by Kelly, Diane
She found photos of two smiling boys, probably the woman’s grandchildren.
A coupon for some type of high-fiber cereal. EW.
There was $53.87 in cash. That’s all? Damn. She’d hoped for more.
Robin Hood slid the two twenties into the inside pocket of her jacket. What her sisters didn’t know about she wouldn’t have to share with them.
She continued to riffle through the purse. Hairbrush. Lipstick. Eyeglasses in a hard-sided case. A prescription bottle of Vicodin. Recently filled, too, not a pill missing that Robin Hood could tell. Surely the pills would be worth far more than the cash. According to the label, the prescription was for a Catherine Quimby, who suffered from arthritis.
I chose my victim well. Of course she’d always been very careful when she stole things, too. That’s why she’d never been caught.
She remembered the first time she’d stolen something. It hadn’t been long after that humiliating day at the spelling bee. Her mother had dragged her and her sisters along one Saturday when she went to clean a house in the Colonial Country Club neighborhood. Normally her mother left them at home with their father when she had weekend jobs, but he’d been out that day, forced to paint over graffiti as community service, part of his sentence for passing a bad check at the grocery store. He hadn’t meant to rip anyone off. He simply hadn’t balanced the checkbook in a while and didn’t realize just how dire their financial situation had become. When he’d been unable to repay the funds right away, the manager of the store turned the matter over to the district attorney. Because her father had no prior record, the DA let him plead out and offered him twenty hours of community service in lieu of a fine he couldn’t afford.
The family who’d hired their mother to clean had only one daughter, a girl three months younger than Robin Hood. The girl had skin and hair so fair she was virtually colorless. What she lacked in pigment she did not make up for in personality. She was quiet and dull and annoyingly well behaved. It took less than three minutes for Robin Hood to decide she hated the girl.
The girl’s mother had turned to Robin Hood’s mom and said, “Your daughters are welcome to watch TV in the playroom with Hayley. Maybe they’ll find some toys in there to keep them occupied while you work.”
Robin Hood felt her gut tighten. This little girl not only had a bedroom to herself, but an entire playroom, too? It wasn’t fair.
When Robin Hood, Crystal, and Heather stepped into Hayley’s playroom, they might as well have been stepping into Oz or Willy Wonka’s factory. The bright and airy room was lined floor to ceiling with shelves that held every toy and game imaginable. Hayley owned the Barbie Dreamhouse, the pink convertible, even a plastic play camper. She had clay and beads and paints and yarn in a dozen different colors. A large trunk contained clothes for dress-up, including a mermaid costume, a ballerina costume complete with soft pink shoes and a fluffy tutu, and assorted princess attire.
But what impressed Robin Hood most was Hayley’s American Girl doll collection. Five of the pristine dolls, still in their original packaging. Robin Hood remembered counting them, memorizing their names. Julie. Rebecca. Addy. Caroline. Josefina. She couldn’t imagine ignoring the beautiful dolls like this, leaving them in their boxes. Oh, how she’d wanted one for the longest time!
She knew her parents couldn’t afford to get her one of the dolls. She’d looked on the Internet on the school library computer and learned that the dolls cost over a hundred dollars each. She’d asked Santa for an American Girl doll when she’d sat on his lap at the mall last December. He hadn’t brought her one. Instead he’d filled her stocking with candy and crayons and Play-Doh. She’d decided then and there, on that fateful Christmas morning, that Santa was an asshole.
She’d looked from the dolls to Hayley. “How come you never took these dolls out to play with them?”
Hayley had lifted one shoulder. “I like Barbies better.”
Again, it wasn’t fair. Why should this girl have all these toys when she didn’t even appreciate them?
Crystal found a Pocahontas DVD on the shelf and Hayley put it into the player. The two of them curled up on the couch with Heather to watch the movie, paying no attention whatsoever to Robin Hood.
It was the perfect opportunity to exact some social justice.
She’d pulled the prettiest doll off the shelf and slipped out of the room with it, heading to the front door. She supposed she should have felt guilty about stealing the doll, but she didn’t. She was doing a good thing. She was making the world more fair.
