Against the Paw

by Diane Kelly

  I glanced back at him as we went. I thought I’d seen a slight limp when he’d stepped back before, but now it was certain. His traipse had a little tick, his right leg looking stiff as he stepped.

  “Keep back,” I warned him. “Brigit needs space to keep on the trail.” It was a white lie. Brigit’s nose had an impressive track record, and she never let humans distract her. But frankly I didn’t want the guy in my personal space.

  My partner continued around the corner of the street, making her way into the road and turning left two streets down onto Hawthorne Avenue. She stopped to snuffle a piece of white, crumpled trash in the street—a bakery bag?—continuing on a moment later to the curb three houses from the intersection. She snuffled the curb, lifted her head in the air, and looked off down the road before sitting down on her haunches, and turning her head up to face me. She looked a little disappointed. Probably she’d been hoping for a chase. Brigit loved a good chase.

  Despite my admonition to keep back, Hawke stepped up next to me. “Dammit!” he barked. “She’s lost the trail.”

  I gave Brigit an appreciative scratch behind the ears, thanking her for her good work before turning my attention to Hawke. “She didn’t lose the trail. This is where it ends. Whoever was at the window must have gotten into a car here.”

  Just like it was no surprise that Hurley had parked under the tree on Lubbock Avenue, it was no surprise this prowler had chosen this spot to leave his car. The house he’d parked in front of had a FOR SALE sign on the lawn and stood vacant. All of the lights were off and several newspapers lay strewn about the driveway, a clear indication that nobody was living here at the moment.

  Of course it was also possible that whoever had been in the Lowrys’ yard had an accomplice who had parked here, waiting for the suspect. Maybe the person who’d been at the window was, in fact, a teenager. Maybe he’d snuck out of his house, hopped some fences, and been picked up by a friend or girlfriend here. Heck, I’d snuck out of my parents’ house a time or two when I was a teenager. Or maybe Hurley had indeed attempted to strike again, but been thwarted by the Lowrys’ automatic sprinklers. Had Hurley’s Isuzu Amigo been parked here only moments before?

  I glanced around but saw no oil stain. If only the mailboxes could talk. The windows of the houses nearby were also dark, the inhabitants likely already in bed. The meager light emitted by the porch lights didn’t extend to this stretch of the street. Given that there’d been no injuries, it seemed unnecessary to roust the residents from their beds to question them. Nonetheless, it couldn’t hurt for me to come back tomorrow and see if any of the residents had noticed anything, spotted any unusual cars parked here.

  I clipped Brigit’s leash onto her collar and she stood, tail wagging as if to say What now, boss?

  “C’mon, girl.” Brigit and I turned to go back to the Lowrys’ house, Hawke still tagging along. Brigit once again paused to sniff the crumpled white thing on the ground.

  I shined my flashlight on it. “What is that?”

  “Trash,” Hawke said. “A used napkin or tissue.”

  I bent down to take a closer look. No, it wasn’t a tissue, and it wasn’t a napkin. It wasn’t a bakery bag as I’d previously thought, either. Whatever it was, it was made of a lightweight fabric. While it had a stitched seam along part of it, another part looked unfinished. Weird.

  I snagged a twig from a nearby yard, pulled an evidence bag from my pocket, and used the twig to pick up the scrap and put it in the bag.

  Hawke’s nose twitched in disgust. “Why are you taking that used tissue?”

  It wasn’t a tissue, but I didn’t bother correcting him. “It could be a clue.” Then again, it could merely be a piece of trash as he’d suggested. Still, the fact that Brigit had stopped to sniff the thing both times we’d come upon it told me she thought it might be important. Of course Brigit also thought that squirrels and other dogs’ butts were important, so her judgment couldn’t always be trusted.

  Hawke motioned to the bag. “Can you get DNA from a tissue?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Mucus is a good source of DNA.” Hence the standard collection of mucus via a mouth swab.

  “How do you even know that belongs to the guy?” Hawke said. “Maybe someone just dropped it here.”

