Paw Enforcement 02 - Paw and Order

by Kelly, Diane

  I stopped by Cheyenne’s apartment next. A young woman with brown hair answered the door. I wondered whether she might be one of the accomplices.

  “Hi,” I said. “Are you Crystal?”

  She shook her head. “No. There’s no Crystal here. Sorry.”

  “Actually, I’m l-looking for Cheyenne Wembley. She around?”

  “She’s at work.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Dairy Queen on Montgomery.”

  “Thanks.”

  I hopped back in the car and drove to the Dairy Queen. Brigit and I went inside and stepped up to the counter. Might as well get my partner some lunch while we were here. “Two plain burgers,” I told the lanky boy working the counter, “hold everything.”

  I handed him my debit card and he ran it through the machine. As he handed me my card and receipt, I asked, “Is Cheyenne Wembley available? I need to speak with her.”

  He stepped back a few feet and called into the food prep area. “Cheyenne! There’s a cop here wants to talk to you.”

  Cheyenne’s face popped up over the soda machine, her eyes alight with anxiety. Her reaction could mean she was guilty. Then again, people tended to get nervous around cops, even if they were innocent.

  “I’ll be right there,” she said.

  She finished Brigit’s burgers, wrapped them, and handed them to the counter clerk, who in turn handed them to me. When Cheyenne came around the counter, I gestured to an empty booth in the far corner where we could have some privacy. “Let’s sit over there.”

  Cheyenne took a seat on one side of the booth, while Brigit and I slid into the other. Knowing Brigit would wolf down the burgers whole if left on her own, I tore her lunch into smaller, digestible bites and fed them to her one by one, forcing her to pace herself.

  “I know about your criminal record,” I told Cheyenne, keeping my voice low. “That you and a friend stole purses from customers at the sports bar where you worked.”

  Across the store, a middle-aged woman stepped up behind the counter, wiping down plastic trays and eyeing us.

  Cheyenne cast a worried glance in her manager’s direction. “That was a mistake,” she said. “They know about it here. That’s why I have to work the grill and fryer. They won’t let me near a cash register. But why are you asking about that?”

  “Someone’s been mugging women at the stock show,” I said. “Taking their purses and jewelry. You know anything about that?”

  “No.” Her eyes widened. “You don’t think I did it, do you?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” Again with the bluster.

  “I didn’t do it! I swear!” She made an X over the left side of her chest with her finger. “Cross my heart and hope to die!”

  What is this, junior high? “Where were you last Friday night?”

  Her eyes went up as if she were thinking back. “Here,” she said. “I worked the late shift that night.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “We have to punch in when we get here and when we leave. My manager can show you my time card.”

  She stood, scurried up to the counter, and spoke with the manager. The woman nodded, put down the tray she was drying, and disappeared into the employee-only area at the rear of the restaurant. A minute or so later, she reappeared with a slip of paper in her hand and handed it to Cheyenne.

  “See,” Cheyenne said, handing me the time card when she returned to the table. “That shows I was here last Friday from five in the evening until two in the morning.”

  Indeed it did. Looked like Cheyenne wasn’t the stock show thief. Her crossed heart would continue to beat indefinitely.

  “Thanks for clearing that up,” I told her as I stood to go.

  “So we’re good?” Cheyenne asked.

  “We’re good.” I rounded up Brigit’s leash and gave the manager a nod and a friendly wave as we headed out the door.

  FORTY-FOUR

  WELL DONE

  Brigit

  Warm burgers for lunch? What a great day!

  Her partner had finally learned to leave off the pickles and onions and lettuce and tomatoes. It had taken weeks of training, of Brigit spitting out the vegetables in the cruiser and on the floor of Megan’s apartment, but her partner had finally figured things out.

