Against the Paw

by Diane Kelly

  A minute later he reached the house, took a quick look up and down the street, and darted into the yard. He knew which window was the bedroom. All it took was driving by late a couple of nights and discerning which light was still on at ten o’clock. The second window down on the right side of the house.

  A thick fabric shade with a scalloped edge hung inside the window. While little light escaped around the sides of the shade, the space between the curves along the bottom let out the flickering light of a television. The flickering light that filtered out told him that those same curves would also let him peek in. What’s more, the noise of the television would help to mask any noise he might inadvertently make.

  So far, so good.

  He crept forward, stepping onto the small lava rocks that served to retain water in the flower bed. The rocks were sharp and hard but, while they would help the bed preserve moisture, they wouldn’t preserve a footprint.

  As he crouched down, the rocks shifted, giving off a grating, gravelly sound. Luckily for him, it was faint enough that it drew no attention from the woman inside.

  She was dressed only in a baby-blue knit nightie, so short that it rode up nearly to the top of her thighs as she sat on the edge of the bed and bent over to rub lotion on her legs. Her long, dark hair swung forward and he longed to reach out and grab it and bury his face in it, feel the silky strands on his bare skin.

  Shifting to his knees on the pointy rocks, he grimaced against the pain. My God! The fucking rocks were like tiny arrowheads trying to pierce his clothing and skin. The bark chips at Kirstin Rumford’s place had been much more forgiving. He wished he’d had the forethought to wear knee pads.

  He pulled out his small video camera and readied it, aiming it at the woman through the window. When she bent her right leg and lifted it up to apply lotion to the back of her thigh, his groin sprang to life and he nearly buckled in two. He knew then, without a doubt, that all of the pain he felt was worth it.

  She’s not wearing panties under her nightie.

  He pressed the button to begin recording. Click.

  FORTY-FOUR

  DEUS EX MACHINA

  Megan

  Jamie Gowan might have gotten away with slapping Korinna Papadakis, but he wasn’t about to get away with assaulting a cop. After I’d informed Detective Bustamente about Korinna’s abusive ex, he’d contacted Houston PD and requested an officer stop by Jamie’s place to question him. It had taken until Tuesday evening to catch the guy at home, but officers finally managed to connect with him. Jamie had taken offense to the officer asking where he’d been the night someone had been outside Korinna’s window. He’d gone from taking offense to taking a swing, and had promptly been arrested.

  Whether he’d been the one at Korinna’s window was still anyone’s guess. He’d offered no rock-solid alibi, claiming he’d been home alone at his apartment all night, though after he’d been cuffed he told the police that his Netflix viewing history would show he’d binge-watched several seasons of Breaking Bad that night. It was possible that someone else had used his account to watch the movies, or that he’d streamed them on his laptop to cover his ass but not actually watched them.

  I was back on the day shift this week. While my body and brain rejoiced to return to their natural biorhythms, I feared for the women of Berkeley Place. I knew my fellow officers working the swing and night shifts would pay extra attention to the area, but it was a large neighborhood with lots of places where someone could hide from even the most dedicated eye. Having responded to the calls and interviewed the victims, I felt personally responsible for them and the other women in Berkeley Place.

  Evidently, Bustamente realized how emotionally invested I was in this case. He phoned my cell at nine Wednesday night. “I just got a call from Jerry Jeff Gilbreath.”

  Gilbreath. The Wheel watcher who’d been convicted of two attempted sexual assaults. I wondered what he’d called about. “Wh-what did he say?”

  “That some quote-unquote Terminator just came to his apartment with two other men and threatened him.”

  There was no doubt in my mind that the Terminator was Garrett Hawke. The other two men were likely members of the neighborhood watch, as well.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked.

  “I’m going to visit with Gilbreath,” the detective said, “then I’m going to visit with Garrett Hawke. I was thinking maybe you would want to come with me.”

  Heck, yeah, I would! Never mind that my shift had ended four hours ago. I’d gladly put in some unpaid overtime. “Thanks, Detective.”

