Against the Paw

by Diane Kelly

  She ran the beam of light over the compost. “Looks like someone with very large feet stomped around under this window.”

  Hawke. “The president of the watch group stepped in there before we could stop him.”

  She grunted. “If there were other footprints in this soil, he mucked ’em up.”

  Damn him! “Wait.” I pulled my flashlight out again and shined it on a flat, half-moon spot near the outer edge of the flower bed. “Is that a different footprint?”

  The tech squatted down. “Looks like a partial print. The toe. It’s much smaller, though. Definitely from a different shoe. Doesn’t look like it belongs to a grown man unless he’s a small one. Could it have been the nanny? Or the wife?”

  “I don’t think either one of them have come out here since the alarm went off,” I said.

  The tech stood. “I’ll check on that. It’s also possible that one of them left the print earlier, maybe when they were watering the flowers. Or the print could belong to a kid.”

  Could the peeping Tom be merely a curious adolescent? I supposed it was possible. Pubescent boys had raging hormones. They also had poor impulse control thanks to the lack of full connection between their frontal lobes and the rest of their brains. Their frontal lobes also lacked a sufficient coating of myelin or “white matter,” the fatty material that helped the different parts of the brain communicate. I’d learned this in my juvenile justice class. Basically, it explained why tweens and teens do so many risky, dangerous, and outright dumb-ass things, like drag racing and experimenting with drugs and having a friend pierce their ear with only an ice cube and an unsterilized safety pin. Talk about an infection waiting to happen.

  I motioned to the broken piece of black plastic. “The homeowner said he thinks that’s part of a damaged sprinkler head, but I figured it couldn’t hurt for you to take a closer look.”

  Using a pair of long metal tongs, she fished the piece out of the dirt and dropped it into a plastic evidence bag.

  Derek held out a hand to the tech. “Got your crime scene tape? I’ll mark off the area.”

  The woman pulled a roll of yellow tape from her pocket and handed it to him.

  While the two taped off a perimeter, Bustamente took me aside. “What kind of feeling did you get from Paludo?”

  “An icky one.”

  “Me, too. I noticed he seemed awfully interested in a couple of things…” He gestured to my chest but kept his eyes on my face.

  “My shiny badge and name tag?” I provided.

  Bustamente snorted. “Yeah.”

  “I noticed that, too. You think he could be the peeper?”

  “I think we’d be wise to keep an eye on him.”

  Ugh. Rather than narrowing down the list of suspects, the investigation only seemed to provide new ones. There was Jerry Jeff Gilbreath, of course, and Ralph Hurley, the man who’d cut off his ankle monitor in San Antonio, fled, and been purportedly spotted in north Texas. Though Hurley’s history indicated he was after money rather than sexual gratification, it was possible he’d been the one at the windows, attempting to gain access in order to steal the inhabitants’ debit cards. Garrett Hawke was still near the top of my list, too. Though his standard MO differed, Nathan Wilmer had not yet been eliminated. Despite the fact that I’d stopped by his house two more times, I had yet to speak with Blake Looney, the loss prevention officer who’d spied on women in the dressing rooms at Nordstrom. And now Victor Paludo could be added to the list of potential suspects.

  Seriously, is the world full of lawbreakers and perverts or what?

  As much as I’d like to stick around and see what the detective and tech might find, Derek had clearly staked his claim here, trying to horn in on the case, probably hoping to garner some of the glory when the case was solved.

  Brigit and I strode back to the front of the house. Although the minivan, the Chrysler, and the Mercedes were gone, Hawke’s Expedition remained. He sat in the front seat looking down at a tablet that lit up his face.

  Several questions popped haphazardly into my mind, like mental popcorn.

  Hawke’s touching Korinna had been an overly familiar gesture, a violation of her personal space. Did it mean anything?

  Hawke was on duty every time the BP Peeper struck. Did that mean something?

  Zach had mentioned that the former paratrooper he’d met had been injured in training and never served overseas. Was the man he met Garrett Hawke? Had Hawke ever served in Iraq?

