by Diane Kelly
Damn him! I’d responded first!
I listened for the address. It was only five blocks from my current location.
“Hang on tight!” I warned Brigit as I turned on my lights and floored my gas pedal.
In seconds, we pulled up in front of the house. Derek careened in from the opposite direction, the two of us nearly having a head-on collision at the mailbox. More headlights were coming up the street. I’d bet that the approaching car was Hawke’s Expedition.
I leaped from my car. Derek leaped from his at the same time. We ran to the front door, elbowing each other aside as each of us attempted to be the first to reach the porch. I might have more determination, but the Big Dick had longer legs. He beat me by two steps. Jackass.
Derek pounded on the door. Bam-bam-bam! “Fort Worth Police!”
A moment later the door opened to reveal a couple in their early thirties. The woman had worry lines on her forehead and a bawling infant in one arm, her other arm draped over the shoulders of a tall, dark-haired woman who appeared to be a decade younger. The younger woman was crying, dabbing her blue eyes with the sleeve of the fluffy white robe she wore. The robe hung at a haphazard angle and her feet were bare.
Derek hooked his thumbs into his belt and rocked back on his heels. “Y’all reported an attempted B and E?”
Before the people could respond, Garrett Hawke stormed up the walk behind us. “Everyone okay here?”
Derek turned to Hawke and looked him up and down, taking in Hawke’s well-developed muscles, as well as his tool belt, fully equipped tonight with a handgun. “Who are you?”
Had Derek arrived earlier to the meeting at the park, he would’ve met Hawke already. But since he showed up as the meeting disbanded, he hadn’t had the opportunity.
“I’m Garrett Hawke,” the man said. “President of the neighborhood watch.”
Hawke, too, hooked his thumbs in his belt. Was it just my imagination, or did he flex his biceps, too? I took a closer look. Yep. Definitely flexed.
Derek issued a derisive snort and turned back to the frightened people huddled in the doorway. “What happened here?”
“The house alarm went off a few minutes ago,” the man said. “The first thing I did was check to make sure everyone in the house was okay. Then I called our au pair.” He gestured to the young woman. “She lives in the guesthouse out back.”
The young woman sniffled and pushed her long hair back from her face. “Someone was at my window,” she said in a voice tinged with an accent I couldn’t readily identify. “My cat howled and woke me and I saw a moving shadow outside my window and then the alarm started ringing.”
The woman with the baby released the au pair and stepped back, putting her now-free hand to the back of the baby’s head and swaying side to side to calm him. Or her. Hard to tell when the baby was bald and dressed in unisex pastel green. Could go either way.
“What’s your name?” I asked the au pair.
She sniffled again before answering. “Korinna Papadakis.”
Greek. The mystery of her accent was solved.
“And yours?” I asked, looking to the couple.
“Joel and Rachel Rabinowitz,” Hawke supplied before they could respond. Despite having received no invitation to enter the home, he pushed his way past me and Derek and stepped through the open door and into the foyer. “Don’t y’all worry. Everything’s going to be okay.”
When he raised a hand to pat Korinna’s shoulder, she recoiled. No wonder. She was already on edge. She didn’t need a man she hardly knew touching her after having a stranger at her window.
I reached into the left breast pocket of my uniform and pulled out a small package of tissues. I always kept a pack in one of my pockets, as well as a few Tootsie Rolls in another. You run into a lot of upset people as a cop. The tissues came in handy for drying tears, while the candy could appease a frightened child, at least momentarily. I offered the tissues to Korinna.
“Thanks,” she said, taking them from my hand.
Though Korinna’s build was thinner than that of Kirstin Rumford or Alyssa Lowry, like the two earlier peeping victims Korinna was tall with long, dark hair. While I’d wondered before if Hurley could be behind these prowler cases in Berkeley Place, that the women might have been intended victims, my gut told me that he wasn’t our guy. Hurley was after cash and debit cards. Whoever had been at the women’s windows seemed to be looking for a sexual thrill. Even so, my brain told me that the physical similarities between the peeping victims could be purely coincidental, and not to rule Hurley out just yet.
