Paw Enforcement (A Paw Enforcement Novel)

by Kelly, Diane

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THANKS, BUT NO THANKS

  Brigit

  Brigit made a mental note not to beg for a treat if they ever went back to the big building that smelled like incense and candles. That dry, tasteless tidbit the man in the dress had given to Megan hadn’t been worth the trouble. Nice of them to keep a big bowl of water handy, though.

  THIRTY-SIX

  A MATERIAL WORLD

  The Rattler

  He couldn’t help himself. He had to go back to see how much damage his bomb had caused, to see whether those greedy, self-indulgent shoppers and store owners had received the message his bomb had been intended to send.

  As he made his way down the nearly empty southwest wing to the courtyard, Madonna’s classic “Material Girl” burbled from speakers mounted on the light poles. He chuckled inwardly at the irony.

  When he reached the courtyard, a velvet rope stopped him from entering. Fortunately, a handful of other people had gathered at the rope to gawk, making his presence less noticeable.

  A man from a door company had removed one of the cracked and pocked panels of glass, giving the Rattler an unobstructed view into the courtyard. The janitors and custodians milled about inside, cleaning up the mess and repairing the damage. He felt a small tinge of regret that these powerless, lower-paid workers—whom Karl Marx had referred to as the proletariat—had been tasked with restoring the place, but he knew his actions would impact his intended targets even more. Though his bomb had failed to effect significant casualties, he’d nonetheless accomplished some of his aims. He’d hit the money-hungry bourgeois retailers where it hurt them most—in the wallet.

  He would not be satisfied yet, though. Despite his father’s constant mumblings about his purported laziness and lack of ambition, the Rattler would work hard to ensure his next bomb packed a wallop.

  Perhaps he’d even deploy several bombs just to keep things interesting.…

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  UNPAID OVERTIME

  Megan

  While the Chisholm Trail mall had been a buzzing hive of activity before yesterday’s explosion, today the place was a ghost town. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a tumbleweed blow by.

  Only a handful of cars were in the lot, and I was able to snag a spot on the front row. A Fort Worth PD cruiser sat in the reserved law enforcement spot. Car 935. The Big Dick’s cruiser. Parked next to it was Detective Jackson’s unmarked car. Parked next to her car were three more FWPD cruisers and a brown-and-tan patrol car from the Tarrant County Sheriff’s Department. Evidently the county authorities didn’t want to be left out. But who could blame them for horning in on the action? A crime like this didn’t come along every day.

  As we made our way into the mall, Brigit stopped to tinkle in the grass flanking the bronze cattle statues. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the cattle had shifted positions, as if trying in vain to flee the mall but held in place by the granite foundation.

  But perhaps my imagination was getting the best of me.…

  As Brigit and I walked down the row, I noted that at least half of the stores were closed, their doors locked and their windows dark. Madonna’s classic “Material Girl” played over the mall’s speakers, the lively, upbeat tune totally at odds with the somber faces on the few employees and shoppers who had dared to venture to the mall today.

  Ricky and Scott cruised up the pathway on their three-wheeled scooters, their expressions equal parts weary and wary. I stopped them with a raised hand.

  “Any news?” I asked.

  Scott shook his head.

  “A bunch of people called in sick,” Ricky said.

  No doubt they were afraid to come to work. Ironic, really. With a small army of law enforcement on-site and everyone on high alert, today was probably the safest day ever to be at the mall.

  Ricky went on to tell me that some of the other shops had closed when they saw how few people were shopping here today. The bomb would not be good for their bottom lines.

  “Have you seen Detective Jackson?” I asked.

  Ricky hiked a thumb over his shoulder. “Castleberry’s office.”

  “Thanks.”

  I continued on, noting that Brackenburg Furriers was open for business. Ariana stood at the window, a frown on her face as she gazed out at the empty sidewalks.

  As we passed the store, Brigit’s growl was louder and more guttural than usual. Did she know something about Ariana that I didn’t? Once again I found myself wishing my partner could tell me what had led her to the garbage can yesterday.

