Paw Enforcement 02 - Paw and Order

by Kelly, Diane

  Brigit and I aimed for the kitchen, enduring a cat-caphony of hisses and yowls as we passed my mother’s three orange tabby tomcats in the living room. When we reached the kitchen, Brigit promptly set to work cleaning out their food bowl. Crunch-crunch-crunch. I set about finding my mother’s keys, looking under errant dishtowels, poking around behind the toaster, checking among the piles of mail and advertising circulars on the countertop. After a minute or two I finally located them under Gabby’s algebra textbook.

  “Found ’em, Mom!”

  “Thanks!” She rushed into the kitchen like an auburn-haired whirlwind and grabbed the keys out of my hand. “Come on, everybody!” she yelled. “We’re late!”

  Ten minutes later we pulled up to the church, took the last two available spots at the far end of the lot, and ran up the stairs and into the foyer. We dipped our fingers in the holy water and crossed ourselves, putting our fingers to hearts pounding from exertion. When I’d completed my “Father, Son, and Holy Spirit” and returned my arm to my side, Brigit lifted her head and licked the remaining drops of holy water from my fingertips. I half expected a heavenly glow to erupt from her anus.

  My parents, Gabby, Joey, and I slipped into the back row, with Brigit hopping up onto the pew next to me. We’d arrived just in time. The altar boys began their procession down the aisle.

  After murmurs of “Thanks be to God” and various other Catholic rituals, it was time for communion. I led Brigit down the aisle with me when I went up to the altar. I knew better than to share my wafer with her, though. Last time she’d choked on it and horked it up in the pew. I’d feared I’d be smitten down by the Almighty or at the very least excommunicated.

  When we returned to the pew, she lay down at my feet by the kneeler rather than sitting on the bench. She had more space down there and could stretch out to take a nap. A few minutes later my brother Joey nudged me with his elbow and pointed downward. Holy crap! The darn dog had chewed through the padding on the kneeler, the stuffing in tufts on the floor, the vinyl cover in shreds. I couldn’t take her anywhere.

  I put my hands together, closed my eyes, and prayed for forgiveness on Brigit’s behalf.

  * * *

  Clint called me early Sunday afternoon, not long after I’d returned to my apartment. “I want to take you to dinner.”

  “And I want to let you take me to dinner.” I’d had lunch at my parents’ house. My mother had made her infamous lasagna, which Joey referred to as “las-agony.” Parts of it were undercooked and the rest had burned and stuck to the pan. She’d set the dirty casserole dish on the floor and let Brigit have at the burnt remnants. A good strategy. That dog could lick anything clean. It saved a human from having to scrub the pan and it kept the dog occupied. But, needless to say, the meal had been less than satisfying. A nice dinner would be welcome.

  “How’s six o’clock?” Clint asked.

  “Great. See you then.”

  Seth phoned an hour later. “Let’s get together for dinner tonight.”

  “Sorry,” I told him. “I can’t.”

  Seth was quiet for a moment. “You having dinner with your family?”

  “No.”

  He was quiet another moment. “You having dinner with Deputy Dawg?”

  “Yes.”

  He wasn’t quiet this time. This time he was loud. “What the hell, Megan? What’s it going to take for you not to see him?”

  “It’s going to take … time.”

  He made a sound that was very similar to Brigit’s growl. “For God’s sake. I told you I screwed up. Can’t you just get over it?”

  Just get over it? Did he have no idea how badly he’d hurt me? How shitty he’d made me feel? And did he not realize that the reason I couldn’t get over it right away was because I’d had serious feelings for him and his rejection had scarred me to my core? Of course I supposed he was feeling rejected now, too.

  “Let’s talk later,” I said. “Okay?”

  “I’ll think about it.” With a click, he was gone.

  I fumed for a few seconds. Who the hell does Seth think he is, getting mad at me for going out with another guy? He’s the one who called things off before. He’s the reason I’m going out with Clint. He’s getting a taste of his own medicine here. Screw him!

  But when the anger left me I felt empty and grief-stricken instead.

