Paw of the Jungle

by Diane Kelly

  Seth recoiled slightly, as if hurt by my words. I’d been petty, hadn’t I?

  I sent him a smile across the table. “Of course if I’d just joined your station, I’d have set my sights on you, too. You’re the hottest guy there.”

  A grin played about his mouth. “Stop objectifying me.”

  He was eating it up and we both knew it.

  “Then stop having such gorgeous green eyes,” I said. “And those shoulders?” I moaned. “So broad and strong. Not to mention those firm pecs and muscular arms. Six-pack abs, too.”

  When I stopped talking, he cocked his head and gave me a roguish grin. “Feel free to keep working your way down.”

  The server arrived with our food and set our plates in front of us.

  I pointed to my meal. “I’m going to work on this instead.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  CHEATERS NEVER PROSPER

  Brigit

  Blast eyed her vegan meatballs over the table, but Brigit ignored him. She wasn’t about to share her meal with him after the way he’d treated her, barely giving her the time of day when she’d showed up to surprise him at the station earlier. If he wanted some of her lunch, then he should’ve climbed off the couch and come over to sniff her butt. Well, two could play that game. His butt would remain unsniffed for a while, too.

  FORTY-SIX

  AN UNHAPPY CAMPER

  The Poacher

  He was crouched on the backside of the 350Z, finishing up, when the radio station playing on the speaker overhead wrapped up a song and turned to breaking news.

  “This just in,” said the disc jockey. “The Fort Worth Police Department has issued a press release stating that they have recovered one of the missing zoo animals. Unfortunately, the springbok was shot dead at a trophy hunting ranch in Somervell County. Springbok are legal game in the state of Texas and the hunter, who is an official with the city of Fort Worth, was unaware the springbok was Dinari, the animal that had been taken from the city zoo. Police believe the animal thieves could be driving a black Dodge pickup truck with a camper shell.”

  Holy shit! He wobbled, having to put a gloved hand to the concrete floor to steady himself. His breaths came fast inside his mask, the air ricocheting off the glass, as the deejay continued his report.

  “The thieves also used a white trailer with obvious signs of hail damage. The mayor and police chief are asking for the public’s help in tracking down these vehicles, and ask that anyone with information please call the Fort Worth Police Department.”

  The Poacher extinguished his torch but remained hunkered down behind the car, glad that his welding mask hid his face so that the mechanics couldn’t see the panic on it. His black Dodge pickup sat right outside the bay, the camper shell virtually screaming, It’s us! The deejay was talking about us! At least the trailer wouldn’t point to him. He’d managed to get rid of all but the most stubborn dents near the bottom.

  As soon as he left here today, he’d head straight for his garage and take the camper shell off. He’d take a key to the truck, too, scratch it up, maybe write some bad words on it, give himself an excuse to have it repainted. If Vicki asked, he’d say the truck had been vandalized while he’d been out in the field. He’d removed his license plates when he’d delivered the springbok, and the police obviously didn’t have a plate number or they’d have mentioned it. Without the shell, his truck would look just like hundreds of others in Fort Worth. Seemed everybody here had a pickup in their driveway. I just need to get to my garage without getting caught.

  When the boss circled around the back of the Nissan, the Poacher nearly shit himself. He looked up, but didn’t raise his mask. It’s over for me, isn’t it? I’m going back to prison.

  The boss gestured to the car. “How’s it coming? The guy who owns the car is on the phone, wanting to know when he can come pick it up.”

  “Nearly done,” the Poacher said. “Ten minutes or so.”

  The man nodded and circled back around the vehicle out of sight.

  The Poacher breathed a sigh of relief. Looks like it’s not over for me, after all.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  TIPPED OFF

  Megan

  The department’s phones lit up for days after the initial report about the Dodge pickup had been released to the public. Detective Bustamente and I followed up on all of the most promising tips first, and when none of those panned out we moved on to explore the more dubious ones.

  Every hunter in the state who drove a black Dodge pickup seemed to have been reported by his neighbors as a possible suspect, regardless of whether his truck had ever borne a camper shell. The hunters didn’t much appreciate being questioned about the zoo animals and implicitly accused of breaking the law, either.

  It had taken me a number of hours, but I’d used the DMV records and a Google search to identify a couple of welders in the north Texas area who drove black Dodge pickups. Unfortunately, a visit to each of them told me that neither had a camper shell on their truck. Both also had solid alibis for New Year’s Eve, and a number of witnesses who were willing to put them at parties, one of the men later falling drunk into bed according to his wife. “He couldn’t have found his way to the bedroom door, let alone the zoo.”

  When two more weeks went by and we’d been unable to identify a potential suspect, Bustamente and I put our minds together again over coffee in his office.

  “Maybe the thief didn’t own the truck,” I suggested. “Maybe it was a rental. Or maybe he’d borrowed it from somebody and they had no idea what he’d used it for.”

  “He could be from out of state,” the detective added. “It’s also possible the truck wasn’t black, but just looked black in the dark of night. Maybe it was green or blue.”

  I groaned. “So what do we do now?”

