The Long Paw of the Law

by Diane Kelly

  Leonard leaned forward to look past me and cut his buddy a knowing grin. “What about Mai Linh? I bet you miss her, too, don’t you?”

  Harry heaved a dramatic sigh. “Every minute of every day. That woman stole my heart.”

  Ollie issued a grunt. “Along with your wallet.”

  Harry shrugged. “There was only three dollars in it and a photo of President Johnson.”

  “Johnson?” Leonard said. “Shoot. I thought that was a picture of your girl from back home.”

  The three shared a jovial chuckle.

  We arrived at the rink a few minutes later and ventured inside, Ollie rolling his oxygen tank along beside him. Frankie’s boyfriend, Zach, looked up from the front row of bleachers and waved us over. One of Seth’s army buddies, Zach was hardworking, dark-headed, and tall, a good match for my roommate. Who says blind dates don’t work out?

  As a fellow veteran, Zach warmed up to the three old codgers right away and vice versa. Before we knew it, the five were trading stories of what it was like to serve in Vietnam versus Afghanistan, and as tank mechanics versus explosive ordnance disposal specialists.

  Today, the Fort Worth Whoop-Ass was playing the Conquistadorables from San Antonio. Both teams had good track records, so the bout would be a competitive one. It would also be a loud one. A large, raucous crowd had amassed, their encouraging shouts echoing inside the metal building.

  Geared up in skates, pads, and helmet, Frankie skated over to greet us. She pulled her rubber teeth protector from her mouth and gave the group a welcoming smile. “Hey, y’all.”

  I held out an arm to indicate Ollie, Leonard, and Harry. “We brought some new fans.”

  I introduced the men to Frankie, who shook their hands as well as she could with her wrist guards in place. “Thanks for coming out,” she said.

  Leonard held up his hand for a high five. “Knock ’em dead.”

  Frankie gave him a smile, a solid slap, and a salute. “I’ll do my best, sir.” She slid her mouth guard back into place and skated off.

  A few minutes later, the teams finished their warm-up laps and the bout began. As usual, Frankie skated like a woman on fire, a blue-haired blur on the track. Though her new teammate was barely over five feet tall, her smaller stature made her nimbler, and she zipped in and out of the other skaters with ease and precision, not once tripping or falling. The noise rose to a nearly deafening level as one team scored, then the other, the fans whooping and hollering in support.

  Harry eyed the women with awe. “These broads are tough!”

  “You ain’t kidding,” Ollie replied. “They make the Vietcong look like a bunch of pantywaists.”

  We cheered and hollered and pumped our fists throughout the bout, leaping to our feet when the final score was 141 to 127 in favor of the Fort Worth Whoop-Ass. Frankie skated over for a round of congratulatory back pats and high fives.

  “Great job!” I told my roommate.

  “One of these days,” she told me, “I’m getting you out on this rink.”

  I had to admit, it looked like fun. But my skating skills were beyond rusty. I’d probably break my tailbone in the first five seconds.

  As we returned to the car, Seth turned to his grandfather. “Why don’t we grab a bite to eat? There’s not much in the fridge at home. You and your buddies cleaned it out.”

  “What can we say?” Harry replied. “We’re growing boys.”

  It had been decades since the three men had been boys, but their visit was clearly making them feel young again. I was glad to see it.

  Their earlier discussion gave me an idea. “How about we go for Vietnamese food?” I suggested. “There’s a good pho place not far from here that also serves noodle and rice dishes.”

  “Groovy,” Harry replied.

  “Far out,” added Leonard.

  Ollie sealed the deal with, “I dig it.”

  We drove to the restaurant and were greeted by the enticing, savory smell of Vietnamese cuisine. The five of us enjoyed a delicious meal together before returning home. Seth left me with another kiss at my door. As wonderful as that kiss was, and as fun as the day had been, my thoughts turned immediately back to the abandoned baby once the door closed and I was left alone with my thoughts.

  How is she doing?

  Is she thriving?

  Is someone missing her?

