by Angi Morgan
“Yes. Bree Bowman. And I don’t have a phone, but you can reach me at 214-964-79— Well, shoot, I always get those last numbers confused.” She opened the spiral and removed a yellow flyer. “Here.”
“Jerome’s Pet Sitters. You work here?” He stuffed the paper in his pocket.
“I fill in when I have time. Jerome takes messages.”
“Is Bree short for something?”
“No.”
She shifted on the bench, looking as uncomfortable as he felt awkward. He knew cops who used the addresses and numbers of pretty girls. That wasn’t his style. He couldn’t legitimize pushing for her address. He’d get it if he really needed to get in touch.
“That should be enough for now.” He set her pen on the table, watching it roll to the edge of the spiral. “Thanks for your cooperation.”
“No problemo,” she said, imitating Carl.
“Right. Thanks again.” He scooped up the coffees, including his own, and headed for the door.
“Wait. Let me help.” Bree’s voice came from just behind him. “I can get the door so you don’t have a disaster with those cups.” She darted around him, pushed the door and kept it open while he passed through.
“Thanks for the help.”
“You’re very welcome.”
Like an idiot he stopped and took another look at her. And like someone who hadn’t flirted in a decade—which he hadn’t—he said, “You know you have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”
She inhaled sharply and pressed her lips together. Maybe embarrassed. Maybe flattered. Maybe like she received that compliment a lot. “Thanks, Detective. But it’s really cold out.”
“Yeah, sorry. Have a nice day.”
“You, too.”
Just before the door closed, he heard another sweet giggle.
You’re such an idiot.
* * *
DAWN CAME AND WENT along with the ambulance and dead woman’s body. She’d had no identification, no keys, and to their knowledge, no one had reported her missing. Dallas howled endlessly as her owner was removed by the medical examiner.
The obvious assumption was that the victim had been mugged while walking her dog. Locate where the dog lived and they’d discover the identity of the owner.
Simple.
No one was pursuing it. They’d wait on Animal Control to call with the chip’s registered address.
After contaminating the scene, Jake had been told he was lucky to be holding the dog. Coffee run completed, he’d waited in the car. Warmed the dog. Fed the dog his sandwich from home. Watered the dog. Pacified the dog. Everyone else finished up, the crime scene had been released, and he was now letting the dog do his business near a tree.
“Hey, Craig,” his partner called to him from across the lot, laughing and slapping the back of another longtime detective. “Make sure you wait around for Animal Control to get that mutt. They’re expecting you to be right here, so you should probably walk the dog in circles until they show.” He laughed some more and threw the car keys. “I’m catching a ride back to the station.”
Jake caught the keys and didn’t have a chance to ask his partner what they all found so hilarious before the car pulled away. He stood there holding the pup’s makeshift leash, fearing the joke was on him. Yeah, he was darn certain that around the station he’d graduated from the position of rookie to leash holder.
The last patrolman headed to his car, pointing at the ground. “You got a bag to clean that up, man?”
Jake shrugged, then shook his head.
“Seriously, man. You can’t leave that on the ground like that.”
He shot him a look, hoping the patrolman would back off. “I’ll get something from Animal Control.”
“You gotta set a good example for the kids over there. Leaving it in a park’s against city ordinances. You’re a cop now.”
“Sure. I got it.” And he did...get it. The marines were behind him and he was on his own, alone in a city where he barely knew anyone. He’d wanted that after the divorce. No one around to remind him of the six years of humiliation.
Jake sat in his car and started the engine, thinking of amethyst eyes. A better memory than the wasted time he’d invested with his ex. Should he call Bree Bowman?
And then what? Say what? Do what? Ask her to meet for coffee? Maybe he’d make it a habit to have breakfast at the diner and try to catch her there again. And breakfast to boot. It wasn’t too far out of his way. Then he might be able to offer a ride sometime. That was a plan he could live with. Slow. No commitment.
Another twenty minutes went by and more kids on bikes gathered in the parking lot. It looked like they wanted his car out of the way so they could take advantage of the ice and snow.
He moved to the far edge of the lot to give the boys room. Some of the tricks they performed were amazing. It wasn’t too much longer before Dallas began whining again, soon howling loud enough to attract attention.
This time she clawed at the window as one of the boys slowly approached from the curb. Dressed in a ski cap, a huge coat that wasn’t zipped, and straddling a bike designed more for tricks than street cruising, the teen waved and gestured to roll down the window.
“Hey, Dallas. You get lost, girl?” the teen crooned to the big pup and stuck his gloved hand through the window to stroke the silky ears. “Whatcha doin’ way over here?”
“Do you know this dog or the owner?” Jake asked.
“Sure, this is Dallas. She belongs to Mrs. Richardson. I ride past her house every day. Weird that she ran away. She sticks pretty close to home even when she gets loose.” The teen continued to pet the pup through the open window. “You a cop? One of the other guys said a drunk froze to death. He got a look at the body bag.”
“Would you happen to know her address?”
“It’s five or six houses up on Loving Street. The one on the hill. I can take her back if you want. She’s run next to my bike before.”