  The only one of these questions that I could get a definitive answer to at the moment was the last one. I led Brigit over to Hawke’s car, noted that he’d pulled up a page of communications equipment on his tablet, and rapped on his window.

  He didn’t seem startled, so he must’ve seen me coming in his peripheral vision. He pressed the button to roll the window down. “Did y’all find any clues back there?”

  “Just your footprints so far,” I said. “Got anything you’d like to confess?”

  He barked a laugh, as if the idea of him being the peeper were absurd, but quickly quieted when he saw the intent look on my face.

  I leaned in closer. “You mentioned at the meeting at Forest Park that your unit served in Iraq. Tell me more about that.”

  Alarm flickered over his face, though he acted nonchalant, lifting a shoulder. “What would you like to know?”

  I, too, feigned nonchalance, lifting my own shoulder. “What did you like best about serving there?”

  “What did I like best about serving in the army?” he said. “I guess it was the camaraderie. It certainly wasn’t the food or—”

  “I didn’t ask what you liked best about serving in the army. I asked what you liked best about serving in Iraq.”

  He hesitated a moment, his jaw flexing as he obviously debated how to respond. He chose, wisely, to respond with the truth, probably knowing the police had ways of verifying information. “I never made it to Iraq.”

  “You said at the meeting that your paratrooper unit had been deployed to Iraq.”

  “It was,” he said.

  “But you weren’t with the rest of them?”

  The jaw flexed again. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  He lost his cool. “Because I shattered my fucking leg at Fort Hood, that’s why!” He attempted to deflect my questions by turning things on me. “Is this the way Fort Worth Police treats veterans? By putting them through an inquisition?”

  I decided to be blunt. It was probably the only approach that would work with this guy. “It seems like you were trying to mislead the people at the meeting.”

  He took his hands off his tablet and raised them in innocence. “I never claimed to have been in Iraq. If they misunderstood, that’s their problem.”

  I gave him a pointed look. “Are we on the same side, Mr. Hawke? Because if we are, I’d appreciate you shooting straight with me.”

  He cast me an irritated look, glanced away for a moment, and turned back, his face strained. He scrubbed a hand over it. “People like to know that someone’s looking out for them. They need a hero.”

  What he said was true. But it was only half of the story, wasn’t it? “And some people need to be that hero, don’t they?”

  He snorted softly, mirthlessly. He stared out his windshield, sitting quietly for a moment. “I suppose so,” he said finally. After another short silence, he turned to me. “Look. I joined the army thinking I’d get to make a difference. But I was just a dumb-ass kid back then and I did some stupid things and got myself injured. The day the army gave me my medical discharge papers was the worst day of my life. Do you have any idea what it’s like to feel that you’re no good to anybody anymore?”

  I related to his need for purpose, his desire to help others. Heck, I felt the same way. That’s why I’d become a police officer.

  He let out a long breath. “I suppose serving in the watch makes me feel like I’m doing something, making amends for screwing up before. I know I can go a little overboard at t
imes, but I’m not one of those people who can stand back and do nothing when I see a job that needs to be done. Especially if that job is protecting my family and neighbors.”

  Hawke and I had much more in common than I’d realized. “Thanks, Garrett. I appreciate you being honest with me.”

  “You didn’t give me much choice, now, did you?” Though he scoffed indignantly, the small smile he gave me seemed sincere.

  I gestured to his tablet. “Whatcha got there?”

  “I’m shopping for radios for the watch crew. If everyone has radios we’ll be able to get in touch with each other faster than we can using our cell phones.”

  “Good idea.” I stepped back from his car. “Take care now.”

  Bustamente came around the corner of the house and motioned for me to follow him. Brigit and I went with him to the front door of the house. He knocked lightly. Joel Rabinowitz answered a few seconds later.

  “Got some questions for y’all,” Bustamente said.

