Against the Paw

by Diane Kelly

  Seth sipped his orange juice. “I’m on duty from noon Friday to noon Saturday, but I was thinking we could go down to the Brazos River on Sunday, maybe rent a canoe and spend a day on the water.”

  As much as I’d love a day of relaxation on the river, it would have to wait for another time.

  “Seth, Sunday is Mother’s Day.” Given his family history, I hated to mention it. But my mom and dad were expecting me to spend time with them and my four siblings. As fun as a canoe trip sounded, my mother would disown me if I didn’t show up.

  “Oh.” Seth turned to look out the window, avoiding my gaze. “I forgot about that.”

  Seth had never known his father and had told me precious little about his mother. All I knew was that she lived out of town somewhere and that he hadn’t seen her in a long time.

  “You could come with me,” I suggested tentatively. He had yet to meet my parents. It would be a big step in our relationship. “We’re taking my mom out for dinner.”

  Seth turned back to me, his eyes blank, his expression passive. Looked like he’d shut down once again. Hence my surprise when he softly said, “Okay.”

  “Okay? Really?”

  He nodded and our eyes held for a moment over the table, communicating things we were afraid to put into words. We’re getting serious, aren’t we? And My God, I never thought my stomach could hold this many pancakes!

  “In the interest of full disclosure,” I replied, “my family can be loud and boisterous and annoying.”

  He gave me a small smile. “I’ve handled IEDs and four-alarm fires. I think I can handle a few irritating relatives.”

  I reached across the table and gave his hand a squeeze. He captured my hand and raised it to his mouth, licking a stray drop of syrup from my knuckle. “Yum.”

  Yum, indeed.

  When I’d eaten all I wanted, I set my plate on the floor so Seth’s dog could consume what remained. “Have at it, boy.” A bad habit on my part, treating the dogs like garbage disposals. That’s how Brigit got into the predicament she was in.

  A white-haired man in a booth nearby looked down at Blast licking the plate. His lip curled back in disgust, but he seemed to know better than to complain to me, what with the gun on my hip.

  Seth paid our bill, leaving a generous tip for the waitress to make up for Humpty Dumpty stiffing her. We exited the restaurant with our dogs strolling along beside us. Seth walked me over to my cruiser, waiting while I loaded Brigit inside.

  Once she was secured, he stepped closer, his green eyes sparkling with mischief. “Can I kiss you, Officer Luz? Or would you like to cuff me first?”

  I glanced over at the restaurant, then at the cars making their way past on University Drive. The parking lot was well lit, the two of us clearly visible. As much as I’d like to, it would be best not to engage in any such personal activities while in uniform. I sighed and gestured at the passing traffic. “We’d better not.”

  Seth groaned, then turned hopeful eyes on me. “Will you make it up to me next time I see you?”

  “And then some.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.”

  With that, he returned to his car, a seventies-era blue Chevy Nova with orange flames painted down the side and license plates that read KABOOM. Apropos for a bomb expert, huh?

  I climbed back into my squad car and had driven half a mile down the street when yet another call came in from dispatch.

  “We’ve got a prowler report in Berkeley Place. Who can respond?”

  Another incident in Berkeley Place? Perhaps those broken azalea limbs hadn’t been due to kids playing soccer, after all. Or maybe Ralph Hurley was going for a twofer tonight, hitting another unsuspecting victim. Berkeley Place sat directly to the northeast of Frisco Heights, where he’d hit earlier.

  Pulse racing, I grabbed my mic and claimed the call. “Officers Luz and Brigit responding. What’s the address?”

  The victim lived on Glenco Terrace. As soon as dispatch gave the house number, Brigit and I were on our way. Given the late hour, I didn’t activate my siren and risk waking up the entire neighborhood, though I did turn on my flashing lights and put the pedal to the metal, driving as fast as I dared.

  In the wee hours on a weekday, road traffic was light and we arrived at the house in record time. I pulled past a bronze-colored Ford Expedition SUV parked at the curb. The back bumper bore dealer license plates, as well as a sticker that depicted the American flag and said THESE COLORS DON’T RUN. The rear window sported a decal with the black and gold U.S. Army star. Attached to the driver’s side door was a reflective magnetic sign that read NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH with the image of a large, angry-looking eye beneath the lettering.

