Bending the Paw

by Diane Kelly

  “Show me the feed from the lobby first,” Jackson said, “then we can take a look at the others. Start a couple of minutes before Mr. Olsen arrived.”

  The man maneuvered his mouse and clicked to start the feed. We watched as everyone on the screen moved about, performing their duties. There was a line of people waiting, last-minute customers trying to get their banking business done before the branch closed for the day. The last in line was a grungy-looking biker, helmet in hand. He wore dark boots, jeans, and a leather jacket, all of which had seen better days. He also sported leather motorcycle gloves, several day’s stubble on his cheeks, and an irritated expression, clearly annoyed by the wait. A man walked in and took a place at the end of the line, behind the biker. It was Greg Olsen sans the sport coat. He must have left it in his car. A smart move. Wearing the signature jacket would have clued others in that the guy carrying the cash had come from the Take Two Theaters.

  As Greg stepped into line, the biker glanced back at him. Greg offered a nod of acknowledgment that the biker didn’t return. We watched as Greg wound his way through the line, demarcated with retractable nylon belts stretching between metal stanchions. The teller on the left summoned the biker to her station. A moment later, Greg proceeded to the teller to her right. The two men were separated by only three feet and a candy dish full of conversation hearts on the counter.

  The biker retrieved a roll of crumbled bills and tossed it onto the counter in front of the teller serving him. Meanwhile, the teller tending to Greg took the zippered bank bag, opened it, and removed the stack of bills. After encircling the stack with her hands and tapping it on the counter to straighten it, she placed the stack into a bill-counting machine and pushed the button to activate it. The machine fanned the bills and the readout gave the total. The woman took a look at the readout and her mouth opened as she apparently confirmed the total with Greg. The biker cut a glance at Greg, his scowl deepening. The teller printed out a receipt, tucked it inside the pouch, and zipped it closed before handing it back to Greg. He gave the teller a smile, said something that appeared to be “thank you,” and turned to go.

  As Greg disappeared out the front door, Jackson asked the bank manager to change the feed. “Show me the one over the entrance now.”

  The manager changed the feed, and we watched as Greg walked down the front sidewalk. He didn’t stop at the ATM to withdraw any funds from his personal account. He climbed into his black VW. In the parking spot next to his car sat a blue Harley Davidson touring bike with mini ape handlebars.

  Through his windshield, we saw Greg fasten his seatbelt, turn the ignition, and reach out to turn on the radio. He looked back, waiting as an SUV eased past behind him. Once the SUV was out of the way, Greg backed up, shifted gears, and drove out of sight. Just as Greg left the screen, the biker exited the branch, put on his helmet, and climbed onto his bike. He walked the motorcycle backward until he could proceed, and took off in the same direction Greg had gone. We continued to watch in case something else caught our eye, but nothing did.

  Jackson made a circular motion with her hand. “Rewind that tape so we can see Mr. Olsen exiting again.”

  The manager did as she’d requested. Jackson whipped out her notepad and narrowed her eyes at the screen, taking in the motorcycle’s license plate number and jotting it down. She had the manager play the footage of Greg arriving at the bank. The motorcycle was already parked in the lot when he arrived. We watched the other camera feeds at double time, but none seemed to yield any clues. Nobody else seemed to pay Greg any mind.

  Jackson stood, pulled a business card from her pocket, and handed it to the manager. “Thanks for your time.”

  I stood and Brigit lumbered to a stand, too. We followed Detective Jackson back through the lobby, bidding goodbye to the security guard as we headed out. The instant our butts hit the seats of my squad car, Jackson logged into my dashboard-mounted laptop. “Let’s see who owns that motorcycle, find out if he’s got any priors.”

