Jagger (Steele Shadows Investigations)

by Amanda McKinney

  “Why are men so fascinated with balls?”

  “Clearly you haven’t been with the right men.”

  “Are you always this charming with women?”

  “’Fraid so.”

  “Now I know why there’s no ring on your finger.”

  “Says the gun-toting dog-lady.”

  “Dogs mind better than men.”

  “Dogs break quicker.”

  Her brow cocked as she seemed to ponder this insightful comment for a moment.

  “Anyway,” I said, before she returned the favor and began psychoanalyzing me. “You mean to tell me the dog that shrunk a pair of wrecking balls…” I paused to drill home the last two words. “…is a girl?”

  “You think that just because Athena has a vagina and not a pair of stinky, hairy balls, she’s less lethal than a man?”

  Nerve hit—and note to self that Sunny had terrible taste in men. Sunny Harper had a touch of feminism in her. Strike three…. four, five, and six. Between her aversion to the kitchen, the dog hair in bed, and advocacy of women’s right, I was beginning to question my sanity for feeling so damn protective over the woman. Maybe I just needed to get laid. Or maybe she was an evil sorceress as Officer Haddix had suggested.

  “I didn’t say that, exactly.” I corrected.

  “Athena is just as lethal as her male counterparts. Trust me. She’s smarter too.”

  “Now look who’s cocky.”

  A shrug.

  “Why’d you name her Athena?”

  “Goddess of wisdom and war.”

  “A contradiction by all counts.”

  “Not really.”

  “Wisdom is to avoid confrontation at all costs. Kind of like that part of Krav Maga you slept through.”

  “War teaches you how to handle it. And look who’s begun, what I believe detectives call, leading questions.”

  “Because I was about to ask you to tell me why your entire life revolves around self-defense?”

  Her face snapped to me, fire replacing the lighthearted flirty banter we’d fallen into.

  “Don’t patronize me, Detective Jagger. You know exactly why I’ve taught myself self-defense. I have no doubt you pulled my records last night and know about my attack in Dallas. Assuming you read through the entire thing without falling asleep, you know everything that everyone else does. I have nothing to add and don’t want to talk about it again. If you’ve come here to talk about what happened in Dallas, you’re wasting your time. End of discussion.” These final words were punctuated by her pulling ahead of me a few steps.

  I caught up and we walked a few seconds in silence along the riverbank, her eyes locked on the rushing water.

  “Okay. No questions about Dallas. But I would like to know if you remember anything else about your attack last night. Sometimes stepping away helps the fog to clear a bit.”

  She took a deep breath as if to calm the anger that had arisen from me bringing up the Dallas incident, then nodded. “I do remember something else. I was going to call you later this morning, actually. I remember a car pulling into that small lot across the park—you know, the one with that mobile drive-through coffee shop—as I pulled into the park at midnight.”

  “Was it following you?”

  She blew out a breath, suggesting she’d exhausted the question herself. “I don’t know. I really don’t.”

  “Did it turn around, or park?”

  “I’m not sure, but I remember thinking it was weird because the coffee shop obviously wasn’t open.”

  A tingle started at the bottom of my spine.

  “Do you remember what kind of car it was?”

  “No.”

  Dammit.

  “But I remember what it looked like.”

  I stilled, as if already knowing what was coming…

  “It was a blue, four-door sedan.”

  That tingle flew up to my neck. It was the first thing linking Lieutenant Seagrave’s death to Sunny’s attack, verifying my instinct the incidents were connected.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. Trust me. I notice things like that. Now, anyway.”

  My mind started to race. A blue four-door sedan placed the Black Bandit at both Seagrave’s murder and Sunny’s attack. But I knew that Julian Griggs wasn’t the Bandit because his black truck was parked at the trailhead, and based on my research, the kid did not also own a blue sedan.

  “Could it have been Julian Griggs’ car? The pastor’s son?” She asked, sadness washing over her face.

  “No. And where’d you hear that name?”

