Did they take your lawn equipment?”

  “No,” she said. “I keep all the stuff for the yard in a locked shed out back. But they took my bicycle, some lawn chairs, and my entire inventory.”

  “Inventory? What kind of inventory?”

  “I sell several lines of products. Nouveau Toi cosmetics. Manhattan Metals and Baubles brands of jewelry. Vestments and Eleanor Neely clothing and accessories. Sunflower Power energy and weight-loss snacks. Most direct sellers only sell one type of product, but I’m a complete-style consultant. I make people over from head-to-toe, inside and out.”

  “Sounds like a clever sales strategy.”

  “I try to think outside the box. It’s served me well so far. My first year doing direct sales I doubled what I earned managing a cosmetics counter at the mall.”

  “Impressive.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled and lifted her shoulders to her ears in a coy gesture. Back to the matter at hand, she said, “I keep the heat-sensitive products in the house, but I had over six thousand dollars in inventory in here.”

  Whoa. “That’s a lot of inventory.”

  Was she telling me the truth? Or was this an attempt at insurance fraud? People sometimes claimed to have had very expensive things stolen when, in fact, they’d never owned any such things in the first place.

  To feel her out, I asked, “Don’t most people order online and get direct shipment from the companies?”

  “They do,” she agreed. “But that’s after they make their first purchase. My first sales are normally made in person. You know, at in-home parties where I do facials and makeup for the customers, help them choose flattering clothing and jewelry. That’s why I keep a lot of the products on hand.”

  The bike and lawn chairs were likely to end up in a garage sale across town or sold on the streets for next to nothing. The skin-care products, makeup, jewelry, and clothing were a different story. They could be sold at market rates and yield the burglar a pretty penny.

  I told her as much. “My guess is whoever took your stuff probably intends to sell it at a flea market or online.”

  There was a dozen or more places throughout the Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex where vendors rented booths for a fee and sold products ranging from furniture and kitchenware to jewelry and cosmetics. More than one vendor had been busted for selling black-market goods at such places. I made a mental note to take a look at them in my spare time.

  “Anybody you know who might have been involved?” I asked. “A neighbor? A friend? A customer who asked a lot of questions about your inventory?”

  She raised her palms. “I can’t think of anyone.”

  I gestured at the door frame. “It looks like they tried to get into your house.”

  Now it was she who shuddered. “Oh my God. I don’t even want to think about that.”

  Who could blame her? Robbers sometimes used deadly force when surprised by a resident who’d unexpectedly come home and stumbled upon them. Other times, home invaders hid inside to await the residents, further evil in their hearts.

  Establishing a potential time line was critical. To that end, I asked, “When was the last time you were in your garage before you found it empty this morning?”

  “Hmm.” She looked up in thought before returning her gaze to me. “It was yesterday evening. I got an order from one of my customers. Lipstick emergency. She’d dropped hers on the curb and it rolled into the sewer.”

  “Did you take the delivery to her?”

  “Yes, I did,” Felicia said. “I left around eight o’clock. I ran a couple of errands on the way back. It was about ten when I got home. The news was just starting.”

  “Whoever robbed you must have hit while you were gone,” I told her. “They might have been watching your house, waiting for you to leave.”

  She shuddered again. “That totally creeps me out.”

  “I know how you feel.” I’d once found pictures on a suspect’s laptop of me and Frankie in our bathing suits washing our cars in our driveway. We’d had no idea he’d been watching and photographing us. Talk about feeling violated. “Any chance that customer might have called you about the lipstick to lure you away from home?”

  “I doubt it,” she said. “She’s been a customer a long time and she offered to come here to get the new tube of lipstick. I told her I’d be out and about anyway and would be happy to bring it to her.”

  Given those facts, the customer didn’t seem likely to be involved in the theft.

  I continued my questions. “I didn’t see a keypad outside or any damage to your garage door. Does anyone other than you have a remote control?”

  “No,” she said. “Just me.”

  “Where do you k-keep your remote?”

  “In my car.”

  “Show me.” If my sneaking suspicions were right, her device would be missing.

  She led me back through the house and out the front door. On seeing us come back outside, Brigit stood in her enclosure, wagged her tail, and issued a soft woof.

  I gestured to the squad car. “Mind if I give my partner a potty break?”

  “No problem.”

  I walked over to the cruiser, let Brigit out of her enclosure, and clipped her lead onto her collar. After she took a quick tinkle on the grass, she stood and looked up at me, wagging her tail, ready to help if needed. My partner had a darn good work ethic for a cop who wasn’t paid even minimum wage.

  By this time, Felicia had the door open on her Soul and was rummaging around in the front. She opened the center console and the glove compartment, and even knelt down on the driveway to feel under the seats.

