Bending the Paw

by Diane Kelly

  I looked up at her. “I assume you’ve called Mr. Perkins?”

  “A dozen times! He hasn’t once returned my call. I’ve e-mailed him three times, too. He didn’t respond to those messages, either.”

  I pulled out my police department cell phone. “Let me see if I have better luck.” I dialed the number on the business card. The phone rang five times before going to voicemail. I frowned and shook my head, letting Althea know I hadn’t reached him. A friendly voice proclaiming to be that of Tommy Perkins instructed me to leave a message and he’d gladly get back to me as soon as possible. I left a message advising him to give me a call right away. After ending the call, I turned my attention back to Althea. “Any chance you made a note of his license plate?”

  “No,” she said. “Didn’t think I’d need to. I noticed they were from New Mexico, though. He told me he’d just relocated to Texas. He probably hasn’t had time to get them switched out yet. At any rate, I didn’t think much of it. He was an older guy, dressed nicely, looked trustworthy. He told me a neighbor down the street had sent him my way. To make matters worse, I got some of my other neighbors to sign up with Stormchaser, too. He said he’d knock fifty dollars off my final bill for each person I referred him to who signed with Stormchaser. I sent him next door and to my friend up the block. They’re waiting for their work to start, too.”

  “Mind if I snap some pictures of your contract?” I asked.

  “By all means,” she said.

  I took a close-up shot of the business card, and a full-size photo of each page of the contract before sliding my phone back into my pocket and returning the contract to her. “Could be he’s running a scam,” I told her. “Roofing is a notoriously fraud-ridden business. That said, it could just be that the company’s swamped. Nearly everyone in this part of the city needs a new roof, and he might be scrambling to make the arrangements. But I’ll keep trying to get in touch with him and let you know what I find out. In the meantime, you let me know if you or your neighbors hear from him, okay?” I held out my business card.

  “So?” she demanded. “What do I do about my roof? Wait until it rains again and I get mold in my attic and water running down my stairs?”

  “I certainly hope that won’t happen,” I said, attempting to appease her. “I wish I could give you more definitive answers right now, but it’s going to take some digging. In the meantime, it couldn’t hurt to call a lawyer, see what they might suggest.”

  The woman huffed in frustration. “This guy steals from me, and the police won’t help me? What has this world come to?”

  Mustering up every last bit of my patience, I explained the difference between a civil case and criminal fraud. “It all comes down to the person’s intent. If Tommy Perkins intended to rip you off, he could be guilty of criminal fraud. If he intended to replace your roof as agreed, but has suffered some type of unavoidable setback, this would be a civil matter that would have to be hammered out in court.”

  She finally took my card but scowled, clearly having expected more from me. But what could I do? I wasn’t a miracle worker. I had no idea where the guy even was at the moment. But when Morpheus locked his golden eyes on mine and issued a low, rumbling growl that said, You better make sure we’ve got a solid roof over our heads or I’ll bring out my claws!, I knew I had to find Tommy Perkins quick and get some answers.

  TWENTY-ONE

  THE BIG BANG

  Brigit

  The sound of all those hammers coming from the roofs had bugged Brigit. Bang-bang-bang! It had been a too-loud, unpleasant sound, and she didn’t like that it kept her from being able to listen to other noises that might be important to hear.

  At least it was behind them now. She and Blast walked along beside Megan and Seth as they looked around two mostly empty rooms and spoke with a woman. She wasn’t sure what they were talking about, but her ears perked up when she heard some words she recognized. Food. Park. Walk. Whatever Megan and Seth were talking to the lady about, it made them happy. Brigit could smell their happiness. And when Megan was happy, Brigit was happy.

  TWENTY-TWO

  ANOTHER MAN’S SHOES

  The Slasher

  He’d gotten lucky. The couple who’d knocked on his door a few days ago had been mixed up, knocked on the door to the wrong room. He’d never been more relieved in all his life.