  Why does dating Seth seem as dangerous and chaotic and crazy as riding a bull in a rodeo?

  * * *

  Clint picked me up at six and we went to dinner at a casual place in Sundance Square. Over our meal, Clint mentioned a suspicious death he’d heard about at the Stockyards Hotel.

  “It’s a possible homicide,” he said. “The maid found the guy this afternoon. He was dead in the bed with a pillow over his face. All of his valuables were gone. Wallet. Watch. Rings. Electronics.”

  “So he was robbed? And s-smothered?”

  Clint fished a French fry off the pile on his plate. “Looks like it.”

  Who would do such a horrible thing? Kill someone just for their belongings? It was sad and sick and selfish. “Any suspects?”

  “Haven’t heard. Far as I know they’re still interviewing potential witnesses.”

  I guessed I was lucky the thief at the stock show had resorted to violence only after a victim had tried to restrain her and that she hadn’t inflicted fatal wounds. I wasn’t ready to deal with a cold-blooded killer.

  “What’s going on with the stock show robberies?” Clint asked. “Any progress?”

  I told him about Detective Bustamente and our plans to visit the Kroger store and the Justin Boots outlet.

  “You like that part of police work?” he asked. “The mental part? Questioning witnesses? Figuring out the clues?”

  “Definitely.” Frankly, it was the only part of police work I did like. The other parts were either boring or frightening.

  “Not me,” Clint said. “I like the physical part best. Chasing people. Cracking skulls. Kicking ass.”

  “You’re such a guy.”

  “That I am,” he said unapologetically, ripping a fry in half with his teeth like a rabid wolverine.

  I had to laugh. But then I wanted to cry. Why can’t things be this easy with Seth?

  After dinner, Clint took me back to his place, a two-bedroom condo situated on the brink of where the city gave way to the western suburbs. His décor was manly and spare. Lots of oversized pieces in earth tones with few decorator accents.

  We settled in on his couch to watch a movie. Just two minutes in and his mouth was on my neck, nuzzling behind my ear, causing certain parts of me to throb with want. His lips moved, trailing kisses just under my jawbone until he captured my mouth with his. He put his chest against mine, a hand on my back, and gently eased me down until we were lying side by side on the couch.

  He ran his hand up my side, his thumb lingering just below the swell of my breast. I was aware of every pulse of my heart, felt the blood move in my veins, heard it flow past my ears.

  His hand slid down to the hem of my sweater and up under it, his fingers splaying across my rib cage. So close. I felt my nipples pucker into painful peaks.

  He pulled his mouth from mine and put it to my ear. “Let me touch you, Megan.”

  God, how I want to hear those words. God how I want to be touched. But I wanted to hear those words spoken in Seth’s voice, to be touched by Seth’s hands. As screwed up as our relationship was, and as attracted as I was to Clint, I realized Seth was the man I really wanted to be with.

  I wiggled myself back into a sitting position. “I’m sorry, Clint. But I’m not ready for this.”

  I realized, too, that my hesitation wasn’t solely because of Seth. Clint and I had only been out three times. We hardly knew each other. Regardless of Seth, it was too soon for things to get physical.

  Clint groaned. “I get it. But you can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  We sat up and watched the rest of the movie. When he drove me back to my plac
e, he gave me only a chaste closed-mouth kiss on the lips. It felt horribly unsatisfying, yet I knew it was the right thing to do.

  Damn you, Seth.

  * * *

  Monday morning, I met Detective Bustamente at the Kroger store where Dominique’s Diners Club card had been used to purchase groceries. Frankly, I was rethinking my agreement to help out on the investigation. I had enough to do without taking on extra work. I’d tossed and turned all night thinking about Clint and Seth, wondering what I should do about both of them, and had woken up tired and grumpy. But I’d promised to be here, and I wasn’t about to risk my reputation by failing to follow through.

  Today Bustamente wore a pair of khaki pants that were three inches too short, along with white crew socks and black dress shoes. His cotton shirt had a mismatched button a third of the way down. I had to remind myself what Detective Jackson had said. Not to judge this book by its cover.