  Looked like my sneaking suspicions were right. “The remote’s not there, is it?”

  She stood and backed up, her perfectly made-up face scrunched in confusion. “No. I always tuck it in the change holder, but it’s missing.”

  “You’re not the first person I’ve spoken to recently who’s had their remote taken,” I told her. “Burglars realize that people don’t think of them the same way they think of their keys, but remotes are essentially a free pass into someone’s place.”

 
The woman bit her lip and groaned. “Sometimes I leave the windows rolled down a little on my car. You know, so it’s not so hot when I get in?”

  Though it was an unsafe practice, I completely understood. As dang hot as it got in Texas, a windshield screen sometimes wasn’t enough to keep a car cool. Still, a human hand could easily slide though a narrow opening and snag a remote. I gestured to the dashboard. “Any chance you had a bobble-head on your dash?”

  “No,” she said. “Why?”

  “Just trying to determine if there’s any pattern to the thefts.” So far, there didn’t appear to be. This burglar seemed to be simply an opportunist, taking whatever might be easy to grab rather than targeting specific items to steal.

  I raised Brigit’s leash. “My partner can sniff around, see if she can trail the suspects.”

  She looked down at Brigit, as if addressing my partner. “That would be great.”

  I led Brigit over to the garage door and issued the command for her to seek a trail. She sniffed around the edge and bottom of the garage door, her nose a natural tool that no form of modern technology had yet to match. Snuffle-snuffle-snuffle. After a few seconds, she turned and headed back down the driveway at a slow pace, which told me the trail she’d sniffed out was weak. It was no surprise given that it had been around twelve hours since the burglary had taken place. As I followed, she trotted slowly along, cutting through the grass and going over the curb, into the street. The woman stood in her driveway watching us work as Brigit snuffled her way halfway down the block. There she sniffed around in a broad circle and eventually sat, giving me the signal that the trail petered out here.

  “Good girl!” She’d earned herself a liver treat and a smooch on the forehead. While kissing your partner was generally against department policy, I didn’t have to worry about Brigit reporting me to internal affairs.

  The two of us headed back to the woman’s house. No security cameras appeared on any of the houses along the way. Darn.

  As I returned to the driveway, I pointed back to where Brigit had stopped. “The trail ended there, just a few houses down. I’ll talk to your neighbors, see if any of them might have noticed a suspicious car out here last night. I’ll also get a crime-scene tech out here to dust for prints, but it’s possible whoever robbed you didn’t leave any.” After all, the only thing they’d had to touch to get into the garage was the remote, which hadn’t been found and was presumably still in the burglar’s possession. “In the meantime, I’d suggest you manually lock your g-garage door, get a new remote, and have your system reprogrammed. From now on, lock your remote in your glove box.”

  “I will,” she said. “Lesson learned.”

  “Do you have invoices for the products?” I asked. “They’ll be needed to prosecute the thief if they’re found. You’ll also need them for your insurance claim. It would be helpful if I could get brochures for the products, too. That would help me recognize them if I come across them somewhere.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Come on in and I’ll round them up.”

  We went inside. While I waited in her foyer, she stepped into her home office off the living room. She emerged a couple of minutes later with the paperwork and a small silver bag with NOUVEAU TOI printed in black ink on the side. She handed me the brochures, along with still warm, freshly made copies of invoices showing she had indeed made product purchases adding up to thousands of dollars.

  “Thanks.” I handed her my business card. “If anything comes up, don’t hesitate to call me.”

  She thanked me and handed me a business card of her own. The card gave her name—followed by her title—Personal Style Consultant. She also handed me the gift bag. “There’s some Sunflower Power energy snacks in the bag. Skin-care samples, too. Give the cream a try. It’ll help with those problem areas on your face.”

  My face has problem areas?

  Before I could ask where, exactly, the problem areas were, she proceeded to look me up and down, her lip quirking. “I offer private consultations. You should definitely give me a call. I can help you choose clothing that works for your body type. That outfit you’re wearing isn’t exactly flattering.”

  Sheesh. It’s not like I chose to wear these godawful polyester pants and a utility belt that made my hips look as wide as a barn. It’s a uniform!

  Despite her insults, I’d give this investigation my best, as always. My face might have problem areas and my uniform might be unfashionable, but my work ethic was beyond reproach.

  I headed down the block in the direction Brigit had trailed. I tried four different houses along the route, but nobody was home. I left my business card tucked into the mailbox at each house, scrawling “please call me” across the top of them. An elderly woman was home at a fifth house, but she hadn’t noticed any unusual cars parked out front the evening before. She wagged her brows. “I was entertaining a gentleman caller.”

  “Thanks, anyway,” I said with a smile. “Stay out of trouble.”

  She gave me a wink. “No promises.”

