by Diane Kelly
“We got him! We got him!” Mrs. Nomikos sang.
“Got who?” I asked.
She pointed to a green pickup truck sandwiched tightly between two other vehicles. “Tommy Perkins!”
I squinted to see a man at the wheel of the truck. He glared at me and the others in his rearview mirror. Yep, those are Tommy Perkins’s eyes, all right.
Mrs. Nomikos filled me in. “I was driving by when I thought I spotted Perkins getting out of this truck and going inside the restaurant. I stopped and looked through the window. Sure enough, it was him. I phoned my neighbors and got them over here to help. I parked my car right up next to the truck so he wouldn’t be able to get in it. When I confronted him on the sidewalk, he went around and climbed in the passenger door. The others blocked him from behind and on the other side so he wouldn’t be able to move.”
Crafty. Nearly as clever a move as the invisible ink e-mail messages.
Tommy Perkins unrolled his window. He wore his usual dress shirt and tie today, along with the fleece-trimmed shearling coat. “I’m glad you’re here, Officer Luz!” he hollered. “You need to arrest these people for false imprisonment!”
Althea Nomikos hollered right back at him. “It’s a citizen’s arrest! It’s perfectly legal!”
Although vigilante justice could be problematic, in the present case, where Tommy Perkins could have easily vanished again and where nobody had been physically harmed, I was glad that Althea Nomikos and her neighbors had taken the initiative. I never would have known he’d traded his earlier truck for another, and would have driven right past him, none the wiser.
“These people are out of control!” Perkins cried, ignoring the woman. “They’ve accused me of ripping them off when I’m a victim, too! Nobody at Stormchaser will return my calls. They’re late with my paycheck, too!”
“Is that so?” I circled around to the front of the pickup where I could have a better view of him and address him more directly. “Seems you’ve had a run of bad luck. That’s the same thing that happened to you with Surefire Snow Plow Service and MixMaster Cement, isn’t it?”
On hearing me mention the other sham shell companies from his previous schemes, his expression changed from angry to apprehensive. He drew his head back, and his voice was softer when he spoke again. “I … I…” he stammered. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Really?” I said. “Because I think you do, Jimmy.”
His gaze darted about, from me to Brigit to the neighbors he’d scammed and who’d stepped up onto the sidewalk beside me.
“He’s pulled this kind of thing before.” I gave his victims a quick summary of the evidence I’d dug up. Keeping my eyes on Perkins lest he pull some fresh shenanigans, I said, “Mrs. Nomikos, I’ll need you to back up the car on his driver’s side so I can get him out and cuff him. Go slow, okay?”
“Sure.” Mrs. Nomikos pulled her keys from her pocket and climbed into her car. As she inched the vehicle backward, I stepped forward, bringing Brigit along with me. I walked up to the open window of Perkins’s truck. “You’re under arrest. Step out, face the hood, and put your hands on it. Understood?”
“Understood,” he snapped, scowling.
I kept a close eye on him as he opened the door to the truck. But rather than close it and come forward, he left it open, turned, and took off running. Moron. This was the type of moment Brigit lived for. She watched Perkins go, quivering with anticipation beside me. I bent down, unleashed my partner, and ordered her to take the shyster down. Get ‘im, girl!
It took Brigit only three bounds and one leap to take Perkins to the parking lot pavement. As if that hadn’t been enough fun for her, she grabbed the fleece collar of his coat in her teeth and yanked back and forth, shaking him, his head flopping one way then another. Seemed the shepherd in her was trying to keep his coat in line.
As the group of neighbors cheered Brigit on, I knelt down, yanked Perkins’s hands up behind him, and slapped on the cuffs. Click-click. After ordering Brigit off the con man, I reached into my pocket for a handful of liver treats. I held them out to Mrs. Nomikos and her neighbors. “Would you like the honors?”