  “And maybe they didn’t.”

  First the guy complains that I hadn’t dusted Kirstin Rumford’s house for prints, and now he questions my ability to evaluate evidence. Ugh. Give me a break.

  I returned to the house and rapped on the door. Mr. Lowry opened it a moment later, his wife standing behind him with her sleeping baby cradled in her arms.

  Before I could speak, Hawke said, “The trail ran cold on Hawthorne.”

  “I’ll get a crime scene tech out here.” Probably a futile effort, but I felt the need to do something more. The thought of Ralph Hurley victimizing women, especially in W1 and on my watch, made my blood boil. It also made me fear for the safety of the citizens I’d sworn to serve and protect. “I don’t want to unnecessarily alarm you all,” I told the three, “but a man entered a home tonight in Frisco Heights and demanded the victim’s debit card and cash.” He’d also taken her sense of security and her faith in mankind, but those critical intangibles never made it into the reports. “Given the proximity of your neighborhood, it’s possible the two crimes are related. We believe the suspect in the robbery might be a parolee who cut off his ankle monitor.”

  “Did he—” Alyssa cried before putting her hand over her mouth as if afraid to ask the question, afraid to know just how much danger she might have been in only minutes before.

  Although she didn’t finish, it was clear where she’d been going. “No,” I said. “He didn’t physically harm her in any way.”

  “Thank goodness,” she said on an exhale, her shoulders relaxing.

  “He did fire a warning shot with his gun, though.”

  The shoulders tensed again.

  Hawke cocked his head. “I think I heard about this guy on the news yesterday. He’s from San Antone, right? Drives a green Amigo?”

  “That’s the one,” I said.

  “So he’s here in town?” he asked.

  “It’s possible,” I said. “We’d appreciate your watch group keeping a lookout and letting us know immediately if you spot his car.” I provided Hawke with Hurley’s license plate number. “He’s armed and dangerous. Be sure to tell your volunteers not to approach him.”

  “I’ll tell ’em,” Hawke said. “But I can’t make any promises about what I might do if I see the bastard.”

  “Please, Mr. Hawke,” I said, “leave law enforcement to the police, okay?”

  He responded with a noncommittal shrug.

  I turned back to the Lowrys. “I’d also like to ask you two a few more questions.” I glanced up at Hawke, giving him a meaningful look. “Privately.”

  Hawke raised his palms high as if surrendering. “Message received.” He returned his focus to the Lowrys. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

  “We will,” Mrs. Lowry said. “Thanks so much, Garrett. Knowing you’re around makes me feel so much safer.”

  Chris Lowry’s gaze went from his wife to Hawke’s back as the large man retreated across the yard. Lowry’s narrowed eyes and clenched jaw told me that Hawke made him feel emasculated, like he’d let his wife and child down when it came to fulfilling his role as their protector. He hadn’t, of course. Calling the police and the watch group were the best things he could have done. Chasing down the person who’d been in his yard could have proved dangerous, even fatal. What good would he be to his family if he’d been hurt or killed?

  “Come on in,” Mrs. Lowry said, stepping back to allow me and Brigit inside.

  I stepped into a hallway that seemed to be a shrine of sorts given the multitude of framed baby portraits hanging on the wall. Who could blame the proud parents, though? The kid was a cutie, all curly dark hair and dimples and toothless grins. He made the Gerber baby look like a
troll.

  A moment later, I was seated on a love seat with Brigit lying at my feet, shedding on a Persian rug that probably cost more than I earned in a month. The Lowrys were huddled on one end of their couch, Chris’s arm draped reassuringly over his wife’s shoulders, their baby dreaming comfortably, nuzzled against his mother.

  I pulled out my notepad. “Have you seen anyone unusual in the area lately? Maybe had a suspicious solicitor come to the door? Noticed anyone watching you or your house?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “What about someone who’s done work at your house?” I wanted to get information, but not lead them too much, so I tried to be subtle. “Have you hired a painter recently? Maybe a plumber or yard care service?”

