by Diane Kelly
“Let me help you out.” The bastard chuckled, performing a sort of shimmy dance now as he leaned left, then right, then left again, following the quivering of my gun.
The guy’s teasing brought back memories of the kids in school, making fun of my st-st-stutter. My body temperature rocketed as my fear turned to anger. Given my wet uniform and hot skin, it wouldn’t have surprised me to see steam coming off my uniform.
“Set your gun on the ground,” I demanded through gritted teeth, “or I’ll sic my d-dog on you.”
The black guy didn’t move, continuing to sneer and raising a brow in challenge.
The Asian guy slid his box on top of a newspaper machine that was chained to the front wall of the store. His hands now free, he, too, removed his gloves and pulled out a gun, also aiming it at my head.
Okay. Back to fear now.
My head felt fuzzy and my throat constricted, closing off my air supply. I swallowed hard, attempting to force my throat open before I passed out from lack of oxygen.
The Latino guy plunked his box onto the asphalt at his feet, the bottles inside giving off loud tinkles as they rattled against each other. Like the others before him, he took off his gloves, dropped them into his box, and pulled a gun from his waistband, though he aimed his weapon at Brigit. “Move on, bitch, or I’ll shoot your dog.”
“No!” My stomach clenched into a hard little ball. The woman in me told me to step in front of Brigit and protect her. The cop in me acknowledged that doing so would go against our training. Although she was a dog, Brigit was also a fellow officer and, as such, was expected to do her job, to accept the risks that came with it, and to not impede her coworkers.
In my peripheral vision, I saw Brigit look up at me, probably wondering why I’d cried out. She was lucky she didn’t understand the gravity of the situation. These guys could shoot us dead and very likely get away with it. There were no witnesses out here on the street and no security cameras in sight.
“Nobody’s shooting the dog.” The one in the tornado hoodie put his box down and stepped forward, blocking the Latino’s bead on Brigit. He turned back to address the other men. “Ain’t nobody shooting nobody here. This lady cop can’t fire on any of us or the others will take her out, and none of us is stupid enough to fire on her over liquor and cigarettes.”
The guy seemed confident, but I wasn’t so sure. The other three did, in fact, look stupid enough to sacrifice their lives for a few bottles of hooch and some cartons of cigarettes.
“You’re the brains of this operation, huh?” I said.
Turning back to me and my partner, Tornado Hoodie cut me a grin. He reached down into a plastic bag that sat among the cigarettes in his box. He removed a wrapped piece of beef jerky and ripped off the wrapper, having a little trouble with his dexterity given the gloves he wore. He tossed the trash aside. Littering, a citable offense. But not one I planned to do anything about. Especially since this guy seemed to be the voice of reason among the group.
“Here, girl!” he called to Brigit, holding up the jerky. “Come get a treat.”
Brigit lifted her nose, scented the meat on the air, and stepped forward, seeming to forget all of her training.
“Brigit!” I hollered, issuing her the order to return to my side.
Over her shoulder she tossed me a look that said Quit being so bossy. But fortunately she obeyed and stepped back in place.
The young man crouched down to dog level. “You’re a pretty girl,” he murmured in a high, soothing voice, as he ripped the jerky slice into quarters. “A pretty, pretty girl.”
Next to me, Brigit wagged her tail, responding unashamedly to his flattery. Furry, four-footed twit.
One by one, he tossed the bite-sized pieces of dried meat to Brigit, and she snatched each of them out of the air. Schomp. Schomp. Schomp. Schomp.
A sad look flickered over the young man’s face as Brigit finished the last of the jerky. Unlike his cohorts, who all had hard, mean eyes, this man had eyes that seemed troubled and disillusioned, but not yet completely hopeless. His skin and his actions illustrated a critical point I’d learned early on in my police career. Few things were entirely black or white.
“When I was little,” he said wistfully to Brigit, “I had a dog like you. Her name was Velvet.”
As if sensing his sorrow and trying to cheer him up, Brigit bent down on her front legs and offered a playful growl and a bark. Rrrrowl-arf!
