Spanish Dagger

by Susan Wittig Albert

  I slipped through the shrubbery and scurried across the grassy yard to the dog run. The fence was shaking with the force of Rambo’s lunging, and the night rang with his frenzied barks. “Hello, Rambo,” I crooned. “Nice Rambo, nice doggy. Want to catch a car thief?”

  Cream puff? Hardly. As I lifted the latch on the gate and swung it wide, Rambo launched himself through the opening like an exploding bomb, a hound of hell.

  “Go get him, Rambo!” I shouted. “Get that guy! He’s stealing our car!”

  And at that moment, the yard light came on, flooding the entire rear of the house and garden with bright light. Tyson, dressed all in black, was caught in the act of reaching into my opened trunk.

  Rambo caught him, too. With a demonic snarl, the dog hurled himself furiously at Tyson, catching him off-balance and knocking him flat on his back. Tyson screamed and tried to roll over, flinging his arm up to protect his face and throat. Rambo’s teeth snapped on to the man’s right forearm and held it in a viselike grip. Tyson flailed and kicked desperately, trying to break free, but it was no use. Rambo stood firm, all four feet planted on the ground, jaws clenched, a threatening growl rumbling in his throat. I stared at him, frozen with admiration. Wow. This was a disciplined dog, trained military-style to attack and hold a prisoner until his handler released him.

  “Call off the dog, China,” Sheila commanded, jumping down the steps and running out to the car. “I’ve got him covered.” She had her gun in her hand. Behind her, in the house, Howard was baying, frantic to come outside and join the party.

  Call off the dog? I gave myself a shake and stepped forward. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. What the hell do you say to a Rottweiler to make him let go of somebody’s bloody arm? What if he likes the taste of blood? What if he’d rather chew than—

  “Off, Rambo,” I said. Rambo cast a questioning glance at me, but he didn’t move. If anything, he clenched his jaws harder.

  Tyson moaned and writhed. “Get this dog off me,” he cried shrilly. “He’s killing me.”

  I came closer. “Hey, Rambo,” I said, louder. “You can quit now, boy. Time to go home.”

  Rambo gave Tyson’s arm a hard shake. Blood was dripping between his jaws.

  I leaned forward. “Release it, Rambo,” I roared. “Leave it! Drop it! Let it go! Knock it off!”

  One of these phrases—I have no idea which one—apparently contained the magic words that unlocked Rambo’s jaws. Agreeably, he opened his mouth and released Tyson’s arm. He turned and looked at me, cocking his head to one side, a goofy “didn’t-I-do-good?” look on his face. He strutted over to sit on his haunches beside me, the picture of triumphant conquest, of a job well-done.

  “Yeah,” I said, rubbing his ears. “You did great, guy. Really great. So you’re a cream puff, huh? Scared of cats? Afraid of thunder? I don’t think so.” I looked down at the dog, wondering where Colin had gotten him and just what else was included in his training. I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out. As an afterthought, I added, “Okay, Rambo. You stay. Hear me? Stay.”

  I stepped away. With a satisfied grunt, Rambo dropped onto the ground, put his muzzle on his paws, and prepared to stay.

  Tyson had struggled to a sitting position, and Sheila was standing over him. “I need a doctor,” he groaned. He was gripping his arm, the blood spurting between his fingers.

  “You sure do,” Sheila agreed. “That’s some dog bite. Got you good, didn’t he? Guess he figured you were doing something you shouldn’t.” She flipped open her cell phone and hit the speed dial.

  “This is Chief Dawson,” she said crisply. “Can you send a deputy out to 3199 Limekiln Road? We’ve had a little problem out here. Everything’s under control now, but we’d sure appreciate a hand.”

  A deputy. She was calling the Adams County sheriff’s office to pick Tyson up and book and jail him. Our place is well outside her jurisdiction, and the town and the county have always played fair on who does what.

  She paused, listening. “Yeah, that’s right. One will do the job, most likely.” She cast an appraising glance at Tyson. “He’s not too fierce at the moment. In fact, he needs some sewing up, so your deputy will need to transport him to the ER.” Another pause. “Good. Thanks.” She clicked off the phone and closed it up. “So tell me, Tyson. What are you doing here, and why were you messing around with that car?”

