by Diane Kelly
Derek Mackey.
Ugh.
He and Garrett Hawke were cut from the same cloth. Arrogant. Unreasonable. Uncompromising. Still, they worked to protect others. I had to give them that, even if I thought their reasons were less about concern for others and more about basking in hero worship.
I continued on, hooking a right onto Patton Court, which backed up to the Burlington Northern and Santa Fe railroad tracks. Though the night was now too dark for me to see it, I could hear the sounds of a slow-moving freight train as it rolled along toward the main rail yard on Vickery. Clack-clack-CLACK-clack. Thankfully, the conductor didn’t lay on the horn. Brigit didn’t like the sound and would send up a wail of her own when she heard one.
As I circled around at the end of the court, something dawned on me. Hawke’s wife. She resembled the two peeping victims. Caucasian. Tall. Long, dark hair. I’d surmised when I’d first met Alyssa Lowry that the peeping Tom had a type—assuming, of course, that there even was a peeping Tom. If there was, looked like Tom and Garrett Hawke had something in common.
But could they have more in common?
Could they be one and the same?
I pulled to a stop, put the gearshift in park, and turned on the inside light. I reached over to the passenger seat and retrieved the calendar the tiny woman had given me. Though the calendar indicated it had been revised today, May 7, it showed the schedule for the entire month, including the preceding days when only one person had been assigned to each watch shift.
On Monday the fourth, the night before Kirstin Rumford had summoned the police, a man named Victor Paludo had been scheduled for the 9 P.M. to 1 A.M. shift. Garrett Hawke had worked the 1 A.M. to 5 A.M. shift. Of course we had no way of knowing precisely when during the night the peeping Tom had been in Kirstin Rumford’s bushes, if, in fact, he’d been in them at all. Last night, both Paludo and Hawke had been assigned to the earlier shift, the shift during which someone had been at Alyssa Lowry’s window. Still, those two particular men had been on duty both nights.
Was it coincidence? Or was it evidence?
TWENTY-FOUR
LEFT UNTREATED
Brigit
Pathetic.
The word might be too complex for Brigit to comprehend, but she understood the concept. It described the beagle at the apartment they’d visited earlier. Some watchdog he’d been, issuing that soft, lazy bark. Heck, that sound wouldn’t scare a newborn kitten, let alone a police dog and two full-grown humans. What a wimp.
She wasn’t sure why Megan had stopped the cruiser, but the lack of motion often meant they were about to get out of the car and go to work. Brigit lived for those times. She loved to sniff and trail and chase. Besides, she wanted a liver treat, doggone it! Megan hadn’t given her an edible reward in what seemed like forever. Praise was nice. A butt scratch was even better. But nothing beat a liver treat. Brigit knew she was more likely to receive a treat if Megan asked her to perform a task.
Brigit stood in the back of the car and eyed Megan, looking for signs that her canine skills would be needed. Megan stared at a piece of paper, making no move to reach for the door handle.
Rats.
Brigit flopped down on her belly, rested her chin on her paws, and heaved a loud sigh.
TWENTY-FIVE
LUST AT FIRST SIGHT
Tom
He lay in bed Thursday night after the neighborhood watch meeting, daydreaming about the Rabinowitzes’ au pair.
Au what a pair she had …
He couldn’t have her. Not yet anyway. With both the police department and the neighborhood watch increasing patrols he couldn’t risk venturing to her window.
Looked like he’d have to find another way to fulfill his needs for the next few days.
TWENTY-SIX
PEEPHOLE
Megan
After realizing that both Garrett Hawke and Victor Paludo had been on watch duty the nights of the prowler/peeper incidents, I’d run criminal background checks on both of them. Both men were clean, at least in the sense that they’d never been arrested for a serious crime. Hawke had an arrest from his much younger days for public intoxication, though the charges had not been pursued by the district attorney, who had much bigger fish to fry. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say Hawke had probably been out drinking with buddies and gotten a little rowdy. It happens. Heck, in Texas an arrest for public intoxication was virtually a rite of passage for young men. Most times we tossed the offenders in the drunk tank, let them dry out overnight, and released them in the mornings, their hangovers constituting their punishment.
