Paw Enforcement (A Paw Enforcement Novel)

by Kelly, Diane

  I offered him an encouraging smile. “Keep working on it.”

  Brigit trotted over to Randy’s errant Stetson, grabbed the brim in her teeth, and retrieved it. I took the hat from her and stuck a dollar tip in it before returning it to Randy. “Thanks for the show.”

  He held his hat out to his side and put his other hand on his stomach, bending over in an exaggerated bow. “Anytime, milady.”

  Brigit and I headed to the food court. On the way we passed the mall manager, a stocky, white-haired sixtyish man whom everyone referred to as Mr. Castleberry. He looked happily frazzled today, the sales tax holiday no doubt creating both more work for the mall’s management team and ecstatic tenants who were sure to earn record profits this weekend.

  I raised a hand in greeting.

  “Officer Luz!” he called, returning the gesture as he scurried along. “Good to see you, as always!”

  Like everywhere else in the mall, the food court was packed to claustrophobic proportions. Brigit and I stood in line for ten minutes at the shish-kebab counter before finally reaching the front of the line.

  Stick People served all kinds of shish kebabs, from beef, to chicken, to lamb, and even vegetarian varieties. Their basic black-on-white logo featured a stick person with arms extended out to the sides, both hands holding erect shish-kebab sticks stacked with cartoon meat and veggies. Frankly, I thought the logo looked like a person directing airplane traffic on a tarmac, but who was I to judge?

  The man working the counter was the owner, a Turkish guy named Serhan Singh. He sported a Dallas Cowboys jersey and a thick beard even Chuck Norris would envy.

  Singh raised both hands skyward. “Officer Luz!” he cried, as if greeting an old friend he hadn’t seen in some time, as opposed to the same cop who bought lunch at his booth at least twice a week. “So good to see you.”

  “Same here,” I said. “You sure are busy.”

  “We make money by fist over hand today,” he said.

  The guy hadn’t quite gotten the expression right, but the mere fact that he was trying showed his attempts to assimilate. As I’d learned the first time I’d bought lunch at his stand, he had come to the United States ten years ago to attend college at the University of Texas branch campus in nearby Arlington, where he’d met his wife, Aruni, an Indian-American. After earning his business degree, Serhan had managed various restaurants before opening this stand, the first of what he hoped would become a regional chain. The American dream wasn’t just for native-born Americans. Naturalized citizens shared the dream, as well.

  “The usual?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  Serhan fixed Brigit a beef and chicken kebab, hold the pepper and onion. He served the meat in a red-and-white-checkered paper basket. I didn’t indulge myself. In the hopes of not becoming a fat-cop cliché, I generally stuck with salads from the deli two booths down.

  I handed Serhan some bills and took my change.

  He gave me one last smile before I stepped away. “You have a good day!”

  I returned the smile and the sentiment: “You, too.”

  Brigit and I stepped over to the deli and waited in line again. Five minutes later, the teenage boy working the pickup counter pulled the flexible microphone mounted on the countertop toward him and spoke into it. “Number two-four-three, your order is up. Two-four-three.”

  I stepped forward and grabbed the tray containing my salad and fresh-squeezed lemonade. “Thanks.”

  My partner and I snagged a small booth and ate our lunch, Brigit sitting on the seat as if she were a person and gulping down the pieces of meat I fed her one by one.

  By the time we finished, the noise and crowd at the mall had begun to get to me. I tossed out my trash and led Brigit back down the row of shops. We took a shortcut through Macy’s, where we spotted two of the security guards, a chubby white guy named Scott and a lanky Latino named Ricky. Sporting their required orange safety helmets, they stood on their goofy three-wheeled scooters in front of an enormous big-screen television, watching ESPN. Flagrant dereliction of duty. But how could I fault them when I took advantage of my beat to window-shop?

  Just for kicks I pulled my walkie-talkie from my belt and pushed the talk button. “Officer Luz for Scott and Ricky. Come back.”

  From my vantage point in Kitchen Appliances, I saw Scott pull his device from his breast pocket. He squeezed the button. “Scott and Ricky here.”

