Paw Enforcement (A Paw Enforcement Novel)

by Kelly, Diane

  “Good for you,” he said.

  He was just about to shut the van’s doors when a member of the club’s executive staff stepped up, a short-range radio in his hand. He stopped on the grass ten feet away. “We need you two to move along now.”

  “Who’s this we?” The Rattler shredded the man with his stare. “All I see is you.”

  The man put the radio to his mouth and pushed a button. “Security to the Dumpsters. Stat.”

  The Rattler snorted. What a chickenshit. Did the man have no balls?

  The woman scurried to the door of her van. “I don’t mean to cause any trouble. I’m going now.”

  The Rattler slithered along much more slowly, glaring at the man as he climbed into his car, started the engine, and eased slowly past, his windows down.

  From off to the right came a cry: “Fore!”

  Instantly the Rattler knew the perfect venue for his next strike.

  A slow smile spread across his face. “Have a wonderful, terrific, ridiculously fantastic day!” he called to the bewildered-looking man on the grass.

  The Rattler’s first bombing attempt might have been subpar, but his next would be par for the course. Maybe even a hole in one …

  FORTY-SIX

  SLAMMER

  Megan

  Ricky helped me escort the skater boys to the administrative wing. As we passed the Victoria’s Secret store, I caught a glimpse of the Big Dick inside, coming on to the busty blonde who managed the shop.

  He held up a pink thong and ran a finger along the inside of the scooped crotch. “You wear these sexy little things?”

  She snatched the panties he was fondling out of his hand and let him know in no uncertain terms she wasn’t interested: “What I wear is none of your business.”

  The guy didn’t even have the sense to be humiliated. He just laughed and said, “You ever want a sample of what I’ve got to offer, you let me know.”

  Jackson was right: I should’ve shot Mackey and fed him to the tigers while I had the chance.

  As we passed the food stands, I spotted Aruni behind the counter at Stick People. As long as I’d been on this beat I’d never seen her working the stand. Leaving the boys under Ricky’s guard, I stepped over to the counter, leading my partner on her leash. Brigit’s tail began to wag in anticipation of food. Never mind that it wasn’t quite lunchtime yet.

  “Hi, Aruni,” I said. “Are you going to be w-working here with Serhan now?”

  The woman looked at me with troubled eyes, worry lines forming on her forehead. “You didn’t hear? Serhan was arrested last night.”

  I felt my body go rigid. “What? Why?”

  “Something about his visa,” Aruni said, fighting tears.

  An immigration issue? Now? It was too much of a coincidence. No doubt he was being held on the unrelated charge until Fort Worth PD could put all of the clues together and determine whether he was the bomber.

  “I have an appointment to meet with an attorney this afternoon.” She wiped a tear away with her fingers. “The police came to our house last night and went through all of our things. It was terrible. Kara cried all night for her daddy.”

  I had no idea what to say. “I … I’m sorry, Aruni. I’m sure it will all get worked out.”

  It would. Eventually. Either Serhan would be determined to be the bomber or he’d be freed. Until then his wife and daughter would be stuck waiting and worrying.

  Ricky and I sat the boys down in the security office, where we waited for Detective Jackson to come question them. She was already on-site, speaking with the people who worked the barbecue stand, trying to determine whether the meat thermometer and spatula that had been in the bomb were somehow connected to the business.

  When she arrived, she asked Ricky to return in half an hour. “When I’m done with these two, I’ve got something I’d like to discuss with you.”

  He looked taken aback but nodded. “No problem.”

  Brigit and I stood by the door while the detective grilled the boys.

  “You two ever been in trouble with the law before?” she asked as she fingered through the taller one’s wallet.

  They both shook their shaggy heads.

  She jutted out her chin to indicate me. “Officer Luz tells me she’s instructed you multiple times not to skate at the mall but that you’ve blatantly defied her orders. She also says you threw fireworks in the parking lot. That true?”

  The two offered lame excuses.

