The Long Paw of the Law

by Diane Kelly

  “Thank you, Officer Luz. That would be right nice of you.”

  Guilt cramped my gut as Brigit and I left the woman’s house. Beverly would be a sitting duck here, alone and defenseless. I could only hope that if the thieves came back and found the garage door manually locked, they’d give up and move on.

  After taking Brigit on another fruitless tracking expedition through Beverly’s neighborhood, I returned my partner to her enclosure in the back of the cruiser. Sliding into my seat up front, I grabbed the mic and got on my radio, giving the woman’s address to my fellow officers. “Please increase patrols by her house,” I said. “The victim is an older woman who lives alone, and I’m afraid what might happen if the thieves try to get in.”

  My fellow officers replied over the airwaves, promising to keep a close eye on the residence. But would it be enough? Burglars could be in and out of a house in mere minutes. Even if a squad car rolled by every twenty minutes or so, we could miss the thieves entirely. My heart wrenched at the thought of something happening to Beverly, of having to explain to her son and her grandchildren at her funeral why we’d been unable to keep her safe. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.

  Still, I spent the rest of my shift worrying. First I’d worry about the young woman in the blue knit hat. Where is she? Is she okay? Is she hurt? Is she scared? Then my mind would shift to the older woman. Did the burglars try to break in? Is she okay? Is she hurt? Is she scared? It was one of those days when I wished my job only required me to ask, Do you want fries with that?

  As I patrolled, a call came in on my personal cell phone. I didn’t recognize the number, but it was local so I pulled into a parking lot to take it. It was the man who ran the sports memorabilia booth at the flea market.

  “Bad news,” he said. “I’ve put out feelers everywhere, but nobody can get their hands on a Steve Nash bobble-head from when he played for the Mavericks. Any chance you’d be interested in one with him in a Phoenix Suns jersey?”

  “Sorry, but no,” I said. “I appreciate you taking the time to look into it, though.”

  “No problem,” he replied. “If you come across anybody else looking for sports memorabilia, send them my way.”

  “I certainly will.”

  So much for tracking the burglars through the bobble-head.

  When my shift was officially over, the worry I’d been fighting all day overtook me. I couldn’t go home. Instead, I drove back to Beverly’s house and knocked on her door, Brigit by my side. The curtains spread just an inch or two, but then she opened them wide and gave me a smile and a wave through the window. After closing the drapes again, she came over to open the door.

  “If you don’t have plans this evening,” I told her, “I thought my partner and I could keep you and Pumpernickel company.” Not that Pumpernickel would even know he had company. He was still asleep in his bed. Heck, he’d hadn’t even changed positions from earlier. I squinted. He is still breathing, isn’t he? Yep. His bloated belly went slowly up and down, letting me know he was with us, if barely.

  “I’d love company!” Beverly said. “Come on in.”

  I led Brigit into the house. “Something sure smells good.”

  “It’s butternut squash,” the woman said. “I’ve got one baking in the oven. I’d planned to make some squash soup tonight. It’s one of my favorite fall recipes. Maybe you and I can make it together.”

  “I’d like that. But first, I’m thinking we should turn out the lights and put both your car and my cruiser in your garage. That way, if the burglars come by, Brigit and I might be able to catch them.” I was more than ready to get the guy or guys off the street.

  Beverly’s eyes brightened and her mouth gaped. “You’re going to run a sting operation? Right here in the house?”

  “I’d like to,” I said, “if you’re game.”

  “I sure am!” she cried, her lips spreading in the broad smile. “Wait until the gals at the beauty parlor hear about this!”

  I went out to her garage and stacked her storage boxes along the back wall. I moved the garbage cans and recycle bins aside, and rolled the heavy dress form into the back corner. Once the floor was clear, I unlocked the manual lock and Beverly and I moved our cars inside, out of sight.

  The vehicles dispensed with, we went back into the house, leaving the manual door lock unlocked. While I left the outside porch light on, I extinguished the others inside, lighting my way back to the kitchen with the flashlight app on my phone. Brigit padded along behind me.

