Against the Paw

by Diane Kelly

  After my third gutter ball in a row, Frankie said, “You really suck at this. I thought a cop would have better aim.”

  I didn’t admit it out loud, but I wasn’t that great with my gun, either, barely making the minimum score needed to be certified. I was much more adept at handling my baton.

  “Don’t give her a hard time,” Seth said as he retrieved his ball. “She’s really good at other things.”

  He sent a sexy, knowing smile my way before sending his ball rocketing down the lane at warp speed. Ka-bam-bam-bam! He’d earned yet another strike. Not surprising, given those strong shoulders and arm muscles of his.

  Zach took a swig of his beer. “I saw on the news that the police caught that creepy peeper guy.”

  Frankie and I exchanged glances. As my roommate, she’d been forced to listen to me think out loud and speculate about the case, to lament the lack of progress, to worry that he’d strike again, maybe this time gaining access to a woman’s bedroom and doing God knows what to her.

  I clarified the situation for Zach. “A sex offender was arrested for failing to notify the department of his new address. That’s all.”

  “You don’t think he was the one who was spying on the women?” Zach asked.

  “Maybe.” I shrugged. “Maybe not. Time will tell.”

  Zach fished a fry out of the cardboard basket on the table in front of him. “You mean if nothing else happens, it was probably him?”

  “Yeah.”

  Unfortunately, the lack of further crimes was sometimes the best evidence that a suspect under arrest was the guilty party. Such had been the case with Wayne Williams, suspected of committing the infamous Atlanta child murders in the late seventies and early eighties. The same went for the arrest of Albert DeSalvo, who claimed, amid widespread skepticism, to be the Boston Strangler.

  Of course it was also possible that the guilty party realized that, with someone else on the hook for his crimes, he had an easy out and should maybe consider ending his crime spree or moving on. Still, I wasn’t sure the peeper would be capable of that. Theoretically, someone who commits a robbery or burglary might, at some point, have fulfilled his need for cash. But a sexual predator’s needs were never completely satisfied. They tended to be repeat offenders, with their crimes often escalating after they were released from jail. When their convictions were based largely on personal testimony, some learned not to leave subsequent victims alive to testify against them.

  Frankie’s turn was up. She stepped into place, performed a funky little hop-skip as she moved forward, and sent the ball down the center of the lane. Ka-bam-bam! Nine pins met their doom. Her second ball, however, missed the remaining pin.

  “Now who sucks?” I said, arching a brow.

  “Still you,” she teased.

  When we were done bowling, the four of us continued the party at home, joining the dogs and cat in the living room while we watched Saturday Night Live. When the show ended, the guys offered many not-so-subtle hints about staying the night. Frankie made it clear she had no intention of moving so fast. She’d been too accommodating with her last boyfriend and he’d taken her for granted. She wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

  She offered Zach a slight smile. “You want this?” She raised her hands and twirled in a circle, stopping when she was facing him again. “You’re going to have to work for it.”

  A grin played about Zach’s mouth as he tugged his wallet from his back pocket and removed a twenty-dollar bill. “Can I just pay for it?”

  “Twenty bucks?” I said. “That won’t even get you a mani-pedi.”

  I put a hand on his back and Seth’s, ushering them to the door. Not that I wouldn’t have loved a nice romp with Seth, but we’d wait until another time, when we had more privacy.

  Brigit insisted on an early breakfast and potty break on Sunday, but when I returned to bed after feeding her she thankfully let me sleep in. After working late nights and overtime and worrying incessantly about both Ralph Hurley and the BP Peeper case, I was both physically and mentally exhausted.

  When I woke at noon, I felt fresh and alert and clearheaded for the first time in days. The sun was shining through the window, as if calling me to come outside. Frankie must have heard the call, too, because I found her sunbathing in a bikini top and a pair of shorts in a sunny spot in the backyard.

  She held up her cell phone and grinned. “Zach just texted me. He wants to take me to dinner tonight.”