“Other than the shadow,” Derek asked Korinna, “did you get a look at the intruder?”
She shook her head, her lip quivering. “No. I jumped out of bed and ran to my bathroom and locked myself in. I didn’t come out until I heard my cell phone ringing.”
Hawke interjected now. “Could you tell anything about him from the shadow? His size or what he was wearing?”
“No,” Korinna said. “Not really.”
Hawke continued. “So you can’t say what hair color—”
“Step back!” Derek barked at Hawke. “You need to let law enforcement handle this.”
The two engaged in a heated staring match for several seconds, like two gorillas who’d come face-to-face in a jungle.
As the men stared each other down, I turned my attention to Mr. and Mrs. Rabinowitz. Thankfully, the baby had calmed and his or her wails were now only a minor blubbering. “Did either of you see the prowler?”
“No,” Mrs. Rabinowitz answered. “We didn’t even know what had set off the alarm until we spoke to Korinna and she said she’d seen someone at her window. Joel grabbed a flashlight and went to check things out while I went to get the baby.”
Poor thing. It had probably been sleeping soundly when the loud noise went off. Talk about a rude awakening.
“I’ve got a K-9,” I told them. “If you’ll take me to the window, she can track the prowler.” Neither Derek nor Hawke could compete with that. Before we stepped away, I turned to Korinna. “I’ll have some more questions for you when I get back. Okay?”
She nodded.
Joel stepped outside. I followed him with Derek and Hawke coming right behind us.
I went to my cruiser and released Brigit. “C’mon, girl. You’re up.”
Joel led us around the side of the house and approached the gate.
“Wait!” I called. “Don’t touch it. The prowler might have left fingerprints on it.” I pulled my baton from my belt and flicked my wrist to extend it. Snap! I reached over the top of the fence and used the baton to lift the gate latch. The gate swung open and the five of us stepped through.
Joel walked down the grassy stretch alongside the guesthouse. As we went along, my nose detected the earthy scent of compost. I looked for the source, noting a small curved flower bed along the side of the house.
Joel passed the first two windows, stopping at the third. “This is the one.”
Derek and I shined our flashlights on the window. Sure enough, the screen had been sliced. It was a clean cut, probably from a knife or box cutter. My thoughts went back to the poor young woman with the gunshot wound, to Detective Bustamente’s comment that the screen had been removed from her bedroom window. Could that case have anything to do with this one? Was this more than a mere peeping case? Had Hurley tried to break in here? Or could this be a totally unrelated crime, an attempted sexual assault or murder? My thoughts tossed about in my mind as if my brain were juggling them.
Before I could stop him, Hawke stepped into the flower bed and leaned in to look at the screen, resting a hand on the metal frame.
“Get back!” I spat. “Now!” Seriously, does this guy have compost for brains? “I warned you last time not to contaminate the crime scene.”
Hawke raised his palms, the flashlight now aimed at his head, giving his face an eerie glow. “’Scuse me for trying to help.”
Veteran or not, I’d had enough of this g
uy and his ego and his need for control and attention. “When we want your help, Mr. Hawke, we’ll ask for it.”
Backing me up for once, Derek cut Hawke a pointed look and hiked a thumb over his shoulder. “Wait over there.”
Too bad it took a common enemy for Derek and me to get along.
As I bent down next to Brigit, prepared to order her to track, my eye spotted something in the dirt. I shined my flashlight on it. It was flat and black and made of plastic. One edge was a smooth semicircle, while the other was jagged in an irregular pattern. Whatever it was appeared to be only part of something round that had cracked. But what? “Any idea what that is?”
Joel and Derek leaned in for a look.
“It’s probably part of a sprinkler head,” Joel said. “My lawn service is constantly running them over and chewing them up with the mower.”
His explanation made sense, and he was probably right. But just in case he wasn’t the crime scene techs should collect it and check it for prints.