“Of course!” Mrs. Nomikos broke into a smile and, while she didn’t apologize for her negative attitude toward law enforcement during our earlier interactions, it was clear my dedication to tracking down clear evidence against Tommy Perkins had caused her to change her attitude. She and I were finally on the same team. She took the treats from me and divided them up. She and her neighbors took turns tossing them to my partner, who expertly snapped them out of the air.
After ordering Brigit back to my side, I reached down and grabbed Perkins’s forearm to lift him. “Up you go.”
“Like hell I do!” Perkins refused to get up, lying on the pavement like dead weight. He glared up at me.
I left him on the pavement. “Have it your way, then.”
I pressed the button on my shoulder-mounted microphone and called for backup to transport the guy to the station for booking. For once, I was actually glad to see Derek when he showed up a couple of minutes later. The Big Dick was far from the smartest cop on the force, but his sheer strength definitely came in handy on occasion. Without a word, he yanked the man to his feet and tossed Perkins into the back of his cruiser as if he were a rag doll.
FORTY-TWO
THE SWEET SPOT
Brigit
Earlier, when they’d left that tall building, Brigit had smelled the strong scent of the man she’d smelled at the bloody house days ago. She had expected Megan might tell her to chase after him, but when she’d looked up at her partner, Megan had given her no such instruction. Instead, Megan gave her a liver treat even though Brigit hadn’t done anything. Oh, well. Humans were sometimes hard to understand. Too bad Megan didn’t speak dog.
Right now, though, Brigit was getting all kinds of love from the two women and the man who had tossed her the liver treats. They seemed happy that she had tackled that other guy. One of them was rubbing her ears, while another scratched under her chin. She lifted her head higher, so they could get at her neck, scratch under that pesky lead. When she’d had enough head pats, she flopped down and rolled over onto her back to give them easy access to her chest. The two women dug in, giving her a four-handed scratch with their long fingernails. That’s it, Brigit thought. That’s the sweet spot.
FORTY-THREE
KARMA’S A BITCH
The Slasher
He’d had to abort their meeting, again! Could it be coincidence that an undercover cop was in the park at the same time he and Shelby were to meet? He could hardly believe the police had intercepted their communications. It had seemed like a foolproof system. He’d send Shelby what appeared to be a spam e-mail, it would go directly into her junk folder, and she’d mark it as unread after she copied and pasted the hidden message into a document and changed the font color so that the words were visible. They’d used her existing e-mail account because having her establish a new e-mail account had seemed riskier, more likely to raise suspicions if the police came sniffing around a second time after the initial review of Shelby’s computer. Something sent through the existing system seemed less likely to draw attention. Maybe the cop had been at the park for another reason. Maybe someone had been seen selling drugs there, or maybe there’d been a mugger or pickpocket preying on people in the area. After all, the park sat in front of a bank building, where people would be expected to make cash withdrawals.
Still, he didn’t dare send another e-mail message using this method. He wanted to get in touch with her, but he’d have to find another way. Had the police confronted her directly? Were they checking her mailbox? Had they put a camera in the parking garage at her office? Were they watching her building? He had no way of knowing.
For now, though, he needed a drink. A stiff one. Luckily, a liquor store sat on the next block.
He tucked sixty bucks into his wallet and took the stairs down to the first floor, exiting at the
side door at the end of the hall. It was after 8:00 and fully dark, the sun having set over an hour before. The streetlights provided meager illumination but he stuck to the shadows anyway, trying to be as invisible as possible. The day’s events had left him feeling exposed and vulnerable.
He reached the store and slipped inside on the heels of five college boys who were yukking it up about some stupid thing one or another of them had done at a frat party. He went straight to the whiskey section, grabbed a large rectangular bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and headed to the register, avoiding eye contact with anyone along the way. On a Friday night, the store was packed and he had to wait in line behind three other people stocking up on spirits for the weekend. Finally, it was his turn to pay. He set the bottle on the counter and forked over two twenty-dollar bills when the cashier gave him the total. He took his change and the tell-tale tall, narrow paper bag the clerk had slipped the bottle into. He was out the door having spoken not a single word to anyone. While he used to enjoy the peace and quiet of solitude, it was becoming far too much. He felt disconnected, deserted, desolate.
