Paw of the Jungle

by Diane Kelly

  He’d taken Harper and the boys to the zoo several times both before and after he’d stolen the animals. While Harper had been busy reading the posted signs that gave information about the animals, the Poacher had been scoping things out. He’d noticed the zoo had installed more security cameras around the outside, and that there seemed to be more security staff on duty. But he also noticed there weren’t many cameras at the far end of the zoo, where it backed up to McCart Street. They probably figured someone would have to be crazy to try to sneak an animal out that way where they’d have to exit onto a public street and could be spotted. But that section of McCart was an oddity, an angled shortcut from Forest Park Boulevard to Park Hill Drive that ran behind the businesses sitting on a small, triangular parcel of land. None of the businesses on that stretch faced McCart. If I put up cones at either end of the cutoff, people would think it was closed and go another way …

  Molina’s patience ran out. “I need an answer, bro. You ain’t interested, I got other people who can get me one from somewhere else.”

  He thought he could do it without getting caught, and he definitely wanted the money, but there was one other thing to deal with before he’d agree to do the job. “Whoever you sell the rhino to, are they gonna kill it?”

  Harper had bawled when she found out the springbok had been shot. She’d seen the antelopes at the zoo, spent fifteen minutes just watching them graze. Aren’t they pretty, Daddy? Even though she’d squealed in disgust when she’d seen a rhino sniffing the poop pile in their enclosure, she knew it was just what rhinos do and she’d be just as upset if it were killed.

  “Nah, man,” Molina said. “They’re not going to kill it. They’ll just saw its horn off. It doesn’t even hurt them.”

  The Poacher wavered, but when a text from Vicki came in on his other cell phone—dentist says I need root canal and crown—he knew what his answer would be. “All right. I’ll do it.”

  FIFTY

  FINGERED AND NAILED

  Megan

  As I hustled Brigit down the walkway at the mall, I was careful to steer clear of the door of the nail salon. I didn’t want the technicians to know my partner and I were on-site. Ditto for the barbershop quartet. When I heard them singing the Temptations’ classic “My Girl” up ahead, I scurried into Victoria’s Secret to hide behind a rack. Not easy when the garments contained so little fabric.

  Once they’d passed by the door and continued down the walk, I slunk out, keeping Brigit on a short leash by my side. We entered the mall’s center atrium and strode quickly to the manager’s office. The same manager who’d been on duty when the maintenance man had checked the P trap was on duty again.

  I took a seat in his office. “I need contact information for all of the women who reported their rings missing.”

  “Okay.” He arched an inquisitive brow. “Something going on?”

  “Following a hunch.”

  He frowned slightly at my vague response, but I wasn’t ready to say more until I knew whether I was right. He turned to his computer, tapped some keys, and ran his finger over his mouse pad. I pulled a pen and my small notebook from the pocket of my uniform and jotted down the names and numbers as he read them aloud. When he finished, I stood. “I’m going to give these women a call. If things check out, I’ll be in touch.”

  I stepped back out into the atrium, finding a quiet spot along the back wall to make the calls. I dialed the number of the woman who’d thought her rings had gone down the sink. “It’s Officer Megan Luz, from the mall. I have a few quick questions for you. First, did you happen to see the barbershop quartet after you had your nails done?”

  “Yes,” the woman said. “They weren’t far from the nail salon. Pretty talented group.”

  In more ways than one, I suspected. “Did any of the men touch you in any way?”

  “The shortest one went down on a knee and took my hand. It went along with the lyrics of the song.”

  “Do you know the name of the nail technician who did your manicure?”

  “No,” she replied. “But she had reddish-blond hair, like Nicole Kidman. What’s all this about?”

  “Just gathering information,” I said. “If it leads somewhere, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, don’t mention to anyone that I’ve contacted you and asked you these questions, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I phoned the other two women. They, too, had received manicures from the Kidman lookalike, as well as a hand-holding from the short singer from the barbershop quartet. Nan Ishii was my next call.