  I continued on to the courtyard. The yellow crime scene tape that had surrounded the site the day before had been removed and replaced with velvet ropes hanging between portable metal stands. Paper signs on the doors read: Closed. Do Not Enter.

  I ducked under a rope, ignored the signs, and went inside. I might be officially off duty, but a cop is a cop, 24/7.

  The courtyard was still in relative shambles, though it was clear progress has been made. Mr. Castleberry scurried about, dressed in a T-shirt and a wrinkled pair of jeans today rather than his usual suit and tie. He spoke with the managers of several food booths, who’d come by to assess the damage and clear the money from the unlocked cash registers their staff had been forced to abandon yesterday. Two of my fellow officers from the W1 district stood like sentries at either end of the courtyard, their presence intended to restore a sense of order to the place and to prevent the looting of funds, hairnets, and gallon-sized jars of pickle relish.

  While much of the nails, screws, and thumbtacks remained, the crime scene techs had been careful to remove all of the telltale shrapnel yesterday so that those cleaning up today wouldn’t be aware of the bomb’s unusual contents. The fishhooks, sewing needles, corkscrew, meat thermometer, and fondue forks would remain secret details, known only to the forensic team, me, the members of the bomb squad, Detective Jackson, and, of course, the bomber him- or herself.

  The janitorial and maintenance staff were working hard to clean up the remaining mess and repair the damage. Two of the custodians swept up glass and garbage, while a third followed behind with a mop and bucket. One of the maintenance staff stood on a tall stepstool in the food court, re-replacing the lightbulbs that Irving had just installed yesterday. Irving himself worked a few feet away, his steel-toed work boot propped on the crossbeam of a wooden chair for leverage as he used pliers to wrench nails and screws out of the seat. As he extracted each piece of metal, he tossed it into a one of the mall’s shopping bags, which sat open on the floor.

  I eyed him for a moment, assessing his demeanor but noting nothing suspicious, before stepping over to him. “Hi, Irving.”

  “Hey there, Officer Luz.” He offered a smile as he stood. “I hardly recognized you without your uniform on.”

  With my hair down and no weapons strapped to my hips, I didn’t look at all like a cop. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? Hmm. Jury’s still out on that one.

  My eyes scanned the area. “What a mess.”

  “You’re telling me.” He exhaled a sharp breath. “I’ve been at this for two hours and I’m not even halfway done.”

  I peeked into the shopping bag. At first glance it appeared to contain the same assortment of nails and screws I’d seen strewn about yesterday. When I looked closer, though, one particular odd-shaped nail caught my eye.

  I scurried over and retrieved a napkin from the barbecue stand. Covering my hand with the napkin, I plucked the nail from the bag, careful not to make direct contact with it in case the crime scene techs might be able to lift a print from it.

  I held the nail up. Unlike the other nails, which had the standard flat, round heads, this nail had a thicker, square head. The tip of the nail was far sharper than a standard nail, too.

  I looked up to discover Irving’s eyes on me. I laid the nail flat on the napkin and held it out in my palm to show him. “What kind of nail is this?”

  He craned his neck for a closer look. “No idea. Doesn�
�t look like a standard type.”

  “Have there been many like this?”

  He shrugged. “Can’t say for sure. I haven’t been paying close attention. Just been working as fast I can to get the metal out of the furniture. Mr. Castleberry wants this place back in full operation ASAP.”

  I wrapped the napkin around the nail and slid it into my pocket. “See you later, Irving.”

  He replied with a two-fingered salute.

  I turned and headed for the management office. The door to the manager’s reception area contained a glass window. I peeked through to see Aruni sitting in one of the chairs, her daughter on her lap. Both wore apprehensive expressions. The Big Dick stood inside the small space, looming over them.

  The door was unlocked, so I stepped inside. I greeted Aruni and her daughter with a smile and a “hello.” Aruni responded with only a nervous nod of her head, as if she was too frightened to speak in front of Derek.