At half past six Friday evening, Brigit and I met Detective Bustamente in the parking lot of Leonard Drake’s apartment building.
The detective pointed to a toffee-brown Jetta parked nearby. “That’s his vehicle.”
So Drake was home. Presumably.
The Jetta sported a purple bumper sticker with white lettering that spelled MY DAUGHTER AND MY MONEY GO TO TCU. He also had a sticker of the horned frog mascot on his back window. He appeared to be a proud papa. The only question was, Is he also a peeping Tom?
It was one of life’s ironies. Sometimes even the worst criminals had a good side. I’d learned that early on in my law enforcement career. A gangbanger who’d shot up a member of a rival gang might be a devoted son or brother. A woman with a dozen shoplifting offenses might rescue stray, starving cats. A teenager caught with crystal meth could be the lead tenor in his church choir. The penal code, in a sense, imposed a set of societal morals, but everyone had their own personal code that guided their behavior. Some people imposed a more restrictive moral code on themselves. Others bent the official rules, following only those they agreed with.
What code does Leonard Drake live by?
With some luck, we’d soon find out.
We headed toward the apartment.
“Any word on the shooting case in San Antonio?” I asked, the images of the woman still vivid in my mind.
“None.”
I was almost too afraid to ask the next question. “How is she doing?”
He released a long, weary breath. “No improvement. But no decline, either.”
Though I sometimes prepared myself for the worst so that I wouldn’t be as shocked when it happened, a big part of me wanted to look on the bright side here, to acknowledge that she was hanging on and that could mean she’d survive.
The detective and I reached Drake’s door. After he knocked, both of us instinctively turned sideways to make ourselves a smaller target and to be poised to run. For all we knew, the guy could be some type of wack-job who intended to open fire through the door. The beagle reached the door first, treating us to another soft, lazy wooh from the other side. Brigit didn’t bother snuffling the threshold. She didn’t seem interested in the dog.
A moment later, a male voice came from inside. “Who is it?”
Bustamente and I exchanged glances. The door had a peephole and it was still fully light outside. Surely the guy knew exactly who was on his doorstep. I found it ironic that here we were, wanting to speak to this man and determine whether he’d been peeping in on women, and now he was peeping out at us.
“Fort Worth Police Department,” the detective said. “We need your help, Mr. Drake.”
“With what?” the man called through the door.
Bustamente cut a glance my way. “It would be easier to speak if you’d open the door, sir.”
Several silent seconds passed in which Drake was probably debating whether he wanted to open the door. Eventually he acquiesced, opening the door just far enough to poke his head through. “What do you need help with?”
In case Drake said something that gave us probable cause to arrest him, it would have been better for me and the detective if the man stepped outside where we could conveniently handcuff him. Perhaps Drake knew that from his earlier arrest and didn’t want to make things easy on us. Still, he would be within his rights to refuse to talk to us at all. Sometimes it
was better not to push your luck and to take what you could get.
Bustamente got right to the crux of the matter. “A customer of Cowtown Critter Control had a prowler outside their house this week. We’re wondering if you know anything about that.”
Drake’s eyes narrowed and his body became rigid. “Like what? What could I know about it?”
Bustamente shrugged. “You were all around the house spraying for bugs. We hoped maybe you saw something.”
The detective’s technique was clever. Rather than making Drake think he was a suspect, he was leading the man to believe we were only interested in him as a potential witness.
Drake’s posture relaxed and he opened the door a little more. His beagle ventured out onto the porch and raised his nose to sniff at Brigit’s chin. She ignored him, instead focusing her attention on Drake, her nostrils flaring as she took in his scent. Did she recognize it from the bushes at the Rumford and Lowry homes? If only she could tell me. Too bad she didn’t speak English. Or that I didn’t speak canine.
