Odd Partners

by Mystery Writers of America

  “Not every time,” Nick said.

  Kaitlyn pulled away from the kid and moved closer to her mother for a moment, Brantley looking around as he started handing over bundles of bills from his ridiculous preppy shorts to Matt. Nick watched, noticing Matt had a crudely drawn tattoo of the Monster Energy Drink logo on his forearm. His ear was pierced, and he had some kind of Asian characters on his left hand. Nick was pretty sure it read “Dip Shit” in Japanese.

  “I’m done,” Kendall said to her husband. “I’m so fucking done.”

  Nick looked up the levee at the fat dude in the shades and offered him a friendly wave. The man pretended not to notice.

  “Was all this bullshit?” Kaitlyn said. “Tonight? Everything you said to me and promised? Everything was just to get your stupid money my dad owes you.”

  The kid, Matt, shook his head, and placed his hand on Kaitlyn’s elbow. “When we met at the hotel and I told you to meet me out, I meant it,” he said. “You’re so damn beautiful. So goddamn smart and classy.”

  “Shut up, Matt,” Nick said. “Or I’ll puke. Give him the rest of the money, Brantley.”

  Brantley did as Nick said, looking down at his Docksiders. A cold, brackish wind kicked up off the river and filled the early morning silence.

  “I’m not coming home,” Kaitlyn said. “All of you just leave me the hell alone. I’m tired of it. Everything is so fake and boring and stupid. And I hate it. I hate you all.”

  She shook off the kid’s grip and walked toward the Aquarium, a big banner flapping in the wind that read REEF RESCUE. A FAMILY-FRIENDLY EXHIBIT.

  No one made a move to follow Kaitlyn but the kid. Brantley looked up from his feet and stared at Nick. He belched into his fist and said, “What are you looking at?”

  Nick tilted his head and said, “You know? I’m really not sure.”

  “Screw it,” Brantley said. “I’m going to drink a Bloody Mary and go back to sleep. Give me a call when it’s time to eat.”

  Nick stood with Kendall and watched him walk away, disappearing around the edge of the Aquarium, heading back to Canal Street in the direction of The Roosevelt hotel. It was morning now, bright and full of energy, ice cream carts and little art kiosks setting up along the Mississippi. Nick looked at his watch, smiling up at Kendall.

  Kendall seemed to shiver, wrapping her arms over her chest. Nick took off his leather jacket and handed it to her.

  “We should go after her,” she said.

  Nick nodded. “We will.”

  “Everything is a mess.”

  Nick shook his head. “Maybe not everything.”

  “I’ve never been good at decisions,” she said. Her hands were balled into fists so tight her knuckles turned white. “And I’m goddamn sick of it.”

  “Let’s start with Kaitlyn,” Nick said. “You go get her back. Maybe I’ll kick that street rat’s ass while we’re at it. Then, breakfast. Café Du Monde is right around the corner.”

  “I do think better on a full stomach,” said Kendall, and she straightened her shoulders and tossed her hair back, already walking away from the river and toward her daughter.

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Breakfast would be nice,” she said, smiling sideways at him. The subtle lines in her face quite pleasant. “I would like that a lot.”

  Bite Out of Crime

  ALLISON BRENNAN

  I

  Jamie Blair first saw the mutt eating out of a Dumpster behind the barbecue restaurant on Folsom Boulevard near the freeway.

  It was after eleven that night, when Jamie was on her way home after robbing a couple of houses on 49th Street. Rich neighborhood with lots of targets, but she was good at her trade: She’d never been caught. After all, someone had to take care of her deadbeat parents. Pay the rent, buy food, put gas in her mom’s beat-up car that Jamie still wasn’t old enough to drive.

  “Ignore him,” she mumbled to herself. Problem was, she liked dogs—primarily because they weren’t people. That the poor dog was digging through garbage for a meal made her angry. Well, a lot of things made her angry these days.

