by Nina Wright
“It’s the same number,” Jenx replied. “At least I think it is.”
“Yeah? Pauline Vreelander said that was her husband’s cell, and she said she’d give it to you as soon as she found it.”
“She hasn’t got around to that yet,” Jenx said. “But I got the number here somewhere.”
I pictured Jenx’s desk, a mini-version of the Grand Canyon, steep stacks of manila folders with scattered scraps of paper floating between them.
“If it is the same number, what’s going on?” I wondered aloud.
“It could be a prank, or maybe somebody involved in this mess got hold of Vreelander’s cell phone. Or—third possibility—Pauline was wrong about her husband’s number,” Jenx said. “If she speed-dialed him every day, she might have forgotten it or been a digit off. Hang on, I got a call.”
Back on the line a minute later, Jenx huffed in my ear.
“Damn. Another report of vandalism. That makes three tonight.”
“You think it’s the same person who was in my basement and Leo’s workshop?”
“Yup. Tonight they’re messing with security lamps north of town. Brady and Roscoe were supposed to be off duty, but they’re out investigating. Brady doesn’t mind. He’s got a car payment due.”
Jenx said she’d run the phone number on my note as soon as she could, and tomorrow she’d remind Pauline Vreelander to show her Mark’s cell. I asked what I should do about the note.
“What do you wanna do?” she said.
“Give it to you so you can use it to catch the killer.”
Jenx pointed out that by now my fingerprints were all over it.
“How do you know that?” I said.
“Cuz you never correctly handle evidence.”
“If the weather was cold like it’s supposed to be in December, I’d have gloves on,” I muttered.
“Speaking of evidence,” Jenx said, “how about telling me what you found in Vreelander’s house?”
“Good news. I stole something from his desk.”
“You might wanna rephrase that, Whiskey. You’re talking to the chief of police.”
“Okay. I ‘borrowed’ a couple flash drives. Interested? Or should I put them back?”
“Bring ’em to the station. I’m working late.”
“I’m going home first. You wanted me to bond with Jeb, remember? By the way, Vreelander’s home office is a mess. According to Pauline, that’s how he liked to work.”
“Not at school, he didn’t,” Jenx said and hung up.
Surveying the parking lot one more time, I started my car and pulled out. All the way home to Vestige, I made frequent checks in my mirrors. Nothing and nobody the least bit suspicious appeared. To calm myself, I found a Christmas music station on the radio. I had to click it off, though, when they played Jingle Bells performed by barking dogs. It only spiked my annoyance at Jeb for letting Sandra Bullock bully Abra out of her own lodgings. That little flat-faced thespian had better not be in costume when I got home.
Even before I reached my driveway, I sensed that something was off. The security lights. All three of my mercury vapor lamps were out. Had Jeb even noticed? Or was he too busy changing Sandra’s outfit? I thought of Jenx’s report of new vandalism north of Magnet Springs. As I swung my car into the driveway, my headlights caught a slight black-clad figure dashing behind the clump of tall white spruces in the far corner of my front yard. I hit the brakes and my horn. If I couldn’t catch the bastard, at least I’d scare the shit out of him. Was it a “him”? The vandal wore a hoodie and gloves and moved fast. I’d never heard of girls doing this kind of damage, but what did I know? I never used to fear the PTO, either.
I honked again with my left hand as my right hand pawed the contents of my purse for my phone. Got it. I would call Jeb first, then Jenx. Maybe Jeb and Sandra could run out and corner the creep. If I had any luck, the snorting, farting little Frenchie might keep on running and never come back. Nah. That was a sight hound thing.
Before I could dial, the front door flew open, and Jeb emerged with his pooch. Apparently my porch light was broken, too. Both figures stood in silhouette against the warm glow of my living room. I could see that Sandra wore a big hat. It looked like a sombrero.
“Somebody broke my outdoor lights. He’s over there, behind the spruce trees!”
Jeb didn’t wait for me to finish before he broke into a run. Although Sandra’s stubby legs couldn’t match his stride, she took off after him, barking energetically. I could almost forgive the sombrero because her voice meant business. That was no high-pitched little-dog yip. There was a distinct trace of English bulldog.
