Bending the Paw

by Diane Kelly

  I printed out the message, rousted my sleeping partner, and sprinted down the hall to Detective Jackson’s office, virtually dragging a drowsy Brigit behind me. I skidded to a stop in the doorway, grabbing the jamb with my free hand to keep from banging into the door. Panting, I held up the printout. “I found something!”

  Jackson looked up from her desk, brows raised. “Oh, yeah?” She reached out for the paper and I handed it to her. After reading it, she said, “Where’d you get this?”

  “It was in an e-mail in Shelby’s spam folder. One she’d read.” I told her how I’d taken a fresh look at Shelby’s e-mail account and noted the extra blank line at the end of the solicitation. “I copied and pasted the text into a document, and changed the color from white to black.” I gestured to the printout. “That’s what showed up.”

  “Tricky.” She motioned for me to come around the back of her desk. “Walk me through what you did.”

  I took her through the steps, showing her the highlighted e-mail in Shelby’s spam folder, and directing her how to make the invisible message appear.

  She sat back in her chair, mouth gaping as she stared at the screen. “I never would have noticed that single extra line.” Her gaze shifted to me. “You’re a genius, Megan.”

  “Just observant.” Maybe even obsessive.

  “Don’t argue with your superiors.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Genius, then.” I took a seat in one of her wing chairs. “Who do you think sent the message?”

  She read the page over again, her brows inverting. “Sounds like a lover.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. Think he could be responsible for Greg’s death?”

  “Maybe. That might be why this person and Shelby have kept their relationship under wraps. At the very least, it gives us a motive for Greg’s death. Shelby might have had her husband killed so she could pursue a relationship with the guy who sent the e-mail. If so, the guy may or may not know Shelby was responsible for killing her husband. Or her lover might have killed her husband so that he could have Shelby to himself. If that’s the case, Shelby may or may not be aware that her lover was responsible.”

  “In other words,” I said, “we still can’t definitively pin anything on Shelby.”

  “Not yet,” Jackson said. “But we’ll stake out the coffee house. We just might get some answers Wednesday night.”

  I’d keep my fingers crossed. I wanted this case solved.

  * * *

  After speaking with Detective Jackson, I’d examined the other e-mails in Shelby’s spam folder but found no others containing hidden messages. I’d also swung by the Airbnb at the end of my shift. No Tommy Perkins. I jotted a note on one of my business cards—Call me right away!—and left it stuck in the door. I’d also left another voicemail for the crew chief.

  People tended to give law-enforcement K-9s a lot of leeway, so I remained in uniform and dressed Brigit in her police-dog vest as I met up with Seth for dinner. He sported a Fort Worth Fire Department sweatshirt. We brought Brigit and Blast into the Italian restaurant with us. As usual, our canines were given carte blanche. They were also given an antipasto platter full of delicious meats and cheeses on the house. I knew the feast would make Brigit gassy later, but how could I deny her such a yummy treat? I’d just have to rub some Mentholatum under my nose to block the smell.

  Seth and I discussed some of the pending wedding matters.

  “We need to find a florist,” I said. “I’ll need a bouquet, and you’ll need a boutonniere. Corsages for our mothers and boutonnieres for my dad and your grandfather.” Floral centerpieces for the tables would be expensive, so I suggested a more affordable alternative. “Gabby and Frankie want to be involved. We can take a look on Pinterest and come up with some fun ideas for centerpieces that we can make ourselves.”

  “My mother would be happy to help with that, too.”

  “Good. We could use a lot of hands. Got any opinion on flowers?”

  “None,” Seth said. “I don’t know a daisy from a daffodil.”

  “I’ll see what the floral designer comes up with.”

  We decided we’d leave our wedding amidst the glow of sparklers. Seemed appropriate for a firefighter’s ceremony. Fortunately, there’d be plenty of trained first responders on hand in the unlikely event something went up in flames. When it came to party favors, I suggested something useful, like a personal security device.

