Worst In Show: A Jamie Bravo Mystery

by Layce Gardner

  “Listen lady, I’m busy. I don’t have time to argue with you on this one. Scram already,” he says.

  “I’m not a lady,” I growl.

  “You’re telling me.”

  “This is a property crime,” I argue. I don’t really know what I’m saying, but I’m throwing a handful of darts at the dartboard hoping something will stick.

  “Property does not bite or shit,” he says.

  “Why do you hate dogs so much?”

  A woman walks back behind the counter. She has short dark hair and a no-nonsense attitude. She about ten years older than me and two inches taller. She’s wearing a trench coat. She gives me the up and down treatment with her eyes. “Nice coat,” she says.

  I check her out. I mean, I check out her coat. “You too.”

  “London Fog,” she says.

  “Burberry Brit.”

  “Hey, London. I thought your last name was Wells, not Fog,” the fat man says.

  “Who asked you, Chuck Wagon,” the woman named London says.

  I immediately like her. She doesn’t take any guff at least not from this tub of lard. “Your name is London?” I ask. “What a cool name.”

  “It wasn’t so cool when I was in grade school.”

  “I see London, I see France, I can see your underpants,” Chuck Wagon sing-songs.

  “Go stick another doughnut in it,” she says. She looks at me. She looks at my boobs. Then she says, “Detective London Wells. Come with me.” She turns and walks away.

  Her voice is silky smooth like a hypnotist’s. I obey it without question. She leads me down a hallway and into a room that is piled with brown plants and stacks of files and paperwork. She takes off her coat, sits down behind a metal desk and gestures for me to sit in a folding chair.

  “Chuck Wagon out there hates dogs,” she says.

  “Is that his real name?” I ask.

  She smiles. “Nope.” She looks me up and down again, slower this time. I feel like she’s undressing me with her eyes. I cross my legs and grip the seat of the chair, not trusting my own body to not throw itself on her lap and start making out. This woman is Sexy with a capital S.

  Her gray eyes lock onto mine. “He hates dogs because when he was a beat cop, a Chihuahua ate his pinky,” she says.

  My instincts tell me she’s lying. “You’re lying.”

  She laughs. “Technically, the dog mangled his pinky so badly that it had to be amputated. The dog did, however, eat the tip.”

  “I won’t even ask how it happened.”

  “So, your dog is missing?” she asks.

  I shake my head and hand her my business card. “I’ve been hired to find some missing dogs. Three to be exact.”

  “Hmm,” she says, slipping the card into her front shirt pocket.

  I continue, “I got a picture of the perp stealing one of the dogs.” I hand her the photo. “I want to check his face against your mug shot books. He’s got a big mole on his face.” When Juniper blew up the picture on her computer, the mole became more than apparent. I considered the mole the jackpot of distinguishing characteristics. How hard could it be to find a guy with a quarter-size mole on his left cheek?

  “The perp, huh?” She barely glances at the photo before handing it back.

  I study her face to see if she’s making fun of me. If she is, I can’t tell. “You know, the perpetrator,” I say in a shaky voice. I don’t know why this woman makes me so nervous. I cross my arms over my chest.

  “Are you cold?” she asks, looking at the front of my sweater for confirmation.

  I nod a tiny bit and pretend-shiver.

  She gets up and looks at the thermometer on the wall. “It’s seventy-eight degrees in here and you’re wearing a sweater.”

  “Sorry,” I say, not knowing exactly why I’m apologizing.

  “Let’s go,” London says.

  “Go? Where?”

  “You want to look at mug shots, right?”

  “Oh, right.” I follow her out the door. I have a feeling I’d follow her anywhere.

  The real problem with mug shots is there are so many. London sets me up in an interrogation room with the table piled high with mug shot books. I whizz through the first five piles of books then lose speed. It’s a daunting task—like looking for a mole in a haystack. The mole didn’t turn out to be the jackpot I thought it’d be. To make matters worse I keep getting distracted by scars and tats and all kinds of strange distinguishing characteristics. No wonder most of these people went into a life of crime—it must be next to impossible to get a good job with misspelled words tattooed on your neck.