  Once again, I found myself eyeing a screen for information, glad to be working as a cop in a time when much of the information we needed was right at our fingertips rather than in a filing cabinet somewhere. The motor vehicle records showed the motorcycle belonged to a Duke Knapczyk. A search of the driver’s license records produced a license photo that confirmed Duke Knapczyk was the man we’d seen in the bank. It also confirmed that the guy never smiled. He was scowling in his driver’s license photo, as well. A review of the criminal database revealed Knapczyk had two priors, though the offenses were minor, nonviolent, and occurred over a decade ago. Possession of marijuana. Public intoxication. Still, just because the guy hadn’t been violent in the past, and had seemingly been behaving himself in recent years, it didn’t necessarily mean he hadn’t rounded up a buddy and attacked Greg Olsen. It might just mean he’d been lucky enough not to get caught doing anything shady in the interim. Besides, his record noted that he’d been arrested three years ago on a theft by check charge, though the matter was later dropped. He’d once been suspected of stealing. Might he have made a botched attempt to steal from the theater last night?

  “What do you think?” I asked the detective. “Do we go see Knapczyk? Or do we go to the movie theater?”

  She tilted her head one way then the other as she thought it over. “Theater,” she decided. “We’ll see if Knapczyk shows up on the security cameras there. Besides, the blonde manager is on duty this morning. I want to see what she might tell us. But first, let’s make a quick detour.”

  NINE

  WEATHER OR NOT

  Brigit

  Brigit lifted her snout and flexed her nostrils as they walked to the patrol car. Her sensitive nose could smell moisture in the air. Ozone, too, though she had no idea that’s what the chemical was called, or that it was a byproduct of lightning and wind. She only knew that her instincts were telling her that bad weather was on its way and that she should seek shelter.

  If it were up to her, she and Megan would return home and snuggle under the bedcovers, where it was safe and warm. But it wasn’t up to Brigit. On the job, Megan called the shots. Brigit didn’t think this was an entirely fair arrangement, what with her canine abilities being far superior to Megan’s in many ways. But humans were a bossy species, and they liked to feel superior even when they were not. If Brigit wanted more belly rubs and liver treats—and she definitely did!—she’d have to be obedient and keep up her end of the bargain.

  TEN

  RUDE AWAKENINGS

  The Slasher

  He rubbed his eyes and looked at the bedside clock. How could it be 9:53 a.m.? Had he even slept? Sure didn’t feel like it. He’d been too hopped up on adrenaline. Besides, whoever was currently occupying the unit upstairs seemed to have suffered a bad bout of insomnia last night, which they attempted to cure by pacing back and forth either wearing wooden shoes or riding on a pogo stick. All night long it had been clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk. He didn’t dare complain to the management, though. He needed to lie as low as possible, make himself invisible.

  Before checking into the hotel last night, he’d snagged a half gallon of milk, a box of cereal, two packages of hot dogs, and three cans of beans from the convenience store across the street. It wasn’t much, but it should hold him a few days.

  He shuffled into the kitchen and fixed himself a cold bowl of cornflakes. He pulled open the silverware drawer to find a cockroach looking up at him, taunting him with his antennae. The bug seemed to know that he couldn’t call down to the front desk and complain. He grabbed a paper towel to crush the bug with, but by the time he returned his attention to the drawer, the roach had skittered off down the counter and now taunted him from beside the toaster.

  “You’re dead!” he hissed, diving for the bug. But the roach disappeared under the toaster. He snatched up the appliance only to find the cockroach had seemingly disappeared into thin air. Oh, well. He might not have been able to kill this pest, but he’d put an end to Greg Olsen last night.
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  ELEVEN

  POP-POP

  Megan

  Detective Jackson’s “quick detour” involved a trip to Fritz and Winkleman, the law firm where Shelby Olsen worked, to ply her coworkers for information. We parked in the garage, boarded the elevator, and rode it up to the ninth floor. We emerged to find an accounting firm to our right and the law firm to our left. I followed Jackson as she pulled open the heavy glass door that led into the law firm’s foyer.