  After I told her who was calling, she said, “Did you find my rings?”

  “No,” I said, “but I’m pulling some information together. I noticed your nails looked very nice when I came to your house the day your rings went missing. Had you gotten a manicure recently?”

  “Hmm,” she said. “Probably. I get them all the time.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “No particular place,” she said. “Wherever I happen to be when I need one. There’s nail salons everywhere.”

  “Have you ever used the one at the Shoppes at Chisholm Trail?”

  “Yes, several times.”

  “Do you pay by debit card or cash?”

  “I use my debit card for almost everything.”

  “Check your bank records,” I said. “See if you have a debit at the mall’s nail salon just prior to the day you realized your rings had disappeared.”

  She was silent for several seconds as she checked her records. “There was a debit the day before.”

  “Do you remember who did your manicure?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Do you recall whether you saw any singers when you left the salon?”

  “I did.” Her voice was sure this time. “They came right up to me. I thought maybe they were collecting for a charity or something, but they were just caroling for the holidays.”

  “Did any of the men touch you? Take your hand?”

  “I think so,” she said. “They kind of all circled around and I’d had a glass of wine beforehand, so I can’t say for certain.”

  I thanked her for the information and told her I’d be in touch if anything panned out. From there, I phoned Colonial Country Club. It took a few minutes for the receptionist to track down the assistant manager, but when they did she gave me the name and number of the member who’d been playing tennis at the club and accused the landscape staff of stealing her rings. I phoned the woman and confirmed that she’d had a manicure the morning she’d lost her rings, and that the strawberry blond “who looked like Emma Stone” had done it. She also confirmed that the short man from the barbershop quartet had come over and taken her hand right after she’d left the salon.

  I had not only suspicion now, but a theory. The tech had scouted out clients with expensive rings, applied copious amounts of greasy lotion to their hands so their rings would slide off easily, and texted the short man in the quartet to let him know both when a target had sat down in her chair and when the target was leaving the salon. To cover her own ass, she made sure to remind the women not to forget their rings.

  Even though I felt certain my theory was correct, I had no proof. The security cameras at the mall wouldn’t be able to pick up on whether the singer had slid the women’s rings off their fingers. The footage would be too grainy and far away. I’d have to run a sting, catch the singer in the act. Literally.

  I placed a quick call to Summer, one of my fellow female officers. She was off duty today, but always up for a good bust. I gave her the scoop.

  “If we snag these two,” I said, “there’ll be a margarita in it for you. Nachos, too.”

  “You had me at tequila.”

  She agreed to meet me at the mall. But first, she’d run by the station and get the fanciest ring she could find out of the lost-and-found box. People turned in all kinds of things they’d found on the streets. Jewelry. Wallets. Someone had once turned in what they thought was a valuable gold coin. Turned out
to be a subway token from Budapest.

  After giving the mall manager a heads-up, I slunk into the bookstore that sat across the walkway from the nail salon and kept an eye on the place through the front window, having to work hard not to be distracted by the display of new releases nearby. Brigit sat by my side. A few shoppers cast glances our way as they entered or exited the store. One even asked for recommendations of good crime novels.

  He raised his palms. “You’d know, right?”

  I pointed to a procedural by one of my favorite authors on the new-release rack. “Try that one. You won’t be disappointed.”

  He grabbed a copy and held it up. “Thanks!”

  Maybe I should ask the store for a commission.

  A few minutes later, a text came in from Summer. She’d arrived, evidently with a big honking diamond on her finger. I kept her at bay at the store next door until the seat opened at the table manned by the strawberry blond. I texted Summer back. Now!

  She darted across the walkway, her golden curls bouncing. She slowed to a reasonable pace as she approached the door of the salon. She’d worn a cute pair of rhinestone-studded ankle boots along with jeans and a colorful Versace cardigan I also recognized from the lost-and-found box. Out of curiosity, we’d looked up the garment online after it had been turned in. It retailed for over seven hundred dollars. I couldn’t imagine having that kind of money to spend on a sweater, and then not keeping up with it. But it was the perfect disguise to make Summer look like a spoiled sorority girl from nearby TCU rather than a street-smart cop.