  She slowly approached. He appeared mostly German shepherd, but a mutt because he was too small for the breed. And he didn’t look like he’d been on the streets long—a little dirty, but not too skinny.

  He looked at her and there was something in his sad eyes. Fear. Apprehension.

  Hope.

  She pulled a half-empty bottle of water from her backpack, then squatted down as the dog came over. She poured the water out slowly, and he lapped it up. Poor thing—it had been a hot day, though when the sun went down so did the temperatures. Such was autumn in Sacramento.

  When the water was gone, she tossed the bottle into the Dumpster and started to walk away.

  The dog followed.

  “You can’t come home with me,” she said.

  Her mother would have a shit fit if she brought a dog home. But she couldn’t just leave him here. If animal control got him, they’d kill him if they couldn’t find his owner. And what if he’d been abandoned? He didn’t look like he’d been on the streets for long, but she’d never forget when her neighbors across the street moved and left their cat behind. That poor animal waited for them to come home, losing weight every week. Jamie had fed it until her mother whacked her upside the head for giving their food to “a filthy feline.” A month later Jamie found the cat dead in the gutter, victim of a hit and run.

  She couldn’t let that happen to this mutt. It just wasn’t fair.

  Jamie squatted again, and the dog came right up to her and licked her hand. He wore a collar and she looked at the tag.

  His name was Duke. There was a phone number.

  “One night, Duke,” she said. “Then I’ll call your owner.”

  She almost didn’t expect him to follow. She resumed walking through the parking lot to the hole in the fence that cut off a good quarter-mile of her trek home.

  Duke followed.

  Twenty minutes later she was at her house, the small side of a corner duplex surrounded by duplexes up and down the street. Her mother was passed out on the couch; the huge flat-screen television played some sitcom with a fake laugh track.

  Duke growled softly.

  “Quiet,” she told him, not knowing if he could understand her.

  He still growled. Great. Duke didn’t like her house. Her mom did nothing all day—she watched soap operas, drank beer, and smoked pot. Maybe that was the problem. He didn’t like the smell. She wrinkled her nose. She didn’t like it much either.

  “Stay,” she ordered. He sat like a sentry at the front door.

  Jamie didn’t dare turn off the television—that was the fastest way to wake up her mom. She went to the kitchen, since she’d just gone to the store the other day and there was fresh food. Cooked two hamburgers on the stove as quietly as possible. She put American cheese on both, then mustard and ketchup and pickles on hers, and left Duke’s plain. She figured dogs didn’t much care for the extras.

  She cut Duke’s hamburger into quarters, and hers in half, then took them to her bedroom along with another liter of water and a plastic bowl.

  Duke was still sitting by the door, right where she told him.

  She motioned for him to follow, and he did. She unlocked her door—if she didn’t lock it, her mom would toss her room until she found all her cash and then buy hard drugs. Pot didn’t make her mother mean, but if she started using the serious shit again, she’d become unpredictable.

  Jamie turned on her fan and opened her window. She put water in a bowl for Duke, then gave him the plate of hamburger. She ate hers slower than the dog, watching him. In the light, he actually looked pretty clean and healthy, though his paws were dirty and two of his claws were torn off. Maybe he’d gotten lost. Jumped his fence or something.
Could have walked a long way, that’s how he hurt his feet.

  She ate half her burger, gave Duke the other half, guzzled some of the water, then emptied her backpack.

  Tonight had been a good score.

  She’d hit three houses—three was her lucky number, so she always robbed three houses a month, usually on the same night. She staked out her territory for weeks—sometimes months—before she picked the marks. She had to make sure they didn’t have security systems, no dogs, no nosy neighbors, and confirm that they’d be out for the evening.

  She scratched Duke behind the ears, and he put his head on her lap.

