Against the Paw

by Diane Kelly

  “Tom. Right. Sorry.”

  There was a grating sound as she apparently put her hand over the mouthpiece to muffle the conversation taking place at her end. Tom heard a man’s voice say, “When you’re done with this call, take your lunch break.”

  Whatever twitch he’d felt was long gone. This phone-sex job was just that to the woman on the other end. A job. A paycheck. His pleasure wasn’t truly important to her.

  She came back on the line. “Where were we?”

  You were about to go nuke a frozen dinner in the office microwave. “You were telling me to rub my hand over my chest.”

  “Oh, right,” she replied.

  He wondered if she had a script and was looking for her place.

  She continued to tell him what to do, speaking her lines with a practiced purr that was too perfect to be real. She could probably recite the script in her sleep. As for himself, he could still recite the first few lines of Marc Antony’s speech from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. Mrs. Snyder had made all of her students memorize it and recite it in front of the class. “Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears.” But ears weren’t exactly the body part he’d like to be focusing on at the moment.

  A couple more minutes into the call and he realized this just wasn’t working for him. It was no better than that stupid porn movie he’d watched on his laptop. Nothing could compare to a real woman, and he wasn’t willing to settle. But as long as he was going to be charged, he figured he might as well have some fun. “I’ve got an idea,” he said. “How about you come to my house and suck on my toes while I polish my guns and read Tolstoy?”

  She paused for just a moment, then made an attempt to improvise. “You’re into Tolstoy, are you? Will you be my lord of the cock ring?”

  “Lord of the Rings is Tolkien, not Tolstoy,” he snapped, immediately feeling guilty afterward. This woman might have confused her literature, but at least she was trying. And at least he now knew for certain that it was not Mrs. Snyder on the other end of the line. She would’ve known the difference.

  “I’m doing my best!” the woman snapped back, the purr gone, replaced by a deeper, forceful voice. “Give me a fucking break.”

  The low-pitched voice had him wondering now if the woman at the other end of the phone even was a woman. She sounded like a drag queen now. Not that he had anything against drag queens, given his own proclivity to sexual taboos. But a drag queen would not be his choice of bed partner.

  Tom sighed. “This isn’t working for me.”

  “You know what, buddy?” said the voice, clearly a male speaking now. “It’s not working for me, either.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  FAMILIARITY

  Megan

  Zach and Frankie drove separately back to the house in his car. When we returned home, the two of them remained on the porch while Seth came in to round up Blast.

  I bent over in the living room and cupped Brigit’s chin in my hands. “Did you miss me, girl? I missed you. Yes, I did!”

  She replied with a tail wag and a cheese-scented pant. Hmm. I glanced over at Seth. “Does Blast’s breath smell like cheddar?”

  Seth arced an incredulous brow. “You want me to smell my dog’s breath? On purpose?”

  He had a point. I looked around for a cracker box. While there was no food packaging in sight, the couch pillows were strewn about the floor, the rug lay askew, and telltale tufts of loose fur and orange crumbs appeared around the room. A glance through the open door of my bedroom showed that the covers of my bed, which I’d made this morning, were rumpled, as if someone—a couple of rambunctious dogs, perhaps?—had engaged in a playful tussle atop them. It didn’t take a detective to discern what had happened here.

  I gestured at the rug and pillows. “Looks like Brigit and Blast had a wild party.” I looked down at my K-9 partner and pointed a stern finger at her. “Busted. You’re grounded for two weeks.”

  She gave me a tail wag that said the punishment was well worth the fun she’d had. Being the forgiving sort, I gave Brigit a pat on the head and turned to give Seth a warm good-night kiss on the lips.

  The door opened and Frankie came in, putting an end to our embrace.

  “See ya’,” Seth said as he passed her on his way out.

  After the door closed behind him Frankie leaned back against it, her eyes gleaming, a soft smile on her lips.

  “If you’re going to swoon,” I teased as I gathered up the couch pillows, “give me some warning so I can toss these under you to break your fall.”

