Against the Paw

by Diane Kelly

  A loose dog.

  That would explain why I’d been away from my car.

  Previously, if he’d been spotted, he’d been ready to say he thought he’d seen the peeper creeping between houses. But with the peeper purportedly behind bars now—thanks for taking the heat off me, Nathan Wilmer!—he didn’t want to use that excuse.

  Despite the fact that he’d gotten away once again, he decided he’d better stop pushing his luck. Besides, he knew of no other women in the area with the long, dark hair he preferred. Hell, his wife didn’t even have long, dark hair anymore. The first sign of gray and she’d gone blond, hoping it would mask her age.

  It was too bad, really. Her hair had been the last thing he could stand about her. The personality that he’d once thought so cute and bubbly now got on his nerves. The woman just wouldn’t shut up! He’d thought she’d been friendly and caring, always wanting to know what was going on in everyone’s life, convincing them to confide in her. Now she constantly babbled on about which couples were having marital problems, whose kids were failing their classes, which neighbors were suffering financial setbacks. She didn’t care about other people’s problems. She only wanted to know about them so she could gossip and feel better about her own life.

  He’d been disappointed at the time, but now he was glad that, after ten years of trying, they’d been unable to have children. The doctor said his swimmers were slow, but maybe they’d taken one look at his wife’s eggs and thought, Oh, hell no!

  He should probably stop the spying, but it had become an addiction by this point, a necessary thrill, the one thing he lived for. He realized others would consider him a creep, a pervert even, but he couldn’t fight the compulsion. He needed these fixes the way a heroin addict needed to shoot up.

  Besides, what was the big deal? He wasn’t hurting anyone. It was harmless, more prank than crime. When he’d been thirteen at summer camp and a male counselor had caught him and another boy peeking through an air vent into the girls’ showers, the counselor had merely laughed and told them to get back to their bunks.

  Hell, even the Texas penal code was on his side. Like that fat detective had pointed out, voyeurism was a measly misdemeanor, a crime that a person could only be fined for, hardly even against the law. Even if he were caught, tried, and found guilty, he wouldn’t spend a single night in jail. He doubted things would even go to trial if he were caught. Being part of the watch gave him the perfect alibi. He could always claim he’d heard a strange noise or thought he’d seen a prowler. He’d have plausible deniability. Of course Nora would still make them move to a different neighborhood if he were caught. Or maybe she’d divorce him. He really didn’t care. At this point he was only staying with her because she provided him with a good cover as a purportedly happily married man with a willing sexual partner. No need for a man like that to look for cheap thrills elsewhere, right?

  And speaking of elsewhere, that’s where he needed to go. Beyond Berkeley Place. He knew exactly where he’d head next. To the home of that woman who’d come in for head shots a few days ago. He thought he’d had her convinced to do some boudoir photos. She’d even scheduled an appointment several days out, saying she wanted time to get a wax and have her hair done before the shoot. But then she’d got cold feet and canceled on him.

  Frigid bitch.

  One way or another, he was doing that photo shoot.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  HUNCH

  Megan

  As exhausted as I’d been when I arrived home after the run-in with Ralph Hurley, I couldn’t seem to get to sleep. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was because I was worried about Derek and his bullet-riddled nards. Or maybe it was that niggle in my brain that told me Todd Conklin’s dog story sounded just a little too convenient …

  I texted Seth. He was off duty and probably asleep, but Frankie was working her usual overnight stocking shift at the grocery store and I really needed someone to talk to. Any chance you’re up?

  My phone rang a few seconds later, the readout indicating it was Seth.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  I told him what happened with Hurley, ending with, “There was blood all over the floorboard. His little piggies won’t be going to market again.”

  “Megan, my God! He could’ve killed you!”

  “Occupational hazard,” I said. “Besides, you’re one to talk. You run into burning buildings and defuse bombs for a living.”

  “Yeah, but I’m—”

  “You better not say ‘I’m a guy.’”