The man laughed, retrieved his box, and stood. With a final, oddly polite nod to me, he turned to the rest of the gang. “Let’s roll.”
Ordering them to come back or stop would be futile, so I didn’t bother. There was nothing I could do but watch the four men walk away with their spoils and snap a picture of their departure with my cell phone. I felt stupid and useless and utterly powerless.
And I didn’t like it one bit.
The looters on their way, I stepped to the window, careful not to touch the metal burglar bars and disturb any prints that might be on them. I hadn’t heard any gunshots, but the gang might have pistol-whipped customers or the store staff, maybe tied them up inside.
My reflection gazed back at me from the broken glass. “Yikes.” I looked like a crazy person. My makeup was smeared all over my face, my hair half in and half out of its bun, sticking out in odd, droopy loops all over my head. But my appearance was the least of my worries right now.
I attached the leash to Brigit’s collar, tied her to a pipe out front where she’d be less likely to get hurt, and squeezed through the bars and shattered glass. “Hello? Fort Worth Police! Anybody in here?”
“Just me!” came a male voice.
A moment later, an older black man stepped into view at the end of the shelves.
“Are you okay?” I asked. “Any injuries?”
“I’m fine.” He cast a look out the window as he made his way over to me. “The storm scared the bejeezus out of me but that was it.”
“Were you the only one on duty?” It seemed odd there would be only one person running the store on a Saturday when business was likely to be brisk. And, with today being Valentine’s Day, shoppers could be expected to stop by for a bottle of wine or champagne to celebrate.
“There were two others,” he said, “but when we heard on the radio that the storm was picking up I let them go home. I stayed behind to empty the register and lock up, but that twister was on the ground before I could finish.”
“You own the store?”
“Sure do.”
“May I have your name?”
“Roland Wilson.”
“Are you aware that you had looters, Mr. Wilson?” I asked. “I caught four young men sneaking out this window with cardboard boxes full of liquor and cigarettes.”
Wilson shrugged. “I was hiding in the back. I didn’t see anyone.”
I gestured to the security camera mounted in the corner over the register. “The camera would’ve picked them up. Let’s take a look.”
“No point,” he replied. “The camera’s electric. No electricity, no footage.”
I made my way over behind the counter to take a look at the camera.
Wilson followed me over, pointing up at it. “See? It’s not running. The green indicator light is off.”
Damn. Odd that the man seemed relieved by that fact. Hmm …
I eyed him closely. “The looters threatened you, didn’t they?”
He shrugged, but the flash of alarm in his eyes told me his nonchalance was as phony as the breasts on the headless, bikini-clad cardboard woman lying on the floor near the beer display. “Look, lady. How I run my store is my business, okay?”
“And fighting crime is my business,” I retorted. Realizing I’d sounded harsh, I raised a conciliatory hand. “Look, I saw the guys, talked to them. If they get busted, it’s on me, not you. They’ll know that.”
He seemed to think things over for a moment, but offered only a shrug again.
“All right, then.” He wasn’t the first re
luctant witness I’d come across, and he wouldn’t be the last. I removed a stack of soggy business cards from the breast pocket of my uniform, peeled one off the top, and handed it to him. “If you decide you want to talk or file a report, call me. Okay?”
I eased myself back out the window and untied Brigit from the pipe.
Woof!
A bark from behind caught my attention and Brigit’s as well. We turned to see two men and one woman from the Fire Department picking their way up the street with a team of dogs. One of the dogs was a shepherd, like Brigit, though noticeably smaller than my hundred-pound partner. The second dog was a black lab. The third was a golden retriever. All of the humans wore hard hats and fluorescent yellow suits. The animals wore fluorescent yellow vests with printing identifying them as trained search-and-rescue dogs.
Although these people weren’t armed, the presence of other authorities brought me some comfort. At least Brigit and I weren’t alone anymore. I headed toward them, taking a look back to make sure the gang was still leaving the area. No sense letting these first responders walk into a dangerous situation … or a situation that was any more dangerous than it already was given the downed electric wires, shifting wreckage, and broken tree limbs teetering in trees. Fortunately, the looters had already disappeared from sight.