  Now if Brigit could just convince her to move to a bigger place …

  FORTY-FIVE

  NEW STOMPING GROUNDS

  Robin Hood

  She didn’t return to the stock show Saturday night, concerned that Sloane what’s-his-name-and-who-really-gives-a-crap-anyway had given a description to the police and that she might be recognized. Of course the description he’d given would have been of a redhead. The sleazeball from the weekend before would have described her as a brunette. The two women who’d tried to chase her after she’d snatched their purses from the bathroom had told the police the thief was a blonde. Probably the police had no real idea who to keep an eye out for. She could be anyone.

  Still, she’d be a fool to return to the event. She could tell that both the Fort Worth PD and the Tarrant County Sheriff’s Department had beefed up patrols after the purse snatchings, and surely they’d added even more officers after what went down last night. The police chief had said as much when he’d been interviewed on television earlier today. He’d assured viewers that the stock show was safe, that additional officers had been deployed, and that it was only a matter of time before the person or persons behind the rash of robberies would be caught.

  Yeah, right.

  They’d never catch her. Just as the sheriff of Nottingham had been helpless to stop the fictional Robin Hood, law enforcement would never catch up with her. She’d stay one step ahead of them, changing her MO to knock them off track, keep them guessing. After all, there was no sense taking unnecessary chances. Tonight she’d forgo the stock show and instead head up to the north side. There would be plenty of out-of-towners up there she could set her sights on.

  She’d dressed in stilettos, jeans, and another tight, low-cut top, this one in a shimmery black fabric. She parked in a paid lot, sliding a ten-dollar bill into the automated machine and punching in her parking space number. She stepped onto the sidewalk and aimed directly for the White Elephant Saloon.

  A Fort Worth legend, the White Elephant Saloon was purportedly the site of a gunfight between a corrupt lawman and the bar’s owner way back when. The place was always brimming with tourists impressed by the fact that scenes from Walker, Texas Ranger had been filmed there.

  She paid the five-dollar cover charge and stepped inside. It was against the law for her to be carrying a gun into a bar, but who would know? Besides, after what had happened the night before, she wouldn’t have felt safe without it.

  She took a look around. The place contained the usual dark wood found in many such bars, with the standard neon beer signs gracing the walls. The wide-horned head of a black-and-white steer was mounted on the wall over the bar, the beast appearing to be keeping watch over the crowd. Cowboy hats in a variety of colors adorned the upper part of the walls and continued across the ceiling.

  She had arrived early enough to snag a seat at the bar, giving her a good vantage point from which to watch both the men coming in and those stepping up to order a drink, as well as giving her a bead on the band, which had just begun to set up on stage. She ordered a frozen margarita, then turned on her barstool, facing into the room, resting a crooked elbow on the bar behind her and angling herself in a backward lean so that her breasts would appear bigger and perkier. Having practiced in the mirror at home, she knew exactly how she looked.

  Unattached.

  Sexy.

  Inviting.

  With any luck, a man with a wallet full of cash would soon accept that invitation. Répondez s’il vous plaît. She chuckled inwardly. Sure, she might be an uppity snob, but her two sisters were nothing but stupid white trash.

  Though a few men passed by with their wives or dates, their eyes responding to her invitati
on with sincere and lascivious regrets, it was a mere half hour later when the subtle summons she’d sent out was accepted. A bulky, thirtyish guy who’d been eyeing her from across the way sneaked up and grabbed the seat next to her when the woman who’d been sitting there paid her tab and moseyed.

  “Hello, there.” He had sandy hair, friendly blue eyes, and a sociable demeanor. No cheap beer for this guy. He held a cocktail glass filled with dark liquid. Scotch, probably. Or maybe bourbon. But, more importantly, the hand that held the glass sported a gold nugget pinky ring. A shiny, expensive-looking TAG Heuer watch encircled his thick wrist. His boots also looked expensive. Instead of the usual leather, they were made of some type of exotic hide, ostrich, if she wasn’t mistaken.

  This could be my luckiest night yet. If she could somehow manage to get the jewelry off this guy, she could sell it on eBay or Craigslist, too.

  Her visual inventory complete, she returned his greeting. “Hi.”