  * * *

  On the following Tuesday morning, those questions were still fresh in my mind. I phoned the caseworker who had picked up the baby at the fire station. After identifying myself, I said, “I know this is probably an odd request, but is there any chance I could see the baby again? I’ve been worried about her.”

  “She’s in good hands,” the woman assured me. “The O’Neills are wonderful people. But I know how you feel. I get attached to these kids, too. It’s an occupational hazard.”

  She gave me the couple’s phone number and I dialed it as soon as the caseworker and I had wrapped up our call.

  Mrs. O’Neill answered on the fourth ring. After identifying myself, I said, “I don’t want to intrude, but I can’t stop thinking about the baby. Any chance I could come see her sometime?”

  “Of course,” the woman said. “And if you’re free now, it’s a good time. She’s awake and alert.”

  I jotted down the address, plugged it into my GPS, and we were on our way to the South Hills neighborhood. In minutes, Brigit and I pulled up in front of a single-story gray brick home with white trim and bright yellow shutters. The place looked clean and homey.

  As Brigit and I headed up to the porch, a full-figured woman with strawberry-blond curls met us at the door, pushing open the glass storm door while expertly cradling the baby in the other arm. She gave me a bright smile. “Good morning.”

  “’Morning.” Though I was speaking to the woman, my gaze had already moved to the baby. The baby had the same silky dark hair, I remembered, but her skin color had normalized and her eyes could now focus. She wore the bluebonnet-blue hat she’d had on the night she’d been left at the station. The yarn brought out the color of her eyes. She moved her arms and shadow-boxed with chubby little baby fists.

  “My gosh!” I said, taking in her full, round cheeks. “Is that really the same baby?”

  The woman laughed. “Believe it or not. She’s growing like a weed. Seems she’s always hungry.”

  The baby looked right at me and cooed. Ooo. My heart melted into my shoes.

  “Would you like to come inside and hold her for a bit?” Mrs. O’Neill asked.

  “I’d love to.”

  She stepped back to allow me and my four-legged partner into the foyer, and we followed her to the living room. Baby equipment crowded what would have otherwise been a spacious room. A swing sat in one corner, a playpen in another. A bouncy seat sat on a soft blanket that had been spread across the rug in the center of the room. A glider with a matching ottoman sat opposite the sofa, burp cloths draped over the arm.

  The woman gestured to the glider. “Why don’t you sit there? She loves to be rocked.”

  I ordered Brigit to sit on the floor as I slid into the glider chair and stretched my hands out to take the baby from the woman. Once I had a good hold on the infant, I set the chair in motion, gliding back and forth with the baby in my arms. She looked up at me and her mouth opened, as if she had questions she wanted to ask if only she knew how to make her vocal chords form them.

  I took her itty-bitty baby hand in mine. It was soft and warm and perfect. This is pure heaven. Too bad her mother is missing out on this.

  Mrs. O’Neill perched on the edge of the sofa. “We were told that we’ll get her if she’s made available for adoption. I’m trying not to get my hopes up, but I can’t help myself. Any idea when y’all might know something?”

  At the rate things were going, we might never know the real story about this baby. But at some point, if we couldn’t get answers, the adoption would be allowed to proceed. Still, I couldn’t foresee when we might get to that point. It
could take days, or it could take weeks.

  “I’m sorry,” I said on a sigh. “I wish I could give you a definitive answer. We’re doing our best to sort things out.”

  She nodded and offered a patient smile. “I’ll just have to trust that things will work out the way they’re supposed to.”

  I looked back down at the baby. “Hey, little girl. You sure are a cutie.”

  She replied with a blink.

  Mrs. O’Neill cocked her head. “Do you think she looks more like a Harper or a Piper?”

  Uh-oh. This woman is already picking out names. “That’s a tough one,” I said. “Harper, maybe?”

  When the baby began to wriggle and fuss, the woman handed me a bottle. I put it to the baby’s lips and she latched on tight, sucking with gusto.

  Mrs. O’Neill laughed. “Told you she’s always hungry.”

  A few minutes later, she’d polished off the bottle and I decided to hand her back to her foster mother for burping. Mrs. O’Neill draped a cloth diaper over her shoulder and clutched the baby to her chest, patting the little one’s back. The baby emitted an adorable little “bup.”