Drake cocked his head. “Which house was it?”
“The Lowry home,” Bustamente replied.
“Lowry?” Drake repeated. “That name doesn’t ring a bell.”
Bustamente checked his notes and rattled off the address. “It’s in Berkeley Place.”
“Berkeley Place isn’t in my usual zone.”
“I understand,” the detective said. “The homeowners said you’re not their regular tech. You were filling in for someone?”
“That’s right. One of the other guys was out on vacation and the rest of us divvied up his calls this week.” His mouth turned up in a smile. “Collected some sweet overtime.”
Overtime pay. Hmm … I remembered Mrs. Lowry saying that Drake had taken much longer than their usual tech. I’d assumed it had been so he could case the place. But if he were paid by the hour, had he slowed down on purpose simply to get a bigger paycheck?
Bustamente continued. “Mrs. Lowry said she spoke to you. She mentioned she was a music teacher, gave piano lessons in her home.”
Drake shook his head. “Still doesn’t ring a bell. I make small talk with all the customers. You know, to make them more comfortable.”
His small talk had done anything but make Alyssa Lowry more comfortable. Still, the guy inhaled a lot of chemical fumes all day long. Maybe the toxins had killed a few too many of his brain cells.
“What did the house look like?” Drake asked.
“Two-story Tudor,” the detective said.
Drake looked up as if trying to visualize the house. “I think I remember that one. Bad fire ant problem, right?”
Bustamente cut a questioning look my way.
“I’m not sure what their issue was,” I said. Perhaps I should’ve asked. It hadn’t seemed like a relevant fact at the time.
“If it’s the house I’m thinking of,” Drake replied, “I didn’t notice anything odd there. ’Course I was only looking for ants.”
“Understood.” Bustamente bobbed his head slowly a few times, a habit that meant he was buying himself some time as he decided how to proceed. “Mr. Drake, I’m aware that you had a criminal trespassing charge a while back.”
Drake’s eyes flashed with anger and alarm and he stood up straight. “My attorney settled that with the prosecutor.”
“What happened?”
Drake was quiet a moment, his face pensive. My guess was that he was wondering whether he should call his attorney before speaking about the case.
Bustamente raised a palm. “That matter is a done deal. There’s no double jeopardy. You can’t be tried again. I’m just wondering what you were doing in an all-girls’ dorm without permission.”
“My nineteen-year-old daughter lives in that dorm,” Drake spat. “I’m spending every penny I have, working all the overtime I can get, and eating peanut butter sandwiches for dinner every night to send her to that expensive school, and she’s just playing around and having fun and getting a bunch of Cs and Ds. Her mother—my ex—won’t do jack shit about it, and when I tried to talk to my daughter about it on the phone she hung up on me. Ignored me every time I tried to call or text her after that. I had no choice but to try to track her down and tell her she had to get her act together or I’d cut her off.”
“But why not check in at the front desk?” Bustamente asked. “Go through the proper channels at the dorm?”
Drake snorted. “If my daughter knew I was there she would’ve refused to come down. It would’ve been a waste of my time.”
He’d come up with the story quickly. It was surely the same one he’d given his defense attorney. It made sense, though it still didn’t excuse him going into an all-girls dorm without permission. But I could see how an overworked father could be angry enough under those circumstances to ignore the visitation rules.
Evidently Bustamente felt the same way. He thanked Mr. Drake for his time, even wished him a good weekend. Drake didn’t return the sentiment, but at least he didn’t slam the door in our faces when he closed it.
As we returned to our cars, I asked, “Are you going to cross him off the list of potential suspects?”
“Not quite yet,” Bustamente said, “though my gut tells me he’s not our guy.”
“My gut’s saying the same thing.”
I looked down at Brigit. “What’s your gut saying, girl?”
