Against the Paw

by Diane Kelly

  Her face drooped with a world-weary expression as she pointed back in the direction from which I’d come. “My car ran out of gas back there. I’m trying to get home but I’m out of gas and I’m out of money. My cell phone’s dead, so I’m out of luck, too, I guess. The only thing I have is a headache.” Tears began to fill her eyes. “I just lost my job and I—”

  She broke into sobs then, her shoulders shaking.

  I rolled up the window lest my cruiser also fill with water and climbed out, glad I’d opted to leave the poncho on. I walked around the car to stand in front of her and held out my cell phone. “Would you like to use my phone to call someone?”

  She shook her head, choking back her sobs. “I can walk. It’s not far. I don’t want to bother them.”

  I wondered who “them” was, why she was going to see these people if she thought they cared so little about her they’d be annoyed by her call. I also wondered if this woman might have mental health issues, or an alcohol or drug addiction. At the very least, she seemed to have serious financial and interpersonal problems.

  “Can I see some ID?” I asked.

  “Oh. Okay.”

  She stood the suitcase upright, slid one of her purse straps down her arm, and stuck her hand inside. Lest she pull out a gun or pepper spray, I watched her closely. We never knew who we might cross paths with on the streets. A cop could never be too careful.

  A moment later she pulled out a wallet, using her chipped fingernail to finagle her license out from among several cards. She held it out to me.

  I took it from her and looked down at it. The photo on the license told me that this was indeed the woman who stood before me, and that she was much more attractive when she hadn’t just walked a mile in the pouring-down rain. It also told me her address was in Lubbock, a town in the southern part of the Texas panhandle, a four-and-a-half-hour drive west. Lubbock was known for being the hometown of both Texas Tech University and singer Buddy Holly.

  I looked back up at her. “You said you were going home, but according to your license you live in Lubbock. Did you move here recently?”

  If so, I’d simply remind her that she needed to update her address with DMV. I wasn’t about to issue this woman a ticket when she was already so down on her luck.

  “By ‘home,’ I meant my parents’ house,” she said, using her thin fingers to swipe at her tears. “Well, I guess it’s just my father’s house now. My mother passed away.”

  I looked back down at the license, this time focusing on her name. Lisa Rene Rutledge.

  Rutledge?

  Oh, my God.

  No wonder she looked familiar. She was Seth’s … mother? I looked at her birthdate and performed some quick math. If she was his mother, she’d given birth to him when she was only fifteen years old.

  Whoa.

  Seth hadn’t told me that piece of information. Suddenly, the way she’d treated him, abandoning him with her parents and running off, sounded so much less malevolent. She’d probably been a frightened kid, not ready for motherhood. It didn’t excuse what she’d done, of course, but it did explain it.

  I handed the license back to her. “I’d be happy to give you a ride.”

  “You would?” Her face brightened. “Really?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Hop in the front. My dog’s in the back.”

  “Dog?” She bent over to look in the window. “Oh! She’s fluffy! Is she friendly?”

  “When she’s not eating your shoes.”

  Lisa issued a laugh that sounded as rusty as her car. She apparently hadn’t had much to laugh about lately.

  I grabbed the handle of her suitcase. “I’ll put this in the trunk.”

  As Lisa climbed into the passenger side, I stashed her luggage in the trunk of my cruiser and circled around to slide into the driver’s seat. Lisa reached back for the seat belt and snapped it into place. Click. Once I was buckled in, too, I pulled away from the curb and aimed for Seth’s place, where he lived with his grandfather, Lisa’s father. The house was also out of my jurisdiction, but I could count the time as my afternoon break.

  Lisa turned to the side to look at Brigit. “Hi, girl,” she said. “You’re a pretty, pretty doggie.”

  Brigit wagged her tail as if in agreement and tried to sniff the woman through the metal mesh that separated us. As if scenting the woman’s tears, she began licking at the screen. She’d licked my tears away on more than one occasion.

  “What’s she doing?” Lisa asked.

  “She’s trying to cheer you up,” I said. “She doesn’t like to see people sad.”

  My comment only caused the woman to tear up, sniffle, gulp, and break into fresh sobs.