Jenx sounded more alert on this call. She said she’d dispatch Brady and Roscoe, who were two miles away. I was okay with their using the siren this time, not that she asked my permission. I wanted to scare the perp silly. Also, I was tired of honking.
The chief wasn’t thrilled when I told her that Jeb was chasing the bad guy.
“Did it occur to you he might have a weapon?” she said.
“I didn’t see a weapon. The guy’s all in black.”
“Lots of dangerous things are black. Guns and crowbars, for starters. Did you think he broke your lights with his bare hands?”
“He’s wearing gloves,” I mumbled, but sweat bloomed on my forehead and the nape of my neck.
Jenx disconnected to summon Brady and Roscoe. Although Jeb had disappeared into the trees, I could still see Sandra in my headlights as she bounded clumsily after him. The wail of Brady’s siren was so sudden and close that it made me jump, and I had known it was coming. Sandra stopped dead, tipped her head back and yowled. Though not as eerie a sound as a sight hound’s howl, it was a big enough noise to scare somebody.
Between the siren and Sandra, the vandal must have had enough. A figure in black bolted from the trees toward the road. My headlights caught him, hoodie down, short light hair exposed.
Several things happened fast. Jeb appeared and tackled the vandal before he could cross the road. Brady pulled his screaming squad car in behind my vehicle, cutting the siren but leaving flasher and headlights on. Sandra Bullock landed on top of the prone intruder, barking her hatted head off. She also displayed a menacing underbite.
I approached the action as soon as Brady and Roscoe had secured the scene. In my opinion, Sandra’s threatening act was strictly for Roscoe’s benefit. She intended to sexually excite him, this time by showing that she could subdue anybody, even while wearing a sombrero. Her routine had the desired doggie effect, which was not what any human requiring police assistance would desire. Whining, Roscoe danced on his hind legs. He demonstrated a form of ardency not relevant to his profession. Brady led his disabled partner back to the squad car.
Although I never saw Sandra look directly at Roscoe, that didn’t mean she’d missed one second of his response. It dawned on me that the little Frenchie might be an amazingly accomplished canine tease.
Jeb had knocked the vandal on his stomach, and Sandra had landed on his back. Thanks to Roscoe’s psycho-sexual break, nobody got around to rolling the guy over until Brady returned from the car. While we waited, Jeb and I didn’t talk. We studied what appeared to be a delinquent teen-ager. His back heaved under Sandra’s wide stance as he tried to catch his breath, but he said nothing and kept his face covered.
When Brady returned, Sandra automatically jumped down on solid ground, seeking Jeb’s approval. She got that in the form of a big hug and, gag me, a kiss on her flat muzzle. Hell, Jeb hadn’t even gotten around to kissing me yet tonight, and I was carrying his baby. Needless to say, there would be no romance tonight until somebody brushed his teeth.
“Roll over,” Brady commanded the kid on the ground.
Nothing happened. The vandal in black continued to lie on his stomach, panting, arms shielding his face.
“I said, roll over!”
As if on cue, Sandra Bullock growled from her perch in Jeb’s arms.
“Okay, okay,” the kid mutte
red. “Just keep that creepy little dog with the hat away from me.”
He rolled over, like an obedient criminal. Brady shone his magnum torch straight into the kid’s face.
“Hey, I can’t see,” he whined.
I caught a flash of pale skin and bright blue eyes before the kid covered his face again.
“That would be because you broke all the lights, Genius. So now I have to use this,” Brady said, fixing the beam in place.
The kid swore, but it was a mild epithet. Even as he tried to shield himself from the glare, I recognized him. It was the obnoxious middle-school agitator from the morning assembly.
23
“How old are you?” I asked even though it probably wasn’t my turn.
“Old enough,” the kid snapped, peering at me through his fingers. “Hey, I know you. You’re the drunk who pushed Vreelander off his bike.”
“Am not. Did not,” I said.