As he drew near the hotel, he heard the sound of wheels on asphalt and saw a trio of what appeared to be teenaged boys riding toward him on skateboards. All were white, and wore dark hoodies, jeans, and the expressions of hungry predators seeking prey. When they spotted him, the one in the lead popped a wheelie with his board, the back end dragging across the road as he sailed to a graceful stop in front of the Slasher. The other two followed suit, pulling up on either side of their leader to form a semi-circle around the Slasher, forcing him to a stop.
“Whatcha got there?” The leader reached out and yanked the bag out of the Slasher’s hands. He pulled the bottle out of the bag and held it up in victory. “Score! Looks like there’s going to be a party tonight!”
The Slasher grabbed at the bottle, but the boy jerked it back out of his reach. He signaled his two friends. “What else you got, dude?”
Before he knew what was happening, the other two boys had shoved him to the ground. His knee hit the asphalt, bearing the brunt of all of his weight, and a sharp pain shot up his leg. One of the kids wrangled with him while the other pulled his wallet from his back pocket. If they take the driver’s license and cash, I’m fucked!
The boy held the wallet up in victory, like his friend had done with the bottle. “Let’s see what’s in here.” He opened the wallet and looked inside. “Got about thirty-seven in cash and a credit card.” He pulled out the driver’s license and read the name on it. “Samuel Leftwich.” He barked a laugh. “Sounds like one of the bunnies from Peter Rabbit.”
The boy danced a little jig around him, putting out his pinky and pretending to sip tea. “Another scone please, Mr. Leftwich,” he chirped in a terrible British accent. His friends cackled and hooted.
The Slasher reached up to snatch the license, but the boy held it up, out of reach. He used his other arm to backhand the Slasher across the face. Smack! His skin stung, as if seared by a branding iron. The damn kid was awfully strong for as skinny and scrawny as he looked. The second boy backed off, and the Slasher pushed himself to a shaky stand.
“Look,” he said. “Take the money, but give me my license. I need it.”
The kid sneered at him. “Tough shit.”
He launched himself at the boy. WHACK! If he’d thought being backhanded across the face smarted, it was nothing compared to the agony of being whacked upside the head by a skateboard. His brain seemed to wobble inside his skull, and he stumbled involuntarily to the side. He fell on the same knee again, and this time it felt as if his kneecap had splintered into sharp shards of bone. He raised his head and howled in pure agony. The boys laughed and took off, skating away into the darkness. The one who’d taken his wallet pocketed the cash, but dropped the wallet and license behind him as if they were trash.
Drawing deep breaths to fight the pain, the Slasher forced himself to a crooked stand. He reached a hand up to his temple, finding it wet. He pulled his hand back and looked at his fingers. They were covered in fresh blood. His head nearly exploded as he bent over to round up his now-empty wallet and the driver’s license.
A voice came from across the lot. The hotel desk clerk stood in the front doorway, the glass doors pushed aside. “Are you all right?”
He was anything but. Thanks to the shattered knee, he couldn’t stand up straight. His head throbbed and his brain felt thick and gooey, his thoughts stuck in the muck.
Before he could gather his wits, the clerk hollered, “I’ll call for police and an ambulance!”
“No!” The cry was like another blow to the brain, a fresh explosion of pain ricocheting through the confines of his skull. He fought the urge to vomit as he raised a palm to stop the man. “I’ll be fine. They were just kids. Besides, they’re gone now and I didn’t get a good look at them anyway.” He staggered to the door.
The clerk eyed the Slasher’s head and grimaced. “That wound looks bad. You should probably get it looked at.”
“I’m an easy bleeder,” he lied. “I’ll be okay. Don’t call anybody.”