  Tonight’s evening news provided an update on the case, giving him even more relief. The Jetta had been found in Marion Sansom Park. While the report didn’t mention that the clothing and shoes were found in a garbage bag at the bottom of Lake Worth, the newscast provided a photograph of them, asking viewers to call the police department if they recognized the articles and knew who they belonged to. Of course they’d had someone Photoshop the pics to get rid of the bloodstains on the clothes and footwear.

  They’re appealing to the public. That means they don’t have any good leads.

  Buying used shoes and clothing at a thrift shop had been a genius idea. He wished he could claim it as his own, but it was his partner who’d come up with it. He was tempted to dance a happy jig, but the last thing he needed was the guest in the room below calling the front desk to complain about him. He settled for pumping his fists in victory.

  * * *

  He woke the next morning in a foul mood. The wooden-shoe-wearing Dutch pogo-stick rider had been at it again last night, moving back and forth across the floor above, preventing the Slasher from getting a decent night’s sleep. To make matters worse, the last of the food had run out at dinner yesterday. While he could stuff toilet paper in his ears to stifle the noise from his upstairs neighbor, he’d have no choice but to venture out of his room to get some sustenance lest he die of starvation. He was tempted to walk to the grocery store down the street, but he figured it was best if he stuck as close to his room as he could for the time being.

  He waited until 8:55, just five minutes before the end of breakfast service, before sneaking downstairs. He took the stairs to avoid facing anyone who might be riding down on the elevator. Unfortunately, he’d have to pass the front desk to get to the breakfast room.

  He peeked out from the stairwell. The clerk on duty this morning was the same one who’d checked him into the hotel days ago. Damn. If the guy recognized him, he might realize that the Slasher had taken pains to disguise his appearance. But he’d have to take that chance.

  As the Slasher walked past the check-in desk, the clerk looked up from his place behind the counter and gave the Slasher a “Good morning.” The Slasher said “’Mornin’” in return, summoning a deceptively husky voice. There’d been no flicker of recognition from the clerk. Good. Hell, he barely recognized himself when he looked in the mirror these days. Between his shaved head and the beard he’d dyed dark with the Just For Men Mustache and Beard dye, he looked like an entirely different person. As an added bonus, it was actually a versatile look. Add in the reading glasses he’d bought at the dollar store and he looked like a wise professor of English literature. Remove the glasses and add a bandana and leather jacket, and he could pass for a member of the Hells Angels.

  As surreptitiously as possible, he slipped into the breakfast room, glad to see no other guests were lingering about. A full-figured attendant made her way among the tables, picking up trash other hotel guests had left behind. She wore blue latex gloves, the same kind he’d worn the night he’d put an end to Greg Olsen. She looked over at him, casting him a look of irritation. “Better hurry,” she said. “I’ll be putting everything away soon.”

  He grabbed a napkin and a disposable plate and bowl before considering the remaining options. It was slim pickings. A bruised banana. Half a bagel that looked as if it had been handled and tossed back into the bin. Oatmeal with a thick skin on top. But he supposed beggars couldn’t be choosers. He filled the bowl with oatmeal, adding brown sugar and raisins. He bypassed the bagel and snagged a bran muffin. The early risers must have taken the more flavorful blueberry and banana nut muffins. He lifted an alumi
num lid to find a single dried-up sausage patty lying in the warming pan. The patty looking about as appetizing as a hockey puck, but he took it anyway. He grabbed a couple of yogurts from the refrigerator, too.

  With a smile and a duck of his head to the attendant, he scurried out of the breakfast area and returned to his room. He lay the meager meal out on the table and frowned. It was bad enough to be sleep deprived, but he’d be hangry, too, by the end of the day. Tomorrow, I’ll be the first person downstairs for breakfast.

  TWENTY-THREE

  REASONS OR DECEPTIONS?