  Fortunately, she opted for flopping onto the futon instead. “I really like Zach,” she said. “I owe you one, Megan.”

  “Clean up the poop in the backyard all next week and we’ll call it even.”

  Her nose scrunched in disgust. “It’s bad enough I have to clean Zoe’s litter box. Besides,” she said teasingly, “I took you in off the streets. Have you forgotten that already?”

  Frankie had given me and Brigit a place to live when we’d had trouble finding a pet-friendly place in my price range. She owed me nothing. “You win. We’ll call it even.”

  With that, Brigit and I headed out back so she could take a final tinkle before going to bed for the night.

  * * *

  My cell phone rang on my bedside table at eight Sunday morning, rousing me from sleep. I lifted my arm from around Brigit, whom I’d ended up spooning during the night, and picked up the phone. She let out a groan and put her paw over her eyes, clearly not ready to face the day after the wild party she’d thrown last night.

  My blurry eyes looked at the phone screen. The readout indicated it was Detective Bustamente. I jabbed the button to accept the call. “Hello, Detective,” I said, my voice still hoarse with sleep.

  “Sorry to wake you,” he said, “but I figured you’d want to hear this breaking news. Hurley put in an appearance at a used-car dealership in Burleson last night.”

  The town of Burleson sat just a few miles south of Fort Worth, one of the many smaller jurisdictions that made up the suburbs.

  I sat up in the bed. “Sounds like he’s starting to mix things up.”

  “A little,” the detective replied. “He pulled a gun on the owner, and demanded both his debit card and the keys to a white pickup that was for sale in the lot.”

  He went on to tell me that, as usual, Hurley had worn a ski mask and gloves, and left no prints behind. He had set off in the truck, promptly made a withdrawal at a branch bank ATM, and disappeared before the city police or the Johnson County Sheriff’s Department could get on his trail. Thankfully, nobody had been shot. It was a slight variation on Hurley’s usual MO, which in the past had involved a home invasion, but perhaps the dealership had looked like an easy target. And evidently, he’d decided he needed some new wheels.

  “What about his Isuzu?” I asked.

  “It was found on the side of the road a half mile away with no oil in it. The engine must’ve seized up on him. He’d replaced his original license plates with stolen ones, but the VIN number matched his registration.”

  Though Hurley had left no concrete evidence behind at the other crime scenes, the fact that his car was found so close to the dealership was solid evidence that Hurley was the culprit in this particular crime. The guy should have spent a few measly bucks of the stolen money on a can of oil. Dumbass.

  I put the detective on speakerphone and opened my notes app. “What’s the license plate on the truck?”

  As Bustamente provided the combination of letters and numbers, I typed them into my phone for later reference. Of course they might or might not be helpful. Chances were Hurley would change the license plates again. “Got it. What kind of truck was it?”

  “Ford F-150.”

  The make and model was a popular one in Texas, both for personal purposes and for businesses that involved heavy equipment or hauling, such as landscaping or agriculture-related companies. There had to be hundreds of them on the roads in and around Fort Worth. Hurley had made a sma
rt decision in choosing that vehicle. Too bad he hadn’t chosen something more unusual and attention-grabbing, like a lemon-yellow Mustang.

  Garrett Hawke might be a minor thorn in our sides, but I had no doubt he could quickly disseminate the information about the pickup to the residents in his area. If Hurley was the one who’d been prowling around Berkeley Place, I wanted the residents to know to look out for a white pickup now and to call in any sightings. Heck, maybe Hawke and his watch group would even help us catch Hurley. “Have you notified Garrett Hawke?” I asked.

  Detective Bustamente chuckled. “I’ve saved those honors for you, Officer Luz.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  When we ended our call, I rounded up the schedule Nora Conklin had given me for the Berkeley Place Neighborhood Watch, scanned the schedule for Hawke’s phone number, and dialed it.

  He answered on the first ring. “Hawke here.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Hawke,” I said. “This is Officer Megan Luz. I’m calling to let you know—”

  “Did you catch the prowler? Has there been an arrest?”