  I fished a square Sunflower Power snack out of the bag as Brigit and I headed back to our cruiser. My eyes scanned the nutritional information on the back of the package. According to the data, the snack was packed with all sorts of vitamins and iron, as well as 24 percent of the recommended daily allowance of protein and 35 percent for fiber. The ingredients list was short. Sunflower seeds, agave nectar, and dried apricots. No preservatives or artificial coloring. Hmm. This little treat could both taste good and be good for me, too.

  I tore through the crinkly wrap, the sound garnering Brigit’s attention. She kept a bead on me as I removed the round, cookielike snack and took a bite.

  The instant the bite hit my taste buds my throat responded with a gag reflex. This snack might be healthy, but it tasted like sugar-coated Styrofoam and felt like the same on my tongue. No, thanks.

  I forced the bite down and held what remained of the snack out for Brigit to sample. She snatched the cookie out of my hand. After chewing just once, she crinkled her nose in a recoil reaction. She opened her mouth and let the wet remains fall from her tongue to the grass. Once the snack was on the ground, she flopped over onto her back and rolled on it.

  I looked down at my partner. “I take it you’re not a fan of Sunflower Power Snacks, either, huh, girl?”

  Leaving the remains behind for the earth or ants to claim, we climbed back into the squad car and set out on patrol. We’d only made it to the corner when my cell phone chirped. I pulled to the curb and checked the screen. Detective Jackson was calling. With any luck, she’d have learned something about the pickup we’d seen on the security-camera videos. Maybe it would lead us to the man who’d dropped off the baby.

  I jabbed the button to accept the call. “Good Morning, Detective. Any word on the truck with the missing license plates?”

  “None,” she said. “Seems nobody spotted them.”

  Darn.

  “Swing by the station,” she said. “I need your help.” With nothing further, she hung up.

  Detective Jackson needs me? My chest swelled with pride. Or perhaps my sports bra was just riding up. Either way, off Brigit and I went.

  Minutes later, the two of us were at the station, heading down the hall to Jackson’s office. Brigit’s claws clicked and clacked along the tile, catching the attention of my rusty-haired former partner Derek the “Big Dick” Mackey, who sat at a desk in the shared open office space. He cast his eyes my way and raised his middle finger to scratch his nose in a not-so-subtle F you gesture. Such professionalism, no? He’d never quite forgiven me for Tasering him in the family jewels. Of course I hadn’t quite forgiven him, either, for pissing me off to the point that I totally lost my cool and nearly lost my job. But that unfortunate incident had led to me being partnered with Brigit, so it was hard in hindsight to see it as a mistake. Brigit was a far better partner than Derek had ever been. She was smarter, smelled better, and worked harder.

  Ignoring Derek’s rude gestu
re, we continued on to Jackson’s office. She sat in her high-backed rolling chair, the baby blanket on the desktop in front of her. Detective Hector Bustamente, my other mentor, sat in one of the chairs facing her desk. Bustamente was a portly man with thick lips and little regard for his appearance. But while there wasn’t much going for him on the outside, he had a nimble brain on the inside. He was a clever, intuitive investigator and basic all-around nice guy.

  “Good morning, Detectives,” I addressed them, and slid into the empty chair.

  “Officer Luz.” Bustamente gave me a nod and reached down his hand to give Brigit a scratch behind the ears. “Sergeant Brigit. You’re looking in good form today.”

  She responded by wagging her tail and licking his hand.

  Jackson tapped an index finger on the trim of the blanket. “Remember the symbol you noticed on the blanket Thursday night?”

  “The peace sign?”

  “Yeah. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but you’ve got good instincts, Megan. I decided to look more into it, and ran it by Hector. We think it might be this.” She swiveled her monitor to face my direction.

  On the screen was a peace sign with a slight modification. The vertical line was bisected by a horizontal one about a quarter of the way from the top, making it look like a small letter t or a cross.

  After eyeing the screen, I stood and hunkered over the blanket. She handed me a magnifying glass to take a closer look. I felt like a younger, female version of Sherlock Holmes as I used it to examine the symbol. Sure enough, the two needle holes on either side of the vertical line indicated the symbol might have included a crosshatch before the thread caught on the man’s jacket. As I retook my seat, I gestured to the symbol on her screen and asked, “What does the symbol mean?”

  Bustamente responded. “It’s the symbol for the People of Peace.”

  “The People of Peace? Who are they?”

  “They claim they’re a church group,” Bustamente said solemnly, “but they’ve got all the earmarks of a cult. The members believe they are the chosen, exalted ones and the rest of us are unholy and condemned to hell. They’re led by a man who calls himself Emmanuel. Nobody seems to know where he came from or who he really is. They live in a secluded compound on the eastern edge of Benbrook Lake.”