Paw Enforcement 02 - Paw and Order

by Kelly, Diane

  The detective eyed me intently for a moment. “You’ve put quite a bit of thought and time into this.”

  I shrugged. “Just doing my job.”

  “No,” he said. “You’ve been doing my job. Gunning for a detective position, aren’t you?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “To a detective it is.” He chuckled. “Actually, Detective Jackson called me earlier to put in a good word for you. She said you’re a dedicated cop and a hard worker with good instincts. Lord knows we can always use more of those.”

  “If there’s any way I can help in your investigation,” I told him, “I’d be happy to.”

  “Let’s do this,” he said. “I’ll meet you at the grocery store Monday morning, then we’ll scoot from there over to the boot place. That work for you?”

  That worked just fine. “Yes, sir!”

  Brigit and I set back out on patrol. Seemed every minute or two we’d pass another cop. With so much law enforcement on duty, the thieves would have to be fools to pull anything here tonight.

  Evidently, the thieves were no fools.

  The event closed down with no purses having been snatched, no pockets having been picked, and no cattle ranchers having been kneed in the groin or prodded.

  Frankly, it was a damn boring night.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  DULL PATROL

  Brigit

  She and Megan walked around the stock show grounds yet again. Brigit saw the same sights. Heard the same sounds. Sniffed the same odors. Well, the same odors minus the two colognes she’d smelled so often recently. Whoever wore those scents wasn’t here tonight.

  Nobody accidentally dropped their hot dog and let Brigit eat it. None of the pigs or goats ventured close enough to the bars of their enclosures for Brigit to take a nip at them. They didn’t even see Jack the horse or the guy who rode him.

  Frankly, it was a damn boring night.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  PILLOW TALK

  Robin Hood

  When her glass emptied, Sam signaled the bartender for another round, tossing his triple bourbon back in six seconds flat when it arrived.

  She offered a flirtatious giggle when he slammed his glass down on the bar. “You are obviously a man who knows how to have a good time.”

  “Hoo-hoo! You know it!” With a lift of his chin, Sam signaled the bartender for yet another drink.

  They made small talk for an hour or so, during which time Sam plowed through three more triple bourbons. She asked him what Macon was like. He complimented her on her shoes. She asked what kind of pigs he raised. He complimented her on the way her jeans showed off her legs. She asked him where he was staying. He offered—in slurred, bourbon-scented words—to take her back to his room and show her.

  “Why not?” She gathered her jacket and purse. By that point, she’d given up on the idea of becoming a pig farmer’s trophy wife. The guy was a sloppy drunk with an irritating pet phrase, too boorish for her refined tastes no matter how much valuable real estate he might own. But he might have more jewelry back at his hotel room that she could snatch. As many drinks as he’d had she could probably steal it right from under his nose.

  Sam asked the bartender for the tab, signed the paper slip, and slid his credit card back into his wallet, which bore a Hugo Boss logo. The guy might be a pig farmer, but he had good taste.

  Sam stood from his barstool, weaving dangerously on his feet as he made his way through the saloon, bumping into people and tables like a ball in a pinball machine. He stumbled on his way out the door, but she was able to catch his arm and prevent him from falling.

  The bouncer working the door stepped in front of them and put a hand on Sam’s chest. “You’re not driving, are you?”

  “Nope!” Sam said, much too loudly. “I’m the designated drunk tonight! Hoo-hoo!”

  Passersby cast them various glances, some amused, others disgusted. She didn’t mind the amusement, but being looked down upon did not sit well with her.

  Sam draped his arm over her shoulders, nearly bringing her down when he put too much weight on her.

  “You got ’im?” the bouncer asked her. “Sure you’re okay here?”

  “Yes, thanks,” she said, mustering all the muscle she could to right the two of them. “I’ll take care of him.”

  I’ll take care of him, all right.