  I had no idea what to say to her, just as I’d been at a loss at times on how to deal with Seth and his attachment issues. I’d taken criminal psychology as part of my Criminal Justice studies at Sam Houston State University, but I’d never taken a regular psychology class.

  I fished a napkin out of the console and handed it to her.

  “Thanks.” She dabbed at her eyes as she tried to get her crying under control. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess.”

  “No need to apologize to me,” I said. But maybe you should start with your son. “How’d you lose your job, if you d-don’t mind me asking?”

  She exhaled a breath as she tried to get her emotions under control enough to speak. “I was working doing maid service at a hotel. I’d even worked my way up to crew chief. Yesterday, one of the other ladies came in half dead. She’d been up all night with her sick baby. I told her she could nap in one of the rooms and I’d skip lunch and cover for her. When our boss found out”—she sniffled again—“he fired us both. Never mind that it was the first time we’d ever done anything like that.”

  “He sounds heartless.”

  “He is. Heartless and soulless.”

  As I turned into Seth’s neighborhood, she cast a sudden glance my way. “Wait. I never gave you the address. How did you know where I was going?”

  I looked her in the eye. “I’m dating your son.”

  Conflicting emotions flickered across her face, and I could guess at their source. The first was surprise. The next was alarm that Seth might have told me bad things about her. The third was happiness that her son had someone in his life who cared about him.

  “How … how is he?” she asked tentatively.

  I debated my answer, and decided to go with honesty. I’d never been one to sugar-coat things. I’d rather lay it out in the open and deal with it. “He’s still getting over all the loss he’s had in his life. We had a hard time at first because of it. But he’s doing better.”

  “Is he … is he happy?”

  The look of sincere and deep concern in her eyes, the guilt and regret, were heartbreaking. But those emotions told me she cared, and as long as she cared there was hope for them, wasn’t there?

  “Happy?” I gave her a soft smile. “I think so. For the most part, anyway.” He’d probably been happier if I’d let him sleep over last weekend, but that wasn’t anything this woman needed to know.

  She looked away, staring out the window. “I don’t know if he even wants to see me.”

  Though she phrased it as a statement, it was clear from her inflection that she was asking me a question.

  “Honestly?” I replied. “I don’t know how he’ll feel. He doesn’t t-tell me a lot.”

  She looked down at her lap, her lips quivering. “I’ve really screwed things up.”

  “Maybe,” I agreed. “But you can always try to unscrew them.”

  She issued a soft chuckle. “You’re pretty and smart. It’s clear what Seth sees in you.”

  Her words warmed me even more than the coffee had.

  Seth’s Nova was in the driveway, so I pulled up to the curb in front of the house, an old and ugly one-story model with orange brick, gray trim, and mismatched shingles on the roof. The garage had been converted into additional living space with a patchwork of building materials. S
eth had yet to invite me over or introduce me to his grandfather. He seemed to consider his time with me to be an escape. While I understood that, at some point he’d have to let me know the whole him if we were going to advance our relationship.

  Lisa merely stared at the house for a moment or two, as if unsure whether she truly wanted to go inside. But eventually she reached for the door handle. I hopped out and retrieved her suitcase from the trunk, setting it on the street behind the cruiser.

  “Thanks so much,” Lisa said as she rounded up her suitcase. “You’ve been so nice.”

  “Glad I could help.”

  As I returned to the cruiser, she turned and headed for the driveway, making her way to the front door. I started the car and was about to put it in gear when dispatch came on the radio with a report of another wreck, this one on the eastern side of W1, not far from where I was now.

  I grabbed my radio. “Officers Luz and Brigit responding.”

  By this time, Lisa had knocked on the front door. It swung open to reveal a barefoot Seth in a pair of knit shorts and a wrinkled tee, comfy off-duty clothes. Blast stood by his side, his tail wagging. When Seth saw his mother on the porch, his face lit up with what can only be described as boyish joy. For a brief moment, he was the young child thrilled to see his mother. But just as quickly a door seemed to slam shut and his face went impassive, his instinctive defense mechanisms kicking in. This woman had let him down too many times.