“Thanks, but I better hang on to her. What does the house look like?”
He shrugged. “We can show you. Nothing to do around here anymore. It’s getting too wet.”
“Thanks. There’s no rush. Make sure to use the crosswalks.”
“It’s the second street, mister.” The teen turned and tapped the hood before peddling off through the snow. “Try to keep up.”
Jake pushed the button to roll up the window and put the car in gear. Dallas turned three circles on the passenger seat before settling. She dropped her head in the crook of Jake’s elbow and looked up with dark brown sad eyes.
“It’ll be okay, sweetheart.” He scratched the pup’s snout and then picked up the car radio. “You’ll be okay. Somebody with a great yard will snatch you up quick.”
One by one the boys followed each other, skidding through the parking lot, enjoying the snow and slush. Sometimes, being a kid had its advantages. No worries and no past.
“Dispatch, Craig to Loving and Winstead. Cancel the Animal Control pickup at White Rock Lake. I’ll call back if needed later.” He turned on the second street, following the kid he’d spoken with while the others continued straight.
“Detective Craig, no record of a request for Animal Control. Your location is noted.”
The other detectives were probably having a big laugh at breakfast with this joke. He’d been left holding a dog leash, waiting for the past two hours on Animal Control when they’d never been notified. Some joke.
But he’d take the hazing. This time it might just work in his favor. When he’d spoken his opinion that the dog had a connection to the murder victim, his partner had put him in charge of the animal.
He’d either return Dallas to her owner without anyone the wiser or call in the identity of the dead woman. Maybe he’d get the last laugh after all.
<
br /> Chapter Three
Two weeks in one bed. Sabrina could barely believe how much she looked forward to having the same pillow under her head for that long. Living out of a suitcase, shuffling from house to house or a couple of nights in a hotel room had gotten old after the fourth or fifth time. Six months later and she wasn’t any closer to discovering Griffin’s connection to whoever had ordered her death or who they’d referred to as the “higher-ups.”
She was ready to give up her search and her nomad existence. Griffin had accused her of not having a life. Well, he’d been wrong. Her life had been full of people and pets and things to care about. It was living like this that wasn’t really living. If that even made sense. A solitary life void of friends and fun. Shoot, she didn’t even have a car.
And to top it off, the first inkling of an attraction she’d had was for a cop. A detective she’d nearly given her cell number to. Yes, she’d lied to the detective about owning a cell. What if he’d actually called? What a stupid move that would have been. But he’d seemed so...so shy.
She lifted the suitcase out of the slush as she crossed the last street.
Walking through a little snow wasn’t hard for a girl born and raised in the Texas Panhandle. No, sir, a little snow and ice didn’t slow her down at all. She walked the four blocks from the coffee shop to her next pet-sitting job, pulling her handy-dandy suitcase. Barely any cars passed by. She’d taken the long way around to avoid the park just in case the detective was still nearby. From her view at the diner, it had appeared empty with the exception of one car and the local kids on their bikes.
Dallas with a layer of snow was a lot different than Amarillo in the same condition. Back home on a Saturday morning all the kids would have been on that hilltop, sliding until their fingers were frozen from grabbing the edge of their plastic or even cardboard sled. She couldn’t let herself think of home.
Thinking of the people she’d hurt by running away wouldn’t help her get home any sooner. At first, she hadn’t contacted her parents because she hadn’t wanted anyone in danger from the men working with Griffin. She soon realized being dead made getting around much easier. Law enforcement wasn’t searching for her.
Even if the police weren’t looking, it didn’t mean she could see the handsome detective. That would be thumbing her nose at the good fortune she’d had for the past six months. Sooner or later her luck would run out.
Each day she hoped her family would forgive her when she finally proved her innocence and could go home again. There were three more names to check out and then she’d have to turn herself in to the police. Or use the stolen money to hire a detective to clear her name.
She couldn’t do that. The money was evidence. If she’d used it, she could have gone anywhere, hired that dang detective months ago, slept in a nice hotel instead of those shelters the first week. Other than the three hundred dollars she’d been forced to use, over ninety thousand dollars—in very large bills—was now hidden in the liner of her toiletry bag. She’d only grabbed one bundle and hidden the rest with her uncle, who’d helped her leave Amarillo.
Sabrina peeled off her gloves and found her keys in her jacket pocket. She pushed the handle of the suitcase down. The huge monster was wearing out along the bottom faster than the first one she’d bought secondhand. Obtaining another needed to be added to her list of things to get done soon.
Think about that in two weeks. Maybe living out of a suitcase won’t be necessary then.
Stomping her wet tennis shoes on the welcome mat, she wished again she had her favorite snow boots. She tried to get as much snow off them as possible before entering Brenda Ellen’s immaculate domain and just pulled them off instead, along with her wet socks. She turned her key in the kitchen door, dropping the set into her pocket.
Backing inside, she lifted her case over the threshold, bracing for Dallas’s welcome. The big, rambunctious pup could knock her down when she caught her off guard.
No Dallas.
She whistled while shrugging out of her coat and dropping it along with her shoes on top of the suitcase. She clapped. Still no sound of nails clicking on the hardwood floors.