  Megan

  While I’d made no progress with regards to my wedding dress, Seth and I had chosen a venue and date for our wedding. We’d tie the knot on a Saturday evening in late September at the Historic 512, an elegant venue downtown that featured Georgian Revival décor. The ceremony would be held in the Great Room downstairs, with dinner, reception, and dancing upstairs in the Grand Ballroom. It was the first place we’d visited, but once we’d taken a look we saw no reason to spend time looking elsewhere. It simply felt right. The site was beautiful and had received resounding reviews from other couples who’d been married there.

  The venue was affiliated with The Center for Transforming Lives, an organization that helped better the lives of homeless and poverty-stricken women and children, many of whom had suffered abuse. Clients received job training and financial-management instruction, while their young children attended preschool in the child-development centers. The women served by the organization put their skills to work as caterers for events held at the venue. We’d not only found a beautiful wedding spot, but we’d be supporting a wonderful cause as well.

  We’d talked with the director about the food options, and verified the number of parking spots within walking distance. Brigit and Blast wagged their tails when they heard the words “food,” “park,” and “walk.” I hoped they realized we were only gathering information, not trying to tease them.

  It was Tuesday now, and Brigit and I had another dreaded swing shift ahead of us. I’d come into the station an hour early to see what, if anything, I could dig up on Tommy Perkins, who had yet to return my call. I took personal offense to that fact. It was disrespectful and only raised my suspicions that he might be up to some shenanigans.

  I took a seat in my cubicle in the shared administrative area for beat cops and logged into the department’s system. I had trouble identifying exactly who the relevant Tommy Perkins might be. In light of the fact that his truck was registered in New Mexico, I assumed he’d been issued a driver’s license there, too. A search of the state’s database coughed up several men by the name of Thomas Perkins, but having only gotten a glimpse of the silver-haired man as he stood in the yard in Mistletoe Heights a few days ago, I wasn’t certain whether any were him.

  Three appeared to be possibilities, their ages ranging from fifty-four to seventy-one. I printed out their photos and ran their names through the criminal database. I got a hit on one of the men. Thomas Donald Perkins, the 71-year-old. He had a misdemeanor theft charge for stealing three cartons of cigarettes in his hometown of Clovis a year back. I reached down to scratch Brigit behind the ears. “We should give him a call, shouldn’t we?” She wagged her tail in agreement.

  I found his home phone number online and gave it a try. He answered after the eighth ring.

  “Hello, Mr. Perkins,” I said. “This is Officer Megan Luz from the Fort Worth, Texas, police department. I’m calling because I see that you’ve got a conviction for stealing cigarettes and—”

  “I had to take ‘em! They’re up to seventy bucks a carton. How’s a person living on Social Security supposed to afford cigarettes at that price? It’s highway robbery! Those tobacco companies got me addicted, and then the government raised the taxes on cigarettes. The government and big tobacco are in cahoots!”

  No point in engaging in a debate on the price of tobacco products or the irony of his accusation given that robbery and shoplifting were both forms of theft, neither of which were relevant to my purpose for calling him. “You’re retired?”

  “Going on six years now.”

  “So you haven’t come to Fort Worth recently to work for a roofing company?”

  “Fort Worth? Roofing? I have no idea what in the Sam Hell you’re talking about, honey.”

  Honey. More disrespect, likely due to the fact that I sported an innie between my legs rather than an outie, so to speak. He’d never have called a male cop honey. But it was pretty clear this Thomas Perkins was not the Tommy Perkins I was looking for. “Thanks for your time, sir. I believe I’ve called the wrong person.” With that, I hung up.

  I typed the search terms “Tommy Perkins” and “roofing” into my browser, but nothing pertinent popped up. I tried “Thomas Perkins” and just “Perkins” along with “roofing,” but still got nada. I found no website for Stormchaser Roofing. The business didn’t have a Facebook page, either. Hmm.