  She’d left her hair natural tonight. His gaze traveled down the blond locks cascading over her shoulders, traversed her pushed-up breasts, then made its way back up, lingering for a moment on her glossy lips as if he were imagining what things those glossy lips could do.

  “I’m Sam Gunderson,” he said, extending his hand.

  She took her hand in his. “Robin.” She glanced down at his feet. “Nice boots.”

  “They’re Luccheses,” he said. “Ostrich. Set me back eleven hundred dollars.”

  He was obviously trying to impress her. And impress her he had. For God’s sake, the guy might as well have said If you’re looking for some rich fool to rob tonight, look no further! She tossed him a coy smile and a tsk-tsk. “You poor thing.”

  He chuckled, took a sip from his glass, then slid her an assessing glance. “You alone?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “I was supposed to meet a friend, but she texted me a little while ago and said she’s not feeling well.” Robin Hood was as hard on this fictional friend as she was on her mother. “I’d already driven all this way and paid my cover charge. Figured I might as well stay and listen to the band.”

  Sam raised his glass in a toast. “I’m glad you did.”

  Their conversation was interrupted when the band’s lead singer stepped to the stationary microphone and performed a sound check. “Testing. One, two, three. Testing.” An irritating squeal of feedback followed.

  “Come here a lot?” Sam asked, turning back to her.

  “On occasion,” she lied. She’d been to the White Elephant only once before. She much preferred the more sophisticated, trendier nightclubs in the neighboring city of Dallas. “How about you?”

  “First time,” he said. “I’m from Macon, Georgia. Came to town for the stock show.”

  She took a sip of her margarita. “You a cattle rancher?”

  “Pig farmer.”

  Uck. Not exactly one of those careers a woman fantasizes her Mr. Right will have. An architect would do. Or a pilot. Any kind of doctor, of course. But a pig farmer? Still, there must be a lot of money in swine or he wouldn’t be dressed the way he was. “You must do well,” she said, casting a meaningful glance at his watch.

  “Shoot.” He snorted. “There’s no money in pigs. I made my money in real estate.”

  Real estate, huh? If this guy owned valuable realty, maybe she would forgo trying to get that gold nugget ring off his finger and see if he’d put a ring on her finger instead. She hadn’t yet given up on becoming a trophy wife and, pigs aside, this guy was reasonably attractive and age appropriate. Perhaps she should expand her range of acceptable candidates. And, hell, it’s not like she’d have to stay married to him forever. A year or two should be enough to give her a sizable divorce settlement, right? If she decided to pursue this avenue, she could easily explain that she’d given him a fake name for protection. “You own property?”

  “Some. When my father passed away, he left me fifteen acres in Rabun County, up near Dick’s Knob.”

  She choked on her margarita. “Did you just say Dick’s Knob?” What kind of ridiculous, hillbilly name was that?

  Sam chuckled. “It’s a mountain.”

  She blinked twice. “Good to know.”

  Sam went on. “Dad used to take me hunting up there when I was little. We’d stay in this little shack he’d built himself. No electricity, no running water. Boy, we’d smell ripe when we got back home after those weekends.”

  How charming.

  He shook his head but smiled at the memory. “A developer approached me a few months back and offered me a shitload for six of the acres. They’re going to build a resort and spa up there.”

  The remaining adjacent property would only go up in value. This pig farmer could be sitting on a gold mine.

  She raised her glass in a toast. “Congratulations on your windfall.”

  He tapped his glass to hers and took another drink. “What do you do?” He leaned toward her, offering a flirtatious smile and a look that fell just short of a leer. “I’ll bet you’re a supermodel, aren’t you?”

  Could he be any more obvious? “How’d you guess?”

  What she did was none of his business. Besides, what she did was what she had to do to get by until her ship came in. She was beginning to wonder if the guy on the stool next to her just might be that ship. She could almost hear the foghorn.

  Wee-ohh.

  FORTY-SIX

  A NEW MENTOR

  Megan

  I began my shift and strolled about the stock show grounds, twirling my baton as Brigit and I patrolled. Swish-swish-swish.