  My frustration flared at the interruption, but I tamped it down by closing my eyes and counting to five. “Not yet. But there’s been a development.” I told him about the car theft and asked that he notify his neighbors and ask the volunteers on patrol to keep a watchful eye.

  “We will,” he said. “I appreciate the call, Officer Luz. And I apologize if I’ve stepped on some toes during all of this. I’ve been told more than once that I can come on too strong. I’m working on it.” A good-natured chuckle followed his words.

  “I appreciate that. You have a good day.”

  It took a big man to apologize. Hmm. Had I been wrong to suspect that Hawke could be a peeping Tom? Was he nothing more than a concerned citizen trying to keep his family and neighborhood safe? I couldn’t be sure. The only thing I was certain about was that a cup of coffee would taste darn good about then.

  * * *

  Late that afternoon, Seth and I climbed into his Nova to head to my parents’ house for the family Mother’s Day celebration.

  He glanced my way before turning his attention back to the street in front of us. “What have you told your family about me?”

  “When we first started dating, I told them what a hero you were, that you’d served in the army and worked on the bomb squad. When you dumped me, I told them you were an asshole.”

  He laughed mirthlessly and looked out his window. “I suppose I deserved that.”

  “Don’t worry. They know you came to your senses and begged me to take you back. That you groveled shamelessly.”

  He looked my way, chuckling for real this time. “I kinda did, didn’t it?”

  I gave him a pointed look. “I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t.”

  We passed the zoo sign, which featured two rhinos, their horns sticking up from their snouts.

  “I heard that one of the jaguars just had kittens or puppies or whatever you call baby jaguars,” Seth said.

  “Cubs,” I replied.

  “Cubs? Really?”

  “Mm-hm. If the adults of the cat species roar, like lions or tigers or jaguars, then their babies are called cubs. If the adults purr, like housecats or cougars, then their babies are called kittens. At least that’s what they told us at zoo camp when I was seven.”

  “How do you still remember that?”

  I shrugged. My mind tended to stockpile information, most of it relatively useless. I’d been one of those children who lived in their heads. Now I supposed I was an adult who lived primarily in her head, hence my desire to become a detective, a cerebral job if ever there was one. “The camp focused on charismatic megafauna.” Okay, now I was just using big words to show off.

  “Charismatic what?”

  “Megafauna. It means the large animals that humans find interesting or cute, and rally around. Like lions and tigers and giraffes and elephants.” Nobody ever rallied around a blobfish, after all. The fish, which resembled the lovable yet pathetic cartoon character Ziggy, was considered one of the world’s ugliest animals.

  “Megafauna, huh? There you go again. Blowing my mind with another brainy factoid.” Seth took his hands off the steering wheel, splayed them around his head, and imitated the sound of an explosion. Kaboom.

  My parents’ house was a single-story wood-frame model in Arlington Heights, a neighborhood that sat just southwest of downtown. The house had three small bedrooms, two tiny and outdated baths, faded yellow paint, and peeling trim. My parents were anything but pretentious. Raising five children on a working-class income, they hadn’t had the time or money to be.

  I was the oldest of the brood, followed by three brothers and, finally, another sister. Gabby and Joey, the two youngest, were still in high school and lived at home. My other two brothers, Daniel and Conner, had come home from college for the weekend.

  Seth followed me to the cockeyed front door, which had stuck for as long as I could remember. I put my shoulder to the surface and forced it open.

  Seth took a moment to inspect the door frame. “I could fix this.”

  “That would put you back in the ‘hero’ category.”

  My father tended to let things go around the house. He worked on the line at the General Motors plant and the last thing he wanted to do when he got home was more physical labor. Who could blame him? Still, it would be nice to be able to visit my family without risking a shoulder dislocation.

  We entered the house, as usual walking into utter chaos. After all, chaos required the least energy to maintain. It was a basic physical law.

