Paw Enforcement 02 - Paw and Order

by Kelly, Diane

  The boots were sold at the Justin Boots outlet store, just like some of the pairs the female victims had identified. I dared not let myself get too excited. Yes, this tidbit helped me narrow down which boot store to hit first, but the lead wouldn’t necessarily pan out. The store could have sold dozens of these types of boots, maybe even hundreds. This Crystal woman might have paid for them in cash, which would be untraceable. Heck, for all I knew she’d borrowed the boots from a friend. Or she could be from out of town. Maybe she was just in town for the rodeo and had ordered the boots online. I’d had a similar lead in the bombing case and it had gone nowhere. Nevertheless, I was glad to have some direction.

  The paramedics arrived then. I let them tend to Mr. Gallatin. I figured I’d gotten pretty much all I could from him.

  Chief Garelik came riding up on one of the courtesy golf carts, jumping off before the stock show staff member driving the cart could bring it to a full stop.

  “What the hell is going on?” he barked.

  Derek crossed his arms over his chest and looked at me expectantly, as if I were responsible for this crime and therefore should be the one to explain it to the chief.

  I gestured to the man sitting on the gurney and being poked and prodded by the paramedics. “This is Sloane Gallatin, sir. He came out to his truck with a young woman he met in the dance hall. When he realized she had taken his wallet out of his back pocket, he grabbed her wrist to stop her. She responded by kneeing him in the groin and then hitting and shocking him with a cattle prod she’d pulled from the bed of his truck.”

  “So now we’ve got actual injuries?” The chief turned and kicked the back tire of the golf cart, taking his frustrations out on the vehicle, startling the driver. “I tell you what!” the chief bellowed. “This godforsaken stock show can’t end soon enough for me. It’s been a cluster fuck of epic proportions!”

  With that he put a hand on Derek’s shoulder. “Let’s go get a goddamn beer.”

  The two of them climbed into the golf cart and the driver took off. Having loaded Gallatin into the ambulance, the paramedics climbed into the cab and drove off, too.

  I waited for the crime scene tech to arrive, directing people not to walk between Gallatin’s truck and the one parked next to it. “Protected area!” I called, motioning with my hand for them to circle around the other side of the vehicles. “Go around that way, please.”

  The crime scene tech arrived and used tongs to pick up the cattle prod and place it in a large plastic evidence bag. While he carefully scanned the ground for any overlooked pieces of evidence—a piece of the woman’s jewelry, a button from her jacket, maybe a cell phone dropped in the struggle—I shined my large flashlight over his shoulder and under Gallatin’s pickup and the one next to it.

  “I don’t see anything,” he said from his prone position between the trucks. “Other than some cigarette butts, a plastic straw, and some goat droppings.” With that he pushed himself to his knees and began to gather his things.

  The clop-clop-clopping of horse hooves on asphalt drew my attention to the right. Clint rode up on Jack. He’d traded his chaps and spurs for his deputy uniform. Back on duty, evidently.

  He pulled his horse to a stop in front of me. “Hey.”

  I looked up at him. “Hey yourself.”

  The tech raised a silent hand in good-bye. I gave him a nod of acknowledgment before returning my attention to my favorite deputy.

  Clint pulled a new blue ribbon from his pocket. “Another one for the trophy case.”

  “Congratulations,” I told him. “Looks like this was a lucky night for you.”

  “Luck, nothin’. Blue ribbons are earned with talent. And skill. And balls.”

  “Well, I suppose you’re lucky to have that talent and skill.”

  “Don’t forget the balls.”

  I pursed my lips. “Of course. How could I?”

  “I just hope I’ll be wearing a new championship belt buckle come next Saturday night.”

  The night would mark the final rounds of the rodeo events and the end of the stock show. Frankly, the night couldn’t come soon enough for me, either. I was tired of patrolling outside in the cold. Tired of the evasive purse snatchers and pickpockets. The only thing I wasn’t tired of was Clint and his gorgeous brown eyes.

  He cocked his head. “Heard you were asking about me.”