“Shut up,” Brady snarled. “Not you, Whiskey, but you might want to step back.”
I did. Brady moved a little closer to the sneering kid on the ground.
“What’s your name?”
“I know my rights. I don’t have to say anything. I wanna lawyer up.”
“You can do that,” Brady said reverting to his standard relaxed manner. “But you look like a minor, and in that case, we need to call your parents first.”
“He’s a student at The Bentwood School,” I told Brady.
“I’m not just a student there,” the kid said. “I’m president of the Student Council.”
I recalled Chester’s comment about the spiraling quality of The Bentwood School graduates. They seemed to be on a par with the current PTO. Probably there was a correlation.
“You’re the president?” I repeated. “Is that why you hijacked the assembly this morning?”
He grinned. “I hijack every assembly. The kids expect it.”
“Mr. Vreelander let you do that?”
“Not so much, but he didn’t last long, did he?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Brady said.
“He’s dead, dude. You’re a cop. You should know that.”
“Stand up,” Brady said. “Nice and slow.”
“What if I don’t feel like it?”
“Cops don’t much care what you feel like, dude.”
Sandra Bullock, who was ominously close to the kid, chose that moment to let loose another Frenchie howl. He scrambled to his feet.
“You gonna cuff me?”
He was talking to Brady, but his nervous gaze was on Sandra.
“It’s what cops do.”
Brady told the kid to put his wrists together just so, and he snapped plastic restraints in place. To me, they looked like a garbage bag tie, apt for this piece of trash.
“You work alone?” Brady asked.
“It’s hard to get good help,” the kid said.
“What are you, twelve?” I interjected.
“Twelve, my ass. I’m fifteen.”
“Fifteen’s a little old for middle school. What’s the matter, can’t ya read?”
“I have a learning disability,” the kid muttered, sounding defensive.
“Oh. So you’re stupid, is that it? Or just lazy? I hear a lot of dumb asses go to your school.”
The night was dark, but I could feel Brady and Jeb staring at me. I wasn’t done.
“What’s a loser like you plan to do in high school? Let me guess. A lot of remedial work, right? And of course you’ll have truancy issues. Followed by a career in—oh, I don’t know—fast food? Or maybe drug dealing? Yeah, that one pays better. Until you land in jail, which is where you’re headin’ tonight, dude. Great job. You get to see your future.”
The kid was whimpering. Jeb cleared his throat and touched my arm.
“Uh, Whiskey, how about we let Brady finish up?”
“Oh. Sure.” But I had one more remark for the kid. “The dog in the sombrero should scare you. If you can’t do the time, don’t piss off the canine. We got lots of crazy dogs in this town, and they bring boys down.”
By now the kid was sobbing. Brady led him without resistance to the squad car, where Officer Roscoe had set up a howl for his beloved Frenchie.
“What the hell got into you?” Jeb asked. “You made that kid piss his pants.”
“I did?”
Jeb nodded. Sandra probably deserved a share of the credit although I had done my part. Back on the ground, the Frenchie trotted along on Jeb’s other side. We headed into the house, where lights were still working.
“Pregnancy brings out my ‘bad cop,’” I said. “When Jenx hears what happened, she’ll respect me as a volunteer deputy.”
“No she won’t,” Jeb said. “You still leave fingerprints. She called me about the note on your windshield.”
He started to kiss me, but I remembered the dog germs in time to duck. I promised he could have his way with me as soon as Sandra was in lockdown and he was sanitized for human contact.
“This has been a rough week for ya, babe,” Jeb said. “But you’re not alone anymore.”
I nodded. “You’re back, and so’s my mother. Unfortunately, you came with a dog, and my mom got a job at my office.”
The doorbell rang. It wasn’t late, but after the dog traumas, the anonymous note, and the vandalism, I didn’t feel like entertaining. Jeb promised to get rid of whoever was there. As Sandra padded after him toward the door, I counted on her to discourage company unless it was someone who fancied odd dogs.