  “You two quit working so hard. You might hurt yourselves.”

  Their heads swiveled until Ricky spotted me by a refrigerator. He tapped his coworker on the arm and pointed my way.

  Scott put the walkie-talkie back to his mouth. “Good one, Luz. Any beer in that fridge?”

  “Wishful thinking, buddy.” With that, I slid the radio back onto my belt, lifted a hand in good-bye, and led Brigit out of the mall to patrol the rest of our beat.

  TWENTY

  HAPPY TRAILS TO YOU, UNTIL WE MEAT AGAIN

  Brigit

  Lunch had been delicious. Life didn’t get much better than when she could indulge in both beef and chicken. Toss in some lamb and she would’ve achieved canine nirvana.

  Still, the mall had made her nervous today. There were too many people walking about, too many chances her paws would be stepped on or rolled over by a stroller or a kid would pull her tail. She was glad Megan hadn’t remained there long. Especially now that they were patrolling the zoo. Unlike that store at the mall where the empty animal skins hung, these animals were alive and well and still wearing their hides.

  Of course that didn’t stop Brigit from wishing she could hop into the enclosure and eat a gazelle. Unfortunately, her partner had her on a very short leash. Her partner could be a real party pooper sometimes.

  TWENTY-ONE

  PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT

  The Rattler

  Since the travel alarm clock hadn’t worked, he decided he’d try a different tack today and use a kitchen timer.

  He grabbed his backpack and set out into the trees again, returning to the location he’d chosen previously, determined that today would be a success. He repeated the steps, spreading the newspaper’s business pages on the ground and assembling the bomb on top of the stock reports. This time, when he counted down behind a live oak tree, his efforts were rewarded.

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  KAPOW!

  The initial blast was followed by the sounds of shrapnel and leaves falling to the ground.

  He shot a fist into the air and pulled it back to his waist in a celebratory gesture. “Yes!”

  Sitting quietly for a few minutes, he listened intently for sirens, voices, the sound of ATVs coming his way. He heard nothing. No one had come to investigate.

  Good.

  If anyone had stumbled upon him out here, he might’ve been forced to shoot him or her. How unoriginal and boring that would be.

  He headed back toward the site where he’d left the bomb, making his way as quietly as possible. When he approached within fifty feet, he noted an increasing concentration of nails, screws, and fishhooks stuck in the trees and on the ground. The sharp metal pieces had spread quite a distance. Without trees in the way, they’d travel even farther next time. He couldn’t wait to see just how far.

  Something bright red lay among the dirt and leaves on the ground ahead. A cardinal. The Rattler bent down and used a twig to turn the bird over. The corpse contained no metal. The bird likely had been killed by the percussive effect of the bomb or, attempting a frantic escape, had inadvertently flown into a tree and broken its neck.

  The Rattler plucked a red feather from the bird’s wing, stood, and continued on.

  Ten feet from ground zero, a squirrel in the final throes of death twitched on the ground, two screws and a roofing nail in his belly. When his body stilled, the Rattler nudged him with the toe of his boot. “Too bad, buddy. Wrong place, wrong time.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  SHOP TILL YOU DROP

 
Megan

  Unfortunately, police work wasn’t exactly a nine-to-five, Monday through Friday kind of job. So here I was, dragging my tired butt out of bed at 7:00 on Saturday morning for another full-day shift. What’s more, I had to climb over my furry partner, who continued to doze contentedly, snoring through her big, black snout.

  Yes, the darn dog insisted on sleeping on the futon with me. What’s more, she demanded the side of the futon that faced the room, leaving me cramped against the wall. The first night she’d climbed onto the bed I’d shoved her off at least a dozen times, but each time she jumped right back on. She’d even grabbed my shirt in her teeth and pulled me off the bed herself. It was almost as if she thought she were training me, instead of vice versa. Exhausted, I’d finally given in. I really didn’t want a face full of dog fur on my pillow, but winter would be coming soon and with a warm dog curled up next to me I could turn the heat down and save on my electric bill.

  What a sucker I am, no?