  My face warmed with a blush. “Just wondering where you’d gone.”

  “Did you miss me?”

  I put a hand on Jack’s velvety nose. “I missed your horse.”

  Clint pulled his foot from the stirrup and nudged my butt with his boot. “Come on. You missed me a little bit, too. Admit it.”

  I slapped his foot away. “Okay. I did miss you. But only a little bit.” No sense giving this guy a bigger head than he already had at the moment. Besides, men never wanted a woman they didn’t have to work for. Not for long, anyway. I’d watched enough romantic comedies to know that. I supposed I wouldn’t want a guy I didn’t have to work for, either.

  Clint stared down me for a moment. “How are things with ‘boy trouble’? Still uncertain?”

  Things with Seth were more certain than they’d been a week ago, but I wasn’t ready to commit just yet. I was still getting to know Seth, still trying to figure him out, what made him tick, still wondering whether I could fully trust him, whether he was relationship material. He’d come to me the night of the fire seeking solace, which spoke volumes about how he looked at me now. Still, no sense in investing all of myself in one man until I was sure about things. Diversifying my portfolio would pose less risk, right? Nonetheless, a sense of guilt settled on my shoulders. I might not be ready to commit to Seth, but I didn’t want to lead him on. I didn’t want to lead Clint on, either, though given that he was aware of Seth he seemed to be walking into whatever this was with his eyes wide open.

  I ran a hand over Jack’s shoulder, trying to decide how to respond.

  A man of action, Clint didn’t wait. He nudged me again with his boot. “Nothing wrong with you and me having a drink, is there?”

  I looked up at him. “I suppose not.”

  “Well, well, well.” His brown eyes lit with a spark. “Looks like this is my lucky night, after all.”

  FORTY-ONE

  PAWING AND PETTING

  Brigit

  Megan left Brigit at her apartment and set off with Clint. She didn’t even give Brigit a chew toy or dry dog biscuit to keep the dog occupied before she left.

  How rude. Stupid, too. Had Megan learned nothing?

  Well, Brigit would show her. Just as soon as she figured out how to open the closet door. Megan had removed the lever-style handle and replaced it with a round type that would be much harder for Brigit to open. Damn my lack of opposable thumbs! What’s more, the handle had a lock on it. A lock that required a key. Not that Brigit fully understood what the jagged hole in the center of the knob meant. She only knew that after an hour of trying, she still couldn’t get the darn door open.

  Well, if I can’t pull the door open, I’ll just have to go through it, won’t I?

  She put her paws to the door and began scratching her way through.

  * * *

  When Megan returned with Clint, Brigit could tell she was furious. The floor was covered with splintered wood and the soggy, bite-marked remains of a tennis shoe and a fuzzy green slipper. Not exactly gourmet fare, but Brigit had worked her way through Megan’s footwear over the past few weeks and pickings had become slim. Besides, she’d had to take what she could manage to grab. Megan had moved her shoes to the top shelf of the closet. They hadn’t been easy to reach.

  Megan glared down at the dog. “Wish I had that cattle prod right now.”

  Brigit wasn’t sure exactly what Megan’s words meant, but by their tone she could tell Megan was enraged. She also knew if the words contained a threat it was an idle one.

  Megan might be a tough cop, but when it came to her furry partner she was all bark and no bit
e.

  FORTY-TWO

  SOLE PROPRIETOR

  Robin Hood

  Could her sisters have been any less helpful when that man had grabbed her wrist last night? For God’s sake, they’d just stood there screaming, like a couple of little girls who’d seen a mouse. As usual, Robin Hood had had to do all of the heavy lifting.

  Despite the fight the man put up, she had nonetheless managed to get away with his wallet. That cattle prod sure had come in handy. Of course she couldn’t count on being so lucky again next time should one of her targets try to restrain her. No, she’d have to make sure she could defend herself. She’d sign up for karate lessons later this week, become a female Chuck Norris. Hi-yah! The classes would be a good workout, too, keep her in shape until she could land a husband and become the trophy wife she’d always dreamed of being. But, until she became proficient in martial arts, she needed a means of defense. That’s why she was on her way to a pawnshop to buy a gun. Of course it wouldn’t be the same pawnshop where she’d tried to sell the rings.