  He looked past Lisa, his gaze meeting mine across the yard. He didn’t wave, probably too shocked and trying to figure out why I was in my cruiser at the curb with his mother on the doorstep.

  I raised a hand in good-bye and drove away. Given that their problems had been going on for decades, it was probably too much to hope for, but I nonetheless said a quick and silent prayer that Seth’s family could somehow heal, could be a real family for each other.

  As if to tell me that anything was possible, the rain abruptly stopped and the clouds broke, an intense beam of sunshine lighting up the world.

  SIXTY

  EVERYONE NEEDS A DOG

  Brigit

  Brigit looked back as Megan pulled their patrol car away from the curb, disappointed that her partner hadn’t allowed her to say hello to Blast. But she was glad Blast was at the house. The lady that had been in the front seat was very sad and she could use a dog to cheer her up. After all, nobody could stay sad when a dog was licking their face.

  SIXTY-ONE

  SHOOT TO KILL

  Todd

  It had been over a week since Nathan Wilmer’s arrest. He’d laid low since, trying to satisfy himself with his photos and videos.

  But it’s killing me.

  He’d looked the pictures over and watched the videos so many times they no longer gave him any sort of thrill, not even a tiny tingle or tickle of titillation. He needed fresh fodder. A new fix.

  “Chin up,” he advised. “Now tilt your head a little to the left.”

  The woman seated on the velvet-covered Queen Anne chair in front of him complied.

  “That’s it,” he said, snapping several photos. Click. Click. Click.

  God, head shots were a bore. The only thing worse was taking shot after shot after shot at high school and college graduations, the pose and angle the same every time, the only thing changing being the goofy, beaming face of the graduate. But dull as they might be, head shots and graduation photos were his bread and butter, along with family Christmas portraits, parents and kids dressed in cheesy holiday sweaters, pretending to be the perfect, problem-free family. As if such a thing even existed.

  At least this woman was hot. She had dark brown hair that hung in loose curls all the way down to her tits. It dawned on him then that maybe he didn’t have to go looking for scantily clad or nude women to photograph.

  Maybe I could convince the women to come to me …

  He took a deep breath to steady his nerves. “I noticed you’re wearing a wedding ring,” he said, hoping the slight quaver in his voice was noticeable only to himself. “Been married long?”

  “Almost three years,” the woman said.

  Three years. Perfect. That was the point in a marriage where the honeymoon phase had ended, and each spouse realized the other could be unattractive and annoying at times. A wife would think back on old boyfriends, maybe catch the eye of a good-looking man in the grocery store and wonder whether she’d made the right choice. Even more so, a wife would worry that her husband might be having the same thoughts.

  “Almost three years?” he repeated. “Got an anniversary coming up soon?”

  “June twenty-third.”

  “That’s only three weeks away.” He raised his camera again, hoping that covering his face would hide the gleam in his eye and make her more comfortable. “You know what would make a great anniversary gift for your husband?” he said, snapping another shot. Click. “Some boudoir photos.”

  The woman blushed lightly, looking simultaneously taken aback and thoughtful.

  He snapped another shot. Click. “I don’t advertise it,” he said. “After all, I can’t exactly hang those types of photos in my lobby or put them on my Web site. But you’d be surprised how many women have them done. Some wear lingerie, but others prefer nude shots.”

  It was an outright lie. The only naked subjects he’d ever photographed were babies, and at least three of those had peed on his sets. Another had puked pureed peas all over his fake bearskin rug. Why did everyone think it was cute to have a bare-butt photo of their infants? Didn’t they realize their children would hate them for it when they grew up?

  “Nude photos?” the woman said, her tone equal parts skepticism and intrigue. “Really?”

  “Really,” he replied, trying to sound as matter-of-fact as possible. “I can’t name names, but you’d know some of them. It’s all very discreet and classy and artistic. With soft focus and dim lighting, I can make a woman look very attractive, put those centerfolds to shame. Not that you would need any of that.” He hoped he hadn’t gone too far. He wanted to flatter and entice her, but not make her feel creeped out. He offered a nonchalant shrug. “A boudoir photo is a playful way to keep the spark alive. Men like sexy surprises.”