  “My father came by this morning.”

  Father. Not Dad.

  “Interesting man, he is.”

  “You met my father?” Her eyes rounded in both shock and horror.

  “After I dropped you at your truck, he came to the station looking for you.”

  “Oh.” She looked away.

  “Why didn’t you call him from the station?”

  She shrugged, scratched her head. An uncomfortable tick. Yep, daddy issues for sure.

  “Soooo… I’m picking up on vibes that you two might not be that close.”

  She snorted. “Nice work, Detective.”

  I ignored her quip. “Why? Why aren’t you close to your dad?”

  “Did you come here to ask me about my father?”

  “I’d like to know why the man took the time to shower before coming to his daughter’s aide.”

  Her jaw twitched. She swooped down, picked up a rock and hurled it across the water, skipping it eight times before disappearing under.

  We walked a few more steps in silence.

  “It’s years of family stuff, Detective.”

  “I’d have you call me Max, but to avoid any confusion with your current bed partner, you can call me Jagg. Everyone else does.”

  “I know everyone calls you Jagg.”

  “What else have you heard about me?”

  “That you’re aggressive and rude. And a womanizer.”

  “Phew,” I swiped my forehead. “Thought you might insult me for a minute.”

  She snorted. I didn’t bother to defend myself. Never had. … … And, the labels weren’t entirely inaccurate, let’s be honest.

  “Back to you.” I said. “It’s my understanding you recently left Dallas and moved here. Why?”

  “Needed a change of scenery.”

  “Now I expected better than a cliché from you, Sunny.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” She smirked, then took a deep breath. “My mom recently passed, and… I needed a change of scenery.”

  The fact that she referred to her mother as mom, instead of mother, suggested the two were close. Closer than her father, for sure.

  “This still doesn’t explain why you’re not close to your father.”

  “We’re just not close, and that’s that. No big story there.”

  The old Sunny from the night before was back in full force. Locked up tighter than a dime bag in a hooker’s cooch. Then, true to form, she changed the subject.

  “Anyway. Any idea who’s blue sedan it was?”

  “Undetermined at this time. Have you seen the car anywhere else?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “Spend some more time thinking about it, and let me know, alright? If you see it again, call me. If it comes up your driveway, call me. Don’t go to the door.”

  “I’m not stupid.”

  “Do I need to remind you that your damn door was unlocked, Sunny? Your windows wide open?”

  “Do I need to remind you of your welcoming committee? These dogs would smell someone in my house before I even made it halfway up the hill.”

  “And what? You’re just gonna go all Yosemite Sam and double-barrel their ass? Pop ’em with that gun you keep strapped onto your hip?”

  “Don’t discount my dogs, Detective—”

  “Jagg.”

  “Jagg,” she emphasized with attitude. “My dogs are professionally t
rained guard dogs. I am a professional. Do you even have the slightest clue what these animals are capable of?”

  “Enlighten me, professional one.”

  “A trained guard dog can be better than a security system, which, I might add, are often faulty. Don’t get me started on technology.”

  I smirked. She continued.

  “Over sixty-five percent of convicted felons admit that an intimidating dog would have scared them away, not a security system. If trained well, a good dog alerts when a stranger enters their territory and will attack on command, either giving their owner time to get away, or get in a damn good shot. Your welcoming committee back there was capable of inflicting seventeen hundred and fifty pounds of pressure on your marble-sized scrotum sack.”

  I’m really glad that caught on.

  She continued, her passion palpable—for the dogs, not my scrotum sack. “The dogs I work with are bred for this, Jagg. It’s literally in their bloodline. Two of my dogs have served as police dogs, and one of them, Max, helped solve a case of a missing teen.”

  “A detection dog?”

  “You’re familiar?”

  “Very. One sniffed out an IED during my last tour in Afghanistan.”

  Saved my life, not his. But she didn’t need to know that. Bottom line I was very aware a dog’s ability to sniff out narcotics, explosives, or cadavers.