  And somebody needs to do something about the quality of these photos. The lighting is horrible. Nobody can look good in a mug shot. Not even Robert Downey, Jr.

  I close book number thirty-six and rub my eyes. It’s hard to tell which hurts worse, my eyes or my butt. I stand up and stretch. Maybe Mr. Mole won’t be in the books. He could be new to a life of crime. Now that I think about it, I can’t imagine a hardened criminal resorting to dognapping. That is more like an entry-level crime. Even criminals have to start somewhere, right?

  There is a quick knock at the door and London pops her head in. “I brought you some lousy coffee. I figured you should experience the entire spectrum of police life.”

  “Really? I thought bad coffee was just a television thing, you know, to add color to the show,” I say.

  “Check it out for yourself,” London says. She sits in the chair nearest me.

  I sit back down and eye the Styrofoam cup filled with black tar. It doesn’t even look like it’s in liquid form.

  London chuckles and tosses three packets of sugar and four packets of instant creamer on the table. “You’ll be wanting these. Believe me, it helps.”

  I test-sip the coffee, almost gag, and grab the condiments. “Yikes, that is nasty. But right now I need it. Thanks for thinking of me.” I hope that didn’t sound too needy. I don’t want her to think I’m some kind of pansy who can’t even deal with looking through a stack of mug shots.

  “So how’s it going?” London asks.

  I sigh. “I had no idea Lakeland has so many criminals.”

  “Yeah, it sure doesn’t do much for one’s faith in the inherent goodness of mankind.” She pulls a stack of the books in front of her. “I’ll look through these.”

  “Don’t you have other work to do?” I ask. Then I quickly amend, “I mean, I want your help, but I don’t want to take up all your time or anything.”

  She shrugs. “This is work. Besides I’m a dog lover. I’ve got two mutts at home. They’re ugly and slobber a lot, but they’ve outlasted three of my girlfriends.”

  I flip a page in the book, careful to keep my eyes averted as I ask, “So you’re single then?”

  “Aren’t all cops?”

  “I thought that was a myth too.”

  “Nope, family and lovers are difficult to please when you have to go racing out in the middle of the night. Being a private detective must be hard on your love life, too.”

  I can feel her eyes boring holes in me. “Yeah, if I had a love life.”

  “So, no loving and supportive partner at home?” she asks.

  “Nope. My last girlfriend was a big time attorney. She was the one at work all the time.”

  “An attorney? Would I know her?” she asks.

  “Veronica Smythe.”

  London laughs. “I can see your point. She’s hot but high-maintenance.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. Anyway, that’s been over for a long while now.”

  “So us single gals might have a drink one of these times if that’d be all right,” she says.

  “I’d like that.”

  She stands and saunters back to the door before turning around. She pats my card in her shirt pocket, saying, “I’ll call you.”

  I watch her shapely butt as it walks through the door. Wow. I come here looking for a mole and end up with a date. Not a bad day’s work.
/>   Twenty-Seven

  Traffic jams are good for daydreaming. Some people listen to audio books, some listen to talk radio, industrious types use the stalled time to learn a new language. Me? I daydream. I have plenty to think about today while I inch along in first gear. First, there’s Gloria. Then, there’s London. Gloria makes my heart pitter-patter and London makes other parts of me pitter-patter. Am I being slutty just because I’m torn between the two? Hey, I’m an adult woman, right? I’m single. I can play the field. There’s nothing wrong with that. Then why do I feel so guilty? I haven’t even gone out with Gloria and already I feel like I’m cheating on her just because I looked at mug shots with London.

  To complicate matters even more I still have the whole Veronica problem.

  My phone rings, jarring me out of my self-induced hypnosis. I fumble it out of my coat pocket and hold it to my ear. “Bravo here.”

  “Jamie, this is Wells.”

  “Who?”

  “Detective Wells. London.”

  “Oh!” That was fast. I’ve barely left the police station and she’s already calling for a date!

  “I thought you might want to know about another dognapping,” London says.

  Okay, so she’s not calling for a date. “Where? Who?” I ask.