  The woman pondered the offer for a moment, her inner Girl Scout wrestling with her inner vixen. Luckily, the vixen emerged victorious, the Girl Scout thus denied her wrestling badge. “What the heck,” she said. “Let’s do it!”

  Hot damn! He felt himself elongate and harden. Hell, if he unzipped his pants, he’d be a human tripod. Why hadn’t I thought of this before?

  SIXTY-TWO

  YOU NEVER KNOW

  Megan

  It was now Saturday, May 30, more than a week since Nathan Wilmer’s arrest. There hadn’t been a single report of a prowler or suspicious person in Berkeley Place since, let alone a report of a peeper at someone’s bedroom window. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Wilmer was not the BP Peeper. While he’d been suspected of spying on women with the binoculars and telescope found in his apartment at the time of his arrest, there’d been nothing to suggest he took a greater risk by peeking directly into windows. It was the next logical step, I supposed. But given the cowardly way he’d taken advantage of his innocent victims, by rendering them unconscious and incapable of defending themselves, I didn’t think he had it in him. Of course, I could be totally wrong.

  This uncertainty, the not knowing, was one of the most frustrating aspects of police work. Why couldn’t actual police work be like it was on television and in the movies, where conclusive evidence tied a particular suspect to the crime, where guilty parties confessed all?

  If only …

  I was back on night shifts this week. According to the revised neighborhood watch schedule, Victor Paludo and Todd Conklin were scheduled to work the nine-to-one shift tonight. Given that Paludo was himself an ogler, that Conklin was a mousy little man who looked incapable of hurting a fly, and that both could potentially be the peeper themselves, the women of
Berkeley Place weren’t in very good hands tonight. Of course all the watch patrol was supposed to do was call the police, so maybe it didn’t much matter that the men weren’t prime specimens of virility. The only thing the patrol needed to be capable of was dialing 911.

  Just after midnight, I drove by Ashley Pham’s house, wondering if the girl had yet figured out who her secret admirer was, whether Dalton Livingston had ever summoned the courage to make his move, whether the kid was actually both the BP Peeper and an evil genius who’d snowed me. Lord, I hoped not. I’d look like an idiot.

  As I turned north onto Rockridge Terrace, my eyes spotted a dark Mercedes parked at the curb between two houses. Nobody was inside.

  That’s Nora Conklin’s car, isn’t it?

  It was, and tonight it bore the watch signs on the doors, telling me the vehicle was currently in use by Todd, not his wife.

  I slowed, pulling to the curb just past the car, and glanced around. There was no sign of Todd. No sign of anyone, as a matter of fact. It was as still and quiet as the night before Christmas.

  Having looked up the Conklins’ home address when I’d first considered Todd a potential suspect, I knew his residence wasn’t here on Rockridge Terrace. He and Nora lived over on Pembroke. So what was Todd Conklin doing out of his vehicle here?

  Could he be peeping on someone at this very moment?

  I unrolled the cruiser’s windows and turned off my lights and engine. No sense wasting gas, polluting the environment, and exacerbating global climate change any more than necessary. Also no sense warning Conklin of my presence via the noise of my motor. For the millionth time since the glob had been collected at the Chutanis’ house, I found myself wishing we had the results of the DNA test. If we did, we’d know whether the suspect was a previous offender or someone else. Without that information, the case was still up in the air.

  I pulled out the Berkeley Place roster Nora Conklin had given me and searched for the address.

  Hmm …

  I checked the addresses on the houses on either side of Conklin’s car, and found their listings on the neighborhood watch roster. The house to the left belonged to Fred and Betsy Meyer. No other residents were listed. A quick check of Fred and Betsy’s driver’s license records told me they were an older couple, both in their late seventies. While the porch light was on, all of the interior lights appeared to be turned off, the windows dark. Either the Meyers weren’t home or they were already in bed. To the right lived Patrick and Shannon Cleary, along with their daughters Noelle and Kerry, good Irish names if ever I’d heard any. A car parked in the driveway bore a Paschal High parking sticker, telling me that Noelle or Kerry or both were teenagers.