I held up a splayed hand in greeting. “Hi, there! I’m Officer Megan Luz.” I lifted Brigit’s leash, glad to see my shaking had subsided a bit. “Sergeant Brigit, my p-partner. Can we help in any way?”
As Brigit and the other dogs gave each other a friendly sniff-over, the female member of the team handed me a spare walkie-talkie. “If you could work ahead of us, tell us if you hear survivors in the wreckage, that would be great.”
I informed them that everyone in the pizza place and liquor store were okay, and that the doughnut shop appeared empty. “There’s one man in the Bag-N-Bottle, but he’s not hurt.”
“Good.” She raised a hand and pointed down the road. “Try the gas station next. But don’t take any chances. You don’t have a hard hat and these buildings can be unstable.”
I nodded in acknowledgment and issued a warning in return. “I’ve run across some armed looters. They seem to have left the area, but they could return or there could be others. Keep an eye out.”
“Thanks,” she said. “We will.”
Brigit and I weaved our way around broken tree branches, an overturned ice machine, and a twisted, pink girl’s bicycle to the gas station. By the time we reached the structure, a woman was stepping out of the doorway, the man next to her holding a bloody roll of paper towels to his bleeding forehead. They were followed by three other men, two of them in shirts bearing the gas station’s logo.
“Is he the only one injured?” I asked.
The woman nodded. “He was hit by flying debris. The gash is pretty deep.”
“Sit down here.” I took the man’s arm and helped him to the curb. “I’ll get you an EMT as soon as possible.”
I radioed dispatch with details.
A news van with a satellite dish on top pulled up on a side street. Trish LeGrande, a bossy, bosomy reporter with butterscotch hair stepped down from the passenger seat. She was dressed in her trademark pink, today’s outfit consisting of pink rubber rain boots, a pink vinyl raincoat, and a ruffled pink umbrella.
I heaved a sigh. Trish and I had crossed paths before, and our interactions had never been good for me.
Her cameraman climbed out of the sliding side door with his equipment, lifting it to his shoulder. He said something to Trish and pointed my way.
She raised a waving hand in the air and scurried my way. “Can we get a statement, Officer…?”
“Luz,” I huffed. The woman had spoken to me after the bombing at the mall last fall and the purse snatchings at the rodeo mere days ago, but she didn’t seem to remember me at all. Twit. “I don’t have time for an interview. I need to help search for survivors and secure the area.”
“Can I at least get a quick intro with the dog?”
Knowing the woman was speaking about her, Brigit wagged her tail.
“Make it quick. And then move back. Emergency crews will need to get into the area.”
Trish stepped into place on the other side of Brigit and signaled her cameraman to start rolling. “Trish LeGrande reporting from Berry Street in Fort Worth where it’s been raining cats and dogs.” She bent down, flashed a coy smile at the camera, and ruffled Brigit’s fur before standing and stepping away. “As you can see, folks, this area was hit hard by a tornado only minutes ago. Though the official word is not yet in, sources at the National Weather Service have told us that this tornado was likely an EF5.”
While Trish continued her report, I slunk quickly and quietly away. As I moved on to the bank next door, my eyes spotted Derek weaving his way up Berry, driving up over the curb and on sidewalks when necessary to avoid debris. When he could come no farther, he parked and climbed out, making long, quick strides toward me. “Your backup’s here.”
The saying better late than never did not apply in this case.
When he reached me he glanced around. “Where’s the robbery suspect?”
“Off with his three friends spending their take.”
“There were four of them?”
“Yes,” I spat, “and they pulled guns on me.”
Derek actually had the nerve to laugh at that. If he knew how close I was to beating him over the head with my baton, he might’ve held it in.
“So, what?” he said, raising his palms. “You just let them walk away?”
“What part of ‘four armed gang members’ did you not understand?”