  The house was a classic two-story Tudor style, painted a light gray with white trim. A detached garage sat behind the house at the end of the driveway, protected by an iron gate. In the front doorway of the house stood a woman in a robe, one hand clutching the top closed at her neck, the other clenching the fabric at her chest in a death grip. An average-sized man in pajamas stood on the walkway that led from the porch to the street, waving me down. Next to him stood a hulky, bulky man sporting lightweight black nylon workout pants and a black tee over well-developed pecs that, by my best estimate, equated to 46B. His T-shirt bore the same neighborhood watch logo as the car sign, the angry eye seeming to lock on my cruiser. Both of the men and the woman appeared to be in their mid- to late thirties.

  I turned off my lights, rolled down the windows for Brigit, and climbed out of the car. Brigit put her face to the mesh, her nose raised and wriggling as she scented the air.

  The two men stepped forward. The one in pajamas began to speak but the large man cut him off. “Good. You’re finally here.”

  Finally? When someone’s scared and on edge, mere seconds can feel like minutes, so I chose to ignore the implicit criticism about my response time (which, by the way, was excellent).

  The man gestured at the street. “I’ve already been up and down the block on foot twice looking for the guy. There’s no sign of him.”

  The search would explain the small beads of moisture on his forehead and why his shirt appeared damp. Sweat. Up close like this I could smell his perspiration. He wore his brown hair in a short, military-style cut. He also wore an improvised tool belt equipped with a Maglite, pepper spray, and a holstered gun. The guy looked like a modern-day John Wayne and seemed to think Berkeley Place was the new Wild West.

  I looked from the big man in the neighborhood watch shirt to the other. “Are you the homeowner?”

  The guy in the pajamas nodded. “Yes, I am.”

  “What’s your name, sir?”

  “Christopher Lowry.”

  I pulled out my pad and made a note of the man’s name, asking him to spell it. “You had a prowler?”

  Again the bigger man answered before the other had a chance to speak. “Someone was in the yard, just outside their bedroom window.”

  I looked to Christopher Lowry for confirmation.

  “That’s correct,” he said.

  Mister Muscles crossed his beefy arms over his chest. “If the automatic sprinklers hadn’t come on, the thug would have forced his way into the house.”

  Maybe. Maybe not. Depended on what the suspect was after.

  “What’s your name, sir?” I asked him.

  “Garrett Hawke. I’m president of the Berkeley Place Neighborhood Watch.”

  He said it with such self-importance I had to fight the urge to say “la-di-da.” I jotted his name down, too, using all lower-case letters, my own secret code for a person who was difficult to deal with.

  Hawke tucked his thumbs into his tool belt. “This is the second prowler report we’ve had this week.”

  “I’m aware of that,” I said. “I responded to the first c-call, too.”

  “Any progress?”

  “Not yet.” I’d interviewed Kirstin Rumford, assessed the physical evidence, and made a report. Standard procedure. “There wasn’t much
to go on.”

  He grunted. “Might’ve been if you’d dusted for prints.”

  The department had a limited number of crime scene techs, and it had seemed unnecessary to call one out when nobody had been hurt, no property had been stolen or permanently damaged, and there’d been no clear evidence a crime had even been committed. But I wasn’t going to waste my time explaining my thought processes. I’d learned from experience that trying to explain sometimes led to further argument. Nonetheless, I sent a pointed look up at him. “Please remember we’re on the same side, Mr. Hawke. I appreciate what you do for your neighborhood, and I’d appreciate you letting me do my job, too.”

  He lifted a palm, as if inviting me to take over, and stepped back, moving with a barely perceptible limp. Wonder what the story is there.

  I returned my attention to Lowry. “Tell me exactly what happened here.”

  He gestured back toward his wife. “My wife was in the bedroom when she heard someone make a noise at the window.”

  I looked up at his wife and motioned to her. “Ma’am?”