  Jamie never took anything that couldn’t fit in her backpack, which made it even better because most of the time, the people didn’t even know they’d been robbed, and if they figured it out, they really couldn’t remember when. Five credit cards—those would go to a fence she worked with for a hundred dollars a pop. Some jewelry—those would go to another guy she knew. He always shortchanged her, but she could usually get a few hundred from him for anything she brought. He’d taught her the difference between real and fake. Diamonds and gold moved well. And, of course, cash. People left cash all over the place, and she knew the best hiding places, but rich people didn’t hide their money. If they didn’t have a safe, they put cash in jewelry boxes, desk drawers, and with their underwear. Weird. She taped her stash to the bottom of her bed or in the vent behind her desk. Sometimes rolled up in her old Converse if she knew her mother was snooping around.

  Tonight she’d walked away with over a thousand bucks, most of it from the Tudor house three down from the corner whose owners were at the Community Center Theater.

  She didn’t particularly like stealing from people, but it was better than living on the street, and she only targeted people she figured could afford to lose a few bucks. She couldn’t wait until she graduated high school and could leave. Maybe go to college. Not a big college, but a community college. She could probably go for free because her parents were deadbeats. She didn’t know what would happen to her mom in three years when she walked away—the woman couldn’t take care of herself, and her dad was in and out so much he might as well be gone for good. But she didn’t feel guilty at the thought that she would someday leave and never look back. Maybe she’d get a dog. Like Duke. Someone to keep her company. Because dogs didn’t lie to you, they didn’t steal your shit, and they didn’t smoke so much dope they couldn’t hold down a job.

  “Down, Duke,” she said, feeling bad for kicking the dog off her bed. Still, there wasn’t a lot of room and he wasn’t exactly clean. She put a blanket on the floor and he curled up on it. She was about to turn off the lights when she saw something written on his blue collar.

  1414 48th St.

  The address was written in permanent marker, but it was so faded that she hadn’t noticed it until it was under the light just right. She knew that address—it was directly behind one of the houses she’d robbed that night. She’d targeted 48th Street last month, though not that house, for two reasons. First and foremost? She’d heard a dog in the backyard. She never targeted houses with dogs. And second? The old woman who lived there was nice. She was always out on the small porch sitting and drinking tea, or watering the gazillion flowers that bloomed along the perimeter. She waved at Jamie when she walked by with her backpack—probably thinking Jamie was going to or from school or a friend’s house. Never thinking that Jamie was staking out the neighborhood. Never thinking that Jamie had robbed her neighbors.

  Terrific, she thought. She avoided any street she hit for months because she didn’t want anyone to notice her. It’s what had kept her under the radar for the three years she’d been a thief.

  But Duke wasn’t her dog, and her mother would never let her keep him, so she didn’t have much of a choice. Maybe when she called in the morning, the owner would meet her somewhere. Maybe there was even a reward.

  She didn’t want money for Duke, she realized. She wanted to keep the dog. But that wouldn’t happen.

  Jamie hid the cash, put the cards and jewels in separate envelopes and back into her backpack, locked her door, and slept.

  II

  “What the hell, Jamie?” her mother said that morning as she was leaving. Her mother was drinking coffee and eating cereal from the box, one eye on the game show blaring from the TV. “You brought a dog into my house? What if he shit on the carpet? Am I supposed to clean up after him?”

  “He followed me home last night. He has a collar. I’m taking him back to his owner.”

  “You shouldn’t have brought him inside. Really, Jamie, you’re so irresponsible I don’t know what to do with you.”

  “Pot, kettle,” she said.

  Her mother teared up. “I don’t know what I ever did to deserve that.”

  A long list immediately sprang to mind, but Jamie ignored it. “Mom, I’ll be home tonight.”

  “We’re out of food.”

  “I went to the store three days ago.”

  “I just need a little money.”

  Of course she did. It was four days before her disability check hit her bank account, and she was out of beer.

  “I don’t have a lot.”

  “Just forty, fifty dollars?”