  “What? And risk you whacking me like you did Hurley? Never. I was going to say ‘at least I’m wearing protective gear and I know what I’m getting myself into when I go to work.’ Every one of your shifts is a crapshoot.”

  It was true. That was part of what kept the job interesting.

  “I’m coming over,” Seth said. “You don’t need to be alone at a time like this.”

  “I’m not alone,” I said. “I’ve got Brigit.”

  On hearing her name, my furry partner lifted her snout from my stomach and cocked her head, her ears pricked.

  “Yeah, but you need me,” Seth said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have texted me.”

  He was right and, truth be told, it kind of scared me to need someone like this.

  “Could you stop at the store on your way?” I asked.

  “For wine or for chocolate?”

  “For raspberry sorbet,” I told him, “and a box of liver treats.”

  “Just when I thought I was starting to understand women…”

  * * *

  The following morning, Seth and I took Brigit and Blast to the dog park to let them romp with their furry friends. As they chased a Doberman about, I asked Seth about his mother. “How’s everything at home?”

  He cut a look my way and groaned. “You know I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I know,” I replied. “Which is exactly why you need to talk about it.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. But while his protective body language told me he wasn’t comfortable with this conversation, he nonetheless managed to eke out a few words. “I don’t know how things are, really. The three of us hardly talk to each other.”

  “That beats arguing,” I said.

  “Does it?”

  He had a point. When people argued with each other, even if they were yelling and screaming, it meant they cared enough to get worked up. Silence could indicate apathy. But it could also indicate fear, or an inability to know how to start a very long overdue conversation.

  I reached out and grabbed one of his hands, pulling it free from his chest and giving it a squeeze. “Maybe you three should try counseling.”

  “My grandfather would never go for that.”

  “I have a gun and handcuffs,” I said. “I could force him.”

  “Now there’s a thought.”

  My cell phone jiggled in my pocket. I pulled it out to see Detective Bustamente’s name on the readout. “Good morning, Detective.”

  “Nice work nabbing Hurley,” he said.

  “Just doing my job.”

  “And doing it quite well. You should be proud of yourself.”

  I’d be more proud if I’d caught the peeper, too. Right now, I was only one for two. Still, I’d taken a violent felon out of commission. “Thanks.”

  “We got the DNA results.”

  “And?”

  “There was no match.”

  I closed my eyes and put a hand to my brow. The lack of a DNA match ruled out Wilmer, Gilbreath, Looney, and Hurley. It also ruled out anyone else with a criminal record. Would this peeper case ever be solved?

  Of course the failure of the DNA to match anyone in the system meant several suspects were still in play.

  Victor Paludo.

  Garrett Hawke.

  And Todd Conklin.

  “A journalist came to the bank after we nabbed Hurley last night,” I told Bustamente. “He had a camera with him. It made me wonder i
f that piece of b-broken plastic that was found outside Korinna’s window could be part of a lens cap. If it is, it could tie Todd Conklin to the crime.” After all, the vast majority of people these days shot pics and videos with their phones rather than traditional cameras. But a man who ran a photography business could be expected to own and use higher quality equipment.

  “Smart thinking, Luz,” Bustamente said. “Problem is, we don’t have probable cause to search Conklin’s studio or home.”

  “Yet,” I said.

  He chuckled. “You’re a hardworking woman, Officer Luz.”

  “Can you get me a raise?”

  “I can get you a paper clip.”

  “Thanks. But I’ll pass.” I went on to tell him about my interaction with Todd Conklin the night before. “His wife’s car was parked at a curb with the watch sign on it, but nobody was in the car. I thought that seemed a little odd, so I pulled over to see if something was going on. Next thing I know, he’s coming down the street on foot. He looked surprised to see my cruiser.”

  “Not unusual,” Bustamente said. “Even law-abiding folks are taken aback when they come upon a cop car.”

  “Yes, I know. But the look on his face wasn’t just surprise. It looked a bit like panic.”