  In thirty-seven wobbly steps they were inside the Stockyards Hotel, which sat directly across the street from the White Elephant Saloon. The hotel lobby was painted a terra-cotta color and featured rustic Western décor, much of it either antiques or reproductions. She’d heard that country-western stars Garth Brooks, Vince Gil, and Trisha Yearwood had stayed at the hotel, as well as actors Jim Belushi, Dan Aykroyd, and John Leguizamo. She was proud to be included among the hotel’s esteemed guests, though she planned to stay only long enough to relieve Sam of his valuables.

  As they made their way through the lobby to the elevator, she ducked her head to prevent any security cameras from getting a good look at her. She doubted anyone could identify her from the grainy videos those cameras seemed to produce, but she wasn’t going to take any chances.

  It took Sam three tries to hit the right button inside the elevator, but eventually his fingertip made contact and up they went. Sam’s room was on the third floor. When he got the door unlocked, he threw it open, the door slamming back against the wall with a loud bang.

  “Careful!” she told him. If he continued to make this kind of racket, someone would call hotel security. The last thing she needed was some rent-a-cop banging on the door.

  Though only a standard room, the king-sized bed and Western décor were anything but shabby. She estimated that Sam was dropping around three hundred a night for the space. It was the nicest hotel room she’d ever been in by far. The only vacations her family had ever taken were camping trips. She’d been forced to use a common shower and toilet and sleep on the ground, protected only by a cheap nylon tent.

  This was much better.

  This is what I deserve.

  Inside the room, Sam headed straight for the phone, scooped it up, and called room service, asking them in slurred, halting words to send up a bottle of champagne. “I met the prettiesht girl … anyone’sh ever … laid eyesh on,” he said into the phone, casting a grin in her direction. “If that ain’t cause for … celebration I don’t know … what ish.”

  When he finished placing the order, he attempted to drop the receiver back into the cradle but missed by a good six inches, the receiver falling to the carpet. He bent to pick it up, but ended up first stumbling forward into the wall, then falling back onto his ass. “Hoo-hoo!” he hollered from the ground, apparently entertained by himself. “Who put this floor here?”

  She turned his way. “You sure more liquor is a good idea?”

  Sam’s mouth gaped with incredulity. “Hell, honey! More liquor ish alwaysh a good idea. Hoo-hoo!”

  He struggled to a stand, returned the phone to the cradle, and careened into the bathroom, leaving the door wide open as he ambled to the toilet and unzipped his pants Zzzip. He put one hand on the wall to brace himself. “Youshud comoutta … Georgiasometime,” he called out in run-together, barely coherent speech as he filled the toilet, and the floor around it, with hundred-proof urine. “Peashtrees are … purtywhen tharbloomin’.”

  Talking to me while he takes a piss? She felt her gut clench in revulsion and rage. His behavior was too familiar and offensive. What kind of woman did he think she was? Some common tramp?

  While Sam did his business, she discreetly cased the room, pretending to admire the Western art on the walls and the view from the window while actually making a mental inventory. An iPad on the nightstand. A silver horseshoe-shaped ring with diamonds on the dresser. A black leather camera bag with the Canon logo.

  She’d bet the camera was top-of-the-line, just like his boots, watch, and wallet. As she looked around she was careful not to touch anything. She didn’t want to leave any fin
gerprints the cops could use to identify her.

  She glanced into the bathroom, where Sam was washing his hands. If he hadn’t left the bathroom door open, she would’ve shoved everything into her purse and been on her way immediately. But given that he’d have a clear view of her sneaking out, and that room service was coming, she figured she better not chance it.

  Sam came out of the bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt along the way. He plopped down onto the bed, and pulled off his boots, releasing both a sigh and the faint odor of sweaty feet. After tossing his boots aside, he backed up against the pillows, settling in. He grabbed the remote from the night table and turned the TV on, clumsily punching the buttons, inadvertently turning the volume up to a near deafening level until he finally managed to hit the channel change button and find ESPN.

  “Could you turn that down?” she called over the din.

  “Could I what?” he hollered.

  Drunken idiot. Irritated, she darted to the bed, grabbed the remote out of his hand, and jabbed the volume button until it had been lowered to a reasonable level. She then turned away from him and used the hem of her sweater to rub the remote free of any prints.