  The Lowrys exchanged a meaningful glance before Mrs. Lowry spoke. “Our usual exterminator was on vacation last week and the service sent a replacement. The guy who came out gave me the creeps. He took three times as long as the regular tech and he asked a lot of nosy questions when he came to the door to collect the check.”

  “Nosy questions?” I repeated. “Such as…?”

  “He asked whether I’d taken the day off from work. When I told him no, that I worked from home, he wanted to know what kind of business I’m in.”

  I suppose my expression told her I was wondering the same thing.

  “I teach voice and piano lessons.” She gestured to the white baby grand piano situated at the far end of the room. “I used to teach music at Shulkey Elementary but I quit at the end of last school year so I could stay home with the baby.” She glanced at her husband again. “The exterminator saw our son’s photos hanging on the wall and asked how old he was, what his name was, whether he was crawling yet.”

  None of the questions he’d asked were necessarily unusual in and of themselves, and it was possible that Alyssa Lowry’s maternal instincts were simply in overdrive, but I also knew that seemingly benign questions could sometimes be a fishing expedition. Had the exterminator been trying to determine when Mrs. Lowry might be home by herself? Maybe. But if that were the case, and he was trying to catch Mrs. Lowry alone at a time when her husband wouldn’t be home, why would he have waited until late in the evening to return to the house? After all, there was a much greater chance her husband would be home at night than in the daytime.

  I’d need to mull these questions over. In the meantime, it would be helpful if I could identify the exterminator. “Any chance you know the guy’s name?”

  “It might be on the paperwork.” Mrs. Lowry stood from the couch. “I think I’ve still got our copy in the kitchen.”

  She rushed off to the kitchen and returned a moment later with a carbon copy of a form from Cowtown Critter Control. I was familiar with the service. Their signature yellow vans had round bug eyes on top that resembled oversized mirrored disco balls. You didn’t want to come up on one of their vans from the other direction on a sunny day or your retinas would be fried by the multiple reflections.

  Mrs. Lowry had signed the form at the bottom to indicate that the service had been performed to her satisfaction. Although the tech had also signed the form, his penmanship was deplorable, his name impossible to read. Best I could tell it read “Qiamond Ovabo.” Not likely. Luckily, the form came with the tech’s name preprinted higher up on the page. Leonard Drake. Seriously, dude. Work on that penmanship. Practice makes perfect.

  I jotted the name on my pad. “What did the guy look like?”

  Her eyes squinted as she thought back. “He was an older guy. White. Thinning hair that he combed straight back.” She waved splayed fingers in front of her face. “Looked like he’d spent too much time in the sun.”

  I made note of her description. “Any chance you’ve had any roofing work done recently?” Might as well see if the Lowrys had any connection to Zinniker and Sons, the roofing company that had done work at Kirstin Rumford’s house. If the Lowrys also mentioned having a roofer out lately, I just might have a concrete lead.

  “No,” she said.

  “Have you seen a roofing truck in the area? Maybe one of your neighbors getting some repairs done?”

  “Not that I recall.” She glanced over at her husband. “Have you, Chris?”

  He, too, responded in the negative. So much for that potential lead.

  I tried to sound as casual as possible when I asked the next question. “What can you two tell me about Garrett Hawke?”

  “Garrett?” Alyssa looked taken aback, her brows drawing inward to form deep parallel lines. “What do you mean?”

  I raised a shoulder with feigned nonchalance. “How long have you known him? Has he been president of the watch group for long?”

  As the guy himself had mentioned, he’d responded quickly to their call but found no one in the area. He’d been moist, too. Maybe that hadn’t been sweat dampening his shirt and brow. Maybe it had been water from the Lowrys’ sprinkler system. Or maybe the guy had just rubbed me the wrong way and I was having trouble letting it go.

  Alyssa sat up straighter. “Garrett and his wife moved into the neighborhood a couple of years ago with their three kids. He’s the one who organized the neighborhood watch. He can come on a little strong sometimes, but he means well. He’s caught kids egging houses and once he even caught a guy trying to break into a car. Garrett restrained him until the police came.”