  Bustamente heaved a sigh and slumped back in his chair. “I think we’ve done what we can, Officer Luz.” He gestured to a pile of file folders on his desk. “I’ve got fifteen other investigations demanding my attention, and the captain needs you out on patrol. Neither of us can keep putting the time into this that we have been, especially now that we’d be chasing down information that isn’t likely to get us anywhere.”

  “We’re going to give up?” I didn’t like that idea. I’d never been a quitter.

  “Part of being a good detective is resource management,” Bustamente said. “You’ve got to know when to cut your losses and move on. Where this zoo case is concerned, it’s time.”

  “The bad guys win this one, then, huh?” Another idea I didn’t like.

  “If it’s any consolation, they seem to have given up on taking any more animals from the zoo. The three thefts all took place in the span of a month. It’s been more than a month since Dinari was taken on New Year’s Eve. We might not have solved the crimes, but we seem to have deterred them from committing another. It might not be a complete victory, but I’d still call that a win.”

  It didn’t feel like a win to me, but what could I say? I stood to go. “Thanks again for including me in the investigation, Detective.”

  He offered a small smile. “I’d have been a fool not to. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, good eyes, too. When you make detective, you’ll show the rest of us up.” He pointed to the door. “Now get back out on those streets.”

  I gave him a salute, rounded up my partner, and headed out the door.

  * * *

  Brigit and I had been patrolling for over three hours and I was bored to death. Traffic tickets, petty thievery, and noise complaints paled in comparison to working a wildlife trafficking investigation. But when I’d had to U-turn on Vickery to catch up to a speeder and found myself once again in the industrial area flanked by I-30 and I-35, I figured it couldn’t hurt to make yet another cruise through the area.

  I hooked a right on south Jones Street, casting casual glances left and right. Some of the warehouses and garages were open and bustling. Others were closed and rusting. Wait. What’s that?

  A
shiny copper sign on a small garage caught my eye. It read KING MIDAS METALWORKS. Given the name, it must be a welding business, right? The name rang no bells, though. It hadn’t come up when I’d run my search for welding businesses after Dinari had been taken. It must be new.

  I turned into the asphalt drive and parked my cruiser in front of the bay door, which was closed. I logged on to my laptop and ran a quick search. According to public records, the business had been formed in early January by a man named Trevor Fleming. The business had several reviews online already. “You can count on King Midas Metalworks!” “Their workers do a good job at a fair price.” “Best in the business!”

  Fleming had been slow to put his sign up. Surely I would’ve spotted the sign if it had been up long.

  I rounded up Brigit from the back and took her to a small strip of dirt next to the road so she could relieve herself. A little ground beetle meandered along the curb. Brigit gave it a sniff and appeared poised to eat it until I gave her leash a tug and said, “Nuh-uh. Not a snack.”

  As the beetle waddled off, my subconscious mind coughed up the Beatles’ song “I Want to Hold Your Hand” that the barbershop quartet had been covering at the mall. I found myself humming the tune as I led Brigit back to the building and circled around to the regular door on the side. I tried the handle but the door was locked. The small window in the door was covered with burglar bars that prevented me from putting my face right up to the glass, but I cupped my hands around my eyes and did my best to see inside.

  The place was dark, lit only by the meager sunlight streaming through the dusty window at which I stood. My eyes made out a large rectangular shape inside. Is that a trailer?

  I pulled my flashlight from my belt and shined it through the glass. While I investigated with my eyes, Brigit investigated with her nose, snuffling around the edge of the door. Snuffle-snuffle.

  The beam of my flashlight landed on a flat piece of white metal. Angling the beam slightly, I could make out a tire at the bottom and a metal tongue sticking out in front. Yep. It’s a trailer, all right. The trailer was in decent shape, certainly not extensively hail damaged like the one used to deliver the springbok to the hunting ranch. There were a few dings along the bottom that could have been hail damage, but given their placement it was more likely the dents had been made by gravel pinging against the metal. What’s more, the trailer bore a logo, a copper-colored crown under which KING MIDAS METALWORKS had been spelled out in black stick-on lettering.

  Snuffle-snuffle.

  I shined my flashlight about, spotting nothing else of interest, only a pink heart cut from construction paper with a sweet sentiment scrawled across it. I love you Daddy! The artist had signed her name, Harper, giving the p a curled-up tail in an act of alphabetic rebellion.

  Brigit was still sniffing along the door frame when I finished my inspection. “C’mon, girl. Back to the car.”

  The two of us returned to my cruiser. After loading Brigit into the back, I ran Fleming’s name through the motor vehicle records. I knew Detective Bustamente had said not to devote more time to the zoo case, but it wouldn’t take more than a few seconds to run a search and see what might come up. The results showed no trailer or vehicle, black Dodge pickup or otherwise, in his name. Who owns the trailer? And how’d he transport the trailer here? He must drive something, right?

  It wasn’t uncommon for married couples to share vehicles. Many times when I pulled a driver over, the car registration they offered me was in the name of their spouse. To determine if Fleming had a spouse, I looked up his driver’s license, then ran the address through the system again to see if another Fleming had a driver’s license at the same address, which was an apartment. Nope. It was possible if he had a wife, that she hadn’t taken his name. I ran a search of the marriage licenses. Nope, again. The guy had never been married, at least not in the state of Texas. Hmm. I supposed he could be driving a car owned by a friend or family member. Younger drivers often borrowed cars, as did people with bad credit who couldn’t get financing on their own.