  “Thanks for letting me see the baby,” I said.

  “Anytime you want to come by,” Mrs. O’Neill said, “you’re more than welcome.”

  She walked me and Brigit to the door, where I gave the baby a little wave good-bye. The baby was too young to offer a sincere smile, but when her lips turned up in another eruption of gas I chose to believe it was a divine sign of encouragement.

  Brigit and I returned to our cruiser and set back out on patrol.

  It was a slow morning, very few calls coming in on the radio. After getting nowhere in the People of Peace case, I decided to put some more effort into the burglaries, see if I could find Felicia Bloomquist’s stolen inventory. If I could find the person or persons responsible, maybe I could also find the stolen laptop and the Steve Nash bobble-head that belonged to the man who drove the Lexus. Of course, chances were the computer and doll had already been sold on the black market.

  I drove to the Sell ’N Swap, another location that offered sales space for rent in an old warehouse. I led Brigit inside with me but wrapped her leash around my hand to shorten it, keeping her close to my side. She had a strong tail and I didn’t want to risk her accidentally knocking over something expensive.

  The vast majority of the vendors here dealt in antiques of one kind or another. One booth offered only vintage glassware. Another offered grandfather clocks in a variety of sizes, their dings and dongs not quite in synch as they struck the quarter hour. Yet another vendor specialized in old lunch boxes and offered one in a Pac-Man design, another with a Peanuts comic-strip theme, and a third featuring the Incredible Hulk in an earlier incarnation.

  I strolled on until I reached a booth selling sports memorabilia. The operator of the booth was a tall man who appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties. A San Francisco 49ers ball cap sat atop his bald head, while a jersey from the now-defunct Houston Oilers football team stretched across his broad shoulders and chest. The vendor stood behind his table, a man in a Dallas Stars T-shirt on the other, the two haggling over an autographed Vancouver Canucks official hockey puck.

  “Will you take fifty?” asked the customer.

  The vendor crossed his arms over his chest. “Fifty-five. That’s my final offer.”

  The customer reached back for his wallet. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  While they finished their exchange, I took a quick look around. The booth comprised three tall, wide metal shelving units, the kind normally found in garages or outdoor storage sheds. The vendor appeared to have economized on presentation to maximize his profits. Crowding the shelves were plastic boxes protecting the treasures inside, everything from vintage baseball cards featuring Ken Griffey Jr. and Pete Rose, to golf balls autographed by Jack Nicklaus and Arnold Palmer. Three contained bobble-heads. LeBron James in a Cleveland Cavaliers jersey. A shirtless Muhammad Ali in red boxing gloves and white shorts. Another featuring an unidentified Chicago White Sox player. The latter was marked “1968 Nodder.” A bin sitting on the table in front of me held autographed photos in plastic sleeves, everyone from Nascar legend Dale Earnhardt to tennis star Serena Williams. I flipped through it until the two men finished their transaction.

  After sliding the cash into a zippered fanny pack at his waist, the vendor turned to me. He took in my uniform and glanced down at Brigit, but his countenance remained calm, no sign of alarm upon seeing law enforcement at his booth. “Something I can help you with, Officer?”

  “There is,” I replied. “My father was a huge fan of Steve Nash when he played for the Mavs. Dad had a bobble-head doll but my dog here chewed it up.” I angled my head to indicate Brigit. Okay, so I was bearing false witness against my partner, which was a sin. But I was doing it to catch someone who’d broken another commandment, thou shall not steal. If my made-up story about the damaged doll could lead me to finding the burglar, two wrongs could make a right in this instance. “Any chance you’ve got a Nash bobble-head?”

  “I don’t have one on hand,” he said, “but we dealers have a network. If you can give me a few days to ask around, I might be able to hook you up.”

  “That would be great.” This man wasn’t the thief, but maybe he could lead me to the lawbreaker.

  I reached into my pocket, retrieved one of my business cards, and handed it to him. He whipped out a pen, turned the card over, and scribbled Steve Nash Mavs bobble-head on the back. I thanked him and moved on.