  The man’s wallet had held three hundred dollars in cash. Well worth the sore, bruised wrist she suffered today. He’d wrenched it good before she’d taken him down with a knee to the nuts. Still, she couldn’t help but feel that all of that cash should have been hers. Her sisters had done nothing to earn their hundred-dollar shares. If anything, they’d jeopardized the operation, what with their shrieking drawing unnecessary attention.

  Amateurs.

  That’s why she’d decided she’d work alone from now on. Well, that and the fact that her sisters had told her in no uncertain terms that they were out, that the risks were too great, that taking someone’s money was one thing but hurting people was going too far. They thought she should’ve given the man his wallet back when he’d asked for it. Robin Hood snorted. A little bit of violence and they couldn’t handle it. Chickenshits. Good riddance as far as she was concerned. She would get along just fine without them. Besides, she’d replace them with two new assistants. Who needs Merry Men when you’ve got Smith and Wesson?

  The pawnshop contained the expected assortment of sketchy characters, some tooling around on the guitars, others looking over the electronics, one working sales at the gun counter. As much as the thought of a used gun repulsed her, she’d rather save her funds for clothing and accessories.

  As she approached the counter, the clerk leered, revealing teeth upon which algae appeared to be growing. His hair looked like something you’d pull out of a dryer’s lint trap.

  “I want to buy a gun,” she said.

  “You looking for protection?” He leaned over the counter and looked her up and down suggestively. “Maybe you should just get yourself a man.”

  “A man? Sure. You know one?”

  Cowed, the guy stepped back, casting her a furious look before getting down to business. “What kinda gun you want?”

  “Something small and lightweight that will fit in my purse. One that’s easy to use.”

  Without a word the clerk reached down and pulled a small black handgun out of the case. He laid it on the counter in front of her. “Beretta nine-millimeter Nano. You’d pay four hundred new. Our price is one twenty-five. Can’t beat that with a stick.”

  She laughed and cut him a look. “Oh, you’d be surprised what I might beat with a stick.”

  The guy had the sense to look downright concerned now.

  She picked up the gun. It was lighter than she had expected, easy to grip. She held it up and pretended to take aim at a framed Iron Man movie poster. Bang! she thought. Bang! Bang! Bang! Take that, you stupid superhero.

  Satisfied, she turned her attention back to the clerk. “I’ll take it. Give me some ammo, too.”

  In less than ten minutes, she was armed and out the door. So easy. God bless Texas.

  FORTY-THREE

  HOUSE CALLS

  Megan

  Given that the thieves had now caused serious bodily injury to a victim, Chief Garelik officially assigned a detective to the case. The detective phoned me early Saturday morning and arranged for me to meet him that evening at the stock show. Of course I’d then immediately phoned my mentor, Detective Jackson, to ask for a heads-up about the guy.

  “Who got the case?” she asked.

  “Detective Hector Bustamente,” I said. “Do y-you know him?”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said. “Me and old Bust-a-move were in the academy together back in the day. Heck, we were just kids then.”

  When I asked for information about the detective, Jackson warned me not to judge a book by its cover. “He’s a clever guy, though you wouldn’t know it to look at him. He can be very disarming, charm a confession out of the tightest lips. He has an innate ability to understand criminals, to figure out their motivations and reasoning. Watch him closely, see how he handles things. You could learn a lot.”

  Exactly what I’d hoped for. Another potential mentor.

  Given that I was already up, I figured I might as well make a run by Cheyenne’s and Mia’s residences to see if I might catch them today. With it being the weekend now, maybe I’d have better luck.