  “Did he run? Try to evade you?”

  “No, he came back to his car. When I asked him what he was doing out of his vehicle, he said he’d seen a loose dog and had left his car to try to catch it.”

  “That’s plausible,” the detective said. “Did he look like he’d been chasing a dog? Was he out of breath? Sweaty? Flushed?”

  Yes, yes, and yes. “Well, yeah, but something still felt off to me.”

  The detective was quiet for a moment. Either he was mulling things over, or he was trying to find a polite way to tell me I was off my rocker. He came back with, “We don’t have probable cause to force a search,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t pay Conklin a visit.”

  I raised a fisted hand in excitement, garnering me a questioning look from Seth. “I can be ready in half an hour.”

  “Slow down, eager beaver. I’m tied up with church and family stuff today and booked solid tomorrow. Double-booked at a couple of points. This is what you have to look forward to when you make detective. What say we meet at Conklin’s studio Tuesday at three-thirty?”

  My first impulse was to scream in frustration. I wanted to follow up on my hunch now. But justice wasn’t just blind, it was busy. Hard as it might be, I’d have to wait. “It’s a date.”

  * * *

  Sunday afternoon, shortly after Seth and I had returned from taking the dogs to the dog park, Captain Leone called my cell. “Figured you’d want an update on your former partner.”

  “I do, sir. I’ve been worried.”

  He told me that the doctors had been able to remove all of the shot from Derek’s scrotum, and that it had caused no permanent damage. “God help us if that man decides to reproduce one day. At any rate, the shot in his arm has also been removed with no problems. He’ll get a few paid days off to recover and will be back to being a pain in all of our asses by the end of the week.”

  “That’s good to hear,” I said. “What about Ralph Hurley?”

  “Hurley suffered a severe concussion but came around early this morning. Of course the foot was a total loss. He’s threatened to file excessive-force charges.”

  “Are you worried?”

  “Pshaw. Not for a second.”

  “You don’t think he’s got a leg to stand on?”

  “If that was a pun, you’re fired.”

  I pled the fifth. “Thanks for the call, Captain.”

  * * *

  Seth and I had a nice, relaxing day together. It was exactly what I needed. That night, though, my demons returned. I tossed and turned so much in the bed that Brigit finally cast me a dirty look, climbed down, and went to sleep on the futon in the living room. Finally, I gave up on sleep, rounded up my laptop, and decided to find out a little more about Todd Conklin. I typed his name into the search bar and hit enter. Several items popped up.

  The first was his Web site for Say Cheese! The “About Us” page featured head shots of both Conklin and a full-time male assistant who worked for him.

  The next item was a Web site set up by a bride and groom who’d hired Say Cheese! to take their wedding photos. They’d been kind enough to give a shout-out to the business.

  The third entry was a photo of Conklin’s home featured in the Berkeley Place homeowners’ association newsletter. The front yard featured a cute display of pumpkins, along with Indian corn and a smiling scarecrow family, the two “parent” scarecrows standing while the two “children” scarecrows perched on hay bales. In the photo, Todd and Nora stood next to the adult scarecrows, which towered over their real counterparts. Apparently, this festive display earned the Conklins their homeowners association’s yard-of-the-month award last October.

  The other entries merely identified him as a member of the neighborhood watch or as the generous contributor of a free photo session at various charity silent auction events.

  I sat back to ponder what new information I’d learned from this search. All I’d gleaned was that Todd Conklin was smaller than a scarecrow. Not exactly useful information, was it? But, with any luck, Detective Bustamente and I woud get more information out of him on Tuesday.

  * * *

  It took everything in me not to cruise constantly by Conklin’s photography studio during my shift on Monday. Is he the peeper? Or am I barking up the wrong tree?

  I eyed Brigit in my rearview mirror. “What do you think, Briggie?”

  She gave me a look that said, I think you should buy me a bacon double cheeseburger.

