Bending the Paw

by Diane Kelly

  A search in his documents files showed his multiple attempts to write a screenplay, though none were complete and only a few had been developed beyond the initial scene. A look at the document details showed that the last time he’d worked on one of the scripts was two years earlier. Looked like he’d given up on being the next Hollywood sensation and settled for being a modern-day Siskel and Ebert.

  My mind turned and turned like a movie reel. I mulled over the thought I’d had earlier, that real-life criminals were rarely very smart. Lucky, maybe, but not clever. So how had Greg’s killers kept us at bay?

  A light went on in my mind, like a projector coming on in a dark movie theater. Could Greg Olsen’s disappearance, like the movies, have been scripted? Was the crime scene just that, a scene? A setting in a theatrical production? If so, was Shelby in on the scheme, or was it a performance written and produced by Greg without her knowledge, aided and abetted by two co-stars? And, if so, why would he do it?

  Faking one’s death, or pseudocide, was not unheard of. But when someone wanted to erase their existence and assume a new one, there was normally a big reason for doing so. Maybe they wanted out of a marriage that was no longer working for them, but they didn’t want to go through the pain and hassle of a divorce. Or maybe they wanted a clean break from family or other people or commitments in their lives. Or sometimes they hoped to avoid creditors and pull themselves out of overwhelming debt, get a fresh financial start. Or maybe I only hoped this scenario could be possible because it was less evil than the thought that two men could viciously shred another man with a steak knife in his own kitchen in front of his sweet little dog.

  Of course, there was one big problem with this theory. One big, bloody problem. Nobody could lose the amount of blood found at the crime scene, as well as on the seats and in the trunk of Greg’s car, and still be alive. Greg Olsen had to be dead. Was it possible the performance had gotten out of hand and not gone as planned? Had a mistake been made, with Greg accidentally being killed in the process?

  My cell phone jiggled in my pocket and I pulled it out to find a text from Detective Jackson. Time’s up. Get going, girl. I responded with a thumbs-up and gathered up the computers and my partner.

  My stomach twisted and turned on the drive to the Olsens’ house, and was still wrestling with itself as I carried the computers to the door. The broken window-pane had been replaced, any direct evidence of a murder having taken place here now gone. The death would forever taint the house, though. Few people felt comfortable living in a house where a violent crime had been committed, and the murder would impact the home’s property value. The Olsens’ landlord was liable to take a hit if he sold the house later down the road.

  I knocked lightly. Shelby answered a moment later. She wore no makeup and her hair looked like it hadn’t been combed since the night her husband disappeared. She’d been slender already, but now she appeared emaciated.

  “Hi, Mrs. Olsen.” I held out the laptops. “Detective Jackson asked me to bring these by.”

  Shelby reached out and took them from me, clutching them to her chest as if they were a lifeline to her missing husband. Marseille wriggled at Shelby’s ankles and barked a friendly greeting up at me. Yip-yip!

  I bent down to give her a scratch under the chin. “Hi, girl.”

  When I stood again, Shelby said, “This case has grown cold, hasn’t it?”

  I didn’t want to quash any hope she might be holding on to, but I didn’t want to lie to her either. “We’re hoping some new evidence will surface”—I cringed at my inadvertent reference, knowing that if anything surfaced, it was likely to be Greg’s body in Lake Worth or the Trinity River. “Comes up,” I said quickly, then realized that phrasing wasn’t any better. “Rises…” Argh! Just stop talking, Megan!

  Shelby looked me directly in the eye. “Even if you figure out who attacked Greg, he’s never going to come back, is he? I need to face facts and move on with my life, don’t I?”

  I was in no position to give this woman advice, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to agree with conclusions she’d already reached on her own. “That’s probably for the best, Shelby.”

  She swallowed hard and closed her eyes for a moment before opening them again. She lifted her arms to indicate the computers she held in them. “Thanks for bringing these back, Officer Luz. And thanks for your honesty.”