  Mackey cut his eyes my way. “You’re not on the work schedule today.”

  “Neither are you.”

  He rocked back on his heels, a self-satisfied smile on his face. “The chief asked his best men to put in some overtime.”

  Grrr. Everyone else would take a financial hit thanks to the bomb, but the chief’s golden boy would profit from it. Where was the fairness in that? If anyone deserved some paid overtime it was me and Brigit. After all, we were the ones who’d been injured in the explosion. I felt a twinge in my ass just thinking about it.

  Mackey hiked up his pants in another ball-juggling yank. “What are you doing here, Smegan?”

  I ignored his disgusting reference. “Just stopping by to see if I can help.”

  “I’ve got things under control.” He made a shooing motion at me, as if I were a pesky fly. “Go back home and paint your toenails.”

  Jerk. “I’m not leaving until I speak with Detective Jackson.”

  “What about?”

  “Nothing that concerns you.”

  Derek crossed his arms over his chest. “If it concerns the bombing it concerns me. This incident happened on my beat.”

  “It’s my beat, too,” I pointed out. “Besides, it’s not about the b-bombing. It’s about what color polish I should use on my toes.” Ha!

  Derek glared at me and I glared right back.

  A couple minutes later, the door opened and Serhan emerged looking shaken and fearful. Like his wife, he, too, responded to my greeting with only a nod. Aruni stood with Kara in her arms and the two exited the room.

  “Officer Luz,” Detective Jackson said from the doorway. “I didn’t realize you were on the schedule today.”

  “I’m not,” I said. “But there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.” I cut a sideways glance at Derek. “Privately.”

  Jackson looked from me to the Big Dick, then back to me. She jerked her head in invitation and closed the door behind me and Brigit.

  The detective reclaimed her seat behind Mr. Castleberry’s cluttered desk and looked at me with eyes underscored by fresh bags. “I hear you used to be partners with Mackey.”

  “That’s correct.”

  Her lip curled up in disgust. “For God’s sake, woman. Why didn’t you shoot the asshole and feed his sorry carcass to the tigers at the zoo while you had the chance?”

  “I Tasered him in the testicles once.”

  The detective chuckled, probably assuming I’d been joking.

  “You look exhausted.” I hoped she’d realize I meant to express concern, not insult.

  “I was up all night going over the security tapes,” she said. “I only got three hours’ sleep and that was on the couch in the employee lounge next door. I’m running on Mountain Dew and adrenaline.”

  Such sacrifices must be common for detectives investigating time-sensitive cases such as this one. The more time that passed without the bomber being apprehended, the greater the chance he’d get away or strike again.

  “Whatcha got for me?” Jackson asked, stifling a yawn.

  I pulled the napkin from my pocket, set it on the desk, and unwrapped it, exposing the oddly shaped nail. “This was pulled from one of the chairs in the food court.”

  The detective leaned in for a closer look. “It doesn’t look like any of the other nails. What kind is it?”

  “I have no idea. I asked Irving, but he didn’t know, either.”

  She folded the napkin back over it and slid it into an evidence bag. “I’ll have one of the techs look into it.” She stared up at me as if waiting for me to say more. When I didn’t, she asked, “Is that all?”

  “I … I g-guess so,” I stammered. But it was a lie. I wanted to be involved, to help with the investigation. I wanted to help nail the bomber, to see justice done.

  When I still made no move to go, Jackson exhaled loudly. “Look, Officer Luz. Nobody blames you for what happened if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  I shook my head. “That’s not it. It’s … w-well … it’s…”

  Jackson tossed a hand in the air. “Spit it out, Officer Luz. I don’t have all day.”

  How many times had I heard similar words from similarly impatient people? Too many times, that’s how many. “I want to help in the investigation.”

  There. I’d said it.

  She gave me a slightly patronizing smile. “That’s awfully nice of you, but it’s not your job.”

  Might as well go for broke, right? “I want it to be.”

  Her brows rose. “Excuse me?”

  “I want to be a detective someday.”