  When I arrived home from work, I changed out of my uniform, retrieved my twirling baton from my closet, and wandered into the living room, where I found Frankie packing up her things for roller derby practice.

  I plunked down on the couch, clicked on the television, and tried to relax. Not easy, as excited and anxious as I was about questioning Conklin tomorrow. I twirled my baton in a flat spin but the swish-swish-swish failed to calm me today.

  Frankie glanced my way. “Why are you so jittery?”

  “Does it show?”

  She gestured to my knee, which was bouncing up and down, then to my spinning baton. “Uh, yeah.”

  Given that Frankie was a civilian, I had to be careful not to give her too much information and risk blowing the case. “I think I might have identified the person responsible for a string of recent crimes.”

  “The BP Peeper,” she said.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  She snorted. “You didn’t have to. That case is all you’ve been talking about lately.”

  Looked like in my search for clues I’d been fairly clueless myself.

  She lifted her bag to her shoulder. “Why don’t you come with me to practice? Skating is a great way to relieve tension. Second only to sex in my book.”

  I hadn’t strapped on a pair of skates since adolescence, but why not? It could be fun. And after sitting around all day in my cruiser I could use a workout. Unfortunately, I didn’t own any skates. “I don’t have roller skates.”

  Frankie eyed my feet. “What size are you?”

  “Eight and a half.”

  “I’m a nine,” she said. “Close enough. Put on thick socks. You can use one of my old pairs.”

  She scurried back to her bedroom and returned with a pair of well-worn skates, the leather soft and supple from use. With the skates broken in and then some, at least they wouldn’t give me blisters.

  I leashed up Brigit and the three of us headed out to Frankie’s car. Twenty minutes later, we arrived at the rink. I walked Brigit over to the weeds at the edge of the lot so she could relieve herself, then followed Frankie into the building.

  Several women had already arrived and were warming up, making slow laps around the rink. Others stood on the carpeted area flanking the rink, circli
ng their arms and heads to warm up their muscles. Still others were on the ground, stretching their hamstrings and calves. A set of portable metal bleachers was folded up and pushed back against the wall where they wouldn’t take up too much of the floor space now, but could easily be expanded for use by spectators during an actual bout.

  I left Brigit tied to a bench along the wall where she could watch the activity but wouldn’t be at risk of having her paw accidentally run over. After warming up ourselves, Frankie and I donned our skates. I had no trouble making my way across the carpeted floor, which provided resistance and friction, but once we rolled onto the hard surface of the rink it was an entirely different matter. My feet seemed to be moving faster than my body and before I knew it—whomp!—I’d landed flat on my butt on the rink.

  “Owwww,” I moaned, rubbing my lower back. “I think my tailbone is broken.”

  Frankie reached down a hand to help me up. “Don’t be a wimp. It’s probably just bruised. Besides, I’ve fractured mine three times. The doctors can’t do anything about a broken tailbone anyway so you might as well suck it up.”

  I looked up at her as I took her hand. “The least you could do is show some sympathy.”

  “Oh, boo-hoo.” She yanked me to my feet. “I’m in derby mode now. No mercy.”

  She gave me a few pointers and stayed with me as I took a couple of laps around the rink, managing, barely, to stay on my feet and off my ass. By the third go-round, I felt that I’d gotten the hang of things.

  “I think I’ve got it now,” I told her.

  She gave me a thumbs-up sign. “I’m off.” She bent low, swung her arm wide, and took off like a blue-haired bullet.

  I skated slowly near the outer wall, doing my best to stay out of the way of the team members racing around the rink. Thank goodness they wore helmets. At the rate some of them were going they could suffer a massive head injury if their skull hit the floor or wall.

  After ten minutes of warm-up, the team divided in two for a practice bout. That was my cue to leave the floor. I skated off through the opening and returned to Brigit, who was sitting on top of the bench I’d tied her to, softly panting as her eyes followed the women barreling past.