  We arranged to meet at Gilbreath’s apartment. I pulled my hair up into a quick bun, put my uniform back on, and rounded up Brigit from the backyard, where she’d been lying in the grass, probably hoping a possum or raccoon would be dumb enough to venture into the yard and provide her with something to pursue. “We’re back on, girl.”

  She was on her four feet in an instant. She took her job as seriously as I took mine.

  We sped to the station to retrieve our cruiser and headed over to Gilbreath’s apartment complex to find the detective already waiting in the lot, standing next to his unmarked car.

  He issued a sigh. “So much for my warning to tread lightly.”

  My K-9 partner and I followed Bustamente to Gilbreath’s door. “Any word on the broken plastic?” I asked. “Did it turn out to be part of a sprinkler head like Mr. Rabinowitz thought?”

  “Nope. The finish on the broken piece was different than the finish on the sprinkler heads at the house. The thickness was different, too. The tech thinks it could have been part of some equipment used by the lawn-care service. Maybe part of a weed-whacker spool.”

  Or it could be something else entirely. When would we get a definitive clue in this case or locate Ralph Hurley? I was growing more frustrated by the minute and living in constant fear that a woman in W1 would end up assaulted or dead. While I knew my fellow officers were doing their best to keep residents safe, having been drawn more deeply into the investigation I couldn’t help but feel that the safety and lives of the women in W1 were primarily in my hands and Brigit’s paws. It was a heavy responsibility to bear.

  When we reached the door, Bustamente knocked once with his meaty knuckles and said loudly, “Fort Worth Police.”

  Gilbreath opened the door. My Lord, I hadn’t thought it possible but the man was even uglier in person than he’d been in his photo. Thinning pewter strands stuck to his greasy scalp, the brown hair he’d sported in his mug shot from a decade earlier now reflecting how much he’d aged in prison. His eyes sat in deep-set sockets under a thick, protruding brow that left them in constant shadow. He was dressed in dirty blue work pants and a yellowed undershirt, along with the filthiest socks I’d ever seen. A pair of mud-encrusted steel-toed boots had been kicked off and lay just inside the door on the stained carpet. The television set was tuned to the Game Show Network, an episode of Deal or No Deal playing. A lopsided recliner sat in front of the TV, a pizza box and a can of cheap beer on the table next to it. Both Gilbreath and his apartment smelled of sweat and beer and feet, with undertones of a corn chip aroma that probably had nothing to do with actual corn chips.

  “So you gonna arrest the guy or what?” Gilbreath said without preamble, looking from Bustamente to me and back to the detective.

  “We need to ask you some questions first,” the detective said.

  Gilbreath scowled at Brigit. “That dog ain’t coming in my apartment.”

  “None of us are.” Bustamente’s thick lip curled in disgust as he looked past Gilbreath into the garbage heap the man called home.

  A cockroach zipped past Gilbreath’s filthy feet and fled the apartment. Even bugs were repulsed by the man and his habits.

  “Tell us what happened,” the detective said.

  “I was just sitting here watching TV,” Gilbreath said, “when all of a sudden someone’s banging on my door. I answered it and there were three guys, like I told you on the phone. A big mo
therfucker with a gun on his hip and a medium-sized one and some shrimp.”

  The shrimp might have been Todd Conklin. The identity of the medium-sized one was anyone’s guess at this point. Westmoreland maybe? Paludo?

  “The big one said if he finds out that I’ve been peeking in on women in his neighborhood he’d make me sorry I was ever born.”

  “Sorry you were ever born,” the detective repeated. “Those were his exact words?”

  “Damn straight!”

  “Did the men identify themselves?” Bustamente asked.

  “Hell, no!” Gilbreath huffed. “The big one told me I better not call the cops on them, neither. Then they left.”

  Bustamente issued a grunt of acknowledgment. “Did the other two men say anything to you?”

  “No. They just stood there like a couple of pussies.”