  “I told you this afternoon. I’m an undercover narcotics agent,” Tyson said, gritting his teeth. “I’m here on a case.” He looked down at his arm. “Can you do anything to stop the bleeding?”

  “I’ll see what I can find,” I said.

  “Got any identification?” I heard Sheila ask as I went toward the house. When I came back with a length of webbing strap to use as a rough tourniquet and a towel to wrap Tyson’s arm, he was on his feet, searching clumsily through his pockets with his left hand, his right arm dangling helplessly at his side.

  “Can’t locate it, huh?” Sheila remarked with a dry smile.

  “Must’ve left it in my cabin,” he muttered, taking the rope and the towel from me. He wound the rope around his upper arm and pulled it as tight as he could, then wrapped the towel around his forearm.

  “Not a problem,” Sheila said agreeably. “We can handle that tomorrow. By then, your task-force commander and the DPS captain who’s supposed to be overseeing your work should be able to give us some of the details of the case you say you’re working on. In the meantime, the county will get you sewed up and find you a cell in their jail for overnight. Their accommodations aren’t as palatial as the Pecan Springs lockup, but—”

  “A cell!” Tyson squawked.

  “Yeah, right. A cell.” Sheila smiled frostily. “You’re under arrest, Tyson.”

  He stared at her. “You can’t arrest me! No way! I have to be at—” He stopped and licked his lips with a desperate look. “You can’t arrest me,” he repeated. “I’m working a case. You can’t—”

  “Be where?” Sheila asked evenly. “You’ve got a hot date tonight, Tyson?”

  “I’m…I’m on assignment.”

  “Oh, yeah? Where’s the rest of your team? How come you’re here by yourself? How come I can’t get anybody to verify you?”

  He drilled her with a look, but he didn’t answer her question. “I work alone,” he muttered. “You saw my damn identification. This afternoon. You saw it this afternoon.”

  “Be where, Tyson?” Sheila repeated.

  He raised his voice angrily, his face tight. “You know who I am, by God. And you know what kind of shit you’ll be in if you don’t let me do my job. You—”

  “I know who you say you are,” Sheila said in a quiet voice, “which is not the same thing.” She narrowed her eyes. “And before you start threatening me, you can show me the warrant for your search of this vehicle.”

  His lips went tight.

  She held out her hand. “The warrant. Let’s see it.”

  He looked away.

  Sheila grunted. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” She raised her voice. “I don’t give a rat’s ass who you are, Tyson, you’re under arrest for trespass. And since you won’t tell me what you want with this vehicle, I have to assume that you were here to steal it, so I am adding attempted grand theft auto to the list of charges. And when I’ve finished checking you out—as I intend to do personally—you may be charged with impersonating a police officer, as well. Let’s have your weapon.”

  “I’m not armed,” he said sullenly.

  “Bullshit,” she snapped. “Bend over from the waist. Take the gun out of your right boot and drop it on the ground.” With a practiced assurance, she rattled off Miranda. It was music to my ears.

  Slowly, unwillingly, Tyson bent over, took out the gun, small but businesslike, and slid it onto the ground. He straightened up.

  “The knife in your left boot.”

  If looks could kill, Smart Cookie would’ve been a dead duck. He snarled something, but obeyed.

  “I wasn’t stealin
g this car,” he gritted, tossing the knife at her feet.

  “Turn around. Hands on the car.” Sheila patted him down, very professionally.

  “What the hell would I want with a four-year-old Toyota with dings in the doors?” he said, over his shoulder. “She’s concealing drugs.” He nodded grimly at me. “This woman. She took the plants from Reid’s yard.”

  “Plants?” I asked innocently. “You mean, those plants Mr. Fowler didn’t pay for? Sure, I picked them up. Those are rare yuccas, from Mexico, and one pretty nice Agave zebra. As I told Miss Sanders, Mr. Fowler’s neighbor, they’re worth plenty of money.” I grinned congenially. “You’ve met Miss Sanders, I guess.”

  “You bet those plants are worth money.” He laughed in a nasty way. “You know exactly what’s in those pots, lady. Cocaine. Four ounces of pure cocaine.” He glared at Sheila. “You’re so hot to arrest somebody, Dawson. Arrest her.” He jerked his head in my direction.