  He patted the bed next to him. “Have a … seat, Rhonda. Let’sh watch … Sportshcenter.”

  She wasn’t sure which offended her more. The fact that the jerk couldn’t even remember the fake name she’d given him or that he’d rather watch some dumb sports show than try to get into her pants right away. It was just as well, she supposed. She had no intention of sleeping with the guy. If absolutely necessary she’d give him a hand job to satisfy him, then once he nodded off she’d round up the goodies and be on her way.

  Wait. Could the cops dust his dick for fingerprints?

  She wasn’t sure. But there was no way in hell she’d leave a potential saliva sample instead.

  She sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, casting a glance back at him. His drooping, unfocused eyes and deep breathing told her there was probably not much harm in climbing onto the bed with him. As drunk as he was, it was doubtful he’d even be able to participate in the limited sexual activity she’d had in mind. He’d probably fall asleep in a minute or two. It took everything in her not to shout Hip! Hip! Hooray! If she could get out of here without having to touch him she’d be thrilled.

  She pushed herself backward and positioned herself up against the pillows on the other side of the bed. Just as she settled in, a knock sounded at the door. The room service had arrived. When Sam went to stand, he went totally off-kilter, falling sideways into the dresser.

  She raised her hand. “Sit down, Sam. I’ll take care of this.”

  He turned and dove back onto the bed, sending the mattress sliding until it lay cockeyed on the box spring.

  She answered the door, but averted her face, hoping to prevent the waiter from getting a good look at her. The room service staff wheeled in a small cart loaded with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and two champagne flutes. The man looked from her to Sam, apparently waiting for a tip.

  “Tip?” she asked, turning to Sam.

  “Tip?” Sam repeated, a dopey, drunken smile on his face. “Hell, honey, I’ll give you the whole thing! Hoo-hoo!”

  This pig farmer is the worst kind of swine. Huffing, she grabbed his wallet from the dresser and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. Keeping her head down, she handed it to the waiter. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” he said with a slight dip of his head. “Enjoy.”

  “Bring me that bottle, Rachel!” Sam hollered as the door closed.

  “Keep your voice down!” she hissed. Wrapping her hand in a cloth napkin, she pulled the champagne from the ice and carried the dripping bottle across the room to the bed. She thrust the bottle at him. “Here.”

  “Hoo-hoo!” Sam called again, wiping at the drops that had fallen to his white undershirt. “That’s chilly!”

  He yanked the bottle from her hands and clawed at the foil wrap at the top until he managed to remove it. He put the bottle between his thighs to hold it still, put his thumbs on the plastic cork, and pushed with his fingertips. Twice the bottle slipped out from between his legs, but she made no move to help him. She wasn’t about to leave her prints on that bottle. Eventually, Sam managed to get the bottle open with a resounding pop.

  He raised the bottle and eyed her with pupils that couldn’t quite seem to focus. “Here’sh to pretty ladiesh!” he slurred, putting the bottle to his lips, tipping it up and taking a huge swig. He ran the back of his hand across his mouth and held the bottle out to her. “Here! Have a drink.”

  Ew. Like she’d drink from his slobber-covered bottle. Still, she needed to keep up the pretense. She put her thumb over the hole and pretended to turn it up to her lips. When she pulled the bottle away, she gave him a forced smile. “Good stuff.”

  “Don’t hog it!” he hollered, grabbing the bottle back out of her hands. “Hoo-hoo!”

  She made a mental note to wipe the bottle clean once Sam was done with it.

  He continued to chug the champagne as if it were Kool-Aid and he were a kid at summer camp. She briefly feared for his liver. Then she realized his liver wasn’t her problem.

  When Sam patted the bed again, she slid onto it once more, keeping a couple feet between them.

  He eased across the space and wrapped an arm over her shoulders, nearly bending her in two with the weight of his meaty limb. He nuzzled her neck. “Time to say my bedtime prayers! Now I lay you down to shcrew … hoo-hoo!”

  Dear Lord. Could this guy be a bigger ass?