  Beverly had turned on a small night-light next to the coffeepot. Though the illumination seemed insufficient at first, as my eyes adjusted I was able to see reasonably well.

  Beverly poured us each a glass of iced tea, and we took seats at the kitchen table. She asked about my career history, how I’d become a cop and K-9 handler. Of course I glossed over the part where I’d Tasered my former partner Derek Mackey in the crotch, saying only that we’d been “reassigned” when it became clear we weren’t a good match. In return, I asked about her grandchildren.

  “Don’t get me started on them,” she said with a grin. “I’ll never stop!” She proceeded to tell me that the two older ones were girls, the youngest a boy. “The oldest is as girlie as they come. She likes to play dolls and dress-up. Her younger sister is a total tomboy. She’s into sports and loves to spend time outdoors, camping and such. My grandson turned two right before they left for Spain. I hope he’ll remember me when they come back at the semester break.”

  “I bet he will,” I said. “He’s probably missing you right now.”

  Her face looked wistful. “I hope so.”

  The timer went off on the oven. Beep-beep. Beverly stood to turn it off and donned two oven mitts, the things looking as large as boxing gloves on her small hands. She opened the oven and pulled out the squash. The enticing aroma wafted through the kitchen, making my stomach growl in anticipation.

  She removed the mitts, retrieved a large pot from the lower cabinet, and placed it on the stove. Pulling the silverware drawer open, she rounded up a spoon and held it up. “Mind scooping out the squash? It’s a little hard on my wrists.”

  “I’d be happy to.” I took the spoon and proceeded to scoop up chunks of baked squash, dropping them in the pot. Brigit stepped over to see if I might offer her a taste of whatever I was cooking. “Sorry, girl,” I told her. “This is too hot. It would burn your mouth.”

  Brigit cast me a disappointed look and padded back over to lie under the kitchen table.

  Beverly went to her pantry and retrieved a carton of vegetable stock, pouring it into the pot. Next she went for the ginger and nutmeg, tapping the jars over the soup and eyeballing the spices rather than meticulously measuring them. She added a dash of salt before pulling a container of heavy cream from the fridge and pouring some into the pot. “Now we’re ready to rumble.” She turned on the burner under the pot.

  I stirred the soup as it simmered. Pumpernickel finally woke from his nap and waddled, bow-legged and bug-eyed, into the kitchen. He looked up at me with eyes cloudy with cataracts. I wondered what I looked like to him. Probably like a magic genie emerging from a poof of smoke.

  Brigit waltzed over and put her nose to his in greeting. His tail began to move back and forth. Awkwardly, he sniffed along Brigit’s side, making his way to her back end to get to know her better. He had to raise his head as high as he could to sniff her hindquarters. After doing so, he attempted to wrap his front paws around her back leg and began to hunch. Brigit looked back at him and then up at me, her expression one of surprise and distress.

  “Stop that!” Beverly scolded, gently pushing Pumpernickel away with her foot. She shook her head. “What can I say? He’s a lover, not a fighter.”

  She turned off the burner and, when the soup had cooled sufficiently a few minutes later, had me pour it into her blender.

  I held up a hand to stop her before she pushed the buttons. “Let me take a look outside first. If the burglars hear the blen
der, they’ll know someone’s here.”

  I walked through the dark living room to the front door and put my eye to the peephole. Nope. Nobody in my field of vision.

  I returned to the kitchen. “Let ’er rip.”

  She jabbed the puree button on the blender and let it run until the soup was smooth. She poured two generous bowls, one for herself and one for me, before pouring a couple of ounces of the soup into Pumpernickel’s bowl and stirring in an ice cube to cool it down. She set it on the floor and called him to dinner. “Come here, boy! Suppertime!”

  Before the slow-moving Chihuahua could get to it, Brigit scurried over and lapped it all up.

  “Brigit!” I scolded her. “That was rude.”

  “Let’s get her a bowl, too,” Beverly said. After refilling Pumpernickel’s bowl, she retrieved another metal dog bowl from under the sink and poured some soup into it for Brigit, once again adding an ice cube. She set it on the floor in front of my partner. Brigit scarfed it up in seconds. Slup-slup-slup.