  I wished I had more to offer her than my honesty, but I supposed it was better than nothing. “Take care, Shelby.”

  She closed the door behind me and I turned to return to my cruiser, feeling guilty to be relieved the interaction was over. While searching for evidence and deciphering clues was the fun and interesting part of investigative work, dealing with the victims and those affected by crime was the dark, depressing side.

  * * *

  Brigit and I were back out on our beat when I turned down a street in the Fairmount neighborhood and spotted a white Chevy pickup with New Mexico plates parked in front of a wood-frame bungalow-style home. Bingo! Thought you could avoid me, did you, Tommy Perkins?

  I slowed and eased past. Nobody was in the truck. A scan of the area showed nobody standing in their yard or on a porch. Perkins must be inside the bungalow or another residence in close vicinity. I pulled my cruiser to the curb in front of his truck, backing up until there were only a few inches between my back bumper and the truck’s grill so he wouldn’t get any dumb ideas like trying to speed off.

  I waited for a few minutes, keeping an eye on the front door of the house, as well as my side and rearview mirrors in case he came up the street from another direction. Brigit stood in the back and wagged her tail, alerting me to the activity as the door came open on the house. The silver-haired man stepped out sideways, his head turned to look into the residence as he bade goodbye to a thirtyish woman in the front foyer. He wore dark slacks with a white dress shirt and red tie, but had paired them with no-nonsense work boots and the same warm yet stylish shearling jacket I’d seen him wearing before. I climbed out of my squad car and circled around to lean against the passenger side, my arms crossed over my chest.

  Perkins told the woman, “We’ll have that crew out here ASAP.” With that he turned and took two steps forward before spotting me at the curb and faltering in his step.

  The female homeowner spotted me, too, and stepped into the doorway with a concerned expression drawing her features inward.

  Perkins smoothed his tie, smiled, and came forward. “Good afternoon, ma’am. Something I can do for you?”

  “For starters, you could’ve returned my phone call.”

  “You must be Officer Luz.” He stepped closer, maybe too close, as if trying to keep our conversation from being overheard. At this proximity, I could see he had bluish-gray eyes that nicely complemented his silver-white hair. He resembled Paul Newman. He dipped his chin in greeting. “I’m Tommy Perkins. Nice to meet you.”

  I cocked my head, letting him know I was still waiting for an explanation.

  “My apologies, officer. I’ve been planning to call you, but I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours putting out fires, so to speak.” He motioned at the houses around us. “As you know, that hailstorm did a number on these homes.”

  “It sure did. Are you now doing a number on these homeowners?”

  His brow furrowed, the deep lines reminding me of the wrinkly Shar-Pei Brigit had befriended at the dog park. “What in the world would make you think that?”

  “You told Althea Nomikos that your company would get started on her roof right away. It’s been a week, and she says you haven’t returned her calls.”

  By then, the woman in the doorway had walked out to the sidewalk. “May I ask what’s going on, officer?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” I told her.

  Perkins looked from me, to the woman, and back again. “I stopped by Mrs. Nomikos’s house twice to give her an update. I figured a personal visit would be better than a phone call. She wasn’t home either time.
As a matter of fact, I left my card in her door with a note yesterday evening. I assumed she’d let you know. The crew chief told me there’s been a run on shingles and every building supply store within a hundred miles is out of them. The good news is that we’re expecting shipments in another day or two.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed slightly as she eyed Perkins. “You didn’t mention a shingle shortage.”

  “Like I said,” he repeated, “we’re expecting shingles to be available in just a day or so. It shouldn’t delay the work on your place. Besides, every other roofing outfit will have the same problem. No one else can get a new roof on your house any faster than Stormchaser can.”

  He might have a point. Then again, he could be full of crapola. But maybe I was taking things too personally, finding offense where none had been intended. After all, it wasn’t unreasonable for him to expect Mrs. Nomikos to follow up with me if he’d stopped by her place and left a message. This woman appeared appeased, at least. Her frown and posture relaxed.