  I made a mental note to make a run by this shop on another day, see if Fleming might be here. More than likely it would lead nowhere, but it couldn’t hurt and nobody could complain. The garage sat within my beat.

  Beat. Beatles. There went my brain again, making connections and forming thoughts behind the scenes while my focus was on something else. Again, the lyrics to “I Want to Hold Your Hand” ran through my mind.

  I put Brigit in the back and opened the driver’s door. As my butt hit the seat, an epiphany jarred loose in my brain. I started the car, gunned the engine, and, tires squealing, aimed for the mall.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  WHIFFS AND SNIFFS

  Brigit

  Brigit stared back at the garage as Megan drove away. Brigit had been about to issue an alert, to signal Megan that she’d caught a whiff of a springbok at the garage. It wasn’t any old springbok, either. Brigit’s advanced nose could tell it was the very springbok who used to live at the zoo, the one who they’d found dead a while back.

  Whoa!

  Brigit crouched to stabilize herself as the cruiser’s engine roared and the car took off. Wherever they were going, they were going there fast. Brigit wagged her tail. Maybe I’ll get to play chase!

  FORTY-NINE

  ONE LAST HURRAH

  The Poacher

  He’d had only a couple days’ downtime between the gig at the auto body shop and this one, installing aluminum carport covers at a new condominium development on the southwest side of town. The woman who’d hired him had asked if he ran background checks on his employees. He’d lied and said yes. Then again, since he knew his own background and he was his only worker, maybe it wasn’t actually a lie. Besides, she’d only asked if he ran a check, not whether his supposed employees had passed muster. If she wanted to know if anyone working under the name of King Midas Metalworks had a criminal record, then she should have asked outright.

  His burner phone buzzed in his pocket. He had no qualms answering the call this time because he could trust himself to say no. Money was tight for sure, but things were starting to take off for his welding business and the heat he’d felt after the police said they were looking for a black Dodge pickup with a camper shell had begun to subside. He’d dodged a bullet there. Vicki was too busy with the kids to watch much TV and, when she did, it was something she’d recorded earlier. She’d forward through the commercials and news teasers. She never watched the actual news reports, said they were too much gloom and doom. Even if she had heard the police were looking for a black Dodge pickup with a camper top, would she have suspected him? The Poacher wasn’t sure. She hadn’t had much faith in him when he’d first been released from prison, but that seemed to have changed. The color of his truck had changed, too. He’d driven it all the way out to Abilene and paid $600 to have it repainted a basic white. With the f-word scrawled all over it, the guys at the shop hadn’t asked why he’d brought it to them. When they’d asked if he’d wanted to go with black paint again, he’d said, “No. Too hot in the summer. Let’s go with white.”

  He glanced down at the screen. It was another 210 phone number, different from last time. Molina ditched burner phones as often as he ditched girlfriends. The guy was a player. Or at least he’d claimed to be when the inmates swapped stories in prison of their sexual exploits. The Poacher had said nothing about Vicki. It didn’t seem right. She was much more than a piece of ass to him.

  The Poacher accepted the call. “Hey, Mo.”

  “Hey. Got another proposal for you.”

  “I only answered to tell you I’m not interested,” the Poacher said. “My business is picking up and—”

  “There’s fifty grand in it for you.”

  Fifty thousand dollars? Hell, it would take the Poacher longer than his prison sentence to earn that kind of money. “You must be high.”

  Molina snorted a laugh. “I got a customer who’s willing to pay big bucks for the big kahuna.”


  “Kahuna?” the Poacher repeated. “Is that the thing with the white nose and the long tail that looks like an anteater?”

  Molina snorted again. “Trevor, has anyone ever told you that you’re dumb as a box of rocks?”

  A lot of people had told him that. More than once, too. Maybe they were right. He had done some stupid things in his life. But sometimes he wondered what he might have done if they’d expected more. “Just tell me what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “The black rhino, man.”

  Molina was suggesting he steal a huge, horned animal that probably weighed upward of a ton? “Are you screwing with me?”

  “No, man. Their horns are worth a shitload of money. In Asia they use it to make some kind of magic dick powder. Gives you a boner that lasts for days.”

  The Poacher wasn’t sure why anyone would want a boner that lasted for days, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that fifty thousand dollars would mean he wouldn’t have to stare at his cell phone, willing someone to call with a welding job. He could pay off that new high-tech refrigerator Vicki had bought. His pickup, too. He could finally put the truck in his own name, feel like a real man. Maybe he could even start a college fund for Harper. It would be ten years before she’d be heading off to a university but, while time in prison had passed slow, his time back on the outside seemed to be flying by.

  Even so, while the money had him considering the offer, he had to think about the risk, too. He could get caught this time. A pair of birds and a tiny monkey had been easy to sneak out of the zoo. The antelope had taken more planning, but was still small enough to manage. A huge animal like a rhino was a different matter. Could it even be done?