  It would be their first date without me and Seth along as a safety net. I was glad the two had hit it off. Frankie deserved a nice guy in her life. The fact that Zach was good-looking, too, was the icing on the cake.

  “I was thinking about washing my car,” I said. It had been weeks since I’d run a hose over the thing and it was coated with dirt and leftover spring pollen. Frankie’s Nissan Juke was in even worse shape, the bright red paint dull with grime. “Want me to wash yours while I’m at it?” It was the least I could do after she’d taken Brigit out for all that exercise and helped her lose her excess weight.

  She stood from her lounge chair. “Let’s do them together. It’ll go faster that way.”

  I went back to my room, threw on my bathing suit and a pair of shorts, and slid my feet into a cheap pair of flip-flops. Even though it was only May, the Texas sun could turn concrete into a grill. The last thing I needed was blisters on the bottom of my feet.

  “C’mon, girl,” I called to Brigit, patting my leg. “Let’s go outside.”

  Her ears perked and she hopped down from the couch to follow me.

  Frankie was already out front with a hose and a sponge, squeezing the nozzle to spray down my car with a tinny kshhhh. Her phone was propped on the porch railing, playing some classic Pink.

  As Brigit began to snuffle around in the ivy, I admonished her to “stay in the yard!” She cast me a look that told me she thought I was a total party pooper. It was her poop I was concerned about. No sense letting her wander into an adjacent yard and drop a load that might irritate the neighbors. Not everyone was a dog lover. Though how they could resist such sweet creatures was beyond me.

  As I headed to the driveway, a cold, wet spray hit me right in the stomach, causing me to rise up on my toes, arch my back, and shriek in an involuntary response. “Hey! W-watch the hose! My cell phone’s in my pocket!”

  Frankie, who’d aimed the hose at me, cringed. “Oops. Sorry! Does it still work?”

  I pulled the phone from my damp pocket and thumbed the button. The screen popped to life. “It’s fine.”

  “Good. Take a pic of me for Zach.” She dialed the nozzle to the mist setting and sprayed it into the air in front of her, striking a sexy, arched-back pose. “How’s this?”

  “It’s perfect,” I said, “if you’re trying to look like Beyoncé or a Kardashian.” Hey, what are roommates for if not to give each other a little crap now and then?

  “As a matter of fact,” she said, tossing her head, “Kardashian is exactly what I was going for.”

  “If you want to really pull off that look, you’ll need butt implants.”

  She put her hands on her rear. “Ouch!”

  As she struck three different poses, I snapped a quick series of photos.

  After, she held out her hand. “Let me take some of you for Seth.”

  I rolled my eyes, but then figured, why not? I handed Frankie the phone and put my hands under my hair, pulling it up so that it draped sexily down over my arms. She took a couple of shots and returned the phone to me before picking the hose back up from the driveway. She cut a smile my way. “I’m thinking maybe I should get an even bigger hose.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m thinking of going to the fire academy.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. Seth was right when he mentioned it at the VFW. It would be the perfect job for me.”

  With her height, strength, and pluck, Frankie would make a great firefighter. “That’s a great idea, Frankie
. I bet you’d enjoy it, too.” After all, the woman loved a physical challenge. That’s why she played roller derby.

  She crinkled her nose. “You think I could do it?”

  “I have no doubt.”

  She turned the hose back on to my car. “It’s nice to finally feel like my life has some direction. Like I’m not just going in circles.”

  An ironic thing to come from the mouth of someone whose favorite pastime involved skating in endless circles. Still, I could relate. My job gave me a sense of purpose and meaning, goals to strive for. I was lucky that I’d found my calling early. Some people took much longer. Some never seemed to figure it out, no matter how old they got. But I couldn’t imagine what it was like to be caught in life’s eddies with no sense of destination. It had to be frustrating. A lack of goals and purpose is how many criminals ended up where they were.