  Beverly and I continued to make small talk over our delicious dinner. I learned that while she’d been a homemaker and Girl Scout leader, her husband had been an executive at the Radio Shack headquarters here in Fort Worth back in the company’s heyday. “We were very fortunate,” she said. “We lived quite comfortably.”

  In return, I told her about Seth.

  “He’s on the bomb squad?” she said. “He must be a very brave guy.”

  “He is. Handsome, too.” I decided not to mention his broad, muscular shoulders and the sexy army-eagle tattoo on his back. Unlike Pumpernickel, Seth was both a lover and a fighter. But no sense giving the woman a visual image that might send her blood pressure over the edge. “He works with an explosives detection dog named Blast. Sometimes Brigit and I go on double dates with them.”

  Beverly smiled. “Sounds like an ideal relationship. Maybe I’ll be sewing you a wedding dress someday.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But not anytime soon. I want to make detective before I settle down.”

  “Detective, huh?” Beverly replied. “Well, if you need anyone to vouch for how dedicated you are to your job, tell them to give me a call. I’ll put in a good word.”

  “Thanks.”

  When we finished our soup, I helped her clear and rinse the dishes. We’d just put the last bowl in the dishwasher when the doorbell rang. Ding-dong.

  She clasped her hands over her mouth to stifle her squeal of excitement.

  I raised a finger to let her know I’d be right back and gave Brigit the hand signal to stay where she was. Her nails would be loud on the wood floors, and if it was the burglars at the door, I didn’t want to give them a heads-up that a dog was on the premises.

  I tiptoed across the dark living room and put my eye to the peephole. There, directly in front of the hole, was a nose that indeed appeared to be made of raw meat, the result of drug addiction and slapdash skin care. It was no question where his problem area was—right in the middle of his face. I wondered if he’d tried the stolen Nouveau Toi cream on himself.

  As I spied through the peephole, he tried the doorbell again, following it up with a knock. Ding-dong. Rap-rap-rap.

  I tiptoed back into the kitchen. “It’s him,” I whispered to Beverly. “Go into your bedroom and lock the door. Keep the light off. Brigit and I are going to the garage to intercept them.”

  Beverly made the “OK” sign with her thumb and forefinger before scooping up Pumpernickel, scampering down the hall, and closing her bedroom door behind them.

  I motioned for Brigit to follow me out to the garage, and closed the door behind us. It was pitch-black with the doors shut and the light off. I pulled my flashlight from my tool belt and turned it on. After ordering Brigit to lie down so she’d be hidden by the cruiser, I hunkered down behind the dress form in the back, next to the wall-mounted door control. My heart pulsed like a blender on high power. Sensing my anxiety, and probably smelling my adrenaline, Brigit quivered as she crouched, ready for action. I turned my flashlight off and, once again, we were in complete darkness. My fingers felt around on my belt for the loop, and I slid my flashlight back into it.

  Whirrrrr. The remote device was activated and the garage door began to rise. The bare bulb in the center of the ceiling turned on, providing dim light in the large space. The vehicles cast shadows around the edges, where Brigit and I hid. I yanked my baton from my belt and extended it, the snap drowned out by the ruh-ruh-ruh rumble of the motor and chains lifting the door. I leaned the baton against the wall in easy reach.

  Two pairs of legs appeared as the door rolled up. One belonged to the guy who’d rung the bell. The other pair belonged to someone with scuffed shoes tied with yellow laces. It has to be the Latino man Felicia Bloomquist mentioned.

  When the door was halfway up, the two men ducked under it, stopping for a brief moment to get their bearings. Sure enough, it was Meat-nose and the Latino-in-need-of-a-trim.

  Before they could realize there was a police cruiser in the garage, I pressed the button on the wall next to me to stop the door’s ascent. Putting my hands to the back of the dress form, I shoved it with all the force I could muster. The two froze as they stared wide-eyed at the limbless, pumpkin-headed apparition streaming toward them.

  “What the—?” Hamburger nose didn’t have time to finish his sentence before he took a full frontal hit from the pumpkin-headed dress form, folded in two, and fell back on his butt on the concrete. The hula hoop slid down the dress form and over his head like a plastic snare.