  Joel stepped back to allow us to enter. There was no sign of his wife. She’d probably taken the baby back to bed upstairs.

  “Korinna’s in the kitchen,” he said, gesturing to his right.

  The au pair was seated at the kitchen table, a mug of steaming fruit-flavored tea sitting in front of her. She looked a little less shell-shocked now, but still worried.

  Bustamente dropped into a chair across from her, and I took the one next to him, giving Brigit the order to lie at my feet. She sniffed around under the table, searching for errant crumbs, but found none. The Rabinowitz home was spotless.

  Though Bustamente would take the lead in questioning the victim, I pulled my pad of paper and pen from my pocket to take notes.

  The detective introduced himself to Korinna. He tilted his head to indicate me. “Officer Luz will be assisting me in this investigation.”

  When she looked my way, I gave the young woman a nod and a sympathetic smile. She nodded in return.

  The detective folded his hands on the table. “Can you tell me whether you’ve seen anyone suspicious around?”

  “Like a stranger, you mean?” Korinna asked.

  “Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe someone you know who might have taken an unusual interest in you. A clerk at a store where you shop. Someone from church or the park.”

  “Maybe an acquaintance or neighbor?” I added. Victor Paludo, for instance.

  She shook her head. “I can’t think of anyone.”

  Bustamente nodded. “Have you noticed a green Isuzu Amigo with a soft top? It’s a type of convertible SUV.”

  She shook her head again. “I don’t think so.”

  “What about a white Ford F-150 pickup truck?”

  Her shoulders lifted. “I do not pay much attention to cars.”

  The Hurley connection was probably a long shot, anyway. Hurley was after money, not sexual thrills as this intruder seemed to be. Besides, Hurley would be more likely to target the residents of the main home, who’d have more money, right? Then again, maybe he’d figure the guesthouse would be an easier target.

  Bustamente continued his questioning. “What about men doing work on the house or in the neighborhood? An exterminator or painter? Anything like that?”

  “No, not that I remember.” Her eyes darkened and she chewed at her lip. “The only one I can think of…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Who is it, Korinna?” the detective asked.

  She slumped in her seat. “It might be my ex-boyfriend.”

  “Your ex? What’s his name?”

  “Jamie Gowan.”

  I asked her to spell the name for me and jotted it on my pad. I looked back up at her. “What makes you think it might be him?”

  She hesitated a moment, chewing her lip, as if afraid to answer. “He slapped me a few times while we were dating. That is why I broke up with him.”

  I felt my body go rigid in anger, the woman in me instinctively itching to take hold of my baton and go in search of the jerk, treat him to some street justice. The cop in me knew that would be a very bad idea, especially if I wanted to hang on to my badge and make detective one day.

  “How long ago did you break up?” the detective asked.

  “Two months,” she said. “That is when I took this job and moved here.”

  “Two months,” Bustamente repeated as he made a note on his own pad. “Where did you live before?”

  “In Houston,” she said. “I worked for a nice family there but I was afraid to stay so close to Jamie. He kept calling me and coming by the house when he knew the husband and wife would not be home. I was afraid that I was putting the family in danger so I asked the placement service to find me a new job in another city.”

  “Does Jamie still call you?”

  “No. I bought a new phone when I moved here. He doesn’t know the number.”

  “Does he know where you moved to?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “I told the family that I worked for that I was moving to Fort Worth, but they would not have told him.”

  “Did you post anything on social media? Facebook, maybe? Instagram? Even a picture can sometimes give away clues.”

  “No,” she replied. “I took down my Facebook page before I left Houston. I do not use any other social media.”

  “What about a friend? Could one of them have posted something on their pages?”

  “I don’t have many friends in America. Only a few other au pairs and a friend from high school who works in California. They do not post very often.”

  “What about the placement office? Could he have obtained your new address from someone there?”

  “I would not think so,” she said. “They are supposed to only take messages and pass them on to us. They are not supposed to give out our phone numbers or addresses.”