  Frankie handed me the sponge and I started at the top of my small Smart Car, wiping off the grime, which flowed down the sides in muddy rivulets. A few minutes later my car was clean and we moved on to Frankie’s car.

  I’d just begun to wipe down the windows when Brigit stepped to the front edge of the yard, her nose in the air, twitching, as she looked off down the street. All I could see were a couple of girls playing hopscotch in a driveway, a boy on a scooter zipping toward us, and several cars parked along the curb. Probably there was a squirrel or rat hiding somewhere in the vicinity.

  I didn’t want her taking off into the street if a rodent suddenly decided to make a run for it. “Come over here, girl!” I called.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  WATER TORTURE

  Brigit

  Brigit ignored Megan’s call. No way would she get anywhere near a water hose. She trusted Megan, but yet she couldn’t overcome the memories of her first owner, a dipshit stoner, and how he thought it was funny to turn the hose on Brigit in the backyard, to follow her with the stream as she ran back and forth, desperately trying to escape the forceful spray. She should’ve torn his throat out while she had a chance.

  Besides, Brigit was curious. Her nose detected a scent that was both familiar yet out of place. It was the scent of the man who’d been in the bushes at those houses they’d visited, the scent of the man whom she’d tracked from the windows to the spot where he’d climbed into his car, the man she’d also scented at Forest Park a few nights ago and alerted on when she and Megan had been on that porch with him.

  She’d never smelled him near their home before.

  What is he doing here?

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  SAY CHEESE!

  Todd

  Click. Click. Click-click.

  He snapped shot after shot with his high-speed camera, capturing the cop as she washed her car in her driveway. My God, she’d made it so easy with the way she was playfully misting herself while the other woman snapped photos with her phone. It was as if she were posing for him, too.

  He knew she worked at the W1 station, and all he had to do to find out where she lived was follow her home after a shift.

  She should be more careful.

  So here he was, sitting in his wife’s car two blocks down on Travis Avenue, taking photos of the cop and fantasizing what it would be like to bury his face in her long, dark hair while he buried himself in her.

  He zoomed in, the lens lengthening and extending while, lower down, his cock did the same thing. The thought of spying on a female law enforcement officer caused such a quick and extreme reaction in his groin he was surprised his pants didn’t rip, Hulk-style.

  Click.

  The dog began to swivel its head, still scenting the air. A moment later, the dog turned his way, her eyes locking on him with absolute certainty.

  Nobody else knew he was the one who’d been peeping at the windows.

  But that dog does.

  Thank goodness she couldn’t tell anyone. Still, he figured he’d better get out of there before the dog started barking and drew attention to his car.

  He attached the lens cap, laid his camera on the passenger seat, and started his engine, quickly disappearing down a side street.

  FIFTY-NINE

  RAIN, RAIN, GO AWAY

  Megan

  Figures it would rain cats and dogs the day after I washed my car. To make matters worse, my car now smelled like wet dog, Brigit having been drenched as we dashed to my car this morning to drive to work. My partner didn’t seem to understand the concept of an umbrella and had run ahead of me.

  We transferred as quickly as possible from my personal vehicle to our cruiser, but still my uniform was damp by the time I settled in my seat. Normally, I didn’t spring for expensive coffee, using my precious pennies to pay off my student loans and monthly bills. But today I drove through Starbucks and splurged on the largest vanilla soy latte they offered. Rainy days were always crazy-busy for first responders and I’d need the caffeine to get me through. Besides, soy was good protein. Really, the coffee was a health drink, right?

  I texted Seth. You’re lucky you have the day off. His coworkers would surely be running nonstop all day.

  Hell yeah, was his reply, to which he added, Stay safe.

  Aww. The sentiment warmed my cold, damp heart.

  The only saving grace today was that this storm was a steady downpour without much lightning or wind, not the type that normally produced tornadoes or dangerous straight-line winds. Thank heaven for small favors.