  Summer entered the salon and slid into the seat at the strawberry blond’s table. The tech pushed the velvet hand forward. Summer made a show of removing the ring and daintily slipping it onto the holder. The tech discreetly pulled her phone from the drawer and sent a text, probably giving the short guy from the quartet a heads-up that a mark was now sitting in her chair.

  I watched as the tech painted Summer’s nails, applied the greasy lotion, and pushed the velvet hand forward again. Her lips moved. Though I couldn’t hear what she said, I knew she was reminding Summer not to forget her ring. As Summer put it on, the tech pulled out her phone and sent another text.

  Summer and the tech moved to the counter. I saw the barbershop quartet strolling up the walkway, the short one setting the pace. I wondered if the other men were involved in the jewelry theft, or if the short guy and the nail tech were the only ones in cahoots.

  Summer paid for her services and walked out of the salon. Five steps later, she hit a wall of men in red and white, singing about how they wanted to hold her hand. The short one went down on his knee and took Summer’s hand, while the taller three removed their hats and shook them like tambourines over their heads. Were the shaking hats intended to distract her? Could be. Magicians used tricks like that all the time. Drawing your attention to one hand while the other was doing something sneaky.

  The short man released Summer’s hand and surreptitiously dipped his fingers into the pocket of his vest. As he began to rise, Summer raised her arm to signal me that he’d slipped her ring off her finger. Brigit and I were on the move. In seconds, Summer, my partner, and I had turned the tables on the men, blocking their way now. While the taller three men merely appeared perplexed, the short guy took one look at my uniform, turned, and took off running.

  It’s go time.

  Summer and I took off after him. Given that she wore ankle boots, she soon lagged behind. Although I was giving it my all, the guy was nimble, weaving in and out of shoppers with great agility. This is a job for Brigit. I reached down and released my partner’s leash on the go, giving her the signal to take the crooning crook down. “Get ’im, girl!”

  Her nails scrabbled on the cement before she shot off like a rocket. A young mother who didn’t see Brigit coming wheeled a baby stroller into Brigit’s path, but rather than waste time circling around them, my partner hurdled the stroller with ease, the baby’s head turning as he watched a dog sail over him and land on the other side.

  Brigit gained on the man and made a graceful leap onto his back, snatching his hat in her teeth as she did so. Whump! The man was down on the pavement and screaming, Brigit pinning him to the ground. I finally caught up to them. I ordered Brigit off the man’s back, replacing her weight with my own, my knee in his back. Before he could gather his wits, I gathered his hands, pulling them up behind him and slapping on the cuffs. Click-click.

  Summer caught up to us, panting from exertion. While Brigit lay to the side, happily chewing the brim of the guy’s straw hat, I rolled him over onto his back and patted his vest pocket. Sure enough, I felt something hard inside. I stuck my fingers into the pocket, retrieved the ring, and held it up.

  “Busted,” I said. “You’ll be trading your red stripes for black ones.”

  As if realizing his only hope was to pass the blame onto the nail tech, he cried, “Kylie made me do it! It was all her idea! She said if I didn’t she’d post revenge porn online!”

  What kind of porn would feature a member of a barbershop quarter? My mind coughed up a visual of this guy wearing only his vest, shaking his hat, and singing “She’ll Be Coming ’Round the Mountain.” I cringed. Ew.

  Summer and I hauled the guy to his feet and began to lead him to the nail salon so we could arrest his cohort. As we did, the other three members of his quartet tentatively came up.

  “What’s going on?” asked the tallest one.

  It seemed clear to me the short guy and the nail tech had worked alone, without the knowledge of the other three men. Even so, my first priority was to get the tech rounded up.

  “Hold that thought,” I said.