  Seth arched a brow. “Are you suggesting we give everyone a canister of pepper spray?”

  “Why not?” I asked. “It’s practical. We could get the cylinders embossed with our names and the wedding date.”

  “It’s not exactly romantic.”

  He had me there. “What about those reflective slap bracelets? It would make people more visible if they’re out at night walking their dog or jogging.”

  “That’s a little more like it.”

  “Flowers are romantic. Let’s include a packet of seeds, too. Bluebonnets, maybe?” The official Texas state flower blanketed roadsides in spring, providing a beautiful splash of color and the perfect backdrop for photos. It wasn’t unusual to see cars pulled over on the highways or county roads, parents snapping pics of their children sitting among the blooms.

  “Works for me.”

  “Let’s do bookmarks, too,” I added. “We can order some with photos of us with Blast and Brigit on them. We can put the gifts in little bags and fill the rest with pastel mints.”

  Seth smiled. “Whatever you say, dear.”

  I raised my water glass in salute. “You’re already sounding like a husband.”

  When we finished dinner, we parted with a warm kiss in the parking lot. I drove back to the Airbnb once more. It was fully dark now, and after 7:00. Tommy Perkins wouldn’t be out this late after getting such an early start to his day, would he?

  I pulled up to the house to find the driveway empty, once again. Argh! Had Perkins come back here yet? With the porch light off, it was impossible for me to tell if my card was still in the door. Maybe he’d stopped somewhere for dinner.

  I released Brigit from her enclosure, let her take a tinkle on the lawn, and led her to the door. My card was gone. Someone had been here, had seen my card. Just in case Perkins was here but had left his truck elsewhere for some reason, I knocked several times and rang the bell. There was no answer. It appeared Perkins had come to the rental, found my card, and taken off.

  I stepped over to the living-room window, cupped my hands around my face, and peered inside through a narrow gap in the curtains. It was too dark for me to see anything other than the tiny glow of the light on the smoke alarm and the readout on the DVR. I whipped my flashlight from my belt and shined it through the window. The only signs of life were a cereal bowl, a drinking glass, and a crumpled napkin that had been left on the coffee table.

  I returned to my car, logged into my computer, and ran a search on the Airbnb website to see if I could track down the owner of the house. The listing came up on the first page, one of the more affordable ones in the area. Luckily, the owner had noted her cell number so that prospective tenants could call or text her with questions.

  I dialed her number and explained my situation. “I’m afraid Mr. Perkins has taken off.”

  “Really?” the woman said. “He’s booked the place for three more days. Already paid and everything.”

  A few days’ rent would be nothing to lose compared to his freedom. “Any chance you could let me take a look inside, see if Mr. Perkins left anything behind that might tell me where he’s gone?”

  “Of course, officer. I’ll be right there.”

  The woman arrived less than ten minutes later. She typed a four-digit code into the electronic keypad and stepped inside, flipping on the light switch. Brigit and I followed her in.

  “It’s the landlord!” she called out. “Anybody here?”

  There was no answer.

  “Fort Worth police!” I called. “If anyone is in here, respond now!”
/>   Sill nothing.

  I turned to the woman. “Wait here. Let my K-9 and I check things out, make sure it’s safe.” The last thing I’d want is for her to be hurt by Perkins if he was inside and decided not to go down without a fight. This was Texas, after all. For all I knew, he’d blast his way out of a closet, a gun in each hand.

  Walking side by side, Brigit and I made a quick but careful sweep of the place, checking behind curtains, in closets, in the shower, and under the beds. Nope. Nobody here. There was no luggage in the bedroom, either, no clothing hanging in the closet, no toiletries in the bathroom. Perkins had left in a hurry, leaving behind an unmade bed and dirty towels but no evidence of where he might be headed.

  I returned to the living room. “It’s clear.”