  I gave Brigit the order to follow me. Together, we rushed the men. Their mouths fell open and they stared at us for a split second, frozen in place. Then, the reality of the situation kicked in.

  “Run!” yelled the Latino. He turned and bolted. Unfortunately, his feet were quicker than his mind, and by the time he processed the fact that the garage door was not fully up, it was too late to stop his momentum. His body kept moving while his forehead smacked the bottom of the door with a resounding clang! Dazed by the impact, he rocked on his feet and put his hand to the bloody gash on his forehead. When he pulled his hand back and saw the blood, he crumpled to the ground, inadvertently pushing the button on the remote in his hand.

  Meat-nose, who hadn’t yet made it up from the floor, seemed to realize his only chance for escape was to scramble under the descending door. He pushed the hula hoop off his shoulders, turned over onto his belly, and attempted to soldier-crawl through the narrowing space. Unfortunately for him, but luckily for me, the garage door moved faster than the thief. He screamed bloody murder as it came down on his back, probably afraid he’d be crushed. The door held him in place for a couple of seconds before the safety mechanism activated and it headed back up.

  I grabbed at his legs, but he kicked my hands away and pulled his legs through before the door was fully up again. By the time the door rose enough for me to duck under it, he was already halfway down the block, heading for the silver Suburban parked there.

  “Stop!” I hollered. “Police!”

  Despite my order, he didn’t stop. If anything, he picked up speed now that he knew a cop was on his tail. There was no way I’d be able to catch him before he reached the vehicle. My partner, on the other hand, could have him facedown on the asphalt in six seconds flat.

  I gave Brigit the signal and off she went, her nails scrabbling on the concrete. Lest he awake and attempt to escape, I quickly cuffed the unconscious, bleeding man at my feet. Oddly, when I pulled his right hand back, I noticed it was still holding Beverly’s remote. Once he was cuffed, I reached out and plucked the remote from his hand. It would soon be going in an evidence bag.

  One down, one to go. I took off after my partner, feeling every bit her inferior sidekick.

  On hearing the pounding footsteps gaining on him, the burglar twisted around to look behind him. Not a smart thing to do. The move put him off balance and he got tangled up in his own feet. As Brigit leaped up to take him to the asphalt, he went down
on his own. She ended up sailing through the air over him, performing an improvised K-9 long jump, landing several feet past him. She scrabbled on the street, turned around, and charged back in his direction. By that point, I was on him, too, and she and I met over the guy’s back.

  He started to push himself to a stand, but I put a foot to his back and forced him down. “Don’t move!” I shouted. “Or you’ll get the baton!”

  I pushed the button on my shoulder-mounted radio and called for backup. With help on its way, I bent down to cuff the guy. He wasn’t cooperating. No matter how many times I shoved him down, he tried to get up again, making it impossible for me to get the handcuffs on him. Brigit danced on her feet next to us, wanting a piece of the action, her expression reading, Let me at ’im! Let me at ’im!

  Trying to keep this guy down was wearing me out, and very soon I was nearly out of steam. I stepped back to let Brigit take a shot. “Do your thing, girl.”

  As the guy pushed his torso up, Brigit leaped onto his back. With nearly a hundred pounds of dog on him, he collapsed to the ground again. Brigit grabbed the back of his shirt in her teeth and sprawled across his shoulders, pinning him down.

  Now that my partner had disabled the guy, I could grab his wrists and get the cuffs on him.

  Woo-woo-woo! The sound of the siren grew louder as my backup approached. A few seconds later, a cruiser careened around the corner, its tires squealing and headlights playing about as the car pinballed off the curb. The cruiser swerved too far in the other direction before straightening out.

  The burglar, Brigit, and I were in the middle of the road, the cruiser coming right at us at warp speed. There was no time to get Meat-nose out of the way and, frankly, he was the least of my priorities. I shoved Brigit off the thief’s back and in front of the parked Suburban, then dived after her, my face and hands skidding across the pavement.

  SCREEEEECH!

  The stench of burning rubber met my nostrils, but no sound came from the burglar behind me.