by Diane Kelly
“It’s a plan.” I returned to the desk to sign off my laptop and set out for patrol.
* * *
I swung by Hurley’s sister’s apartment complex. There was no sign of Hurley’s car. I let Brigit out to sniff around, watching to see if she showed any signs of recognizing familiar scents. She spent a good amount of time checking out a fire hydrant and trash bag someone had left on their porch, but other than that she showed no particular interest.
A man with a little boy passed by as we headed back to the car. “Look, Daddy!” the boy cried when he spotted Brigit. “It’s Scooby-Doo!”
I supposed that made me Velma or Daphne. Hmm. Which would I rather be? Velma had the brains I aspired to, but Daphne was hotter. I supposed I liked to consider myself a combination of the two. Reasonably attractive but with better-than-average smarts.
When I smiled at the little boy, he waved to me. “Bye, Shaggy!”
Shaggy? Sheesh. Way to feed my ego, kiddo.
Though I spoke with several residents in the vicinity of the house where Brigit had led me last night, none had noticed a car parked there. Not surprising, given the late hour and the fact that most people tended to keep their eyes glued to their television sets or computer screens once they were home. Even if someone had looked out a window, it probably would have been too dark to identify a car parked in the shadows. If nothing else, at least I’d done my due diligence.
At a quarter till seven, I pulled into the parking lot at Forest Park. Though the watch group normally met at one of the members’ homes, Hawke had sent an e-mail to the residents of the neighborhood’s five-hundred-plus homes and a large turnout was expected. Hence the move to the park.
The lot was beginning to fill with the vehicles of nervous residents. A mother with three young children climbed out of a minivan. Parked next to them was a Saturn Vue SUV fitted with one of those removable vinyl rear window decals. The decal depicted a cartoon mouse with a camera sitting atop a slab of Swiss cheese. SAY CHEESE! was written in large, bright yellow print over the mouse, with PORTRAITS AND SPECIAL EVENT PHOTOS/VIDEOS written in a smaller font underneath. A dark blue Mercedes was in the next spot. I pulled my cruiser into an open space on the other side of the Mercedes, let Brigit out of the back, and attached a leash to her collar.
At the far end of the parking lot sat a news van with Trish LeGrande, a field reporter from Dallas, standing behind it. Trish sported a set of perky, oversized breasts and fluffy hair the color of circus peanuts. As usual, she was dressed in her trademark pink, today wearing a tight silk dress that revealed a lot of leg and a lot of cleavage. Though she looked like a bimbo, she was too clever to be branded with the term. The woman could sensationalize the news like no one else, manipulating quotes to fit her needs, leading interviewees to say what she wanted them to say, coaxing them to reveal more than they intended.
I was surprised she’d come all the way from Dallas for this meeting. After all, it wasn’t entirely clear any crimes had even been committed in Berkeley Place. For all we knew, the person who’d cried out at Alyssa Lowry’s window might have been nothing more than a high-school kid jumping fences and walking through yards to take a shortcut. Really, how much valid information could be gleaned from one yelp? Then again, it could very well have been Hurley. Maybe he’d planned to nab the Lowrys’ debit cards, but had been thwarted somehow. Maybe he’d spotted a neighborhood watch vehicle on patrol and decided not to risk it. And we still couldn’t be sure that there hadn’t been someone in the bushes at Kirstin Rumford’s house.
It was frustrating not to know exactly what, and who, we were dealing with. Were all of these crimes attributable to Ralph Hurley? Were we dealing with two different perpetrators here? Maybe three? The possibilities seemed endless.
Brigit and I followed a fortyish couple and their two red-haired teenaged daughters as they made their way over to the open space where the meeting was to be held. Hawke had pulled his Expedition onto the grass, his neighborhood watch signs displayed on both the driver and passenger doors. As noted on the sign placed at the curb, parking on the grass was not permitted, but Hawke evidently thought his position as president of the neighborhood watch gave him some kind of diplomatic immunity. Still, I wouldn’t get the large crowd rankled up by issuing their leader a citation. No sense giving them the impression that the police department wasn’t on their side in this. Better if we worked together.