I gave Brigit the order to track. As we set off, I called back over my shoulder. “Call crime scene. Get Detective Bustamente out here, too.”
“I know the drill,” Derek snapped. “I’m the one who trained you, remember?”
How could I forget? The few months I’d been partnered with that jerk had been the worst of my life.
Snuffle-snuffle-snuffle. Brigit took the lead, trailing the scent. When she reached the gate, which had a spring and had swung closed on its own, I used my baton once again to open the latch. My partner put her nose back to the ground and continued. I trotted along after her, reduced now to her sidekick.
Brigit made her way down the block, hooked a left on Warner Road, then turned right onto Windsor Place. She stopped in an especially dark stretch of the road and lifted her nose in the air. She slowly stepped forward, head high, before turning her head and taking a couple of steps in the other direction. Eventually she gave up and sat down, looking up at me.
“This is where he got into his car, huh?” I bent down and put one hand on each side of her furry neck, treating her to a nice, two-handed scratch. “Good girl, Brigit. Good girl.”
She woofed as I stood.
“Quiet,” I ordered. It was late at night and her bark risked waking the residents.
She woofed louder as she stood and looked up at me. Woof-woof! Woof-woof-woof!
“Quiet!” I hissed again.
She stepped over and shoved her nose into the pocket where I normally kept her liver treats. I hadn’t brought any with me tonight and she was none too happy about that. She let me know just how she felt by flopping down on the ground and looking up at me with an expression of pure and utter disgust.
THIRTY-NINE
RESIGNATION
Brigit
If Brigit had had opposable thumbs she would have typed up a letter of resignation. Working for belly rubs and butt scratches was for amateurs. She deserved better. She deserved a liver treat, dammit!
Surely there was some type of canine labor law that required compensation to be delivered in edible form. Maybe she’d round up the other K-9s, form a union, issue a list of demands. That would show these humans who was boss.
If Megan wasn’t going to give her any liver treats, then she’d go on strike, refuse to work. She flopped down on her belly like a furry anvil and refused to move.
Kiss my fluffy butt.
FORTY
SELF-LOVE LEADS TO SELF-LOATHING
Tom
He reached into his pocket for the lens cap, felt the jagged edge, and realized he had only a broken part of it. Panic gripped his chest.
Where is the other half?
Is it still in the flower bed or did I drop it somewhere?
FORTY-ONE
CONDUCT UNBECOMING
Megan
Brigit wouldn’t budge. When coaxing her didn’t work, I went full-on alpha, barking orders as loud as I dared this late at night and physically attempting to lift her to a stand.
She wasn’t having it.
When I saw her eye my pocket once again, I realized what the problem was. Brigit was angry that I hadn’t given her a liver treat lately. Who could blame her? She loved the things and she worked hard to earn them.
I bent down and ran a hand over her back, looking her in the eye. “If you’re a good girl and come with me now, we’ll stop at the store for a whole box of treats. How’s that sound?”
As if she understood, she wagged her tail and got to her feet.
“Good girl.” I gave her a peck on the snout.
She and I headed back to the Rabinowitz home. As many cars as were at their house now, you’d think they were having a party. In addition to the two police cruisers, Bustamente’s plain sedan, and Hawke’s Expedition, there were three other cars, all sporting the neighborhood watch signs. The first was a Mercedes E250 in a shade of blue so dark it appeared nearly black. The second was a burgundy Chrysler 300. The last was a white Honda Odyssey minivan.
Bustamente, Hawke, and Joel Rabinowitz stood on the porch speaking with three other men, presumably the other members of the watch who were currently on duty. One of them was Victor Paludo, the creep who’d been staring at reporter Trish LeGrande’s breasts at the meeting at the park. There was no sign of Derek. He was probably still at the guesthouse protecting the crime scene.
I clipped Brigit’s leash onto her collar and led her up to the porch. As we walked, I noticed she put her nose to the ground and began to snuffle again. Probably some creature of the night had been out here.