  Today, a local ballet folklorico group was performing on the outdoor stage. I stopped to watch them, enjoying the festive music, the colorful dresses of the performers, their graceful dance maneuvers.

  When they finished, I joined in the applause and set back out to patrol. Swish-swish-swish. As I walked I tossed the baton into the air and caught it behind my back.

  A woman wearing one of the stock show staff shirts rode up on her golf cart. “You sure are good with that baton.”

  “Thanks. I twirled in high school.”

  “We could use someone to fill in time on closing night,” she said, “while the judges are adding up the scores at the rodeo. Would you be interested? Or willing?”

  It had been a long time since I’d performed in front of a crowd, and back then I’d been surrounded by a couple hundred members of the marching band. Still, it could be fun.

  “So long as my supervisor okays it, I’d be happy to,” I told her. “I’ve got fire batons. You think the crowd would like to see me twirl those?”

  “Heck, yeah! These rodeo crowds love anything that smacks of danger.”

  Fire certainly was dangerous. Nobody knew that better than Seth and Savannah.

  The woman told me where to check in and at what time. She raised a hand before setting off. “Thanks again! You’ll be a big hit!”

  I hoped so. I wasn’t sure my performance could compare with bull- and bronc-riders who had an apparent death wish, but I’d do my best. Give that 110 percent. Maybe I’d even go for 111 percent this time.

  It was straight up nine P.M. when I took a seat across the desk from Detective Bustamente in the temporary police station in the Will Rogers Tower. Bustamente was a portly man with thick lips, round cheeks, and dark, crazy brows in dire need of a trim. His argyle sweater and slacks were just ill-fitting and wrinkled enough to make him seem ignorant and unimpressive. But given Jackson’s warning, I knew better than to underestimate this guy.

  Derek hovered in the office, pretending to be checking work-related e-mail on his phone, but it was more likely he simply wanted to listen in on my conversation with the detective, butt his way into the case.

  Bustamente must’ve had the same suspicions, or so I thought.

  “Officer Mackey,” he said, “please close the door behind you as you leave.”

  The Big Dick’s ears flamed red, but he left the room without argument. He did slam the door behind h
im, though. Bam!

  “Don’t want him listening in?” I asked.

  “Don’t want him on my planet.”

  Detective Bustamente and I are going to get along great.

  Though he had read through my reports, as well as the urgent memo ignored by my fellow patrol officers, the detective asked me to go through everything again. “Sometimes when I’m talking to an officer, a detail will come out that’s not in the reports. Some itsy-bitsy teenie-weenie factoid that can make all the difference.”

  I gave him a rundown of everything that had happened at the stock show and rodeo, beginning with Catherine Quimby’s snatched purse and ending with Sloane Gallatin’s punctured neck and bruised balls. He took only a note or two while I spoke.

  “I pulled up the criminal records for women with similar robbery and theft convictions who live in the area. I visited a couple that looked promising, but both had alibis for the nights in question. I also talked this over with Detective Audrey Jackson a few days ago. She helped me realize the boots could be a lead.” I pushed the criminal record reports and Internet printout across the desk. “I printed out images of the women’s boot inventory at local stores online and showed it to the victims to see if they could identify the boots worn by the accomplice, Crystal. Given what they told me, I think it’s most likely that Crystal bought her boots at the Justin outlet here in town.”

  Bustamente took a quick look at the document, noting the pairs of boots the victims had identified, and nodded. “Got anything else?”

  I handed him the thumb drive that contained the video feed from Starbucks and explained what it was. “Unfortunately, I couldn’t glean anything new from the footage.”

  “That’s a bummer.” He slid the thumb drive into his pocket.

  I pulled my notepad from my pocket and ripped off the page on which I’d written the name and phone number of the head of security at the Kroger store where Dominique’s credit card had been used, as well as the store’s address. “I made an appointment with store security for Monday morning at nine. They’ve arranged for the cashier who handled the transaction to be there, too.”