  “Shut up.” Sheila’s eyes were unblinking and her voice was as hard as granite, but she cast a nervous glance in my direction.

  “You think you’re so friggin’ smart, don’t you?” Tyson said, and laughed a little. He pulled the belt tighter. The wrap-around towel was already stained red. “Some hot-shot lawman, I guess. Big brass balls, huh? Got everybody in this little town scared shitless? Well, go on then, do your job, Dawson. Arrest her, damn it! Charge her with possession. You want to throw the book at somebody? Throw it at her. Second-degree felony. Two to ten.”

  Hearing the threat in Tyson’s voice, sensing that it was directed at me, Rambo scrambled to his feet and came to stand behind me, all four feet planted firmly, defensively on the ground. “It’s okay, boy,” I said quietly. To Tyson, I said, “What makes you think there’s cocaine in my car?”

  “I’ll show you,” he snarled. “Let’s have a look in those pots.”

  The trunk of my Toyota was still open. I saw Sheila glance toward it. There was just enough light to see the pots inside, where I had pushed them far toward the back, and the green leaves.

  “In the pots?” I said, and laughed a little. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you think you’re looking for. But you can check them out if you want to. I have no objection, as long as you don’t damage the plants. As I said, they’re rare. They’re valuable.”

  I could feel Sheila’s startled eyes on me, but I didn’t look at her. “Go ahead, Mr. Tyson.” I folded my arms. “Since you’re making such a fuss about it. Have a look.”

  There was a gotcha smirk on his face. Holding his injured arm against his side and working with his left hand, he dragged one of the heavy five-gallon pots out of the trunk. He tipped it onto the ground without any regard for the plant itself.

  “Hey, careful,” I warned. “Don’t snap those leaves! Those plants are valuable!”

  Tyson gave a sarcastic chuckle. The second pot followed, and the third. He stared down at the piles of soil and naked roots. In a grating voice, he muttered a string of curses.

  “Well, are you satisfied?” I knelt down and scraped the loose soil into the pots, then picked up the plants and settled them in tenderly. I’d need to repot and water them, but I didn’t think they were badly damaged. “There’s nothing in these pots but plants, roots, and soil,” I said, in an injured tone. “Just what did you think you were looking for?”

  Tyson made a growling noise in his throat, then staggered a little. The exertion had cost him something. His face was the color of a snake’s belly.

  If Sheila was surprised or relieved not to see the cocaine she had every reason to expect in those pots, she didn’t show it. “What were you looking for, Tyson?” she asked.

  “You know as well as I do, damn it,” he snapped. “And if you don’t, you’re not going to hear it from me.” He sagged against the car. “I’ve got to get out of here,” he muttered. “I’ve got work to do. You can’t keep me from—”

  “You’ve lost a quite a bit of blood,” Sheila said gently. “You’d better sit down before you fall down.”

  And when the county mountie pulled his brown and silver sheriff’s car into the drive and shone his headlights on the scene, that’s where Tyson was sitting, his back to the right rear tire of my Toyota, a look of confusion and bewilderment on his face. From the look of it, I guessed that his arm was going to require several dozen stitches. Rambo’s bite was even worse than his bark.

  The door opened and a heavyset man climbed out. “Got trouble out here, Chief?” The question was asked in a deep voice, courteously, and the deputy, Carl Martin, tipped his cap. “Evenin’, Miz Bayles. Good to see you, ladies.”

  “Evenin’, Deputy,” I said. “Thanks for coming. Hope we didn’t take you out of your way.”

  Carl Martin is another of McQuaid’s fishing and hunting buddies, a good ol’ boy in his late thirties. His belly hangs out over his belt, testifying to an excessive indulgence in Lila Jennings’ jelly doughnuts and Bob Godwin’s barbecue plate specials. But he’s still a very fair first baseman for the Posse, the sheriff’s office softball team. He’s faster than he looks, and he uses his bulk to good advantage to block the base paths.

  “Glad you could give us a hand, Deputy,” Sheila said. Her smile was beguiling. “Figured you’d like to have this man in your custody, seeing that this is county turf.”

  “Sure, we’ll take him.” He squinted at Tyson, still sitting on the ground, shielding his eyes from the headlights’ glare. “What we got here?”