  Even so, it was possible her ex had weaseled the information out of someone who worked at the placement office. People could be gullible and easily persuaded, especially if they thought the situation was urgent.

  She gave us Gowan’s address and told us that he worked as a bartender at a Mexican restaurant in the northern suburbs. “I don’t remember his phone number,” she said. “I deleted it from my contacts list.”

  I jumped in again. “Did you report the abuse?”

  She shook her head. “No. It didn’t leave any marks. He told me it would be my word against his and that the police would not believe a foreigner.”

  Ugh. Abusers could be so manipulative. “You realize that’s not true, right?”

  Tears welled up in her eyes. “I do now.”

  I reached across the table and gave her hand a squeeze. “I’m glad the alarm went off, Korinna. Before anything bad happened to you.”

  She swallowed hard, as if forcing down a lump of emotion. “Me, too.”

  As I stood to go, Rachel Rabinowitz appeared in the kitchen doorway. “I’ve got the spare bedroom made up for you, Korinna.”

  The young woman stood, too. “Thanks.”

  “We’ll be back in touch,” Bustamente told the two of them, “as soon as we know something.”

  Brigit had fallen asleep on the floor, so I nudged her butt with my toe to wake her. “Time to go, girl.”

  She lumbered to her feet and we followed Rachel to the door.

  “Take care,” the detective said. “Keep a close eye on things.”

  “Believe me,” she replied, keeping her voice low, “we will.”

  Bustamente and I parted ways at the curb. “Have a good night, Officer Luz.”

  “You, too, Detective.”

  As I returned to my cruiser, ideas exploded like popcorn in my mind once again. Was this incident committed by the same man who’d spied on the other women, or could Korinna’s ex be the one who’d been outside the guesthouse tonight? Did Ralph Hurley have anything to do with this? What about Victor Paludo? Hawke had seemed sincere earlier, but did that mean he was no longer a suspect?

  And perhaps the most important question of all was
When will we get some damn answers?!?

  FORTY-TWO

  MIDNIGHT SNACK

  Brigit

  Brigit would have liked to have some of the peanuts that man had in his pocket earlier, but he hadn’t offered her any. Of course the peanuts weren’t the reason why she’d alerted on him. She recognized his scent and thought Megan might want to know. Of course she recognized the scents of the other men, too. The big one and the older one. They didn’t seem quite as important, though.

  As promised, Megan stopped at the grocery store and took Brigit inside with her to buy a box of liver treats. They stopped down another aisle where Megan spoke briefly with Frankie, who was stocking shelves. Brigit nudged Frankie’s hand, knowing their roomie was always good for a scratch. Frankie did not disappoint, treating Brigit to a ten-fingered neck massage.

  Back at the cruiser, Megan opened the box and fed Brigit five treats, which she wolfed down in rapid succession, hardly bothering to chew. Yum!

  FORTY-THREE

  NIGHT SHIFT

  Tom

  Another dose of the sleeping aid in her second glass of wine was all it took to knock her out. Good thing she was such a lightweight. Her arms lay limp on the bedspread, her mouth hung open like a dead trout’s, and her head lay at an odd angle on the pillow. She’d probably wake with a crick in her neck, but he made no move to adjust her head to a more comfortable position. Her head could fall off and roll away for all he cared.

  Dressed in dark green, he slipped out the door. He’d decided to try a new strategy tonight. Normally, he chose quiet nights to sneak around, assuming there would be less chance of being noticed. But on a Saturday night, when there was much more activity on the streets and many more sounds on the airwaves, maybe he’d actually be less conspicuous, less likely to be heard at a window or to raise the suspicions of passersby.

  His strategy worked. He kept his head down as he walked, making long strides. None of the cars that passed slowed for the driver to take a closer look. A group of adolescent girls who’d likely snuck out of a slumber party paid him no mind as they giggled and gaggled their way down the sidewalk, rolls of toilet paper tucked under their arms. Looked like they planned to decorate someone’s trees with the bathroom tissue.