  Lowry’s wife came down from the porch to meet us on the walk. Her eyes were worried, her mouth tight, her shoulders drawn as if she were trying to shrink into herself. Obviously, she felt terrified and vulnerable and exposed. I offered what I hoped was an empathetic and reassuring nod.

  As she stopped before me, it struck me that she was similar in appearance to Kirstin Rumford. Both were Caucasian, with long, dark hair. If there was a peeping Tom in this neighborhood, he clearly had a type. Then again, for all I knew it could have been Ralph Hurley at the Lowrys’ bedroom window, hoping to gain entry and force the couple to hand over their debit cards. Hurley normally targeted women who were home alone, but perhaps he hadn’t realized Mr. Lowry was in the house or thought he’d be able to take on the couple. He’d had good success so far. Maybe he was becoming bolder. Or maybe he was becoming more desperate. Blurgh. Desperation was never good. It could make criminals do stupider, more dangerous, more violent things. Permanent things.

  I readied my pen again. “May I get your name?”

  “Alyssa Lowry,” she said, her voice meek.

  As I wrote the name down, I asked, “Can you tell me what happened, Mrs. Lowry?”

  “I was in bed reading. Since it’s a nice night, we’d opened the windows an inch or two to get some fresh air. I heard the sound of the automatic sprinklers kicking on and right after that someone cried out by the bedroom window. The sprinklers must have surprised him.”

  “Him?” I repeated. “Are you sure it was a man?”

  She raised a shoulder. “I guess I can’t say for certain, but my impression from the sound was that it was a man.”

  “Could it have been a child? Maybe a teenager?” After all, children, especially teens, didn’t always respect boundaries and looked for shortcuts. A kid from the neighborhood could have been sneaking through yards and hopping fences and been unexpectedly caught in the spray.

  “I suppose it’s possible,” she replied, though she didn’t sound convinced. “If the kid was old enough that his voice had already changed.”

  “Can you show me the window?”

  “Sure.”

  She walked gingerly across the damp yard in her slippers, leading me around the side of the house, stopping short of the back fence. The house was L-shaped, wider here than it was farther back. She pointed to two windows set four feet apart. The windows faced the backyard, though they were not inside the fence. The glass was covered by white sheers on the inside. A bedside lamp offered soft lighting, not enough to illuminate the entire room but enough to make the bed, and anyone who might be sitting on it, easy to see. A thick book lay on the dark, rumpled bedspread. Tolstoy, if I wasn’t mistaken.

  “Which window did the sound come from?” I asked Mrs. Lowry.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I just heard the cry and bolted out of the bedroom.”

  I pointed to a window on the second floor, directly over their bedroom. “Whose room is up there?”

  “Our son’s,” Alyssa said.

  “How old is he?”

  “Eight months.”

  Too young to have a friend out here who might be pulling a practical joke, or to be sneaking out of the house himself. “Anyone else live here?”

  Alyssa shook her head. “No. Just the three of us.”

  All I saw was thick Saint Augustine grass, wet from the sprinklers. “Any chance it could have been an animal that cried out? Maybe the sprinklers surprised a raccoon or possum or stray cat out here.”

  Mrs. Lowry’s face looked doubtful. “I’ve never heard an animal make a sound like the one I heard.”

  “And you’re sure it wasn’t the baby?”

  I wasn’t trying to discount anything she said, but was only trying to get the facts straight and eliminate other possibilities. After all, the police department received a high percentage of reports that proved to be nothing. Cars reported stolen that were in use by another family member. Late-night prowlers that turned out to be a possum digging through a garbage can. Fireworks or backfiring cars reported as gunshots.

  “I’m sure the noise wasn’t our son,” she said. “The baby monitor was on my night table on the other side of the bed. It was quiet.”

  “I’d just checked on him,” Christopher added. “He was sound asleep.”

  I pulled my flashlight from my belt and shined it around the area. Hawke did the same and began to step forward.

  Reflexively, my arm shot out in front of him, preventing him from going farther. “Stay back or you could contaminate the crime scene.”