As she sneaked down the hall, she saw her mother on her hands and knees on the kitchen floor, scrubbing the grout, the stiff brush giving off a scritch-scritch-scritch as she rubbed it back and forth between the floor tiles. Meanwhile Hayley’s mother stood outside on the patio, her back to the windows as she sipped a lemonade and yakked on the cordless telephone. That situation wasn’t fair, either.
She quietly tiptoed out the door and stashed the doll under the seat of her mother’s battered hatchback. In less than a minute she was back inside, sitting on the couch with her sisters, no one the wiser.
But what she remembered most about that day was the thrill she’d experienced, the sense of power and excitement, the smug sense of satisfaction that she’d evened the score, if only by a little bit. To this day she wondered whether Hayley had ever noticed that the doll was missing.
Her reverie ended when Crystal and Heather returned to the car. Robin Hood jabbed the button on her key chain to pop the trunk open. After Crystal slid the crutches into the trunk, she and Heather climbed into the car.
Crystal raised her brows in anticipation. “How much did we get?”
We, thought Robin Hood. How cute. “Thirteen dollars and change.”
Heather frowned. “That’s … what? A little over four bucks each?”
“Shit,” Crystal said, frowning now, too. “That’s not even enough for a latte at Starbucks.”
Robin Hood shrugged. “Everyone uses debit and credit cards now. People don’t carry much cash anymore.”
“Sucks for us,” Crystal said.
“Next time,” Robin Hood said, “we’ll go for jewelry, too.”
Why not? The three of them could easily disable a single victim and relieve her of her earrings, rings, necklaces, and bracelets. They could either take the jewelry to one of those cash-for-gold places or sell the stuff to a pawnshop.
Robin Hood handed four one-dollar bills to Heather and a five-dollar bill to Crystal. “I figured you should get a little more since you had to deal with the crutches. Sound fair?” She looked from one sister to the other.
“Okay,” Heather agreed.
Robin Hood tucked the remaining four singles into her tote.
“Hey!” Crystal said. “What about the eighty-seven cents?”
SIXTEEN
AUTO-EROTICA
Megan
Brigit and I made our way around the entire grounds twice, looking for the witnesses who’d been in the bathroom when Catherine Quimby’s purse had been snatched. I saw two elderly people on motorized scooters, one disabled person in a wheelchair, and a young boy with his arm in a sling, but no brown-haired woman on crutches. None of the other officers had reported seeing her, either. I peeked in all of the trash cans, using my baton to poke around for the stolen purse, but didn’t find it. If the thief had discarded it on site, it had either become buried under other garbage by now or hauled off by the maintenance staff to a larger Dumpster.
The music hall was a flurry of activity when Brigit and I stepped through the door. Couples twirled around the floor, turning this way and that, two-stepping to the rapid tempo of “Georgia on a Fast Train.” Texas singing legend Billy Joe Shaver graced the stage, treating the crowd to their favorite songs.
I took a spot along the wall, my eyes scanning the crowd, looking for anyone who might be poised to cause trouble. Oh, who am I kidding? I was looking for Clint. I’d noticed Jack had been returned to a stall in one of the ba
rns. Evidently Clint was done dealing with the drunk redneck and had set back out to patrol on foot.
I wasn’t a great dancer, but like every self-respecting Texan I could manage a basic two-step, polka, and waltz without embarrassing myself too much. I wouldn’t mind scooting my boots with Clint, even if my “boots” were ugly rubber-soled tactical police shoes rather than pretty hand-painted cowgirl boots.
My eyes spotted a blur of Clint’s brown and tan uniform as he twirled by on the dance floor with one of the groupies from earlier. She tossed her head back, laughing and smiling up at him as he spun her around. I wondered if she was the Sophie who’d written on the wall in the bathroom. I felt a twinge of envy, though I had no right to, especially given that I had a breakfast date with Seth in a mere nine hours.
Clint raised one arm, and the girl twirled under it, spinning three times before he captured her by the waist again. Clearly the guy knew his way around a dance floor. He also knew how to lead a woman so that her body did exactly what he wanted it to do.