  After a bowl of granola with soy milk, I opened a can of food for my roommate. I poured it into her bowl on the kitchen floor.

  “Wake up, sleepyhead!” I called as I made my way to the shower.

  An hour later my partner and I were out on our beat.

  Our day started off bad and only got worse.

  I hadn’t even finished my travel mug of coffee before I was forced to issue a citation to Cuthbert for once again violating the water-rationing regulations. He’d been none too happy about the $1,000 fine he faced, but he’d been issued two warnings already and ignored them. Clearly it was time for bigger measures.

  The red-faced man clutched the ticket in his fist as I drove away. “I’ll have your badge!”

  He could have my badge, all right. I’d happily cram it down his throat myself.

  As I cruised down Rosedale, I spotted two adolescent boys tagging a bridge with bright-blue spray paint. They’d only managed to write FU when I pulled to a stop behind to them.

  I grabbed the mic for my cruiser’s public-address system. “Freeze, boys.”

  Despite my orders, one took off running without even looking back. The other turned around and shot his hands into the air. Unfortunately, his finger was still on the trigger of the paint can. Ksssssh. He coated my door, window, and part of my light bar with paint before dropping the can on his toe and hopping around on one foot, cursing. “Ouch! Damn! Ouch!”

  I leaped from my car. “Stay here!” I ordered the tagger with the bruised toe.

  I took off after the one who’d run away. Brigit would have been faster than me, but no sense sending her across four lanes of traffic and risking her life for a minor graffiti offense. I was only three steps behind the brat when he tripped over the curb on the other side of the street and fell, throwing out his hand to stop his fall.

  CRUNCH!

  “Aaaaaaaah!” the boy screamed in agony, and rolled onto his back, cradling his mangled arm in the other. From the odd angle of his forearm, my guess was he’d severely fractured his radius.

  HOOOOONK!

  A city bus passed mere inches behind me, sending up a warm cloud of dust, grit, and cigarette butts from the gutter. Lovely.

  I waved the cloud out of my face, blinked the grit from my eyes, and activated my shoulder-mounted radio. “I need an ambulance and backup.”

  Fortunately, the children’s hospital was only a mile up the road. Unfortunately, the closest cop in the district was Derek.

  The Big Dick pulled up to the curb a minute later, his siren wailing and lights flashing. He cut his siren but left the lights on and climbed out of his car. As he approached, he tugged his pants up in a gesture that seemed less intended to hike up the waistline and more intended to juggle his balls. “’Smatter, Luz? Two little boys too much for you to handle?”

  I ignored his attempts to rile me and jerked my head to indicate the boy waiting across the street, his hands still in the air. “I need you to take that kid in. Caught him t-tagging.”

  Because the dogs rode in the backs of the cruisers, K-9 teams did not haul in the suspects they apprehended. Rather, another officer would transport the suspects to the station for booking. This procedure was fine with me. It had always given me the willies to have bad guys sitting behind me in the car, even with a protective barrier of metal bars between us. Having the creeps breathing down my neck, cursing, and glaring at me in the rearview mirror with murderous intent in their eyes made me feel anxious and vulnerable.

  Derek looked over at the kid, then checked the street for cross traffic. The road was clear. Derek put two fingers in his mouth and whistled: Fweet! “Get your sorry butt over here, boy! You’re going for a ride downtown.”

  The kid walked across the street toward us. When he was within reach, Derek grabbed him much more roughly than necessary and slammed him up against the cruiser.

  “You ever been in trouble before, boy?” Derek asked the kid.

  “No.”

  “You got any needles in your pockets? Any weapons or anything sharp?”

  Again the kid said, “No.”

  Derek grabbed the kid’s right arm and checked for needle tracks. Finding none, Derek checked the left. Also clean. He patted the kid down, pulling a cell phone and wallet out of his pockets. The Big Dick opened the wallet and thumbed through it. Finding nothing of interest, he punched the button to activate the camera on the kid’s cell phone, held the camera up, and ordered the kid to turn around. “Say cheese.”

  Derek snapped a photo of the scowling kid and chuckled. “Now you’ve got a souvenir.”