  His customer seemingly satisfied, Perkins returned his attention to me. “I’ve been trying to keep all the customers updated. I’m at the mercy of the crew chief, though. He’s the one who schedules the jobs. But I’m busting my hump to help people get their roofs fixed before more rain sets in. You’ve got my word on that.”

  Question was, was this guy’s word any good? Or was it just lip service?

  Seeming to realize I had yet to be fully convinced, he said, “We’ve complied with the terms of our contract.” Perkins riffled through his clipboard until he found a blank copy of the triplicate roofing agreement. “See here?” He held out the document, pointing to Section 9. “That part says that Stormchaser will make all reasonable efforts to begin work by the date noted. We’ve done that. It also says that start dates might be delayed due to unavailability of skilled roofers or necessary materials. There’s nothing more we could have done. Wish there were. I hate to see folks upset.”

  Before I could respond, dispatch came over my shoulder-mounted radio. “K-9 unit requested at Magnolia and Washington.”

  I squeezed the button. “Officer Luz and Brigit responding.” I turned back to Perkins. “Let me take a look at your driver’s license real quick.”

  “Of course.”

  He pulled his wallet out of his pants pocket. He held it in his left hand as he removed his license. A shiny silver band encircled his left ring finger, telling me there was a Mrs. Perkins back home waiting for him, while his silver and turquoise watchband told me he appreciated Native American artistry. He handed his license to me. As expected, it was a New Mexico license. The name on it was James Thomas Perkins. No wonder I didn’t find him in the drivers’ license database. I hadn’t realized he was going by his middle name, and a nickname at that. I whipped out a pen and quickly jotted down the license number before returning it to him. “Have you moved to Texas?”

  “Not permanently, ma’am. I work on a seasonal basis. I got this gig with Stormchaser to help them out during the busy spring storm season. I’ll be heading back to Las Cruces once things slow down.”

  “Where are you staying here locally? A hotel?”

  “No, ma’am. I got a long-term rental through Airbnb. Nice little house not too far from here.”

  “What’s the address?”

  He provided an address on West Gambrell Street in the South Hills neighborhood. I jotted that down, too.

  After returning my pen and notepad to my pocket, I said, “Keep things moving along as quick as you can. And return phone calls from now on.” After all, we could’ve avoided this exchange had he taken a minute to call me. With a pointed look I circled back around my cruiser and climbed in.

  He raised a hand goodbye. “Have a nice afternoon, Officer Luz!”

  In minutes, Brigit and I pulled up to the scene of a traffic incident. Derek’s cruiser sat in the right lane, its lights flashing. Just ahead was a vintage convertible Ford Mustang in deep green with a tan ragtop. Nice ride. Both the driver and passenger doors were open, the seats empty. Derek paced back and forth on the curb, his face flaming as red as his hair.

  I slowed as I passed the two cars and pulled to the side in front of the Mustang, turning my lights on, too. I climbed out of my car and opened Brigit’s enclosure to attach her leash. As she hopped down to the asphalt, I noticed the registration sticker in the Mustang’s front window was a month out of date. It didn’t take a detective to figure out what had happened here. “Let me guess,” I said to my former partner who looked ready to explode. “You pulled the ‘Stang over for expired registration, and it turned out it was stolen?”

  Derek glared at me, as if it was my fault he’d been made a fool of. “The driver took off in one direction, and the passenger took off in the other.” He tossed one hand to the right and his other to the left.

  “You could’ve tried to chase one of them.”

  “Not after eating three bean burritos for lunch!”

  Sheesh. “Duty before self, Derek. Ever heard that phrase?”

  He scowled and spit out a comeback, complete with air quotes. “It’s not ‘duty before burritos.’”

  “The burritos are implied.” Idiot. “What did the guys look like?”

  Derek shrugged. “One was white. The other was brown. Both are wearing dark hoodies.”