Gulp.
The guy in the baby blue shirt danced past Clint and his partner. The woman in his arms had thirty years and just as many pounds on him, but the two nonetheless made great dance partners, keeping in perfect step as they executed a series of advanced turns and complicated maneuvers in which they repeatedly crossed their arms over each other’s head in a weaving pattern.
When the song ended, the band segued into a slow version of “Honky Tonk Heroes.” Despite the fact that she hung on to his arm and appeared to voice a protest, Clint backed away from the girl he was dancing with. He tipped his hat to her, then put a hand on the small of her back to escort her off the dance floor.
Everything here seemed under control. Better leave lest Clint catch me stalking him. No sense making a fool of myself.
Brigit and I had just reached the door when Clint slipped past us to block our way.
He looked down at me with those big brown eyes of his. “You’re not going to leave without giving me a dance first, are ya? That would be downright cruel.”
I hadn’t even realized he’d spotted me. The fact that he’d picked me out in a crowded room was flattering. Then again, with a gun at my hip and a dog at my side I didn’t exactly blend in.
“Whaddya say?” he asked, moving his head to indicate the dance floor.
At the thought of dancing with Clint, my heart beat a tempo much too fast for the slow song that was playing. I held up Brigit’s leash. “I can’t leave my partner.”
Undeterred, he grabbed my hand. “Then she’ll just have to come with us.”
He dragged me to the dance floor and gently but firmly pulled me into position, taking my right hand in his and raising my left hand, still clutching Brigit’s leash, to his shoulder. He set off in a basic two-step, our feet sliding in the classic pattern—slow, slow, quick-quick. I moved stiffly along, keeping track in my head so I wouldn’t get off. Slow. Slow. Quick-quick. Slow. Slow. Quick-quick.
Clint glanced down at me, evidently noting the look of concentration on my face. “We’ll keep it easy,” he said, offering me a smile. “For the dog.”
Busted. I narrowed my eyes at him.
We made our way in a circle around the floor, Brigit trotting along next to us in her own four-legged rhythm. Though she mostly kept an eye on the dancers around us, probably to keep her paws safe, she glanced up occasionally with a look that said she didn’t enjoy being our four-legged third wheel.
As the song wrapped up, Clint steered me to the edge of the dance floor and released my hand, but not before giving it a soft squeeze. He glanced over at the bar. “Too bad we’re on duty. I could really go for a beer.”
“There’s hot chocolate outside,” I suggested, as much to offer an option as to get him out of the dance hall. The girl he’d been dancing with before me was casting daggers at me from her seat at a nearby table. No sense risking her reporting us for unprofessional behavior.
Clint and I left the hall, venturing out in the clear and cool night, aiming for the hot drink stand.
On our way over, I told him about the reported purse snatching. “Any thoughts?” I asked when I’d told him everything I knew.
He shrugged. “Big crowds like this, with people distracted and carrying lots of cash, it’s prime hunting grounds for pickpockets and purse snatchers. Odd that the purse was taken from the ladies’ room, though. Most petty thieves are male. I can’t imagine a guy could’ve gotten in there without the women throwing a fit, though. Not unless he was in drag and the women didn’t notice.”
“A guy in drag at a Texas rodeo? I don’t see that happening.” Not unless he wanted to get his ass kicked. The general public here feared gays more than guns. Texas law allowed citizens to own an arsenal big enough to launch a one-man Armageddon, but prohibited them from marrying their same-sex partner lest Dallas and Fort Worth turn into Sodom and Gomorrah with people fornicating all up and down I-30.
“What about the pills?” I asked. “You think the thief was after the Vicodin?”
“Who knows?” he said. “More than likely they got tossed out somewhere with the purse. These kind of petty thieves are more interested in cash.”
Is he right? Or could the pills be an important piece of the puzzle?
Clint and I waited in line for a minute or two, then stepped up to the booth to order our drinks.
“You want marshmallows?” Clint asked.
“It wouldn’t be hot chocolate without them.” If I was going to blow my healthy diet with a sugary drink, I might as well go all the way, right?