  “The victim is at St. Francis hospital,” she says. “She’s a senior citizen. Hildegard’s the name. Thought you might want to be there when I interview her.”

  “I do!” I say. “I’m stuck in traffic. I’ll be there ASAP.”

  “See you there.” The dial tone hums in my ear.

  I wish I had one of those light bubbles to stick on top of my car. I bet London has one. I make the next right into an alley. I’ll have to take surface streets and alleys all the way to the hospital.

  By the time I get to the hospital, I find Mrs. Hildegard looking small and weak in a hospital bed. I met her and her dog Matilda in the elevator once. I thought her dog was wearing pants. There tear marks on her powdered cheeks. Her left eye is swollen shut and turning out to be a blue ribbon shiner. London hasn’t shown up yet and I don’t know whether I’m supposed to wait on her or not.

  “Are you the police?” Mrs. Hildegard asks in a strained voice.

  “No, I’m not with the police. I’m a private investigator.” I hand her my business card. She fumbles for her glasses on the nightstand, puts them on and peers at the card, mumbling “Jamie Bravo. Oh, I remember now. You’re Mrs. Friedman’s private detective. Did you ever find her husband?”

  “That’s me, and yes, I did,” I say in a fake cheery tone. “I’m also working for several women who live in your building. They’ve hired me to check into several dognappings that have occurred recently.”

  “There’s a serial dognapper on the loose?” she asks.

  I nod. “It sure seems that way. Can I ask you a few questions about what happened?”

  “If it’ll help bring my Matty home, you can ask me anything,” she says, dabbing at her eyes with a corner of the sheet.

  “What kind of dog is Matty?”

  “Norwich Terrier. She’s won Best In Show three years running.”

  “Matty competes in the Lakeland dog show?”

  “That’s right, dear. She’s favored to win again this year.”

  The Lakeland dog show is big news around town. It’s very competitive. Think child beauty pageants except with canines. Like Honey Boo-Boo except even more vicious. “Do you happen to know an Ethel Myers? Or a Dolores Heinz?”

  “Of course, I do. They live in my building,” Mrs. Hildegard answers. “Were their dogs stolen?”

  A voice behind me says, “We don’t know for a fact they were stolen. But it is a good possibility.”

  I turn and see London striding into the room. My voice catches in my throat at the sight of her and I nod a hello. “I hope it’s all right I asked a few questions without you here.”

  London smiles cordially and looks down at Mrs. Hildegard. “I’m detective London Wells with the Lakeland Police.”

  “Hello, dear,” Mrs. Hildegard says. “I was just telling this nice young lady that a man attacked me and stole my Matty.”

  “We a video of a man taking Mrs. Pittman’s Beagle." I hold up the photo of Mr. Mole. “Does he look familiar to you?”

  Mrs. Hildegard peers through her glasses at the photo. “He looks like that actor from that TV show, The Waltons.”

  “But you’ve never seen him around Lakeland?”

  “No, dear, I never saw him after that show went off the air. Oh, wait! Didn’t he do a TV movie where he played a retarded man who married a retarded girl?”

  Okay, that wasn’t very politically correct. “I don’t know anything about that movie.” I look at London. She shrugs. I put the photo away. It’s only confusing matters. “It wasn’t John-Boy who did the dognappings.”

  “Oh, thank goodness. He seemed like such a nice young man.” Mrs. Hildegard says.

  I didn’t know where to go from there. I look to London for help. She jumps in and asks, “Mrs. Hildegard, why don’t you tell me how it happened? Where were you when you dog was abducted?” She opens a small black notebook and clicks a pen. I need a notebook like that. It would make me look more professional. I’ll have to remember to stop by Walgreens on the way home and buy one. I’d write that down but I don’t have a notebook.