  As I circled around to the second row of booths, I came across a man in a rolling chair with his feet propped up on the end of the long table in front of him. He stared down at a tablet that streamed a James Bond movie. On his table were a wide variety of products sold in multilevel marketing platforms, including a number of cosmetic and skin-care lines. Avon. Mary Kay. Nouveau Toi, the same brand sold by Felicia Bloomquist, whose inventory had been swiped from her garage.

  Aha! Or maybe aha. This guy was neither Latino nor sporting a hamburger nose, like the two magazine salesmen the victims had described. But maybe the sales calls were a coincidence, unrelated to the thefts. After all, they’d described totally different men, and there were a lot of guys going door-to-door selling magazines, home-security systems, or soliciting lawn care or painting gigs.

  I stopped in front of the table to examine the merchandise. Brigit examined it, too. But while I used my eyes and hands, she used her nose, sniff-sniff-sniffing at the boxes and tubes and jars. A peacock-blue eyeliner caught my attention. I’d seen the product listed for $21 in Felicia’s catalog. This man had put a sticker on the package offering it for $8. Other items seemed to be similarly priced, offered at much less than usual. Given the typical markups for direct-sales products, this guy would be making a minuscule profit on the products, if any, had he paid wholesale for them. Of course if he’d stolen the products, any price, no matter how small, would put him in the black.

  A trio of brass coat trees sat to the side of the table. Hanging from the hooks were a number of clothing pieces, including dresses, tops, pants, skirts, and leggings in fun prints. The brands were identified by hand-lettered index cards taped to the rod. Cabi. Agnes & Dora. Du North Designs. Vestments, another brand Felicia sold.

  Could this man be the burglar who’d stolen her inventory? Only one way to find out, and that was to ask him questions and see if he came up with reasonable answers.

  I picked up a boxed jar of Nouveau Toi skin cream bearing a $12 price tag. If I recalled correctly, Felicia’s catalog listed this item for $36. The cream claimed to be organic and made from all-natural ingredients, including shea butter, cocoa butter, and jojoba oil. Heck, if it didn’t make my skin look better, I could spread it on a cracker. “Will this cream help with my problem areas?”

  The man looked up at me. “What problem areas?”

  “These.” I waved a hand in front of my face. “They’re pretty bad.” Or so I’d be
en told.

  He lifted an unconcerned shoulder. “I don’t know. Read the box.” He went back to his movie, customer service be damned.

  Frankly, I felt more than a little miffed. “Aren’t you going to help me? Isn’t that part of your duties as a brand representative? Don’t they train you on this stuff?”

  He didn’t even bother to look up this time. “I don’t rep these brands. I just sell ’em. I sell ’em cheap, too. If you want information, you’ll have to call someone else and pay them full price.”

  “How can you sell these products if you aren’t an official rep? Isn’t that a violation of the companies’ policies?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “But if that’s the case, that’s between the company and the person who signed a contract with them. I didn’t sign anything, so I’m not bound. You’re a cop. You should know that.”

  I didn’t bother explaining that contracts were a civil law matter, and police handled only criminal matters. “If you don’t buy from the companies,” I asked, “then how do you get this stuff?”

  His eyes were still on his screen as he explained. “I buy out people who are looking to get out of direct sales and want to get out from under their inventories. There’s a lot. People lose interest or find they’re having to work too hard to make a buck.”

  His explanation made sense, but was it the truth? “Can you prove it?” I asked.

  He looked up now, his expression wary. “Say what?”

  “Can you prove you bought this inventory?”

  He pulled his feet off the table and put them on the floor, sitting up straight. “Why would I need to do that?”

  “Because you’re selling some products here that are identical to ones that were stolen from a home in the area just a few days ago.”

  His face clouded. “I didn’t steal a damn thing and I don’t appreciate the insinuation.”

  That makes us even, because I didn’t appreciate your tone and inattentiveness, either.

  He reached under the table and retrieved a plastic bin. After prying off the lid, he pulled out a large yellow envelope and handed it to me. “Here. See for yourself.”