  We proceeded en masse to the salon, shoppers stopping on the sidewalk to gawk and activate their cell phone cameras. As we approached the salon, a ding sounded in the other pocket of the suspect’s vest. I pulled out his phone to find a text from Kylie. Did you get it?

  I held the phone out in front of us to take a selfie. “Smile!” I sent the pic of me and the guy to Kylie, along with a text message that said, No, I got arrested instead.

  We’d just reached the door of the salon when Kylie came barreling out of it. Brigit lunged at the end of her leash, ready for another chase. To her it was a game, and she loved to play it. I unclipped the lead once more, gave her order and off she went, the hat still in her teeth.

  Hearing Brigit thundering up behind her and seeming to realize she’d never outrun a police K-9, Kylie circled a lamppost and ran back into the salon. She darted behind her rolling table, stepped on the lever to release the brake, and shoved it. The table rolled toward Brigit, who evaded it with a sideways roll of her own.

  The girl moved behind the adjacent table, snatched up a handful of polish, and hurled the bottles one by one at Brigit like some warped kind of knife thrower. I dashed into the store, slipped in a puddle of Mango Mania polish, and went down on my butt. Kylie continued to hurl bottles of polish at me and Brigit. I put up a hand to protect my eyes, and a bottle bounced off my forehead. Ow! I levered myself to my knees and dove at the table in front of Kylie, grabbing the lip and turning it over on her. She fell backward and found herself buried under cotton balls and nail files.

  In seconds, she was in handcuffs, too, leaning up against the back wall next to her former lover. Summer and I glanced around the salon.

  While I thought the place was a disaster, Summer, living up to her bright and hopeful name, had a different assessment. “It looks like a Jackson Pollock painting.”

  Brigit’s fur was smeared and smudged with two dozen colors ranging from peacock blue to flamingo pink. My uniform had fared no better. I looked down at myself. “Think the cleaners can do anything about this?”

  Summer was less positive. “Doubtful. You might have to throw it out.”

  Darn. A new uniform would set my budget back. “Which manicure did you get?”

  She held up her nails. They were pink with white polka dots and mini cupid decals on her thumbs.

&nb
sp; “That’s perfect for Valentine’s Day,” I said.

  “Yeah,” she said wistfully. “Now I just need someone to spend it with.”

  We turned to what was now a barbershop trio and explained that their tenor had been swiping rings off the hands of slicked-up shoppers who’d had their nails done by Kylie. The three, in turn, turned on the former fourth member of their chorus.

  “You’re out of the band,” the tallest one said.

  The next shortest one turned to me and Summer. “He insisted on developing our choreography. Now we know why.”

  The third guy leaned in to whisper something to the other two and, with a “One, two, three, four,” they launched into an entertaining rendition of “In the Jailhouse Now.”

  FIFTY-ONE

  HATS OFF TO YOU

  Brigit

  Baths were bad enough, but tonight Megan had poured some foul-smelling liquid all over her first. It was awful! Brigit sneezed and sneezed to clear the awful stench from her nose. After Megan had rinsed the yucky stuff off, she’d given Brigit a bath with the usual peach shampoo, digging in extra hard with her fingers to get through the thick fur, all the way down to Brigit’s skin. That part wasn’t so bad. Brigit always liked a good scratch.

  Afterward, Megan wiped her down with a towel, first in one direction and then the other. Of course that wasn’t going to stop Brigit from doing a full-body follow-up shake to get rid of the water left behind. Megan shrieked and held up the towel to protect herself from the deluge. The obligatory shake dispensed with, Brigit felt a case of the zoomies coming on.

  Weeeee!

  Off Brigit went, fueled partly by a primal need to rid herself of the horrible fruit scent and partly by an unbridled joy that the torture of the bath was over. She leaped up onto the couch, rubbed herself along the pillows at the back, and leaped back down. She put her right shoulder down to the rug, running with her back feet, performing a cockeyed canine version of a wheelbarrow. When her right side was done, she turned around and did the same thing on her left side.