A hundred or more people were already there, some sitting in folding lawn chairs, others on blankets, more sitting directly on the grass. A few stood around the back edge of the group. Still more were wandering up, presumably walking over from the streets close to the park.
Garrett Hawke stood at the front, dressed in black all the way from his army boots up to his dark sunglasses. He was speaking with a tiny woman wearing heels, gray dress pants, and a lavender blazer. Her blond hair flipped up in playful layers about her head, giving her the look of a little yellow canary. She appeared to be in her late thirties or early forties. A quilted tote bag in a lively print was slung over her shoulder. A group including a dozen men and three women, presumably members of the patrol group, stood in a line behind them, a display of force.
There was no sign yet of Detective Bustamente. My eyes scanned the crowd, searching for Kirstin Rumford. My gaze fell on several women with long, dark hair before finding the right one. There she is.
I circled around the back of the crowd, making my way up the side to where Kirstin sat on a beach towel. She was dressed in spandex, her hair pulled up in a ponytail. The light sheen of sweat on her face told me she’d likely jogged over.
“Hi, Ms. Rumford,” I greeted her, crouching down to her level.
She sat up straight. “I heard there was a peeping Tom looking in someone’s windows last night. Did you catch the guy? Do you think it was the same man who was in my bushes? Do you think it’s that escaped convict from down south?”
I don’t know what to think. “We’re working on some leads,” I told her.
She slouched back. “I hope you find him soon. None of the women in our neighborhood will get a decent night’s sleep until he’s behind bars.”
“Understandable,” I agreed, though if people realized all the bad stuff that happened in the city every night no one would ever get a second of shut-eye. “You mentioned that you had roofers at your house recently. Can you tell me whether you’ve had other workman at your place? Maybe a painter or yard service or exterminator?”
“No.” Her brow furrowed. “Why?”
I wasn’t sure whether to tell her about Leonard Drake. It was unclear how solid a lead he was, and if these people thought an arrest was imminent, they’d be disappointed and upset if it didn’t happen. Still, I needed to collect some facts. “Someone who works at a house can get to know the layout and the residents and their routines,” I explained.
More than one unscrupulous repairman had sneakily unlocked windows at the homes where they worked, enabling them to return later to rob the families while they were out. A man who’d done some work at the home owned by Elizabeth Smart’s parents was the one who’d kidnapped the Utah teen and held her hostage for months before she was thankfully found alive.
Kirstin pulled her bare knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms tightly around them. “Do you think it could have been the roofers I hired?”
“We can’t rule out anything at this point,” I told her, “but for what it’s worth the other victim wasn’t familiar with Zinniker and Sons Roofing.”
She let out a shaky breath.
I realized that even if Kirstin hadn’t hired an exterminator, one of her close neighbors might have. I hated to tip my hand, but I also needed to see if the exterminator might be a priority lead. “Have you seen anyone from Cowtown Critter Control in your area?”
She looked down at her shoes, as if thinking, before looking back up at me. “They’re the ones with the bug eyes on top of their trucks, right?”
“That’s them.”
“I’ve seen them around a time or two”—she slowly shook her head—“but I can’t say I’ve seen them recently.”
“What about a green Isuzu Amigo with a soft top?”
Her eyes narrowed and she tilted her head, her body language indicating she wasn’t familiar with the car.
“It’s like a convertible SUV,” I explained.
She shook her head. “I don’t remember seeing anything like that.”
“All right. Thanks for the information. If anything pans out, I’ll be in touch.”
“Thanks.”
As I stood, I spotted Detective Bustamente pulling his unmarked car onto the grass next to Hawke’s SUV. “C’mon, girl,” I said, rousting Brigit from her prone position on the ground. She and I made our way over to meet the detective as he exited his vehicle.
“Holy cow,” he said. “This is quite a group.”
By now, the crowd had doubled. My best estimate told me that there were two hundred or so people crowded on the lawn.
I told Bustamente what Kirstin Rumford had said, that she’d seen Cowtown Critter Control in her neighborhood a time or two, but didn’t have a recollection of seeing them recently.