  Mrs. Hildegard takes a deep breath and winces from the pain. She gingerly holds her side and says, “I was walking Matty. Like I always do. It’s our routine. She’s very routine-oriented, you know. She likes to do her business at the same time every day. I’m like clockwork too, seven-thirty on the button every day. If I miss it for any reason my poop window closes for the day and I have to wait until the next morning. Anyway, Matty and I were taking our afternoon constitutional when this man runs up behind me and pushes me. I fall against a parking meter, but I don’t let go of Matty’s leash. I always have his leash wrapped around my wrist. The man grabs the leash and pulls on it and when he can’t get it loose he punches me in the face. I fall down and he kicks me in the ribs. The doctor says I have two cracked ribs. What kind of world is this that a man will hit and kick an old lady? He scoops up Matty and runs away. Somebody must have called 911 because the ambulance was there pronto.”

  I look over at London and theorize, “He’s escalating. He’s gone from taking dogs on the sly to violence and nabbing the dogs in broad daylight.”

  London slaps her notebook shut and smiles kindly at Mrs. Hildegard. “Thank you, Ma’am. You’re very brave. I’m sure we’ll catch this guy soon. And when we do, I’d be happy to hold him while you give him a taste of his own medicine.”

  Mrs. Hildegard chuckles. “I would appreciate that. I’d like to kick him right in his chicken McNuggets.”

  I bet she could do it, too. She certainly looks feisty enough.

  “Can I talk to you in private?” London asks me.

  I give my goodbyes to Mrs. Hildegard, getting her phone number and telling her I’ll keep in touch. I join London in the hallway. As we walk to the elevator, she says, “Listen, this case won’t be high on our list of priorities. Dognapping takes a back seat to big boy crimes and I’ve got plenty of those on my plate. The only reason I’m here is because…Well, because I knew you’d want to know about this.”

  My cheeks grow hot. Thank God, I have an olive complexion or she’d see me blushing.

  “So, that’s it?” I ask. “You won’t be looking for this guy?”

  She steps inside the elevator. “I’ll keep my eyes open,” she answers. “And if I hear anything, I’ll call you.”

  “I’d appreciate that.” I get in the elevator, making sure to keep a safe distance from her. It’s not that I don’t trust her. I don’t trust myself. I imagine leaning in to her. Our lips touching. I wrap my hand around the back of her neck. She pushes me against the wall and I moan with delicious…

  “What’re you thinking about?”

  “Huh?”

  “You have a funn
y smile on your face,” she says. “Like you were somewhere far away.”

  I look at my toes. She’s a trained detective and can probably tell what I’m thinking just by looking in my eyes. “I was just thinking about the case,” I lie.

  The elevator doors open and London smiles at me. “See you soon,” she says.

  “I hope so,” I say. Omigod, did I really just say that?

  “Me, too,” she says back.

  I watch her walk down the hallway and out the automatic doors. It takes about five minutes before my heart rate slows to normal.

  Twenty-Eight

  I do some of my best thinking while I clean. You can always tell the state of my mind by the state of my home. Today, I cleaned the whole loft and still hadn’t figured out what to do next. So, I did the only thing I could do. I packed up my cleaning supplies and my vacuum, drove to my office and started cleaning there. I hadn’t really been at my office enough to mess the place up, but I get busy trying to spic and span the place anyway.

  As I vacuumed, I re-capped everything in my head. Here’s what I knew: Four dogs had been napped. All four dogs lived in the same building. All four dogs had elderly owners. All four dogs were pedigreed, but only one dog was Best In Show at the Lakeland dog show. A man with a giant mole on his cheek stole at least one of the dogs and probably all four.

  Here’s what I didn’t know: Who took the dogs. Why they took the dogs.

  Here’s a possible M.O.: To sell the dogs and get money.

  That seemed like as good an M.O. as any. What’s that old saying? Follow the money. So, if I was a predigreed dognapper, where would I sell the dogs? Was there a Craigslist for used dogs?

  My vacuum suddenly stopped. I turned around to find Veronica standing there in only her bra and panties, dangling the vacuum cleaner’s cord like a dominatrix’s whip.

  “Don’t you ever knock?” I ask. “You could get hurt sneaking up on me like that. What if I had a gun and shot you?”

  “You’re scared of guns,” Veronica says.

  “Yeah, but I can do a lot of harm with a banana. Why are you here anyway?”