  The Big Dick shoved the kid into the back of his cruiser, then kept an eye on the injured boy while I returned to the bridge and retrieved the can of spray paint, picking it up with a pair of metal tongs and sliding it into an evidence bag.

  When I came back across the road, Derek yanked the bag out of my hands. He looked from me to Brigit, who had her nose pressed against the back window of my patrol car, watching the activity. “Carry on, bitches.”

  I fought the urge to whip out my baton and knock out Derek’s teeth.

  The ambulance pulled up now to collect the kid with the injured wrist. As the techs helped him onto a gurney, he cringed and moaned in pain. Even though the situation was entirely his fault, part of me felt sorry for him.

  Holding up my cell phone, I asked, “What’s your mother’s number?”

  He rattled off the number and I placed the call, getting only a voice mail. I left a message telling her where she could find her son. I contacted Dispatch for a second officer to meet the ambulance at the hospital. Once the kid was treated and released, the officer could take him to the station for booking.

  The tagging crisis now resolved, my partner and I continued on to the Chisholm Trail mall, which had opened early for the tax-free weekend. A group of people paraded back and forth on the grassy strip at the perimeter of the parking lot. Their signs, which featured enlarged photographs of minks, chinchillas, rabbits, and foxes, read:

  GIVE FUR THE COLD SHOULDER!

  COMPASSION IS IN FASHION!

  GIVE FLEECE A CHANCE!

  BRACKENBURG FURRIERS—END YOUR BLOODY BUSINESS!

  A middle-aged curly-haired blonde wearing bright-orange tennis shoes and a faded red bikini held a sign that read: We’d Rather Go Naked Than Wear Fur! Next to her, a man with a bushy gray beard and hair pranced around wearing only black hiking boots and a pair of much-too-small, much-too-tight bicycle shorts. The shorts brought to mind the Live Strong motto of the foundation started by Lance Armstrong, the seven-time Tour de France winner from Austin now shamed by a doping scandal. Glancing at the sizable bulge in the protestor’s spandex shorts, I thought perhaps a more appropriate sentiment would be Live Schlong.

  While the couple’s aims were admirable, their sagging pasty butt cheeks might do more to hurt their cause than help it. But at least they were getting people’s attention. No fewer than four cars had honked at them while I’d been observing. A guy in a pickup had even rolled d
own his window and hollered, “How much for a hand job?” Of course it was unclear whether he’d been propositioning the woman in the bikini or the man in the bike shorts.

  I pulled up next to the group and rolled down my paint-splattered passenger window. The curly-haired blonde looked my way. When I waved her over, she stepped up to my window, followed by the others. She leaned in to listen, hooking the fingers of her left hand over the open window of my cruiser. Her short fingernails bore no polish and her fingertips appeared calloused, the hands of a woman with little vanity and lots of hard work to do. A plain silver wedding band encircled her ring finger.

  I looked from her to the others gathered behind her and reminded them to remain on the public right-of-way or the mall management would have the right to order their removal. “As long as you stay on the grass they can’t make you leave or have you arrested for trespassing.” I handed her my card. “If anyone gives you trouble, call me.”

  “Thanks, Officer,” she said.

  I gave the group a nod. “Good luck with your protest.”

  Brigit barked as if in agreement: Arf!

  We drove to our reserved spot and parked. I pulled my walkie-talkie from the car’s visor and checked in with mall security: “Officer Luz on-site.”

  No sooner had I climbed from the car than I heard an unmistakable pop-pop-pop from across the parking lot.

  Oh, my God!

  Was it gunfire?

  My body went limp with fear until I saw the two skater boys from the day before sailing through the lot on their boards, tossing fireworks into the air. Pop-pop!

  I stood up straight, grabbed my whistle, and blew until I thought my lungs would burst: TWEEEEEEEET!

  The boy in back glanced my way. “Cop!” he shouted to his friend. Evidently they’d heard that possession of fireworks within the city limits was illegal and subject to a fine of up to two grand. They’d have to mow an awful lot of lawns to make that much money.