  Given that I was playing detective today rather than street cop, I’d chosen to wear business clothes, too. Loafers. A pair of black slacks. A gray cableknit sweater. I’d left my hair down rather than twisting it up in its usual bun, though I had secured it in back with a silver barrette. I’d brought Brigit along with me. Didn’t want the dog getting bored at home and eating my couch.

  The head of store security was a man named Kirk, a former marine who was built as stout and sturdy as the amphibious assault vehicles he’d once commanded. He led us into the administrative offices on the second floor of the store and took us back to a small conference room with a built-in television screen.

  After the detective and I took seats at the table, Kirk pushed the button on the remote to run the security video. “That’s her,” he said, pointing to a young woman whose head was mostly obscured by a hoodie.

  The woman approached the checkout counter and unloaded various items onto the belt. From this distance it was difficult to tell exactly what her items were, but we knew from the copy of the receipt Kirk had provided to us that the woman had purchased several high-dollar items, including shrimp, teeth-whitening strips, vitamins, and allergy medication. She’d purchased a variety of gossip and fashion magazines. She’d even bought the most expensive heart-shaped box of chocolates the store sold.

  When the video had run its course and showed the young woman leaving the store, Kirk let the cashier into the room. The woman, whom we’d seen in the video, was in her early sixties. She had salt-and-pepper hair that was heavy on the salt, and the soft, fleshy figure of a grandmother who liked to bake cookies for her grandkids and sample the dough.

  Bustamente and I shook hands with her and introduced ourselves.

  “I’m Loretta Sneed,” she said. “Pleased to meet you.”

  She took a seat across the table.

  “We appreciate you coming in to talk with us,” Bustamente said. “We’ll try to be brief.”

  He asked Kirk to run the video again for the woman, then proceeded to ask her a series of questions.

  “What, if anything, did you two discuss while you rang up the young woman’s groceries?”

  “The only thing we talked about was the box of chocolates,” Loretta replied. “I said something to the effect of a person getting sick if they ate the whole thing. She didn’t really respond. Just kind of scowled at me.”

  “Mm-hm,” Bustamente said, nodding. “And what about the paper you held out to her? What was that all about?”

  “Oh, right,” Loretta said. “I asked did she have a Kroger card and she said no. Well, I hated for her to miss out on the sale prices. I mean, there’s no sense in somebody spending more money than they have to, right? Especially a young woman like her who’s probably not been on her own long. I told her that all it takes is a few seconds to fill out the form to get the card and the discounts, but she refused. Said she was in a hurry and she’d get a card the next time she came in.”

  “Did she say why she was in a hurry?” the detective asked. “Did she mention somewhere she might be headed to?”

  “No,” Loretta said. “She was a little short with me about the card so I didn’t try to engage her in small talk after that.”

  “Did the woman say anything that might provide a clue regarding who she was or where she lived?”

  Loretta shook her head. “Not that I can remember.”

  “Have you seen her in the store again?”

  “No. Not since that night.”

  “Do you recall having seen her in the store before that night?”

  Again Loretta responded in the negative.

  “Was there anything about her that was distinctive?” Bustamente asked. “Did she have any piercings, scars, birthmarks? Maybe a tattoo? A gap between her teeth? A lisp or accent? Anything like that?”

  Loretta shrugged. “She was just your typical pretty blue-eyed blonde.”

  Bustamente opened his briefcase and pulled out a stack of photographs, handing the first to Loretta after holding it up to show me. “Take a look at these pictures and tell me if any of these could be the young woman you rang up.”

  Loretta looked down at the first photo. “This definitely isn’t her. This woman looks like she hasn’t washed her hair in a week.”

  “Try to see past that kind of thing,” Bustamente told her. “I need you to focus more on her facial features. The shape of her eyes and lips. Bone structure. Brows. Nose.”

  Loretta took a second look at the photo. “I still don’t think this is her.”

  “Okeydoke,” the detective said. “Set that one aside and take a look at this one.” He handed her a second photo.