  After the detective flashed her badge at the receptionist and told the woman the reason for our visit, the receptionist summoned Regina to the lobby. Regina was impeccably dressed in business attire, but her eyes drooped, her cheeks sagged, and her general expression was weary and wary. Was she merely fatigued from being kept up late by the prior evening’s events, or was she suffering the aftereffects of violence, guilt, and secrecy?

  “Has Greg been found?” Regina asked, her voice strained, her mouth wiggling in worry.

  “Not yet.” Jackson glanced around the space. “Is there somewhere we can speak in private?”

  “The small conference room isn’t being used right now.” She motioned for us to follow her down the hallway behind the reception desk.

  As we made our way down the corridor, we passed a row of four fancy cubicles formed by wood and glass panels. Twenty something women occupied the first two cubicles. Both cast glances our way as we passed them. The third space was empty, but the nameplate attached to the outside panel told me it belonged to Regina. The fourth cubicle was Shelby’s.

  Jackson raised her palm. “Hold on a minute.”

  She stepped to the threshold and peered into the space. On the built-in desk sat a photo of Shelby and Greg posing on the Brooklyn Bridge with the Manhattan skyline in the background. A daily desktop calendar with tear-off pages still showed yesterday’s date along with a picture of the Eiffel Tower and a caption declaring Paris the most romantic place on Earth. A good choice to feature for Valentine’s Day. Jackson stepped forward and flipped through the calendar. Each page depicted a different European tourist destination, from the Trevi Fountain in Rome to the Matterhorn in Switzerland to the monolithic La Sagrada Familia in Barcelona. Not that I had much hope of making it to Europe on a cop’s salary, but the calendar got me thinking. Where should Seth and I go on our honeymoon? We’d have to discuss the possibilities soon, along with many other wedding-related details. But this was not the time or place to ponder the matter.

  The marked-up commercial-lease contract and pen sitting on the desktop, as well as the nearly full water bottle, said that Shelby had intended to return to work today. I wondered how long it would be before she could bring herself to leave her home and come to the office. Standard bereavement leave was two weeks, but did that same time frame apply when your spouse was missing and had not conclusively been proven dead? The thought gave me an icky, prickly feeling. Since becoming a cop, I’d been faced with a lot of uncomfortable questions. Why do people risk their lives taking dangerous drugs? Why do people intentionally hurt those they purportedly love? Why does everyone play dumb when I ask them if they know why I pulled them over? Just once, I’d like a motorist to say, “Was it because I was doing thirty miles over the speed limit?”

  Having satisfied her curiosity, Jackson backed out of the cubicle and we continued on to the conference room. The exterior wall was solid glass and looked out on the skyscraper across the street. A credenza topped with a telephone and a potted purple orchid rested against the interior wall. An oval table surrounded by six chairs filled the center of the room. Two chairs sat on each side of the table, with one chair at each end. Jackson and I took seats on one side of the table. I was curious to see where Regina would sit, and wondered what, if anything, it might tell us. If she sat across from us, it might mean she considered us adversaries, and wanted to put some distance between us. Or it could merely mean that looking directly at each other was the best for conversation. She took a seat on the end of the table, next to Brigit and me.

  Jackson and I swiveled in our chairs so we could better address Regina. Brigit sniffed along Regina’s leg before resting her head on the woman’s thigh. I took that as a sign in Regina’s favor. Brigit was a good judge of character, not only because she was a smart dog but because she could scent the chemical signals people put out, which were important clues to their moods. My guess was Regina smelled sad and Brigit hoped to comfort her.

  Regina’s mouth spread in a soft smile. “Am I allowed to pet her?”

  I gave her nod. “She’d love that.”

  Regina ran her hand over Brigit’s head and neck as Jackson launched into a series of questions, starting with, “How well would you say you know Shelby Olsen?”

  “Reasonably well, I guess.” Regina raised her shoulders, uncommitted. “I mean, as well as you can know somebody you just work with.”