He stumbled into the hotel and headed toward the stairwell before realizing he was in no condition to get himself up a flight of stairs. He punched UP for the elevator. It dinged a few seconds later and he climbed on. By then, the clerk was standing in front of the elevator doors. “You sure you don’t want medical attention?”
“Yes, I’m sure!” he snapped. “How many times do I have to tell you?” This guy needs to mind his own damn business!
FORTY-FOUR
BLOOD TRAILS
Megan
Brigit and I were working overtime that Friday evening and cruising our beat when dispatch came over the radio. “Police needed at the Studio Suites Hotel. The clerk called to report an attack on a guest in the parking lot. The suspects ran off. An ambulance is also en route.”
Fleeing suspects were right up our alley. If anyone could find them, my partner could.
I grabbed the mic for my radio. “Officers Luz and Brigit responding.”
Two minutes later, we pulled into the lot. The ambulance had yet to arrive. The clerk met me at the door, but my visual scan of the lot turned up no victim.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I was working the desk when I heard skateboards outside. Kids sometimes ride through the parking lot and bother people, so I went to the door to tell them to get lost. That’s when I saw them attack one of our guests. They stole a bottle of liquor from him and pushed him down, then hit him over the head with a skateboard. It was a solid whack. I heard it from here. One of them took the money from his wallet before they rode off. I asked the guest if he wanted me to call for help, but he said no. I’m concerned he wasn’t thinking straight. His head was bleeding pretty bad when he came inside. He was limping, too.”
“Where is he now?”
“He went to his room, I guess. He got on the elevator. That’s the last I saw of him before I called for help.”
“What room number is he in?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know his name to look it up.”
I looked down to see a trail of blood drops leading through the lobby to the elevator, where several of them had flowed together in front of the doors to form a small pool. “I’ll see if I can find him.” I led Brigit over to elevator and pushed the button. When the car arrived, we climbed on. More blood drops decorated the floor of the car. I pushed the button for the second floor. When the doors opened, I put my hand on the frame to keep them from closing while I peered out. Sure enough, a trail of blood droplets led down the hallway.
“C’mon, girl.” Brigit followed me out the doors and down the hall. The trail led to Room 213, where another collection of blood stained the carpet in front of the door, indicating the man had stopped there momentarily while using his key to open it. While Brigit sniffed at the blood spot, I raised a hand and knocked. Rap-rap-rap.
An angry voice came from inside. “I told you I’m okay!
”
“It’s Officer Luz with the Fort Worth Police Department,” I said, leaning into the jamb so he could hear me. “I need you to open this door, sir.”
The man spat an expletive, but a moment later opened the door. He held what had once been a white bath towel to his head, though the towel was mostly red now, soaked with his blood. Whoa. This guy was anything but okay. My gaze moved down to his clothing. Blood stained the front of his jacket and had dripped onto his pants, too. I hadn’t seen this much blood since the Olsens’ kitchen on Valentine’s Day. My stomach squirmed at the sight.
I pressed the button on my radio. “Instruct the ambulance coming to Studio Suites Hotel that the victim is in Room 213.”
“I’m fine!” the man said. “I don’t … don’t need…”
With that, his eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled to the floor. I was able to slow his fall by grabbing his jacket and doing my best to hold him upright. It wasn’t easy with the fabric so slippery with blood. Once he’d settled on the floor, I watched his chest, looking for a tell-tale rise and fall. There was slight movement. He was still breathing. Thank goodness!
While we waited for the medical team, I hurriedly washed my hands in the kitchen sink, the runoff pink with the man’s blood. I dried my hands on a paper towel and returned to the man’s side, kneeling next to him to make sure he was still with us. The ambulance arrived in minutes. Alex, a relatively new paramedic with caramel blonde hair and lots of curves, appeared in the open doorway. She was gorgeous, sweet, and capable. She’d joined Seth’s station not long before, and had promptly developed a hopeless crush on him. Who could blame her? Ironically, Seth’s lack of interest in Alex made him realize how whipped he was over me. If she couldn’t tempt him, nobody could.