  “No,” Loretta said. “This isn’t her, either. This woman looks like she’s got some type of disease. The girl who came in the store looked healthy. Like she took good care of herself.”

  The two continued through the stack. Loretta set a couple of the photographs aside as possibilities, but even so she seemed to think they were slim possibilities. Most of the photos depicted women who were emaciated from drug use or showed other signs of hard living. Dark circles under their eyes. Bruises on their cheeks. Broken teeth. Scars. I found myself wondering what crimes each of them had committed. I also found myself wondering why. I also found myself hoping that these women would be able to turn their lives around. None of them looked like they’d ever had it easy.

  When he reached the end of the stack, Bustamente made a note of the photos Loretta had picked out and gathered all of them up. He returned them to his briefcase and stood. “Thanks for your time.” He held out his hand to shake hers again.

  I gave her a nod and shook her hand again, too.

  The detective, my partner, and I headed out to the parking lot.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “I think this thief is a new kid on the block,” he said. “I showed these same photographs to the other victims yesterday and nobody could make a positive ID. They said pretty much the same thing as Loretta did in there. That the girl looked well. Her last victim, the one she injured, speculated that she came from money. Said she seemed well dressed and well mannered. At least up until she put her knee in his howdy-doodies.”

  FIFTY

  WHAT? NO DOG TREATS?

  Brigit

  Brigit had no idea what type of cruel trick Megan was trying to pull. She leads Brigit into a grocery store, but then fails to take her to the pet food aisle to pick out a treat? Why had Megan teased her like that? It was downright mean.

  Brigit would have to come up with a revenge plot. She’d already ripped through the closet door and chewed up the last of Megan’s shoes, so that wasn’t an option. The only food Megan kept in the apartment was tofu, soy milk, and vegetables. Eating any of that would be more of a punishment for Brigit than Megan. She supposed she could pass gas in the cruiser, but she’d already pooped this morning and couldn’t muster up a respectable toot.

  Wait. Is Megan pulling into the drive through of the burger place?

  She was!

  Megan talked into the speaker and pul
led up to the window. She handed some money to the lady, and the lady in turn passed a white bag to Megan. Brigit’s partner pulled the burger from the bag, unwrapped it, and tore it into smaller chunks, shoving them through the small gap at the top of Brigit’s metal enclosure. The burger pieces fell to the platform at the dog’s feet.

  Lunch!

  Do I have the best partner ever or what?

  FIFTY-ONE

  NEVER SAY DIE

  Robin Hood

  She had brought a frozen Lean Cuisine for lunch today, and headed into the employee break room to heat it up in the microwave. She didn’t even mind that her lunch would be cheap and tasteless. After days of her flirting and dropping hints, Kevin Trang had finally asked her out for Friday night. He’d even suggested they have dinner at Reata, one of the city’s fanciest steakhouses. Things were definitely looking up.

  I’m finally getting what I deserve.

  She slid the meal into the microwave and punched the buttons to nuke it. Beep. Beep-beep. Beep. While the food warmed in the oven, she stepped over to the television to catch snippets of the noon news.

  A male reporter stood in front of the Stockyards Hotel. Behind him, paramedics could be seen wheeling out a body completely covered in a white sheet. What the hell?

  The reporter angled himself toward the ambulance. “As you can see, folks, the body of Sam Gunderson is just now being taken to the medical examiner’s office for an autopsy. Hotel housekeeping found Mr. Gunderson dead in his third-floor room yesterday afternoon. Sources say a pillow had been placed over his face and that all valuables had been removed from the room. Police suspect foul play. Anyone with information is asked to contact the Fort Worth Police Department.”

  The room spun around her. Robin Hood—no, Amber Lynn Hood—had to reach out and grab the table to keep from falling.

  Ohmigod-ohmigod-ohmigod!

  One of the older ladies who worked as a secretary on the first floor looked up from her table. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  She might not have seen one.

  But she might have made one.

  Amber Lynn forced herself to look at the woman. “Just having a dizzy spell. That’s all.”