  “Did you see what kind of car they were driving?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Gilbreath cried, his mouth gaping with incredulity. “The guy just threatened to kill me! I wasn’t about to follow him out to his car and get myself shot!”

  Bustamente’s eyes narrowed. “You told me the man said he’d ‘make you sorry you were born.’ That’s not a specific death threat.”

  “If it ain’t,” Gilbreath cried, “I don’t know what is!”

  After the way Gilbreath had terrorized his victims, it gave me no small sense of satisfaction to see the fear in his eyes. “Looks like karma caught up with you.”

  Gilbreath cast a look of utter contempt my way before returning his focus to Bustamente. “You going to let this girl talk to me like that?”

  My hand went involuntarily to my baton. Girl? Did he not see my police uniform? My gun? My baton? My badge? Clearly this guy was some kind of misogynist. A misogynist who was two seconds away from meeting my nightstick.

  While I was having a hard time keeping my cool, Bustamente didn’t bat an eye. “I’m not only going to let this ‘girl’ speak her mind, I’m going to let her finish your interrogation.”

  Ha! If he wasn’t married and I didn’t fear a sexual harassment charge, I would’ve kissed Detective Bustamente about then.

  My mind began working at warp speed, determining what questions I should ask Gilbreath. I decided to ask him some questions under the guise of identifying the men who’d come to his door, but with the real intent of determining whether he might be the Berkeley Place Peeper. “Any idea where these men might be from? What neighborhood the big man was referring to?”

  Gilbreath frowned at me and hesitated, probably debating whether he should stoop so low as to answer questions from a “girl.” But he seemed to realize that if he failed to respond, we’d do nothing to pursue the man who’d threatened him. “I don’t know. Probably Berkeley Place.”

  He’d come up with the answer awfully quick. Does that mean he’s the guy we’ve been after? “What makes you think they were from Berkeley Place?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Because it’s all over the goddamn news, that’s why. That slutty reporter from Dallas keeps harping on it, like it’s the story of the year. So a guy looked in some windows. So what? Who gives a shit?”

  So what? So women felt fearful and violated, that’s what. And as far as who gave a shit, I did. It was my job to make sure the residents of W1 felt safe and secure and protected. And when I had a job to do, I was going to do it to the best of my ability.

  “Have you been in Berkeley Place recently?” I asked Gilbreath.

  “No.”

  “You sure?”

  He rolled his eyes again. “I got no reason to be over there. It’s nothing but a bunch of rich bitches and assholes looking down on people.”

  I decided to turn his words and stereotypes back on him. “So you’re familiar with the area, then?”

  He paused a moment, his eyes narrowing as he realized a mere girl had tricked him. “I didn’t say that.”

  I gestured toward his Jeep Renegade. “Do you have a built-in GPS in your Jeep?” If he’d left the system on, maybe there’d be a way to check the history, see if he’d recently driven through Berkeley Place late at night.

  “No. Nice try.” He punctuated his words with a knowing smirk, as if he’d read my mind.

  I asked whether there was anyone who could vouch for his whereabouts on the nights Kirstin Rumford, Alyssa Lowry, and Korinna Papadakis had been spied on.

  “Like a family member?” he quipped. “Or a friend?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why,” he said, stretching a hand out to the inside doorjamb. “Here’s one now!”

  He closed his fist around something and, before I realized what he was doing, tossed an enormous cockroach into my face. The bug’s hard shell hit the side of my nose and I felt its tiny legs grappling for purchase on my cheek. Instinctively, I cried out and stepped back, slapping it away. It fell to the ground and scurried off to join its friend.

  Gilbreath emitted a nasty chuckle scented with sour beer. “Screaming, just like a girl. What did I tell you?” He cast a glance at Bustamente and shook his head.

  When my hand went instinctively for my baton the detective grabbed my wrist to stop me. “We’re done here.” He released my arm, turned, and walked away.

  I followed suit, leading Brigit along with me.

  “You better do something!” Gilbreath hollered after us. “If that guy comes back and shoots me I’ll sue the police department for a million dollars!”