  As the woman came inside and closed the door behind her to keep out the cold, I donned a pair of latex gloves and rummaged through the trash bins, searching for anything that might tell me where Tommy Perkins might be headed. Unfortunately, I found only discarded takeout wrappers, food scraps, and an empty bottle of dandruff shampoo. The jackass hadn’t even bothered to recycle. Jerk.

  I looked around for a pad of paper he might have jotted a note on. In the movies, there always seemed to be such a pad, and a ready pencil to scratch back and forth across the top page to reveal the hidden message. But no, no pad. The only secret messages were the ones I’d found in my other investigation, hidden in Shelby’s spam folder.

  I pulled off the gloves and added them to the trash bin before addressing the landlord. “If you see Mr. Perkins or hear from him again, don’t tell him you’ve spoken with me, okay? Try to find out where he’s gone, and get me whatever phone number he’s using now.”

  “I will.”

  I thanked the woman and led Brigit back to the cruiser. While I was frustrated as heck that Perkins had slipped through my fingers and Brigit’s claws, at least I had tomorrow evening to look forward to. With any luck, Detective Jackson and I might finally get an answer to the question that had been dogging us for more than two weeks. Who killed Greg Olsen?

  THIRTY-SIX

  THE SCENT OF GOODBYE

  Brigit

  The house had smelled strongly of the man that Megan had spoken to several days ago at that other place. It also smelled strongly of his adrenaline. He’d been at the house very recently, and he’d been frantic. But he was gone now. All he’d left behind was a bran flake stuck to a bowl. Brigit licked it, but the darn thing was firmly glued to the dish. As far as the dog was concerned, the entire visit to the house had been a colossal waste of time.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  MISSION IMPOSSIBLE

  The Slasher

  As the bus rolled down Camp Bowie toward the coffee shop, the Slasher grew increasingly excited and anxious at the same time. His skin felt warm and tingly. He couldn’t wait to see Shelby again. The two weeks since he’d last seen her had been pure torture.

  The brakes squeaked and a rotating mass of people got on and off the bus, mere movements and colors in his periphery as he stared out the window, every cell in his body prickly with anticipation. A voice came over the loudspeaker, announcing that the next stop would be the one at Camp Bowie and Bryant Irvin Road. He looked over at the coffee shop as they rolled slowly past. There she is! Shelby stood in line at the counter, her strawberry blonde hair like a beacon in the night.

  As the bus rolled to a stop, he began to stand, turning to the woman next to him and saying “Excuse me” so that he could ease past the grocery bags littering the floor at her feet. As he stood, he cast a glance across the street and instantly went cold.

  Holy shit!

  Parked at the edge of the lot across the wide boulevard sat a plain four-door sedan, the type driven by little old ladies and cops working undercover. It sat under a tree, the bare limbs obscuring his view inside the vehicle. He’d barely gotten a glance at it when the lights came on inside the bus, reflecting off the windows and obliterating any view he might have outside. He dropped back into his seat, panic rendering him paralyzed.

  The woman next to him cast him a confused glance, the handles of her grocery bags gathered in her hands. “Ain’t this your stop?”

  “No,” he said. “I was mistaken.”

  She shrugged and released the handles of her bags, returning her attention to the paperback she’d been reading.

  He looked down at his feet until the lights went off in the bus and it began moving again. He scrubbed a hand over the short stubble on his head and cast a glance back at the car. Is anyone inside? Between the dark of the night and the large SUV parked beside it, casting it in further shadow, it was impossible to tell. There was some clutter on the dash, which could mean it was a personal car, not a government vehicle. But he couldn’t take a chance, not for himself or for Shelby. He rode the bus farther into the city, leaving Shelby to wonder why she’d been stood up.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  TABLE FOR ONE

  Megan

  Detective Jackson and I sat in her car, our eyes glued on the Starbucks across the street, while Brigit lay in the backseat, happily gnawing a new squeaky chew toy I’d bought her. It was shaped like a leprechaun in recognition of the upcoming St. Patrick’s Day holiday. For many people, Valentine’s Day was now only a fond memory, the chocolate long since devoured, the flowers dried, dead, and disposed of. But for Detective Jackson and me, Valentine’s Day was still heavy on our minds, marking the night we launched an investigation into a murder we had yet to solve.