  “I didn’t hear her say not to skate,” said the shorter one.

  “I’ve never even seen her before today,” the taller one said, his memory, like Cuthbert’s, seeming to fail him. When he looked up at the security camera mounted in the corner of the room, he changed his tune, as if realizing our interactions might have been caught on video. “Not that I remember, anyway.”

  I plucked my baton from my belt and flicked my wrist. Snap! The baton extended to its full, glorious, ball-busting length. The boys eyed it and blinked. I twirled it in my hand. Swish-swish-swish.

  The detective finished going through their things and tossed their wallets onto the desk. “I’m not going to beat around the bush, boys. We’ve got camera footage of the two of you in the food court on Saturday shortly before the bomb went off. You were dancing around, acting like a couple of asshole baboons.”

  The two exchanged glances. Fearful glances. Gotta say, it felt good to see them shaken.

  “If you two planted that pipe bomb,” Jackson continued, “you’re better off coming clean about it. The DA might reduce your sentence if you cooperate.”

  “What?!” cried the shorter one, his eyes popping wide.

  “We didn’t—” the taller one began, reflexively reaching out a hand and leaning forward in his chair.

  Jackson sliced the air sideways with her index finger. “Before you say anything you might regret, you know, like a lie, I’m going to give each of you the chance to talk to me alone. You’re looking at felony time, here. Attempted murder and whatnot.”

  The boys’ mouths gaped, their eyes darting frantically from each other, to me, to the detective, as if reality were eluding them and they were desperate to catch sight of it before it disappeared entirely.

  Jackson gestured to the shorter boy. “You. Step into the other room.” She lifted her eyes to signal me to go with him.

  I opened the door and stepped out, Brigit following me. The boy came out afterward. I pointed my baton at a chair on the other side of the room. “Sit over there.”

  He took a seat and looked up at me, terror in his eyes. “I swear we didn’t—”

  He jerked back as I swung my baton so close to his face it blew his shaggy bangs aside.

  “Did you say something?” I said. “Because I don’t think I heard you, either.”

  Brigit backed me up with a growl: Grrr. She was really starting to grow on me.

  While the boy sat, quietly now, chewing his lip so hard it began to bleed, I continued to stand, twirling my baton. Swish-swish-swish.

  I might not be a detective yet, but I knew exactly what Jackson was doing here. Utilizing the strategy of divide and conquer. If these two boys had planted the bomb, she might have a better chance of scaring a confession out of them if each thought the other might be waffling. The last to confess could be left holding the bag.

  As I twirled my baton—swish-swish-swish—I watched the boy in the chair. The teen who’d been so tough and cocky outside on his skateboard now seemed nothing more than a frightened, naïve child.

  Five minutes later, Jackson sent the taller boy out and called the shorter one in. The taller one slid into the seat his friend had just vacated. His face bore a shell-shocked expression and his shoulders began to jerk with silent sobs. Meanwhile I continued to work my baton. Swish-swish-swish.

  He looked up at me, tears spilling over his lids. “We didn’t do it!” he cried on a breath, his voice barely more than a whisper. “We wouldn’t do something like that!”

  As
much as I loathed the little shit, as much as I wanted to whomp him in his adolescent nards, I believed him. He might be a punk. He might have a rebellious streak. But he wasn’t a bomb maker. His eyes bore too much sincere desperation for him to be lying.

  Evidently Detective Jackson reached the same conclusion. A few minutes later, she released the two boys into the custody of their mothers, whom she’d telephoned for pickup.

  “Keep a better eye on your boys,” she told the mothers. “Maybe sign them up for church camp.”

  As the boys and their mothers left, Ricky returned.

  The detective got right down to business. “After the bombing here on Saturday, I did a quick check on everyone who works at the mall. You’ve got a problem.”

  I had been the one to run the background checks and look over the paperwork, not her, but I wasn’t about to debate the matter with the detective. After all, I’d been working under her direction and she’d allowed me to tag along when she’d interrogated Ulster and visited the Lipscombs’ house.