“Uh-huh,” he said, nodding as he appeared to be mentally filing away the information. He glanced around. “So where’s this Hawke fella? El presidente?”
“That’s him,” I said, gesturing to the front of the crowd. “The one dressed in black.”
Hawke paraded around in his tight T-shirt and tool belt, showing off his pecs and biceps as he greeted the latest arrivals with handshakes and shoulder pats. He was wearing a pair of dark sunglasses as if he were a movie star, but at least he wasn’t wearing his gun tonight. The current city code prohibited the carrying of firearms in a city park area not designated for gun activity. Of course there was a push by gun owners to overturn that ordinance, which they deemed excessively restrictive. After all, one never knew when a rampaging horde of rabid squirrels might decide to launch an all-out attack on picnickers.
Bustamente took one look at Hawke and emitted a groan. “He looks like a man who wants to take charge.”
“What you see,” I told the detective, “is what you get.”
TWENTY-ONE
A WALK IN THE PARK
Brigit
Woo-hoo! Brigit loved going to the park. Megan normally let her run free and play a little. No such luck tonight. Megan had attached her leash and ordered her to stay close. Still, it beat being cooped up in the back of the cruiser. Maybe they’d find a dead body here again, like they did a few weeks ago. Maybe it would have been dead even longer and Brigit could roll around on it. Wouldn’t that be great?
As Megan led her from the back of the crowd to the front, she twitched her nose, scenting. She picked up all kinds of smells. The acrid stench of spray from a feral cat who’d marked a tree in the wooded area nearby. The greasy smell of a burger and French fries someone in the crowd had picked up for dinner. Maybe they’d share. Pureed green beans that had processed through an infant and were, at this very moment, being emptied into a diaper.
Her nose also picked up the smells of familiar people. The scent of the two women who lived in the houses they’d visited recently, as well as the man that lived with one of the women. That big guy up front who had followed her when they’d trailed.
A breeze kicked up, carrying with it the scent of another human, one Brigit had yet to meet, but whom she could recognize by smell with one hundred percent certainty. It was the man who’d been outside the windows at the houses Megan had taken her to, the one she’d trailed the night before. She hadn’t been able to lead Megan to him last night because the trail had ended in the street. But Brigit could take her partner to him now. Maybe she’d even get that liver treat Megan owed her.
Brigit tugged on the leash, trying to lead Megan over to the man. But Megan ordered Brigit to stop pulling and to heel. Looked like Megan had changed her mind and was no longer interested in the man.
Brigit sighed. So much for that liver treat.
TWENTY-TWO
IT’S MY PARTY
Tom
Everyone was gathered here because of him. The thought made him want to laugh. In fact, this gathering gave him an easy opportunity to watch Kirstin Rumford and Alyssa Lowry up close, without a pane of glass or screen between them. With his dark sunglasses on, nobody would be able to tell where his eyes were looking.
Kirstin had her hair pulled up in a ponytail tonight. He would’ve preferred it down. But at least she was dressed in a skimpy tank top and a pair of shorts that barely covered her butt and left him lots of leg to take in, inch after luscious inch …
Alyssa, on the other hand, had worn a big, loose jumpsuit that left everything to the imagination. She might as well be wearing overalls or a burka. No problem, though. He knew what was under that fabric and he had plenty of imagination. He could mentally undress her.
But wait. Who is that woman with the long dark hair pushing the Rabinowitz baby in the stroller?
He hadn’t seen her before. But he’d sure as hell take a good look now.
It’s my party and I’ll spy if I want to …
TWENTY-THREE
CLONES
Megan
Bustamente, Brigit, and I made our way to the front, where I introduced the detective to Garrett Hawke.
“We appreciate you coming out,” Hawke said. “Our people are sure to have some questions for you.”
I was glad the detective was here to answer them. I didn’t mind standing up here in front of a crowd, but I didn’t like speaking in front of them. I couldn’t trust my stutter to stay at bay. Though the speech impediment didn’t get in the way of me doing my job, if someone misinterpreted my shutter as an anxious stammer, it could undermine my appearance of authority.