  “Trespass and attempted auto theft, for starters,” Sheila said. “He’s got a pretty fair dog bite on that right forearm, though. Needs to be sewn up before he’s booked.”

  Martin pulled out a ticket pad and started writing. “Name?”

  “Book him as Scott Tyson,” Sheila said. “Says he’s an agent of the Bitter Creek Narcotics Task Force, but I haven’t been able to confirm that.”

  Martin grunted skeptically. “Task-force agent, huh? I ain’t heard nothin’ ’bout no jump-out boys ’round here. Leastwise, not lately. A couple of ’em give us a hard time when we went to bust that meth lab out on River Road last month, though. Seems like they got a habit of gettin’ in the way.”

  I bit back a smile. Tyson was not going to get a warm reception at the jail tonight. There’s enough bad blood between local law-enforcement agencies and the task forces to fill up Canyon Lake.

  Martin handed the ticket pad to Sheila for her signature, and pulled out a pair of cuffs and snapped them on Tyson. “Got chewed up by a dog right good, didn’t ya, fella?” he asked, as he grabbed Tyson under his left elbow and hoisted him to his feet. He glanced at Rambo. “Looks mean enough to’ve done it, that’s for sure.”

  Rambo grinned and lifted both eyebrows. Tyson grunted. To me, Martin added, “That your dog, Miz Bayles?”

  Sheila cleared her throat. “When the doctor asks about the dog bite, tell him that the prisoner was apprehended by a police dog.”

  Martin gave her a sharp glance. “Didn’t know you had a dog on the force.”

  Sheila returned the look. “You just tell him what I said.”

  Martin nodded, put Tyson into the sheriff’s car, and they drove off. I turned to Sheila. “Why did you tell him to say that Rambo is a police dog?”

  But the minute I asked the question, I thought of the answer—a lawyer’s answer. “Because if he was my dog,” I said, “that jerk could sue me.”

  “Right,” Sheila said. “And if he was your dog, the court might tell you to put him down.” She looked at Rambo, who was watching us with interest, his tongue lolling, his eyes bright and alert. “He’s too good a dog for that.”

  We had no idea.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ¡CARAMBA! CAFÉ

  1 ½ cups cold strong coffee

  6 ounces tequila

  4 ounces coffee liqueur

  ½ teaspoon vanilla extract

  ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon

  1 pint coffee ice cream

  cinnamon sticks for stirring
<
br />   Combine all ingredients except ice cream and cinnamon sticks in a blender container. Refrigerate. Prior to serving, add ice cream and blend. Pour over cracked ice into glass coffee mugs. Add a cinnamon stir stick.

  After the deputy had driven off with his prisoner, Sheila and I, accompanied by Rambo, searched Tyson’s blue van. We turned up an assault rifle, two handguns, and a knife, plus a six-pack of beer and a bottle of tequila. Rambo sniffed everything thoroughly as we took it out of the van.

  “Were you able to get any prints off the dagger that killed Sanchez?” I asked, remembering what Hark had told me earlier in the day.

  Sheila gave me a quick look. “How’d you know about that?”

  “Hark.” I grinned. “Hot-shot reporter. You can’t keep the press away, you know.”

  Her grunt expressed her feelings about the press. “Yeah, we found a print. Just one, a partial.” She loaded the weapons into a box she found in the van and straightened up. “Okay, China. It’s time for you to come clean about those plants in your trunk. You really had me going there for a minute, you know.” She picked up the box and gave me a hard look. “I figured Tyson would find the cocaine in one of those pots and I’d have to call the sheriff to arrest you, damn it!”

  “Those weren’t the right pots,” I said, as we went toward the black Ford Sheila had borrowed, Rambo at our heels.

  “What do you mean, not the right pots?” Sheila demanded. “Those yuccas were in your trunk. They—”

  “Don’t get your panties in a twist, Smart Cookie,” I said, grinning. “Stash those weapons, and I’ll show you.”

  But as Sheila was loading the weapons into her car, a pair of vehicle lights swung down the lane, catching us in the glare. It was another of the county’s brown sheriff’s cars, and the man who got out of it was the sheriff himself, Blackie Blackwell.