“Don’t get your panties in a wad.” He looked me up and down, taking in my wet uniform and my messy hair. His lip quirked in an expression that was half disgust, half amusement. “What the hell happened to you?”
Before I could answer, his eyes moved to my cruiser in the parking lot of the pizza place down the street. The entire driver’s side was dented and scraped, the still-flashing light bar cracked and askew, the driver’s window gone.
His lips went slack, but his brows rose. “Jesus Christ, Luz! What did you do to your cruiser?”
“I didn’t do anything,” I spat. “In case you didn’t notice, a tornado went through here.”
Derek pulled out his cell phone, activated the camera, and ran a finger across the screen to zoom in on my cruiser. Click.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
He didn’t respond, but instead sent a quick text then pulled up a name on his contacts list and placed a call. “Check your texts, Chief,” he said into his phone. “I sent you a photo. You’ll never believe what Luz did to her patrol car.”
Jackass.
TWENTY-THREE
SEARCH-AND-SNIFF
Brigit
She’d been terrified by the storm and the sudden, unexpected fountain spouting up through the overturned cruiser’s window, but just as quickly as the supercell moved on, things began to look up. The man who’d shared the beef jerky with Brigit sure was nice, and he had an entire bag full of the meat. The dog hoped she and Megan would see him again. And then she got to meet three new dogs. How fun was that?
Like Brigit, these search-and-rescue dogs were trained to perform important tasks. No pampered house pets here. Nope, these were smart dogs, serious dogs, dogs that sniffed around for injured people, scenting for blood. They also knew to listen carefully for calls for help that might be coming from inside piles of rubble.
Once again, canine skills filled in where human capabilities fell short.
What would people do without dogs?
Brigit could sense that Megan had become tense ever since that other officer had arrived. Brigit knew the guy was a jackass. He had a barking laugh and spoke in staccato bursts. Brigit might not always treat Megan with respect, yet, as members of the same pack, they had a right to push each other’s buttons on occasion. But when someone outside the pack pulled a fast one on a mem
ber, Brigit wasn’t about to let it go unchecked.
The jackass issued a derisive snort and spoke into his phone. The dog decided to take advantage not only of his distraction but also his wide-legged stance. She sneaked up to him and, with all the force she could muster, rammed the top of her hard skull into his soft, squishy scrotum.
With a retching sound, he buckled to his knees, one hand instinctively going to his groin, the other still clutching his phone. “Goddamn dog!” he gasped between labored breaths.
When the man reached out a hand to grab her, Brigit scurried back to Megan’s side. As expected, her partner surreptitiously slipped her a liver treat.
You don’t mess with these bitches.
TWENTY-FOUR
CASHING IN
Dub
The second Gato’s Sentra came to a stop in the apartment complex parking lot, Dub was out the door. No sense giving Marquise the chance to take more of the merchandise that Dub had snatched.
“Later.” Dub walked away as fast as he dared. If he went any faster, they might realize he had something special hidden in his box.
He slid his mother’s spare key into her apartment door, unlocked it, and stepped into the empty, lonely space. When he’d come home to Wes and Trent’s house in the afternoons after school, Wes would always meet Dub at the door, ask about his day, offer him a snack or drink, and make sure he did his homework. Since Dub had been here, the only thing his mother had asked was whether he had any cash on him. When he said he had none, she’d suggested he might be able to earn a few bucks raking leaves at houses in the neighborhood—bucks they could spend on a set of bedroom furniture for her. Never mind that Dub didn’t even have a mattress and had been sleeping in the recliner. His back was so sore he felt like an old man.
He set the box on the kitchen floor, removed the cartons of cigarettes, and stacked them on the countertop. Then he took the lottery tickets to the bathroom, locked the door just in case his mother got home from work early, and sat down on the closed toilet seat to go to work on the scratch-offs.
Most people used a coin to scratch off the shiny silver surface but, at the moment, Dub literally did not have a penny to his name. Instead, he used his key to Trent and Wes’s house. He figured it might bring him more luck than the key to his mother’s crappy apartment, which so far had only opened the door to regret. But maybe these tickets could change that.