  Sunny opened her mouth to ask a question, but I cut it off. I rarely spoke about those days. Especially not to a woman.

  “So Max is a certified detection dog?” I asked.

  “Yes. He’s fully trained, certified, and very good. You know his sense of smell is ten-thousand times more accurate than a human’s? Ten thousand. In the case of the missing teen, Max sniffed the girl’s clothing and picked up her scent in the woods. Led police right to her. The girl had wandered away from her family’s campsite and got lost.”

  I thought for a moment. “Do you think he could sniff out our missing third person from your attack? The guy pushed you away and killed Julian?”

  Her eyes rounded with excitement. “Yes… yes! He absolutely could. That’s a great idea. What do you need from him? From me? From us?”

  “Well, I guess he’d just need to smell the clothes Julian Griggs was wearing when he attacked you and was shot. According to your statement, this third person physically engaged Julian, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then the third person’s scent will be on Julian’s clothes.”

  “That’s right. And maybe Max can confirm who that person was if you get a list of names and bring someone in.”

  Or, if that person comes to your house, I thought, but didn’t say it. This was just as much a security measure for Sunny as an asset to the case.

  “Let’s do it. What do you need from me?” She asked again, a child-like hope sparking in her green eyes. Sunny was no fool. She knew BSPD doubted her story about a third person and would have no problem calling her a liar and throwing her under the bus just to move the case along.

  “You’ll have to bring Max up to the station, along with his papers, certification, and anything else you have on him. Griggs’ autopsy is scheduled to begin tomorrow afternoon. The chief is putting a rush on it considering the effect it’s going to have on the community. After that, we’ll have access to the clothes he wore last night. Give it a day for me to run it through the bullshit red-tape paperwork. Bring him to the station the day after tomorrow.”

  “Done.” She nodded, then stopped, turned away from me and stared mindlessly into the water. She shook her head, and as if speaking to no one in particular, whispered, “I don’t get it. I’ve never even met Julian. I don’t get why he attacked me.”

  I stepped next to her. “Do you think it was random, Sunny?”

  She looked at me, cocked her head with sarcasm. “That the pastor’s kid was lurking in the park woods at midnight and decided to attack me? Doesn’t feel random, does it?” She blew out a breath. “God,” She scrubbed her hands over her face. “I just feel so—”

  Sunny dropped her hands, turned away from the water and walked over to the cages. Dismissing me, the subject. I kept my eye on the dog locked inside, an inky-black pit bull with silver eyes that seemed to glow in the daylight. A beast. I guessed the dog weighed close to ninety pounds, thick, proud, and all muscle. I couldn’t begin to imagine the wrath he could inflict on someone, especially a young child. It was the type of dog that made people cross the street or turn the other way. The type of dog I’d seen in more than one drug raid.

  The pit’s silver eyes were fixed on me.

  “What’s his story?”

  “This is Brutus. A rescue.”

  “A rescue from what?”

  Her gaze slid to mine. “I’ll give you one guess.”

  “He was a fight dog.”

  She kneeled in front of the cage. While she’d coddled her other mutts like babies, she approached this one with caution. Slowly, with ease as one might approach a ticking bomb. Felt familiar.

  Sunny flattened her hand against the cage and began speaking in a low, soft voice.

  The dog’s eyes never left mine.

  “I got him six weeks ago,” she said softly. “He’d been raised by a reputable breeder, who’d taken care of him. The bastard who bought him thought he could turn an adult dog into a fight dog overnight. Put him through absolute—” Her voice cracked. “He’s been through a lot. Literal torture. He’s a bit of a loose cannon.” She stuck a finger inside the cage, then another, slowly rubbing the dog’s nose. “He has a neck and shoulder injury that didn’t heal correctly.” She glanced over her shoulder, anger sparking in her eyes. “An injury he didn’t have when the breeder sold him.”

  “Is that why he’s not moving around much?”

  “Yes. He’s mobile and can do everything any other dog can do, but I think he’s in constant pain and he tires out easily.”