  When I’d returned home last night, I’d spent three additional hours finishing up the criminal background checks on the rest of the mall employees. The vast majority were clean, but my search had turned up a few interesting tidbits. One of the women who worked the cosmetics counter at Macy’s had a misdemeanor prostitution conviction. The assistant manager of the men’s shoe store was on probation for driving under the influence. A woman who worked at the smoothie stand had a recent conviction for possession of marijuana. Could the woman have tossed a joint in the garbage? Was that why Brigit alerted on the can? I hadn’t seen the woman in the video footage, but Irving’s head could have blocked the view.

  Ricky’s head turned slightly in alarm. “What do you mean there’s a problem?”

  “Where do you live?” the detective asked.

  Ricky rattled off an address and apartment number. I recognized the street. It wasn’t far from the mall. Just a couple exits farther west on the freeway.

  She pulled out his job application and the copy of his driver’s license. “Why didn’t you list that address on your application?”

  “When I applied for the job I didn’t have my own place,” he said. “I was crashing with my cousin for a while until I could find my own digs.”

  Jackson narrowed her eyes at him. “Your driver’s license records still show your residence in El Paso. Why haven’t you updated your license?”

  Ricky threw his hands in the air. “I’ve tried. Three times! You ever seen the lines at the DMV? It takes hours to get anything done over there.”

  Jackson stared at him a moment longer. “You get over to the DMV and get your address updated. I don’t care how long you have to stand in line. If it’s not done in the next week, I’ll have Officer Luz here issue you a citation.”

  Ricky glanced my way, an irritated look on his face.

  “Get on back to work now,” the detective said.

  Ricky left the room without another word.

  Jackson motioned to the walkie-talkie on my belt. “Call Scott in here.”

  I pulled the radio from my belt and pushed the talk button. “Scott, please report to the security office.”

  A few minutes later, he appeared in the doorway. Though his face was turned to me, his eyes darted to the detective. “You wanted to see me, Officer Luz?”

  “I’m the one who wanted to see you.” Jackson stood and motioned for him to shut the door. “Have a seat and let’s talk.”

  Scott closed the door and gingerly lowered himself into the chair, perching on the edge as if poised to flee. A sheen of fresh flop sweat covered his forehead.

  “I’ve run background checks on the mall employees,” the detective said again. “We got a ding on yours.”

  Scott’s cheeks turned a blotchy pink.

  “You were arrested for criminal mischief. Want to tell us about that?”

  His tight-lipped expression said no, he didn’t want to tell us. He looked away for a moment before turning back. “I was never put on trial. The charges were dropped.”

  “Lucky you,” the detective shot back. “Now tell me what happened.”

  Scott exhaled a couple of times like a snorting bull as he fidgeted in his chair. “Look, some guys in my fraternity just played a stupid prank on some guys in another fraternity, that’s all.”

  “A prank?” Jackson asked. “What kind of prank?”

  “The other fraternity had this big fountain in front of their house. You know the ones with the little boy peeing? Well, we—I mean, some of the other guys in my frat—snuck over there one night and drained the water out of it and replaced it with gasoline. I guess they thought it would be funny to make the statue pee fire, you know?” He chuckled nervously. “Anyway, they tossed a match into it and things got out of control and the fire spread to the house. We—I mean, they—called the fire department, but everyone ran off before the truck got there.”

  That’s as far as he went.

  Jackson made a circular motion with her finger. “Keep going. How did you end up getting arrested?”

  “Later that night, the cops came to our frat house and arrested a bunch of us. But then it turned out there were no witnesses who could identify the people who’d started the fire, so they dropped the charges.”

  “Uh-huh.” Jackson stared at him for a long minute, as if trying to assess whether the young man sitting before her was merely an immature prankster or a criminal with malicious intentions. I was trying to determine the same thing.

  “Where do you live?” Jackson asked.