  More to mull over. “Men like him can be a big help to both the police and their communities,” I said, as long as things don’t get out of hand. “I noticed Mr. Hawke seemed to have some trouble with his leg. Either of you know anything about that?” My gaze moved between Chris and his wife.

  Alyssa responded first. “I heard he was injured when he was serving with the army in the Middle East. Shot in the leg, if I remember right.”

  I cringed involuntarily at the thought. “Ouch.”

  Chris cocked his head as he looked at his wife. “Someone told me he’d stepped on a land mine.”

  The fact that Hawke was a veteran made me warm to him and, regardless of which version of events was correct, it appeared he’d been injured while on duty. Anyone who’d served his or her country couldn’t be all bad, right? Seth had served in Afghanistan. In fact, he continued to serve in the reserves. It was one of the things I admired about him. Of course I also had to admit that I found the eagle tattoo that spanned Seth’s back and shoulders incredibly sexy. U-S-A!

  I turned to Chris. “Are you involved in the watch group?”

  “Not really,” he conceded. “I’ve made contributions to help cover the cost of supplies and been to a meeting or two, but my career isn’t conducive to volunteering. I’m in medical sales. I work long hours and travel a lot.”

  “So you’re gone quite a bit?”

  “Yes,” he said. “In fact I just returned from a trip to Tucson today.”

  Hmm. A woman with an absentee husband fit the description of Hurley’s typical victim. But Alyssa’s husband was home tonight. And would Ralph Hurley be reckless enough to go back out on the streets so soon after presumably robbing another victim? Surely he had to know that the police in the area were keeping a close eye out for him and his car.

  I suggested some safety measures for them to take and stood to go.

  As the Lowrys led the way to the door, Brigit seized the opportunity to plunk her rear down on the expensive rug and drag her butt across it as we followed behind them. I couldn’t very well call her out, but I jerked on her leash and gave her a look that said Cut that out! She gave me a look back that said My butt itches. Sue me.

  As Chris opened the front door to let me and Brigit out, a male crime scene tech came up the walk. The Lowrys repeated their story for him and showed him the window.

  I pulled the evidence bag from my pocket and held it out to the tech. “I deployed my dog and found this in the street when she was tracking the suspect. I’m not sure if it belonged to him or if someone else dropped it, but I picked it up just in case.”

  The tech, who’d donned a pair o
f protective gloves, carefully removed the crumpled white fabric from the bag. He gave it a swift shake to uncrumple it and held it up to take a look.

  Now that it was no longer balled up, it became clear that the fabric was a lightweight glove of some sort. While the stitching around the fingers, thumb, and sides was solid, the edge at the wrist was left unfinished, which seemed odd. The gauzy material wouldn’t be waterproof, so it couldn’t be a glove used for protection from moisture or hazardous liquids. Perhaps it was some type of glove liner, maybe something used in sports or snow skiing, or inside a more heavy-duty work glove. Or maybe it was intended for use by someone who was sensitive to latex and needed a protective layer. Maybe Hurley had been wearing it underneath the black gloves his earlier victim said he’d been wearing when he broke into her house and shot up her wall.

  “What kind of glove is that?” I asked the tech. “Or do you think it’s just some type of liner?”

  “Could be,” he said, returning the glove to the bag. “If I can’t figure it out myself, I’ll check with the other techs, ask around.”

  With the situation now in hand, I bade everyone good-bye, giving both the Lowrys and the tech my business card.

  The tech tucked the card into his breast pocket. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  “Thanks.”

  Brigit and I returned to our patrol car. I drove down the street and turned, making my way back to the spot where Brigit had lost the scent. There, I pulled to a stop and unrolled the windows, letting the night air invade the cruiser.

  “Who are you?” I said into the night, addressing the unknown person who’d been at the Lowrys’ bedroom window and later disappeared from this spot. “And where did you go?”