  I was tempted to turn around and ask Gilbreath how he planned to file a lawsuit from hell, but decided instead to repeat a calming mantra, a technique I’d learned in the anger management class the police chief had ordered me to take after I’d Tasered Derek. With no mantra at the ready, I went for the first thing that popped into my head, the Fort Worth Police Department Honor Code.

  I will respectfully serve the citizens of Fort Worth and the Fort Worth Police Department. I will dedicate myself to the protection of life, property, and our public trust. My integrity, character, and courage will be above reproach, and I will accept no less from other members of our department.

  Of course, I added my own new closing verse. I will not beat that bastard into a pulp and let the cockroaches feast on his dead flesh, no matter how much he deserves it.

  The detective and I reached our cruisers, which sat side by side in the lot.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I lost my temper. But in my defense I would’ve only hit him once.”

  He chuckled and heaved a weary sigh. “Protecting a man with two convictions for attempted rape. Not exactly what I’d aspired to when I joined the force.”

  Me, neither. Still, we had to protect all of the people in W1, even those we deemed unworthy. We both knew it.

  “Let’s go find Hawke,” the detective said resignedly.

  I consulted my Berkeley Place roster, found Hawke’s address, and gave it to the detective, following him as he drove over. We exited our cars and went to the door, where Bustamente pushed the doorbell button, holding it down for several seconds, probably a subconscious indicator of his frustration with this case. Diiiiing-doooong.

  Standing at my side, Brigit perked her ears as she heard sounds from inside that were audible only to her superior ears. Her tail wagged, slapping against my leg. A moment later, we humans heard a soft, muffled sound from the other side of the door, probably someone looking through the peephole.

  The door swung open to reveal Hawke’s wife. She wore spandex exercise clothes and sneakers, her dark hair pulled back from her face into a braid that hung halfway down her back. Judging from the pink flush on her face, the damp tendrils that had pulled loose from the braid, and her body mass index—which I estimated to be a low 18.5—the detective and I had interrupted an intense workout. Next to her stood a small fawn-colored Pekingese, its long, thick hair reminiscent of Cousin Itt from the classic Addams Family television show. The small dog took a step forward and lifted its head to exchange sniffs with Brigit.

  Worry flickered across Mrs. Hawke’s
face, her features tightening. “Is everything okay?”

  Bustamente raised a hand. “No need for concern, ma’am. We’re here to speak to your husband.”

  “He’s out on patrol,” she said, her face relaxing. “He won’t be back until his shift ends at one o’clock.”

  It dawned on me then that, as protective as Garrett Hawke seemed to be, it was odd that he’d leave his wife at home to defend herself if the BP Peeper or Ralph Hurley happened to set his sights on her. The dog certainly couldn’t provide any protection, and the fact that it hadn’t even bothered to bark upon hearing the doorbell told me it was no good as a watchdog, either. As much as I tired of having to constantly feed, water, and clean up after Brigit, at least she earned her keep. Then again, their house was well lit outside, and a glance into the home told me their windows were securely covered with thick drapes. A keypad for a security system was also visible on the wall behind Mrs. Hawke, a red indicator light blinking. Maybe Hawke thought these precautions were enough to keep his family safe.

  “Would you like Garrett’s cell number?” she offered.

  “No need,” I told her, remembering that the cell phone number for each member of the watch was listed next to their name on the schedule. “I’ve got it in my car.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  KEPT K-9

  Brigit

  Brigit exchanged sniffs with the fluffy little creature, though she only did so to be polite. Heck, the little thing was more toy than dog. It hadn’t made a peep when the doorbell rang. Barking at a doorbell was Canine 101. Sheesh. What an embarrassment to their species.

  FORTY-SIX

  BLACK AND WHITE

  Tom

  His heart leaped into his throat.

  Shit!!!

  Are they on to me?

  He let out a relieved breath when the unmarked white cruiser drove past him and turned down a side street, followed by the black-and-white patrol car. Of course everything at night was black-and-white, or one of the many shades of gray that spanned the color spectrum between them.