  She cocked her head and stared at me for a long moment. “You know you can’t even apply until you’ve been a street cop for four full years, right?”

  I nodded.

  “And you know the burnout rate for cops is extremely high? Many don’t even make it four years.”

  Another nod.

  “The written test is a bitch.”

  “So I hear.” I’d study hard and ace it.

  She raised a brow. “You think you have what it takes?”

  I met her gaze. “I know I have what it takes.”

  She chuckled. “Well, one thing it takes is balls and it seems you’ve got a pair, undeveloped as they might be as yet. If you’re willing to put in some unpaid overtime and help me out I’d be an idiot to refuse, wouldn’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  Her brows angled inward as she seemed to consider whether my response implied that she was an idiot. Heck, I wondered the same thing. She might want to work on her phrasing next time.

  She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not going to file some type of complaint with the Workforce Commission claiming we owe you extra pay for this, are ya?”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “All right, then. Take a seat.”

  I dropped into a chair and Brigit sat at my feet, looking up at me. I scratched her ears with one hand while I used the other to gesture at the laptop and papers spread about the desk. “Any luck yet?”

  “Nothing definitive,” she said, taking a sip from a can of Mountain Dew. “The crime scene techs found no fingerprints on the bomb materials. The bomber was smart enough to wear gloves, apparently. I’ve talked to a few people, so I suppose that’s progress. That Serhan sure seemed nervous.”

  His anxiety was understandable. The fact that the bomb had been placed in a bag from his food stand didn’t look good. Still, my gut told me the guy was innocent. Of course my gut had once told me the Greek yogurt in my fridge hadn’t yet gone bad. Boy, had my gut been wrong that time.

  “If Serhan had planted the bomb,” I suggested, “wouldn’t he have avoided using a bag from his own shop?” Surely he’d realize the bag would raise suspicions.

  Jackson tilted her head first one way, then the other, indicating maybe, maybe not. “I doubt whoever planted the bomb expected it to be found before the explosion. When the bomb went off the bag was blown into unidentifiable confetti. If you hadn’t seen the device inside the Stick People bag we never
would have known.”

  Hmm.…

  She set her soda can down, maneuvered the wireless mouse next to her laptop, and motioned for me to come around the desk. “Take a look at this.”

  I leaned in next to her. On her computer screen was a feed from a security camera in the food court. As was typical, the mall utilized a combination of visible and hidden cameras—visible cameras to deter crime and hidden cameras to catch it on film. As we’d made our way around the food court yesterday, I’d noticed Jackson mentally cataloging all of the visible cameras. Given the angle on the screen, this feed must have come from a hidden camera inside the decorative bronze wall clock. A timer in the bottom right corner read out yesterday’s date and the time: 12:04 PM.

  The camera’s scope was broad, taking in an area measuring approximately fifty feet by fifty feet. Though the garbage can was visible at the back of the space, its opening faced away from the camera. The constant movement of the busy crowd in the foreground sometimes obscured the can from view for several seconds at a time, as did a cluster of balloons that floated back and forth in the air currents.

  “I’ve been over this footage a dozen times,” Jackson said, “but maybe you’ll catch something I didn’t.”

  As I watched, scores of unidentifiable people came and went, shoving trash through the unseen door flap. Two of them threw out large white bags, though from this distance it was impossible to tell whether the bags were from Stick People. The first was a woman with three adolescent boys in tow. The second was a paunchy man wearing mirrored sunglasses and a purple TCU baseball cap that hid the top half of his face in shadow. He glanced first left, then right before shoving his bag into the can. Odd.

  I gestured to the screen. “You think he’s the bomber?”

  “Possibly,” Detective Jackson said. “He bought lunch at the shish-kebab place twenty minutes earlier. I’ve tracked his movements the best I could from the different cameras. As far as I can tell he didn’t visit any stores before going to the food court. Of course he might have been planning to eat first, then shop. I’ve watched the exterior camera feeds, too. He was the one driving the U-Haul.”