  As expected, I spent the first five hours of my shift dealing with car accidents, all fender benders where someone had hydroplaned or driven too fast around a corner and spun out. One had managed to hit a light post, which in turn fell and landed on top of another car parked in a driveway. At least I hadn’t had to deal with the seven-car pileup on University. In multicar accidents, motorists tended to get very riled up and point fingers at each other, which was no fun to deal with, not to mention all of the paperwork.

  A collision involving a Toyota and a Subaru, both Japanese carmakers, inspired me to write a haiku in my report.

  As rain washes Earth,

  Drivers fueled by destiny,

  Meet on life’s wet streets.

  It might not be up to the standards of Emily Dickinson or Elizabeth Barrett Browning, but still, not bad, huh? I only hoped Captain Leone would overlook it. He might not appreciate my creative reports, but a street cop has to keep herself entertained somehow.

  As usual, I kept an eye out for the white pickup Hurley had stolen and cruised by his sister’s apartment several times to no avail. The lowlife was either keeping a low profile, or was seeking victims elsewhere.

  I was cruising eastbound on Rosedale when I noticed traffic swerving to avoid a disabled car in the rightmost lane. I turned on my lights and pulled up behind the car. The hazard lights were flashing, which was surprising given that so many other things were wrong with the car. The vehicle had bald tires, no back bumper, and a trunk that was held closed by a twisted wire coat hanger. Where the back window should be was instead a sagging sheet of clear plastic held in place by duct tape that was beginning to give way. Rust had eaten away at the edges of the wheel wells. And this list was only things I could see through the windshield of my cruiser.

  Sighing, I donned my bright yellow poncho, wondering why I had even bothered to take the thing off after the last accident. “I’ll be back, girl,” I told Brigit, who was standing in her enclosure, looking forward, tail wagging. “Sit tight.”

  I took a look back to make sure no cars were coming before stepping out of my cruiser into the torrential rain. I hurried to the driver’s door, expecting to find a face at the window. To my surprise, I found neither face nor window. No one was in the car, though it was rapidly filling with rain. The seat was soaked and the floorboards bore at least a quarter inch of water. Looked like whoever owned this car didn’t have Triple A or a cell phone.

  I noticed the inspection was two months out of date. Ditto for the registration. Ironically, the dollar value of citations I could write for all of the
vehicle violations would add up to nearly a grand. The car itself wasn’t even worth that much.

  I pushed the button on my shoulder mic to call dispatch. “I need a tow truck.” I gave dispatch the location so they could have the vehicle removed. It was a safety hazard.

  Tow trucks were in big demand today, and it was half an hour before one made it out. At least it gave me a chance to relax in my cruiser while I waited and listened to an author interview on NPR.

  Once the towing service had hauled off the car—if the hunk of metal and plastic and rubber could even be called a car—I set out again, continuing down Rosedale. I reached the end of W1 and was just about to turn south when I noticed a woman walking along the side of the road ahead, rolling a large suitcase behind her. Despite the fact that she was slightly outside of my usual jurisdiction, I decided to see if I could offer her some help. Maybe she just needed a cell phone to call a friend or family member to give her a ride.

  I turned on my lights and slowed as I approached her, noting that she was having a hard time managing the battered suitcase over the uneven terrain. She had no umbrella, but held a plastic grocery bag over her head in an ineffectual attempt to shield herself from the rain. As I pulled up next to her, she stopped and turned to look at me.

  Odd.

  I didn’t think I’d ever met this woman before, but something about her seemed very familiar. She had dishwater-blond hair made stringy from the rain, green eyes, and a chin dimple, like Seth’s. Her makeup was smeared and smudged from the rain. She looked to be in her early forties, and had the thin build that came not from working out at the gym but from working too hard. Her drenched jeans looked like they could slide off her at any moment, and the silky blouse she wore was stuck to her chest. Victor Paludo would have been in hog heaven to see it.

  Life had not been kind to this woman. But as long as she cooperated, I would be. She looked like she was overdue for a break.

  I unrolled my passenger window just enough to be able to speak with her. “Can I be of some assistance?”