TWENTY-SEVEN
GROWLS
Brigit
What’s my gut telling me? It was telling her that it was empty and that Megan had better give her a liver treat soon or Brigit was going to make herself a royal pain in the rear until she got what she wanted. She knew how to do it, too. Claw at the mesh in the car. Bark incessantly. Whine in that shrill way that made humans cringe. Snuffle at Megan’s pocket to give her dumb partner the unmistakable hint that she was way overdue for a treat. Seriously, how could Brigit be expected to work under these deplorable conditions? Weren’t there canine labor laws?
Fortunately, Megan was good at reading clues. All it took was a growl from Bright’s belly, another from her throat, and a snuffle at her partner’s pocket for Megan to give in.
“Okay, girl,” Megan said, reaching into her pocket, “but just one treat. You’re supposed to be on a diet.”
When her partner pulled out a liver treat, Brigit wagged her tail to say It’s about time!
Megan tossed the treat her way and Brigit snapped it out of the air with a chomp.
TWENTY-EIGHT
STARRY, STARRY NIGHT
Tom
He sat in front of his laptop, watching a porn movie called Shear Pleasure that featured a trio of dark-haired hairstylists who gave their male customers some good trim.
Unfortunately, the movie wasn’t working for him at all. The young women on-screen, though pretty and stacked, couldn’t act for shit. The sounds they made were so contrived and insincere. Ooooh. Aaaah. Uhhhh. It was like they were playing Wheel of Fortune with only vowels.
He exited the movie and closed his laptop.
How long would he have to wait before he could venture out again?
TWENTY-NINE
BAD LANDINGS AND BUSTED KNEECAPS
Megan
Early Saturday afternoon, I once again caught Frankie feeding junk food to Brigit. This time it was Fritos.
“She’s got to lose weight!” I said, snatching the bag away. “Those extra pounds are bad for her joints.”
Frankie frowned up at me from the couch. “I feel cruel sitting here snacking and not giving her any. She keeps looking at me with those big brown eyes and it’s impossible to say no.”
I sighed, handed the bag back to my roommate, and flopped down on the couch. “I know what you mean. She sure knows how to sucker people.”
“What if I take her out for some exercise?” Frankie suggested. “I could skate and she could run along with me. That would burn a bunch of calories.”
It was the perfect solution. Though I sometimes took Brigit jogging with me, she
always wanted to go faster and farther than I was able. But on roller skates, Frankie would be able to go as fast and far as Brigit wanted. Luckily, Brigit knew to stay beside the person leading her, so at least I didn’t have to worry about her crossing in front of Frankie and getting her paws run over or tripping my roommate.
“That would be great, Frankie,” I said. “I’ll grab her leash.”
Frankie rounded up her skates from her bedroom while I clipped the lead on Brigit. A minute later, they were ready to go. I walked out to the driveway to see them off.
“Be back in a few!” Frankie called, setting off down the street.
Brigit bolted along beside her, clearly enjoying the high speed.
While they were gone, I figured I’d mow our small lawn. The front was mostly ivy, but the back had some grass, at least in the spots where Brigit had yet to dig holes. Frankie’s boyfriend had taken their lawn mower when he’d moved out, and we’d been making do with a weed whacker. But I’d figured it was time to get some real equipment so I’d ordered a mechanical lawn mower online. It was an old-fashioned model that required no gasoline and thus wouldn’t pollute the environment. It would be cheaper to operate, too, and much less noisy.
I went to the garage and used a flathead screwdriver to cut through the tape on the box. Luckily, the mower required minimal assembly. Four bolts later and the thing was ready for its maiden voyage.
I opened the gate and set off across the backyard, the mower giving off a whip-whip-whip sound as it sent cut grass into the air. Not bad.
I made my way back and forth across the yard, occasionally having to clear clumps of grass from the blades. As I performed the task, my mind mulled over important topics. How police and detective work could be both incredibly rewarding and absolutely frustrating. How it would be a great idea if the Berkeley Place Neighborhood Watch hosted a women’s self-defense course. How cutting the grass was like shaving Mother Earth’s legs.