A minute later, our drinks in hand, we set out on foot patrol. I positioned myself on Clint’s right, keeping Brigit between us for appearance’s sake. By this time of night, the outside crowd had thinned. Virtually the only people who remained were the rodeo’s cleanup crew and those responsible for tending to the animals.
As we strolled along, I turned my head to look up at Clint. “I have to ask. What makes a seemingly sane person risk his life climbing onto the back of a wild horse?”
“‘Seemingly sane?’” Clint chuckled. “Looks like I’ve got you fooled, huh?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.” The Tunabomber sure had fooled me. Before I’d figured out he’d been the one to set the explosives, I’d thought he was an odd but harmless guy.
Clint tilted his head. “It’s a cultural thing, I suppose. I grew up around horses, cows, rodeos. Besides, this is Texas. If you’re a boy, you’ve either got to play football or ride a horse or bull. Otherwise, you’re a sissy.”
Not all Texans were quite so narrow-minded. Nevertheless, I understood his point.
When we reached the equestrian barn, Clint cut a glance my way. “How ’bout I round up Jack and give you that ride I promised?”
My heart performed the squirming-kitten dance again. “Why not?”
I knew why not. Because of Seth. Because of the way he made my soul ache when we’d been apart. Because despite the fact that I found Clint to be charming and sexy and intriguing, despite the fact that I enjoyed the attention he gave me, I wasn’t sure about him. Part of me thought he could be a stand-up guy. Another part suspected he might be nothing more than a flirt, a cowboy Casanova, a player. A guy I could have some fun with, but nobody I should let myself get too worked up about. Perhaps the knowledge that this little fling, if it could even be called that, would probably go nowhere was precisely why I was so willing to participate. After nearly being killed at the hands of a sociopathic bomber and dealing with the heartbreak Seth had wreaked upon me, didn’t I deserve a little fun?
Clint led me into the barn and down a long, wide corridor lined with stalls. Tack hung from pegs and hooks or was stored in plastic tubs in front of the stalls. Saddles sat empty on supports mounted to the walls. Jack’s stall was halfway down the row, between a pretty palomino and curious paint horse, who stuck his head over the stall gate to check us out. When he nickered for attention, I gave him a solid scratch under the chin. “
Hello, boy.”
“Yo, Jack,” Clint called as he opened the stall door. His horse looked up briefly from his water trough, drops dripping from his whiskery chin to the hay at his feet, before returning his lips to the water. Clint patted the horse’s neck and retrieved Jack’s reins. Done drinking now, Jack lifted his head. Clint slid the reins over the horse’s head and finagled the bit into his mouth. He didn’t bother saddling the horse, just led him out of the stall and closed it behind him.
Clint led the horse over to the other side of the corridor, hooked a boot between the rungs of a stall for leverage, and swung himself up onto the horse’s back. Glancing down the row, he called to a cowboy a couple of stalls down. “Little help over here?”
The man stepped over, squatted to the left of Jack’s rump, and cupped his hands. “Up you go.”
Still holding Brigit’s leash, I hooked my hands over the horse’s back and went to put my right foot into the improvised stirrup. Clint stopped me, glancing up with amusement in his eyes. “Other foot, city slicker. Unless you want to ride backward.”
“Oh. Right.” Duh.
I put my left foot into the man’s hands and pulled with my arms as he hoisted me up. He grunted with the effort.
“Holy cow,” Clint said. “Next time you might want to do without the marshmallows.”
The grin on his lips told me he was only teasing. Good thing or I might’ve whacked him upside the head with my baton.
I thanked the man for his help.
“No problem, Officer.”
As I settled in, I found myself wondering how I was supposed to hang on. Should I put my hand on Clint’s shoulder? At his waist? Wrap it around his abdomen?
Fortunately, Clint solved the dilemma for me. “Scootch forward,” he directed, reaching back to take my hand and pulling it around in front of him.
I slid forward, leaving a good six inches between my crotch and his ass.
“A little more,” he said.
I scooted again. We were down to four inches.
“More,” he said.