  I led Brigit over the driver’s door of the Mustang and instructed her to trail the disturbance left by the fleeing subject. She trotted off through the parking lot of a microbrewery and pizza joint with me jogging behind her. We continued on for a quarter mile before she hooked a right into a residential area. We jogged on for a block or two, then turned down a side street where I spotted two navy blue hoodies that had been tossed into the bushes. After running off, they must have gotten in touch via their cell phones, hooked back up here, and ditched their jackets to be less recognizable. They should have made some attempt to hide the clothing. These criminals were typical, not the sharpest tools in the shed, leaving a proverbial trail of bread crumbs for my partner and me to follow.

  De Zavala Elementary School sat just ahead. Several small groups of mothers wearing puffy coats and scarves stood huddled about, chatting amiably as they waited for school to let out for the day. The few fathers formed a faction, too, though they stayed close to their cars in the pickup line. Two twentyish young men hovered near the dads. One of the young men was white, while the other had light-brown skin. Though the two men did their best to blend in, the fact that they shifted nervously from foot to foot and wore only short-sleeve T-shirts despite the frigid temperatures told me we’d found our car thieves.

  I ducked behind the school sign and activated my shoulder radio. “Suspects located at De Zavala Elementary. Transport needed.”

  I led Brigit out from behind the sign and instructed her to continue to trail. The two men looked our way as we approached. The white guy put a hand to his mouth so I couldn’t read his lips as he spoke to his buddy, but my guess was he whispered something along the lines of “Be cool, bro.”

  Brigit led me right up to the two men and sat, giving me a passive alert that said The trail stops right here.

  “Hi, there,” I said. “You two here to pick up your kids up from school?”

  They exchanged a glance before the white guy said, “Getting my little sister.”

  The other said, “I’m just with him.”

  My gaze shifted back to the white guy. “What’s your sister’s name?”

  He hesitated a moment before coming up with “Grace.”

  “What grade is she in?”

  “Second.”

  “I see. So y’all wouldn’t know anything about the Mustang that was ditched on Magnolia Avenue, then?”

  BZZZZZZZT. The school bell rang, telling me I’d better get this wrapped up quick before any children were put at risk.

  The mouth of the Latino went slack as he tried to summon a response that refused to come. The white guy, on the other hand, bolted off across the school’s fron
t lawn. I gave my partner her orders. He made it only a dozen steps before Brigit sailed through the air, landed on his back, and brought him down face-first in the dried grass and dirt. He cried out and spewed a string of expletives that turned the head of every parent in the vicinity.

  “Don’t move!” I hollered. “Or she’ll bite!” I turned to the guy still standing in front of me. “You gonna do something stupid like that, too, or do you want to just turn around and let me cuff you?”

  He snorted. “I ain’t stupid.” He turned around and put his wrists together behind him, as if he knew the drill.

  “You seem like an old pro at this,” I said as I slapped the cuffs on him.

  “This ain’t my first rodeo.”

  “Maybe you should think about making it your last.”

  By then, children were streaming out of the school, some shouting and running, excited to be done for the day. Derek pulled his cruiser to the curb, lights flashing. After he took the shackled suspect off my hands, I walked over to the prone man on the ground. “I’m going to call off my dog and take your arms. No funny business. Hear me?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  I signaled Brigit to climb off his back. She stood nearby while I cuffed the guy, hauled him to his feet, and handed him over to Derek, too. My former partner didn’t bother to thank me or Brigit for our assistance.

  “Hey, lady!” a little boy called. “Can I pet your dog?”

  “Thank you for asking first,” I told him. “She’d love for you to pet her.”

  Before I knew it, six or seven children had surrounded my partner and were petting her from head to tail. She flopped over on her back so they could scratch her chest and belly. They giggled and knelt down beside her. Pretty soon, so many children had gathered around wanting a turn that I had to make them form a line and limit each of them to a five-second interaction lest we be stuck here the rest of the day. It’s not easy managing a star.