  He continued to drink as Sportscenter went on. When the bottle was empty, he went to set it on the night table but missed and instead dropped it to the floor. He reached over and fumbled to pick it back up but had no luck, eventually emitting a “bah!” and waving a dismissive hand.

  He slumped lower and lower against the pillows, his head angling back, his mouth falling open. Just as the show wrapped up, he emitted a loud snort then segued into a snore that resembled a chain saw. Hraaaaaaaaar. Hraaaaaaaaaaar.

  Robin Hood’s lips curled up in a smile.

  He’s made this so easy.

  She eased his arm off her and sat up.

  Hraaaaaar. Hraaaaaaaar.

  For God’s sake. Does he have to be so damn loud? She pulled the pillow from behind her and positioned it over his face, fighting the urge to push down on it and smother him.

  Though it didn’t eliminate the sound entirely, the pillow helped to drown out the snores while she scurried about, packing his camera, ring, and iPad into her purse. Using a washcloth from the bathroom as an improvised glove, she opened his luggage locks as quietly as she could. She found a pair of jeans inside, along with three pairs of socks, four pairs of underpants, and a sweatshirt bearing the Atlanta Braves logo. Nothing of any value to her.

  She stepped back to the bed and looked down at Sam’s hand. Dare I try to remove the nugget ring and watch? Hmmm …

  Hraaaaaar. Hraaaaaaaar.

  Yes, she dared. This guy was dead to the world.

  She reached down and pinched the pinky ring between her thumb and index finger, wiggling it back and forth, back and forth, as she eased it off his finger. She tucked the ring into the front pocket of her jeans.

  Now for the watch. She reached down and put a finger on the clasp, forcing it open. Sam shifted a little as the watch slid down his hand, but continued to snore. Hraaaaaar. Hraaaaaaaar. As much liquor as the guy had drunk, he’d be sleeping off his booze for the next week. She grasped the loose fabric on his sleeve to gently lift his arm and grabbed the watch with her other hand as it slipped down and off his fingers. She tucked the watch into her other front pocket.

  As easy as this had been, she felt a little silly for buying the gun and bringing it with her tonight. Thankfully, the weapon had been unnecessary. Good thing since she wasn’t entirely sure she knew how to use it. She should probably find a gun range and get in some practice.

  Gathering her purse, she took one last lo
ok around the room, satisfying herself that she’d touched nothing from which prints could be lifted. There was no evidence to prove she’d been here. For the first time in her life, she was glad to be a nobody.

  “See ya’, Sam,” she called softly as she opened the door. “Sweet dreams.”

  FORTY-NINE

  PHOTO BOMB

  Megan

  On Sunday morning, I drove to my parents’ house in Arlington Heights. The place was a single-story three-bedroom, two-bath wood frame house with faded yellow paint, peeling trim, and virtually no landscaping. My busy parents had had little time for home maintenance while they were raising young children, and they continued to neglect the place out of habit.

  I’d worn a long-sleeved FWPD tee and brought Brigit with me in her police vest. After the way she’d shredded my closet door, I didn’t dare leave her at home for extended periods of time. She might eat through the drywall and into the apartment next door. I’d rented the crappy place because it was cheap and would free up some extra funds for repaying my student loans. I was beginning to think it would be worth a few hundred dollars more a month in rent to get a house. Maybe if Brigit had a yard to run around in she’d work off her excess energy chasing squirrels and stop taking it out on my shoes.

  I parked at the curb and led my partner inside, having my usual fight with the front door, which had hung slightly askew for years and tended to stick in the frame. “Good morning!” I called as I stepped inside.

  Though I saw no one, various greetings carried from the kitchen and bedrooms down the hall.

  “Hey, Megan!” from Gabby.

  “Yo, big sis!” from Joey.

  “See if you can find my keys!” This came from my mother and was of no surprise as we went through this same routine every Sunday I came by.

  My first human sighting was when my tall, dark-haired father stuck his head out of the master bedroom door, pulled the foam-covered toothbrush from his mouth, and waved it at me in greeting.