  Gabby, Joey, and Daniel were flopped on the couch, a cluster of arms and legs and pillows, among which lazed my mother’s three indistinguishable tabby cats. My siblings were essentially younger versions of me, a culture clash of our Irish and Mexican heritage, dark hair tinged with varying amounts of auburn highlights, a smattering of light freckles sprinkled across their faces. The television played a mindless action movie, something with Tom Cruise in it.

  “Hey,” I said by way of greeting.

  Gabby looked up from the couch and, on seeing Seth, emitted a sound that was half gasp, half squeal, her cheeks turning pink. Instant crush.

  I pointed at each of my siblings in turn. “Gabby, Joey, and Daniel.”

  “Hi!” Gabby gushed, waving her hand. “It’s great to finally meet you, Seth!”

  My brothers were less demonstrative, greeting us with grunts of acknowledgment delivered without taking their eyes from the TV. Such manners, huh?

  Seth followed me to the kitchen where we found my remaining brother, Connor, sitting at the kitchen table working on his laptop. Despite the late afternoon hour, he still looked hungover. Odd, given that he was only twenty and thus not able to drink legally.

  I put a finger under his chin and raised his face. “Your eyes look beershot.”

  “Don’t you mean bloodshot?”

  “No, I don’t. Did you go out d-drinking last night?”

  He raised his palms. “I plead the fifth, copper.”

  No doubt he’d been out partying with his high school buddies last night, one of whom had been held back and already celebrated his twenty-first birthday.

  I circled behind him to look at his computer screen. “What are you working on?”

  “A paper for my history class. It’s on the Industrial Revolution.”

  “Want me to take a look at it when you’re done?”

  Other than the Fs I’d received for refusing to do oral reports in high school, I’d made good grades in English. All that reading I’d done as a child had provided me with an extensive vocabulary and excellent grammar. I’d earned As in English in college, and high marks on papers I’d written in my other subjects.

  My mother fluttered into the room, her sundress swirling around her, her feet bare, a single sandal in her hand. “Ask Daniel for help,” she told Connor. “He’s good at that stuff.”

  My gut clenched as my Irish ire rose. Da
niel might be the one majoring in engineering, but he didn’t have a monopoly on intelligence in our family. Seth eyed me, his eyes narrowing slightly, before stepping forward, extending a hand to my mother. “Hello. I’m Seth.”

  “Great to meet you!” She transferred the sandal to her other hand so she could give him a shake. “Megan says you’re a firefighter? And a member of the bomb squad?”

  “That’s right.”

  Mom bent over to peek under the table, looking for the match to the sandal in her hand. “Not there. Y’all excuse me for a second.” She greeted me with a drive-by hug as she scurried into the living room to see if the shoe was under the couch.

  Judging from the whine of the water pipes, Dad was still in the shower. Typical. Our reservation was in ten minutes, but my family could never get anywhere on time.

  “Let’s see about the door.” I led Seth out to the garage, where we retrieved my father’s toolbox.

  Seth carried the box back to the porch, set it down, and examined the door frame. When he found no problem there, he opened the door and took a look at the hard ware.

  “The hinges are loose,” he said. “That’s why it’s hanging wonky.”

  He rummaged through the toolbox until he found the right screwdriver. While I stood on the porch and admired the way his biceps and shoulders flexed as he worked, he tightened each of the screws. When he finished, he stepped back and closed the door. “Give it a try.”

  I reached out and turned the handle. The door swung open easily. All those years of fighting the damn thing and all it needed was a few turns of a screwdriver. Sheesh.

  Seth returned the tools to the box and stood to find me waiting for him with a grateful kiss.

  “I like that you’re handy.”

  “I like that you’re smart.” He gave me a kiss of his own, then leaned back against one of the porch supports. “Your family doesn’t know it, do they?”

  “Not really.” It seemed that no matter what I accomplished, no matter how much I knew, my parents retained the opinion they’d formed of me back when I was in elementary school and struggling with my stutter. It was bad enough that the other children had assumed my stutter meant I was stupid, but having my own parents overlook my intellect wasn’t just insulting but hurtful. Still, what’s a kid going to do? Even when she’s not a kid anymore?