I did know a few folks like that, and one of them was at the door, Chester. Prince Harry was at his side, cautiously sniffing Sandra’s sombrero. Chester held Velcro, the teacup shitzapoo, who trembled like a tuning fork. Velcro usually trembled, so it probably wasn’t about Sandra or her hat.
“Where’s Abra?” I said cautiously.
“That’s why I’m here, Whiskey. I am very, very sorry to inform you that she ran away. Again.”
It was only then that I realized Chester was crying. His cheeks were streaked with tears, which Velcro now licked.
“How’d she get away this time?” I said as calmly as possible.
“When I took Prince Harry and Velcro out to pee, she pushed past me and kept on going. I thought she was asleep on my bed.”
“Oldest trick in her book,” I mumbled. “Don’t beat yourself up, Chester.”
“I guess I’m not used to managing three dogs at a time.”
“You mean two dogs plus an Afghan hound,” I corrected him.
As I spoke, I glanced over Chester’s head into the night beyond, where Brady’s squad car had stopped in the street, flasher still flashing. I had assumed he’d be en route back to the station by now.
“What’s going on out there?” I wondered aloud.
“Look!”
Chester pointed, but we would have seen it anyway. In the headlights of the squad car, Abra leapt and pirouetted, no doubt for Officer Roscoe’s benefit. No way she would voluntarily turn herself in so soon after escaping The Castle.
I had a theory. “Chester, did you hear sirens just before Abra fled?”
“Yes,” he said, pushing his glasses back up on his nose. “I did hear them when I opened the door to let out the dogs. The next thing I knew, Abra knocked me down and zoomed away.”
As we three humans dashed toward the dog by the cop car, we were accompanied by three more canines. Brady stepped out of the vehicle when he saw us approach.
“Whiskey, can you contain Abra?”
“I think you know the answer to that question,” I replied.
At the very least I should have made the effort to grab a leash before leaving home, but I could rarely put my hands on one. Besides, we all knew how these things ended. Abra would bolt again, and we would wait for sightings, followed by criminal charges.
We watched as Abra performed some kind of erotic doggie dance that involved flashing her ass at the same time she jumped straight into the air. I had never seen that one b
efore.
“She’s trying too hard,” Chester commented. “She’s desperate to get her man.”
I could relate. Wincing, I watched Abra leap onto the hood of the car and press her best parts against the windshield. At least I’d never done that.
As if to prove that one bitch at this address knew how to get her man, Sandra strutted over to the squad car, and gently pawed the rear passenger door. In the window above her hatted head, Roscoe’s leering face appeared. His eyes goggled as his wet tongue slimed the glass.
“Wait!” Chester cried.
He wasn’t commanding a canine. He had just remembered that there was a leash in his pocket. Holding it out, he started toward Abra, who had paused her performance to see what Sandra was up to. Uh-oh. We were about to witness another girl-fight.
“Chester—” I began, foreseeing chaos. Both my hands jumped to cover my baby bump. “Abra’s going to—”
I was poised to say “go bonkers,” but I didn’t have to. Flaring out her full coat and tail, she flew at Sandra Bullock, biting the sombrero, and letting the momentum send them into a spinning roll along the road. Prince Harry ran alongside like a color commentator, punctuating the action with woofs and jumps. While he might have been cheering for his mom, I thought it more probable he just liked to bark and leap.
If I hadn’t been sure that my Affie would best the Frenchie, I would have screamed like a girl for people to pull them apart. Two people did pull them apart, the man in uniform and the man I loved. Meanwhile, I claimed whatever self-protection privileges came with pregnancy by moving quickly in the opposite direction. Brady and Jeb sorted it out fast; the snarls and snorts lasted only moments. Neither dog whimpered or howled in pain. Neither man did, either.
“You can turn around now, Whiskey,” Chester shouted.
He was holding Velcro in one hand and a leash attached to Abra in the other. Bedraggled but self-satisfied, Abra chomped on Sandra’s sombrero. I could only hope that the taste of victory was sweeter than the taste of whatever that hideous accessory was made of.
“Abra scored two hats today,” I announced. “I declare her the winner.”