  Scott recited the address that was on his employment documentation.

  “You live alone?” she asked.

  Scott shook his head. “With my parents.” As if realizing how pathetic that sounded, he added, “I’m only staying there until I can save up enough money to get my own place.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said again, still staring. Finally, Jackson dismissed him. “Be sure to let me know if you see anything suspicious around here.”

  Scott’s rigid body relaxed in relief. “I will.”

  After Scott left, Jackson said, “I don’t trust those two.”

  “Ricky and Scott?”

  “Yeah. They’re up to something. I can feel it.”

  “You think they planted the bomb?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe they know who did, but there’s something in it for them.”

  “A payoff?”

  “Maybe.”

  Blurgh. There were too many maybes and not enough certainties.

  “Any word from the Lipscombs?” I asked.

  “Nope. Not a one.”

  Although they were wanted for questioning, there wasn’t yet enough evidence against the Lipscombs to order them back to Fort Worth. We’d just have to wait and hope they’d get in touch.

  “The good news,” Jackson added, “is that there was enough evidence to get a search warrant for their house. There’s a team going through it right now.”

  I’d be curious to hear what, if anything, the team found.

  “What do you think about the barbecue stand?” I asked. “Anything suspicious there?”

  She shook her head. “Everyone seemed genuinely freaked out by what happened. None of them has a reason to suspect any of their coworkers.”

  “What about Vu Tran? Have you talked to him?”

  “The lady who runs the bridal shop said he doesn’t work Mondays. I’ll be back tomorrow to question him.”

  “Can I be there?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “Why not? Meet me there when they open at ten.”

  “What about the pet store? And the sushi place? And the wine shop?”

  “On my ‘to do’ list. First I need to speak to the Stick People staff, see if they remember anyone unusual. Then I plan to talk to as many people as I can who were in the food court when the bomb went off, see if I can find any eyewitnesses. I believe that’s our best bet for identifying the bomber.”

  “That squa
re-headed nail. Did you figure out what kind it is?”

  She snorted. “Honey, if you think all of these things get done overnight, you’ve been watching too much CSI. I’ve asked one of the techs to look into it, but these things take time. They’re still cataloging and tagging all the physical evidence.”

  “Understood. I just thought it might be a clue.” Of course the same could be said for the fishhooks, sewing needles, fondue forks, and corkscrew.

  She let out a long breath. “I’m thinking the bomber put all of those strange things in the bomb to send us down bunny trails, test our moxie.”

  If that was the case, then the bomber was in trouble. I had moxie out the wazoo.

  Her business with me complete, the detective stood to go. I followed her into the courtyard, where we bade each other good-bye. She went in search of more employees to question, while Brigit and I returned to our beat.

  The Big Dick stood at the Cinnabon stand now, flirting with the redhead behind the counter, telling her what sweet, luscious buns she had and how he’d love to sink his teeth into them.

  He had no better luck here than he’d had in the lingerie store. The woman rolled her eyes. “Gee. Haven’t heard that one before.”

  Despite the lack of customers, the carousel was back in full swing today, the organ music filling the space, the horses gliding up and down in a gentle canter, the blue one bearing a corkscrew-sized hole in its side. Only one child, a pigtailed girl of about eight, was on the ride. Randy stood near his podium, practicing with his lasso. He twirled the thing over his head, then tossed it, the loop falling over the head of one of the carousel horses.

  “Nice aim!” I called as I headed over.

  Randy grinned and trotted alongside the carousel for a moment before hopping on and removing the lasso from the horse’s neck. When the carousel came around again, he hopped down right in front of me. “Ta-da!”

  “You’ve gotten pretty good with that rope.”

  He gestured at the nonexistent line of customers. “I’ve had lots of time to practice this morning.”

  I glanced up at Randy’s hat. Today in his hatband he sported a Twinings Earl Grey tea bag still in the wrapper, a travel brochure for a Caribbean cruise, and a Dum Dum sucker, mystery flavored.