“Dallas,” she called. “Mrs. Richardson? Brenda Ellen?”
Had her trip been delayed again because of the snow? Dirty dishes sat on the counter and stove. Weird, because Brenda Ellen Richardson practically ate over the sink when she bothered to eat at home. The loaf of bread was open. Grease in a frying pan where eggs had been cooked. Blood near a block of cheese on the counter.
“Oh, God.”
Was that Brenda Ellen’s blood? Or had someone else made themselves at home?
Brenda Ellen didn’t eat eggs and never fried anything. Had they found her? No! No! No! Don’t panic. Maybe Brenda Ellen had forgotten to text her that the flight had been delayed. Maybe she’d had company overnight. That potential scene was embarrassing but held much less panic.
But where was Dallas? Even if she was locked out of Brenda Ellen’s bedroom, she’d be greeting any visitor at the door.
Something was wrong. Brenda Ellen was a businesswoman and wouldn’t have forgotten to cancel her dog sitter. Should she leave? Yes, turn and run this minute! Grabbing the suitcase and running down the sidewalk was the safest thing to do.
And then what? She could go...where?
If someone was here, they’d heard her come inside, heard her whistle for Dallas. They’d follow her down the street. What if they were waiting for her to search the house? What if Brenda Ellen was tied up or...or...worse?
I’m so tired of being afraid, she said to herself.
It was time to stop being afraid and confront the fear. Take action. Do something proactive and not just run. Dial 911 and then leave.
Her cell was packed. Fortunately, or it would have been in plain sight for Detective Jake Craig. Then get to the landline in the living room, and get help for Brenda Ellen, then leave. That was a plan. She’d taken self-defense classes. She could get to the phone on Brenda Ellen’s desk.
As quietly as possible, she rolled open the drawer that contained the meat mallet. The knives were tempting, but much bigger than the scalpel she’d stabbed Griffin with.
Attempting to get to Brenda Ellen’s phone was risky. But she couldn’t leave without trying, without knowing if her employer needed help. If Brenda Ellen was in trouble, it was Sabrina’s fault and she had to do whatever she could.
Mallet in hand, she knelt at the doorway, trying to see if anyone waited in the living area. Surely, if anyone were there, they would have already come to see who had whistled and clapped. There wasn’t anything to be frightened of. Unfortunately, she couldn’t stop shaking or thinking about the different possibilities. Overreacting had become the new normal for her.
“There’s nothing there.” Sabrina stood and shook the tension from her arms but kept the mallet in her hands.
She rounded the corner, prepared to whack any intruder or at least throw the mallet at their head. Nothing. The pillows were out of place, the cushions were crooked and the glass top on the coffee table was shattered.
It might look like an accident had happened, but she knew Brenda Ellen. The woman had given her a five-minute lecture when she hadn’t vacuumed one morning.
She froze. Had that been wood creaking? Barely a sound from the carpeted stairs, but she recognized it. Being in the house alone with Dallas, she’d heard it many nights as the pup had gone downstairs to bark and howl. She swallowed hard, the simple silent sound reverberating in her head like a shout. She held her breath.
Was it the man from the clinic? The one who looked like he enjoyed killing? His horrible smile haunted her nightmares where she was endlessly being chased.
Whoever was behind her on the stairs knew she was in the house. She couldn’t make it across the room to the phone. She couldn’t unbolt the front
door without her keys, which were in the pocket of her coat. Out the kitchen door was her only choice.
So she ran. She hated turning her back, afraid the crazy-smile guy would shoot her between the shoulders. Unlike her dreams, where she ran all night, just out of his reach.
He heard her. She could hear his heavy, fast-paced steps. The lamp from the sofa table toppled to the floor behind her as she skidded around the corner of the kitchen.
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.
She slid to a stop, yanked the door open as far as her suitcase allowed and jumped the two steps to the driveway.
“Hi, Bree, looking for Dallas?”
It took a couple of seconds to shove her heart from her throat to her chest again. It was just a neighborhood kid she’d met plenty of times while walking the dogs. “Get out of here, Joey.”
“It’s okay. This cop found her at the lake. I guess she got out after Mrs. Richardson left.”
“Cop? Where?” She grabbed his bike handles and pulled. “Come on, Joey. I said to get going.”
“What’s wrong?” he asked, dragging his feet through the drifting snow.
The door swung open. She caught a glimpse of a barrel, a man in a mask. “Get down!”
Sabrina jerked the handle bars sideways, knocking Joey to the ground and jumping on top of him. A beige blur pulled her sweater and shoved her facedown into the snow next to the street.
“Hold it,” a deep voice boomed from above her.
“He’s...he’s in the house with a gun,” she explained, spitting the snow from her mouth.
“You okay, kid?” the voice asked. Nothing like the voice from the clinic. The tones floating to her ears were deep and rich with a natural Texas twang she recognized.
Jake Craig.
She watched Joey’s head bob up and down and then an excited gleam dart into his eyes at the thought of danger. Give it up. It ain’t anything like you think it might be, kid.
“Stay here,” the voice commanded as he ran toward the door.