  Ticking time bomb, loose cannon, chronic pain… a cage. Hell, it was like looking in the mirror.

  She continued, “He’ll have to have surgery but not until I can break him. It’s slow moving with this guy. He moves at his own pace. Walks to the beat of his own drum, you could say.” She exhaled deeply. “But he’s going to be okay. We’ll get him taken care of. I’m not giving up on him. He’s going to be just fine. Aren’t you Brutus? You’re my good baby. That’s it, good boy.”

  What would it be like to have someone have that much faith in you, I wondered. To have that kind of commitment.

  “Why do you keep him caged?”

  “He’s penned because he’s not fully trained yet. This is Brutus’s daytime home until I can break him. It’s for the safety of my other dogs, not mine. He wouldn’t hurt me, I’m sure of it.”

  “Hell of a gamble.”

  “Hell of an instinct. You of all people should understand the power of human instinct.”

  I did and it was telling me there was more to this story. Kind of like all her stories.

  “How exactly did you get Brutus from his abusive owner?”

  “I … loaded him up in my truck.”

  “With or without the owner’s help?”

  She shot me another look, that strong defiance from the night before. “Without. I found out Brutus had been sold when I’d gone to the breeders a few months ago. In casual conversation the breeder shared her concern over his new owner. Guess she had an instinct about the guy too, but money talks. She felt guilty, I could tell. Anyway, I couldn’t get it off my mind. Literally, for a week I couldn’t sleep, thinking about it. So I did something about it. I tracked the bastard down, went to his house and saw the conditions Brutus was living in. The bastard had put Brutus in a box, a cage not much bigger than his body. They’d put blades in the top and sides. If he moved, he’d get sliced. It’s was a tactic to break him mentally.”

  It sounded a lot like what I’d been through in SERE training.

  “He was muzzled, starved, dehydrated and in so much pain from his shoulder
injury, which I can only assume is blunt force trauma…” She stopped talking, her face turning to granite. “When I saw him… Jagg, I’ll never forget it,” her voice was as soft as a whisper. “He spotted me in the woods where I had snuck up. We communicated nonverbally. Me and the dog. I have no doubt in my soul that Brutus knew I was there to save him. … I swear he cried when I released him.” She sniffed, then squared her shoulders, swallowing back the emotions. I got the feeling she did that a lot. I took a step back to give her a moment, and if I’m being honest, to give myself one, too. The story was real. The emotions were real. Her sadness was palpable and dammit if I didn’t feel some sort of feelings for that mutt, too. I’d seen my fair share of animal abuse but imagining it happening to this pit, staring into my damn soul my long lost brother, churned my stomach.

  “And then what happened? You just walked up to the front door and said, ‘hey, let me take that dog off your hands.’ And the drug addict said, ‘okey dokey, here you go’?”

  “More or less.”

  “Less, as in, you stole Brutus from the guy in the middle of the night.”

  Her lack of response was response enough.

  “You know the guy reported a dog thief the next day at BSPD.”

  Her eyes rounded. “He did?”

  “Yep. I remember it. Well, I should say I remember him. Kenny Shultz. Everyone at BSPD knows his name. Came in whining that someone stole his dog, a black pit with grey eyes.”

  “I’m surprised he cared enough to report it.”

  “As you said, money talks. The dog was worth something to him.”

  “Humph,” was all I got.

  “You know, I could technically arrest you right now, Miss Harper.”

  She pushed to a stance, turned to me and jerked her chin up, those red lips pressed into a thin line.

  “Do it.”

  We stared at each other a moment, both daring each other to make a move. Two stubborn, bull-headed type A’s.

  Ol’ Brutus couldn’t be in better hands. If anyone was going to break him, it would be her. I wondered how many proud men Sunny Harper had house broken over her life.

  “I’ll tell you what,” I said. “Just bring Max up to the station the day after tomorrow to sniff Griggs’ clothes and we’ll call it even.”