As Brigit and I approached, Bustamente turned from the men to me. “Any luck?”
“Same as last time.” I stepped onto the porch. “The suspect must have gotten into a car.”
The three men with Hawke and Joel Rabinowitz seemed to represent a cross-section of Berkeley Place. The first was the silver-haired Paludo, who looked to be around seventy-five. He wore a loose tee and a pair of stretch-waist nylon running pants, though the potbelly told me he wore them for comfort rather than exercise. The instant I stopped in front of him, his focus shifted down from my face to my chest. The pervy vibe he’d given me at the meeting in the park was back with a vengeance, and this time it was personal. I crossed my arms over my chest, hoping he’d take the hint. His eyes moved back to my face, though they continued to flicker downward.
“Nice to meet you, Officer Luz,” he said, casting a glance down at Brigit. “Beautiful dog you’ve got there.”
“Thanks. She’s smart, too. Top of her training class.” It was more than I could say for myself. Though I’d excelled at the written tests, I performed average on the physicals tests, and barely eked by on the shooting test.
Brigit sniffed intently at his pants.
“She must smell Bitsy,” the man said. “That’s our Chihuahua. She’s a handful.”
I wasn’t sure whether he meant a literal or figurative handful, but either could probably apply.
The second man was fiftyish and dressed in a golf shirt and khaki shorts. His brown hair bore a few subtle streaks of gray. “Rick Westmoreland,” he said, taking my hand.
I gave him a firm handshake and a nod.
The last was a brown-haired man in his mid-forties who stood no taller than me. He looked vaguely familiar. It took me only a moment to realize he was the one who’d been with the Realtor at the watch meeting at the park. “You’re Nora Conklin’s husband, right?”
“That’s how I’m known around here.” The man smiled, but it seemed halfhearted. Perhaps he’d spent too much time living in the shadow of his tiny yet larger-than-life wife.
Brigit stepped up to the man, sniffing him intently. A moment later, she sat down in front of him and stared straight ahead, giving her passive alert. Uh-oh.
I took a step closer. “Sir, is there something in your pockets that shouldn’t be there?”
His face tightened in unease. “What do you mean?”
“I’m talking about drugs. My dog seems to have alerted on you.�
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“Oh!” Conklin chuckled, his face relaxing. “No drugs, but I did bring a snack.” He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a small foil package of peanuts. The package had been opened, half of the contents eaten, the top of the bag folded over so the remaining nuts wouldn’t fall out. He pulled out all of his remaining pockets, too, showing me that all they contained other than the peanuts were his wallet and keys.
“My apologies.” I glared down at my furry partner. “My dog’s been on a diet and she’s none too happy about it.”
“No problem,” he said, pushing his pockets back into place.
My gaze ran over the men. “Did any of you notice any cars parked on Windsor Place just east of Warner Road?”
“If there was a car parked there,” Paludo said, “it didn’t catch my eye.”
Maybe it would have if the car had sported breasts.
“I don’t remember seeing a car, either,” said Conklin.
Westmoreland simply raised his palms and his shoulders.
The sound of a vehicle pulling up to the curb behind me drew my eye. It was a crime scene van, driven by a boxy female tech with thick black hair. We’d crossed paths before. She was no-nonsense, thorough, and efficient.
“Excuse me,” I said to the men, leaving them in the detective’s hands for now.
I led Brigit down the front walk to the van.
The woman hopped down from the truck, her plastic toolbox in her hand. “Where’m I goin’?” she asked, wasting no time.
“Around back,” I said. “I’ll show you.”
Bustamente came down from the porch. When Hawke and the other men made to follow us, he raised a hand. “Sorry, guys. Police only.”
Hawke turned back to the men. “It’s just as well. We should get back out on patrol in case this creep is still around.”
The tech followed me and the detective around to the guesthouse, where the Big Dick stood waiting several feet back on the grass.
I stopped and pointed to the damaged screen. “The prowler did that.”
She pulled out her flashlight, turned it on, and took a look.