  Squeak-squeak. Squeak-squeak-squeak.

  Jackson groaned and slid me some side-eye. “You couldn’t have bought her a quiet toy?”

  I raised my hands in innocence. “She picked it, not me.”

  The smell of fresh-roasted coffee wafted across the boulevard, making me wish I had a cup of my own to fight the chill. A bus had just stopped nearby. We eyed those who’d disembarked, assessing them, but the only people who’d climbed off were two fortyish women and a young boy one of the women held by his mitten-clad hand. The boy hopped along the sidewalk as if playing hopscotch, jerking the woman’s arm. She tolerated being yanked on, leading him down the sidewalk past the small shopping center, heading for the apartments that sat behind the retail shops.

  Knowing Jackson’s plain, four-door sedan was the type favored by undercover law enforcement and grandmothers seeking comfortable cars big enough to safely transport precious grandchildren, we’d done our best to make it look like the latter. We’d put a plastic baby bottle and one of Brigit’s plush toys on the dashboard, as if children regularly rode in the vehicle. We’d disguised ourselves, too. I’d worn a knit cap and draped a plaid blanket over my shoulders to hide my uniform. The detective had donned a colorful crocheted shawl.

  Jackson raised a small pair of high-powered binoculars to her face. “Shelby’s paying for her order.”

  I raised my glasses, too, waiting eagerly to see what Shelby would do once her coffee was ready. Would she take a seat with someone already in the shop? There were two men in their thirties or forties sitting alone at tables. Two women, one of whom was built like a WNBA player, lounged in arm chairs situated around a coffee table. Surely the tall one had large feet, maybe even a women’s size eleven. Would Shelby sit with them? Three young men who appeared to be working on a group project for either work or college huddled around an open laptop at another table, while a single thirtyish woman in fashionable clothing and high-heeled boots rested her feet on the chair across from her as she sipped a coffee and chatted on her cell phone. Was one of them the person Shelby had come here to meet, or was the person who’d sent her the e-mail yet to arrive? Shelby had glanced around when she’d entered the shop a moment ago, but hadn’t acknowledged anyone. My guess was that whomever she planned to rendezvous with here tonight was still on their way.

  Squeak-squeak.

  A barista stepped to the far end counter, his lips moving as he called out a name. Shelby walked over and claimed the cup.

  Jackson le
aned forward in her seat, still watching through her binoculars. “Where are you going, Shelby?”

  Squeak.

  Shelby glanced around the space and took a few steps toward an empty table at the front before doing an about-face and walking to another empty table at the back where she could have more privacy. She sat facing the door. Unlike all of the others who were sitting alone, she didn’t take out her phone, a computer, a tablet, or a book. She just perched stiffly on the edge of her chair, occasionally taking a sip of her coffee, watching the door with the same intensity Brigit watched her treats when other dogs were around. Even if we hadn’t known Shelby was waiting for someone, her body language would have made it clear.

  Unfortunately, she was still sitting an hour later, and so were we. After two hours in my seat, my bum had fallen asleep. Going so long without turning on the heater had turned my toes to ice, too. Everyone else in the coffee shop had gone, and a green-smocked staff member wandered over to Shelby’s table to speak with her, probably to tell her they needed to close up for the night. Shelby nodded and stood, her shoulders slumped as she dropped her now-empty cup into the trash can and exited the store. She stopped on the sidewalk and glanced around the area, as if searching for the person who was supposed to meet her or some explanation as to why the person hadn’t come. When she found neither, she pointed her key fob at her car and pushed the button, lighting it up inside. She slid into the driver’s seat, swiping at her eye with her right hand as she shut the door with her left.