  “I can stop at the store on my way home.”

  “I’ll go.”

  Jamie didn’t want to fight. She was so tired of being the mother in the house. She pulled two twenties from her pocket and put them on the kitchen table. “That’s all I have.”

  “Thanks, baby. And the dog isn’t that bad. If you can’t find his owner, you can bring him back—but he has to stay outside.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Mom,” she mumbled.

  Her mother never asked her where she got the money. On the first of the month when her mother fretted because she was a hundred dollars short on the rent and Jamie gave her five twenties. Or when they were at the grocery store and her food card went tilt and Jamie pulled forty dollars from her pocket to cover the difference. Never once. What did she think?

  Jamie didn’t care. Three years—less than three years—and she’d graduate from high school and leave. Never look back.

  First stop, she sold the credit cards to her guy Milo. Five hundred bucks, crisp and folded, rested in her back pocket as she walked ten blocks from his apartment to 48th Street, where she would have to turn Duke over to his owner. She’d tried the number earlier, but there had been no answer.

  The whole time, Duke stayed with her. Not even on a leash, yet he stayed within two feet during their walk. She could get used to a dog like Duke.

  As soon as they turned onto 48th Street, Duke knew he was almost home. But his reaction surprised Jamie—he tensed, walked slower, and practically tripped her several times, as if he didn’t want to go home.

  “What’s going on, Duke?” she asked. Like he could answer her.

  The address 1414 was in the middle of the block. It was one of the smaller houses, but just as well-maintained and stately as all the others. This was the edge of the so-called Fabulous Forties, a section of East Sacramento that boasted some of the oldest and most beautiful homes in town. Wide, tree-lined streets. Large yards set back from the road. Rich people with expensive toys. It’s why Jamie targeted the area—she figured they wouldn’t miss what she took. And no one looked at a white teen girl in clean clothes with any real suspicion.

  Jamie knew the routines of every household in the area—that’s how she didn’t get caught. She didn’t remember names, but she remembered numbers, cars, and faces. Addresses, times. The married couple north of 1414 both worked; they were doctors and kept odd hours. He drove an older Mercedes, she drove a Prius. The family on the south side had two teenagers—jerks. She knew them, vaguely—had seen them around. Not from her school, but in her neighborhood buying drugs. Troublemakers, she thought. Wh
y did they need drugs when they lived in a place like this? When they had everything they could ever want? The oldest even had a car—she remembered when he got it for his birthday last year. At least, that’s what she assumed when she saw the new wheels—a big-ass, brand-new red truck, and he was still in high school.

  Behind 1414 was the house Jamie had hit last night. A lawyer who drove a new BMW and went to work from eight to six every day. His wife didn’t actually work. She volunteered for charities. Jamie wouldn’t have hit the house at all because volunteering was actually a good thing to do for people—but then she learned the wife was having an affair. A muscular guy who drove a small but tricked-out black Dodge truck. The guy came by several days a week, usually in the morning. He’d been there Thursday, but not yesterday—at least not when Jamie walked by, at ten and again at two.

  It was because of that affair that Jamie decided they were on her list. They didn’t have an alarm, they didn’t have a dog, and the locks—though good—wouldn’t give her too much trouble.

  Jamie walked up to the front door of the old woman’s house. Duke started whimpering.

  Something was wrong. She knew it, but still she rang the bell. Silence. She knocked. Still no answer.

  Jamie walked around to the back of the house. Her heart raced. Her heart never beat this fast when she was breaking into a place—why was it thumping so hard when she wasn’t doing anything wrong?

  The garage was detached and behind the house. She looked in through the lone window. An old sedan was parked there. She knew from her previous surveillance that the old woman had only the one car.

  So she was home. Or on a walk.

  Really, a walk, Jamie? She’s like eighty! How far could she go?

  Vacation? Maybe that was it. She was on a vacation, and the people who were supposed to be watching Duke screwed up.