  I crouched down for a better look, but saw no footprints, no handprints, no evidence whatsoever left behind. Of course the thick grass wouldn’t retain a footprint, so the lack of clues didn’t necessarily mean no one had been here. “I’m not s-seeing anything.”

  Hawke, who’d dropped to a knee next to me, concurred. “Me, neither.”

  Where human eyes fell short, Brigit’s nose could once again compensate. It paid to have a partner with a specialized skill set. “I’ll get my partner back here, see if she can follow the trail.”

  If a someone had been lurking about back here, Brigit would let us know.

  FIFTEEN

  THE NOSE KNOWS

  Brigit

  He’s been here, too.

  Inside the cruiser, Brigit lifted her nose to the open window and flared her nostrils, scenting the same man she’d smelled two days ago at the other house. Whoever he was, he sure seemed to get around.

  When she noticed her partner returning to the car, she wagged her tail, hoping Megan would let her out to explore, to put her skills to use. Brigit wasn’t some fluffy lapdog whose only purpose was to look pretty. Brigit had been born with an innate sense of purpose, a drive to keep watch and protect and track. Also an instinct to herd sheep, though she hadn’t been able to put that skill to use yet. The only sheep she’d ever come across were at the stock show, and the woolly beasts had already been rounded up and stuck in a pen. At that point, Brigit had been more interested in eating them than herding them.

  Megan stepped over to the cruiser and opened the back door. “C’mon, girl. You’re up.”

  Yippee! Brigit hopped down from her enclosure and looked up at her partner, awaiting instruction. She hoped she’d be ordered to chase someone. She loved playing chase.

  Megan led her around the side of the house, then issued the order for Brigit to find the source of disruption on the ground and track the perpetrator. Brigit was more than happy to oblige. Tracking was a game to her, a fun challenge, one that sometimes led to a pursuit but always ended with Megan rewarding her with liver treats. Megan had been oddly stingy with them the last three days, ever since they’d visited the sicko who’d put the stick in Brigit’s butt. At least Megan had let her have some sausage at the diner tonight.

  The man’s scent was strong here by the window. He’d been standing here not long ago. The dog knew that with one hu
ndred percent certainty. He seemed to roam around houses in the dark, leaving his scent behind, like an unneutered tomcat marking his territory and looking for love or a fight.

  Brigit put her nose to the ground and turned to head out after him. She wanted another liver treat and she’d do whatever it took to earn one. I’ll lead Megan to this guy if it’s the last thing I do.

  SIXTEEN

  DAMPENED SPIRITS

  Tom

  Damn sprinklers!

  Tonight had not gone as planned. Not at all.

  There would definitely be fallout.

  He only hoped things would blow over quickly.

  SEVENTEEN

  INTO THE NIGHT

  Megan

  Brigit snuffled around the base of the windows, moving over and lifting her head to sniff alongside the one on the left. As intently as my partner was scenting, it was clear she was on to something.

  “This must have been the window where the prowler was,” I said.

  Alyssa’s grip on her robe tightened even more.

  Brigit put her face back to the ground and headed out, moving with purpose across the yard. Working with a K-9 was like having a secret, furry high-tech weapon. I felt like a female Iron Man. Or maybe it was more like being a magician, but instead of a magic wand I had a magic dog who could track down clues no human cop could detect. Either way, I was proud to be part of a K-9 team, even if it meant always having fur on my uniform and being responsible for bagging Brigit’s poop.

  “I’ll come back, let you know what we’ve found,” I told the Lowrys as I headed after my partner.

  Brigit trotted along and I followed behind, rounding to the front of the house and continuing across the Lowrys’ front yard into the one next door.

  While the couple returned to their home, Hawke lumbered along after me, an uninvited sidekick. Guys like him could be problematic. Wannabe heroes who took their citizen patrol duties too seriously. The last thing the world needed was another overzealous asshole like George Zimmerman hurting or killing an innocent person. Still, so long as he didn’t get in my way, Garrett Hawke was within his rights to traipse along after me and my partner. Besides, these watch groups could sometimes be instrumental in solving or preventing crimes. It would be best if Hawke and I stayed on each other’s good sides.