The small blonde in the lavender blazer stepped closer to us, her heels drilling down into the soft grass and dirt. Definitely not the best shoes for walking in the park. As she stepped up, I realized just how tiny she was. She stood five feet one at best in the heels, and would be only four feet ten without them. A tiny little Tinkerbell sans the lime-green strapless minidress.
She stuck out her hand to Bustamente. “I’m Nora Conklin. Secretary for the watch.”
The detective had been introduced by Garrett Hawke earlier and didn’t bother mentioning his name again. “Pleasure,” he said.
After they’d exchanged a handshake, Nora turned to me and extended her hand.
“Officer Megan Luz,” I said. I shook her hand, then cocked my head to indicate the partner on my side. “This is m-my partner, Brigit.”
Nora put her hands on her knees and bent over to speak to Brigit. “Aren’t you a cutie?”
Brigit wagged her tail and gave a soft woof in agreement.
Nora stood and reached into the breast pocket of her blazer, pulling out two business cards. With a gleaming smile, she handed one to the detective, the other to me. “I’m in real estate. Conklin and Associates. I’m sure you’ve heard of us?”
I hadn’t, and I suspected Detective Bustamente hadn’t, either. Nonetheless, we offered assurances.
“Sure.”
“Of course.”
I looked down at the card in my hand. It featured a pastel blue cartoon door on a pale yellow background, along with the slogan CONKLIN & ASSOCIATES REALTORS. TAKING PEOPLE HOME SINCE 2004. Provocative, maybe, but clever. The business card also featured a nice head shot of Nora wearing a blue blouse and a broad smile. Under the head shot, in minuscule print, was © SAY CHEESE! INC. Looked like she’d utilized her neighbor’s photography services. Maybe he offered a discount to fellow members of the watch.
“If you know anyone who’s looking to buy a house,” Nora said, “send them my way. I might be small, but I mean business!” She wagged her brows for emphasis and offered a lilting laugh.
Trish LeGrande and her cameraman stepped up to us. Though Trish and I had crossed paths before, she showed no signs of recognitio
n when her eyes met mine. She turned to address Hawke, first giving him a once-over, clearly impressed by what she saw. “I hear you’re in charge of the neighborhood watch. Got a second for a quick interview?”
He removed his dark sunglasses, tucked them into his shirt pocket, and offered her a broad smile. “I’ve got all the time you need.”
Ugh. Brigit might have been the one to throw up a few days ago, but I was the one tempted to toss my cookies now.
Trish turned to stand next to Hawke and motioned for her cameraman to start rolling.
“I’m here in Fort Worth,” she said, “with Garrett Hawke, president of the Berkeley Place Neighborhood Watch. Stay tuned for an exclusive interview you’ll see only on our station.”
Exclusive interview? Looked like Trish had manipulated things to her advantage again. But I had to wonder who’d called her station with the tip, and how they’d convinced her it was a story worth telling. While all of the outlets had covered the robbery in Frisco Heights, other local media hadn’t deemed a couple of prowling incidents newsworthy. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say it was Hawke himself who’d contacted the station. The guy seemed to enjoy being the center of attention.
Trish continued her lead-in. “Residents of Berkeley Place were terrorized this week when an unknown suspect prowled the neighborhood, presumably watching women through their bedroom windows. Mr. Hawke, what can you tell me about the incidents?”
“In both cases,” he said, “the victims were unaware that they were being watched. The first victim discovered broken limbs on bushes outside her window the following morning. The second heard the suspect shout when her automatic sprinklers turned on and surprised him.”
Trish looked up at him, batting her eyes. “I’m sure the women of Berkeley Place appreciate having someone like you in charge of protecting them.”
“I’m happy to serve,” Hawke replied with a nod.
The exchange was so overdone it was nauseating. I looked away, lest my expression betray my emotions. It was then my eyes spotted a paunchy, silver-haired man sitting in the front row. His arm might be draped across the shoulders of his wife sitting next to him, but his gaze was locked on Trish’s ample chest. Dirty old man. My hand went instinctively to the handle of my baton. I’d like to give the guy a nice whap, tell him to put his eyes back in his head.