  “So you haven’t had a lot of interaction outside the office?”

  “I wouldn’t call it a lot,” Regina said. “We go out to lunch every once in a while. Usually one or two of the other assistants come with us. She’s joined us for happy hour after work a few times when her husband had an evening shift at the theater, but most of the time when we invite her she turns us down. She likes to be home with her husband. They seem really close.”

  “Close in a positive way?” Jackson cocked her head.

  “Yes.”

  “So you didn’t get any hint of problems in their marriage? Any cheating? Maybe some flirtation going on? A crush?”

  “Not that I was aware of.”

  “What about control issues? Verbal or physical intimidation or abuse? Anything like that?”

  Regina went pale and her hand went still on Brigit’s head. “Was Shelby being abused?”

  Jackson raised her palms. “I’m just fishing here, trying to get a feel for who Shelby and her husband were as a couple.”

  “I’m not aware of any problems,” Regina said. “They seem like a happy couple. Kind of mushy, really.” She cringed facetiously. “He comes by to take her out to lunch sometimes on his days off, and he sends her flowers every few weeks for no reason at all. They’re very romantic.”

  Jackson clarified. “So you haven’t had much one-on-one time with Shelby?”

  “No.”

  “Coworkers often confide in each other,” Jackson said. “Has she ever confided in you or your other coworkers?”

  “About what?”

  Jackson was the uncommitted one now, lifting a shoulder. “Any personal matter.”

  Regina looked up in thought before her gaze returned to Jackson’s face. “I can’t really think of anything. She’s talked about some of the trips they’ve taken and the places that are on her bucket list to visit. Paris is at the top of her list. I remember once when we were at lunch she said she’d like to see the catacombs. I hadn’t heard of the catacombs until she mentioned it. There’s a bunch of people buried down in some kind of tunnels under the city. The group of us had a discussion about whether it would be creepy or cool to visit there. I thought it sounded creepy, but some of the others thought it would be interesting.”

  I’d read about the catacombs in a book when I was a kid. The catacombs were an ossuary, a resting place for human bones. The skeletons of over a million Parisians filled the tunnels. While it was a popular tourist destination, my opinion aligned with Regina’s. The place sounded creepy. I’d much rather stay among the living.

  Jackson’s final question for Regina was, “Do you have any reason to believe Shelby could be responsible in any way for her husband’s disappearance?”

  Regina’s brows shot up. “Shelby? No. I can’t imagine that. They seemed happy and Shelby seems … well … normal. I can’t imagine her doing anything that would hurt her husband.”

  But that was precisely the problem, wasn’t it? Human beings often had a hard time imagining the people they knew, or thought they knew, committing heinous crimes. They expected those who committed violence to be odd, isolated, or a
ngry people. Many times, that was in fact the case. But, just as many times, it was not. People could be good at hiding their true selves, especially sociopaths. They were master manipulators. Even so, Shelby didn’t strike me as a sociopath.

  “Could you round up Shelby’s boss for me?” Jackson asked. “And don’t repeat any of what we’ve discussed in here. If your coworkers ask, tell them everything’s fine but that I’ve asked you not to talk about it out of respect for Shelby’s privacy.”

  “Okay.” Regina left the conference room and returned a few minutes later with a slender, platinum-haired attorney wearing a stylish blue pantsuit. Regina introduced the woman as Nadine Winkleman, and slipped quietly out of the room, leaving us to our business.

  Jackson and I retook our seats, and Ms. Winkleman slid into a chair across from us. Her face was tight in concern. She looked from me to the detective. “Regina called me last night and told me that Shelby’s husband had gone missing. Still no contact from him?”

  “No,” Jackson said. “We’re still trying to piece things together. As you can imagine, the first place we have to look when someone goes missing is to their spouse. The sooner we can rule out Shelby or someone associated with her as a suspect, the sooner we can focus our efforts elsewhere.”