  A search of the Texas Secretary of State’s corporations database indicated that articles of incorporation for Stormchaser Roofing, Inc. had been filed only a month prior by a John Smith, no middle initial designated. An almost entirely useless and possibly false name. The filing date told me the company was new, the ink barely dry on its formative documents. Of course, the ink being barely dry was merely a manner of speech. Most corporate filings were submitted via the department’s online electronic filing system, only the Internet, but no ink, required. The address Smith had provided was a PO Box in Austin, three hours to the south of Fort Worth. The designated agent for service of legal process was A-1 Corporate Agents, Inc., a third party corporation operated for the express purpose of accepting lawsuit petitions and other legal documents for its clients should they be sued. The arrangement was not unusual, especially for businesses such as roofing, contracting, or consulting that did not maintain a physical headquarters but instead performed their services at their clients’ locations. Many of these types of business didn’t need a bricks-and-mortar location because their workers operated out of their kitchens or vehicles. As a “Homeowner Liaison”—a fancy name for salesman—Tommy Perkins wouldn’t need an office. He could handle any administrative work at his kitchen table. But just where was his kitchen table? Was it here in Fort Worth, or back in New Mexico? And which, if any, of the 248 John Smiths who held a Texas driver’s license was the one who’d filed the corporate paperwork?

  I was mulling over these questions when a ballpoint pen tapped me on the head. I spun around in my chair to find Detective Jackson with two laptops tucked under her arm.

  “I need you to return these computers to Shelby Olsen,” she said. “I called her to let her know we were done with them and that she could come pick them up, but she said she’s in no condition to leave her house.”

  “Mind if I take a look at them first?”

  “I’ve created a monster, haven’t I?” The detective groaned and lay the computers down on the desk in front of me. “You’re a big help, Officer Luz, but you can also be a pain in the butt. I told Shelby you’d be coming by soon. You’ve got one hour.”

  “Thanks, Detective.”

  “Shelby’s password is the same as Greg’s.”

  I recalled the password Shelby had given us on Valentine’s Day. “The word ‘always’ in all caps, an ampersand, the number four and the word ‘ever’ in lower case.”

  “That’s it.” She tapped her watch to let me know my time was ticking away and headed back to her office.

  I plugged in Greg’s computer first, and entered the password. ALWAYS&4ever. He’d made things easy on us. He’d bookmarked the sites he visited most often and had saved the passwords so that they populated automatically. I pulled out my notepad and pen and jotted down the user IDs and passwords for his e-mail account, banking site, even his Netflix and Rotten Tomatoes accounts. Detective Jackson might have only given me an hour to look over the computers, but armed with his logins, I could spend as much time as I wanted reviewing his accounts l
ater.

  I plugged in Shelby’s computer and discovered that she’d done the same thing—saved her passwords so that they auto-populated. Her user IDs and passwords went into my notebook, too. A search of her browser history showed mostly an obsession with dog toys and vacation sites. She’d run no search on “how to kill my husband,” “hiring a hit man,” or “top ten places to dump a corpse in Fort Worth.”

  With their credentials now safely in my possession, I returned to Greg’s computer. His browser history told me he spent an inordinate amount of time on the Rotten Tomatoes movie review site. I logged in and looked for reviews he’d written. “Holy guacamole,” I murmured. The guy had reviewed nearly every movie released in the last fifteen years, as well as many of the classics. Some of the other posted reviews were short and not particularly insightful. “Not enough boobs.” “Too many boobs.” “Chris Hemsworth makes my toes tingle, among other body parts.” “My preschooler could write a better script than this!”

  Greg’s reviews, on the other hand, were well thought out and very perceptive. He commented on dialogue, characterization, plot points, motifs, and symbolism. He seemed to appreciate a wide range of genres. He’d reviewed dramas, comedies, horror flicks, action-adventure movies, even children’s animated features. His opinions and commentary were so discerning, he’d even been awarded the designation of “Super Reviewer” by the site. He’d reviewed a recent complex crime drama I’d seen with Seth, giving it a full five out of five stars. If criminals in real life were as smart as they were in the movies, law enforcement would have a much harder time. Luckily, clever criminals were few and far between in the real world off-screen.