  I dressed in my uniform, rounded up Brigit, and snagged our patrol car from the W1 lot. Fifteen minutes later I pulled up in front of Mia’s duplex. An older-model pickup with a camper shell was backed up to the open garage door. Inside the garage, Mia and a stocky, dark-haired man moved large cardboard boxes around. The boxes were imprinted with the names of sport shoe brands. Nike. Adidas. New Balance. Reebok. Fila. Not exactly the type of thing one would expect to find in a residential garage. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say these two had ripped off the inventory from a delivery truck or a store’s stockroom.

  Looks like Mia’s brush with the law hadn’t scared her straight.

  Shame.

  The man picked up one of the boxes, turned to slide it into his truck, and froze when he spotted me and Brigit standing at the end of the driveway.

  “Hello, there!” I called. “Want to tell me what you’re doing with those boxes of shoes?”

  He glanced back at Mia.

  She raised a hand as she stepped toward him. “Don’t say anything!”

  If I hadn’t known before that they were up to no good, I certainly did now.

  “You have receipts for that merchandise?” I asked, moving up the drive toward them.

  Mia sidled toward the door at the side of the garage that led into the house. “We don’t have to tell you anything!” She pushed the button to lower the garage door, leaving the bewildered guy standing outside on the driveway, still holding the box of stolen goods.

  As the door came down, I stepped forward, whisked my baton from my belt, and extended it. I swung my baton underneath the door. The sensor registered the movement and the door changed direction, heading back up now.

  I pushed the button on my shoulder mic and requested backup. “I’ve got two suspects in possession of stolen property.” I gave dispatch the address.

  “Stay right here!” I ordered the man, pointing my baton at him. “Don’t move or you will be very sorry!”

  I unclipped Brigit’s leash and went to the door inside the garage. I turned the knob to find that Mia had locked it behind her. Running back out of the garage, I tried the front door. It, too, was locked.

  The sound of feet scrambling on wood out back drew me to the gate of the six-foot privacy fence that surrounded the backyard.

  “Dammit!” The gate was locked, too. These people sure did love their locks.

  With Brigit running loose by my side, I darted back, past the man in the driveway, and dashed to the end of the block. In the distance, Mia ran full speed across the road and down another side street. She was damn fast. She must be a runner herself.

  Knowing I’d never catch Mia with the lead she had on me, I checked for cars and, seeing none, gave Brigit the signal to take Mia down. Brigit’s nails scrabbled on the asphalt as she took off after her quarry.

  I ran after my partner, lagging half a
block behind, then three quarters of a block, then a full block. Ahead, Brigit gained on Mia by leaps and bounds. Mia turned her head just as the dog launched herself into the air. The impact of one hundred pounds of furry beast sent Mia sprawling forward on the sidewalk, her shrieks shrill in the winter-morning air. “Aaah! Aaah!”

  Knowing Mia was under Brigit’s control now, I stopped running and walked the rest of the way, trying to catch my breath.

  When I reached Mia, I pulled out my handcuffs and bent down next to her. I grabbed her left hand and cuffed it around the wrist. Calling Brigit off her, I waited for the dog to move, then cuffed her right wrist. “Up to your old tricks, are you?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mia spat.

  “Stealing jewelry? At the stock show?”

  “I haven’t been to the stupid stock show,” she snarled. “That’s for hicks.”

  I stood and nudged her with my foot until she turned over. She had a bloody scrape on her chin and cheek, and a look in her eyes that could cut through metal.

  “Where were you last night?” I demanded.

  “At the movies with friends. Then we went to Chili’s for a late dinner.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “Yeah. I can prove it.”

  “What about last Friday?”

  “Stars game,” she said.

  “Can you prove that, too?”

  She snorted indignantly. “Got the ticket stub and program.”

  I yanked her to her feet and Brigit and I escorted her back to her house. She produced a movie ticket stub and receipt from Chili’s indicating she’d eaten a burger and fries late last night, along with a margarita. The time stamp on the food receipt was right around the time we found Sloane Gallatin writhing in the parking lot. The Stars ticket checked out, too.

  “Told you,” she snapped.

  So Mia was not one of the stock show thieves. She was, however, selling stolen tennis shoes, thus earning herself a ride to the lockup.