Laying Down the Paw

by Diane Kelly

  Not on my watch, buddy.

  I switched on my flashing lights and turned right, going after the SUV. The smaller vehicle pulled over to let me pass, and I laid on the gas, moving up behind the still-speeding car. Rather than pull over, the driver put the pedal to the medal. Moron. If he thought his SUV could outrun my cruiser, he had poop for brains. Still, we officers had been cautioned against unnecessary high-speed chases, which posed a risk of injury to innocent bystanders. The general public had become aware that officers were less likely than they used to be to engage in hot pursuit. Looked like this ass was going to put that theory to the test.

  I flipped on my siren now. The guy still made no move to pull over or brake.

  I grabbed my mic and pushed the button to activate the radio. “Backup needed on Hemphill heading north from Allen. Got a speeder evading arrest.”

  Probably realizing officers would be waiting for him up ahead, the driver hooked a right turn on Magnolia. Unfortunately for him, he hooked it much too fast, the back end of his vehicle swinging around like a square dancer. Tires squealed as he braked. Screeeeee!

  Dumbass. Didn’t he know to turn into a skid?

  His SUV came to a stop in the middle of the road. He glanced around furtively, realizing that, though he’d somehow managed not to hit another car, he was now hopelessly boxed in by traffic.

  I pushed the button to activate my patrol car’s public address system. “Step out of the car with your hands up.”

  The man banged his hands on the steering wheel before doing as told. He slid out of his truck, his meaty hands raised to his shoulders.

  The guy was Caucasian, with a round body and an equally round, bald head. His lips were full and protruded more than usual. He looked look like a human rubber duck.

  “On your knees,” I said through the mic, fighting the urge to add quack-quack.

  He put one hand down to lower himself to the asphalt, then raised it again once he was kneeling.

  Brigit stood in her enclosure, breathing down my neck, her tail wagging as I shifted the gear into park. I emerged from my car, standing behind the door until I could extend my baton. Snap!

  “Any more monkey business,” I called to the human duck, “and you will be sorry. Understand?”

  His only response was a fat-lipped scowl.

  I circled around behind him and pulled out my handcuffs. “Put your hands behind you.”

  “Godammit!” he spat, though he did as he was told.

  Once he was cuffed, I circled back around to his front. “Who do you think you are, driving like that? Jeff Gordon?”

  “No!” he snapped. “I think I’m a stupid asshole!”

  He’d get no argument from me.

  His scowl disappeared, and his big lips began to bounce as he started blubbering. “I must be a stupid asshole if my wife and best friend think they can carry on right under my nose and I wouldn’t figure it out.”

  I groaned. “That’s rough. Let me guess. You were on your way to set your friend straight?”

  He could only nod now, engaged as he was in an all-out blubber bonanza, big tears rolling down his cheeks.

  “I don’t blame you for being upset,” I said, “but I do blame you for not pulling over. You should always do what a cop tells you.”

  Another squad car pulled up, Summer at the wheel. When she emerged from the car, she stared at the guy for a moment, a puzzled look on her face. “You look familiar. Have I arrested you before?”

  Still blubbering, the man shook his head.

  I stepped over to my coworker and whispered, “Rubber duck.”

  “Ah.” She nodded. “That’s it.”

  After explaining the situation to Summer, I let her take over. Because they had no backseat, K-9 cruisers could not be used to transport suspects. It was a nice benefit of being partnered with a dog. Didn’t have to listen to the cursing and threats suspects often spewed from the backseat of a patrol car. Less paperwork, too.

  As Summer led the man to her cruiser, she called over to me. “We’re overdue for drinks.”

  “I’m moving into a new place tomorrow,” I told her. “You’ll have to come over and see it. I’ll get a bottle of moscato. You can meet my new roommate. She has blue hair.”

  “Blue hair?” Summer’s nose crinkled. “Is she an old lady or a Smurf?”

  “Neither. She plays roller derby.”

  “Ah. That explains it.”

  While Summer loaded the man into his patrol car, I pulled my cruiser to the curb, then did the same with the man’s SUV. I radioed for dispatch to send a tow truck and Brigit and I went, once again, on our merry way.

  At ten o’clock, I headed to Mistletoe Heights to meet with the first burglary victims, the married couple who’d been on a cruise when their house had been hit. I left the windows down on the cruiser and admonished Brigit to “be a good girl and wait nicely” while I spoke to the couple on their front porch.

  Though the officer who’d responded to the burglary call and completed the report had noted that the two had been on vacation when their house was hit and had listed the items that had been stolen, his report was sorely lacking in details. Truth be told, very few burglaries are ever solved. For one, the people who commit them know to hit quick and get the hell out of Dodge. Even if they’re spotted, the person who reports them is advised not to confront them. By the time police arrive the thieves are usually long gone. Secondly, burglaries are a lower priority than drug or violent crimes. Relative to a murder or rape, a stolen laptop seems insignificant. Staff, funds, and time were limited, and the police department simply didn’t have the resources to devote to tracking down every burglar. But I saw these break-ins as a challenge, a chance to see if I could put the clues together, figure out who the bad guy or guys were, and bring them to justice. The crimes would give me a chance to practice, to hone my skills so that once I became an official detective three years from now, I’d be the best detective the Fort Worth Police Department had ever seen.

  The couple, John Bayer and his wife Elena, were both ginger-haired, both lean and trim, and both dressed in trendy exercise gear.

  “I’ve read over the report,” I told them, “but I’m hoping you can give me more detailed information today. Maybe something that will give me a lead to pursue. Let’s start with the trip you were on. Can you tell me more about that?”

  Elena nodded, resting her hand on the doorjamb. “When the house was robbed we were on a five-day eastern Caribbean cruise. It left from San Juan, Puerto Rico.”

  “What cruise line?”

  “Carnival. The ship was called the Valor.”

  I jotted down the name of the ship and the dates of travel. “What airline did you take to San Juan?”

  “American,” Elena said. “We flew out of DFW.”

  The Dallas/Fort Worth Airport was a hub for American Airlines, with untold numbers of flights departing every day. The airline was also among the area’s major employers, and operated both a museum and a training facility/conference center in the area.

  “How did you book your travel?” I asked. “By phone? Online? Through a travel agency?” I didn’t ask whether they’d booked their flights in person. Nobody did anything in person anymore.

  “We weren’t sure where we wanted to go on vacation,” Elena said, “so we used an agency to help us come up with some options. It’s called Go-Go Getaways.” She gave me the name of her contact at the agency, as well as the agent’s phone number.

  “Did you have anyone watching your house while you were gone?”

  “Not specifically,” she said, “but I did tell both of our adjoining neighbors that we’d be gone for several days. They have our cell numbers for emergencies.”

  “Do either of these neighbors have teenaged children?”

  “No. The ones over here—” she pointed to the house on the right, “have two kids in elementary school. The others—” she gestured left now, “have a grown son in college down in San Antonio.”

/>   I explained my theory that, given the late afternoon time frame during which the burglaries were committed, teenagers could be the culprits.

  Elena shrugged. “All I know is that our neighbor said the window wasn’t broken when she left to take her daughter to soccer practice at three thirty, and that it was broken when she returned at five.”

  “Are there any teens in the neighborhood that seem suspicious?”

  Her husband harrumphed. “Don’t all teenagers seem suspicious?”

  This line of inquiry seemed to be going nowhere. Moving on. “Did you have someone watering your plants or picking up your mail while you were on the cruise?”

  “No,” Elena said. “Since we were going to be gone less than a week I just gave all the plants a thorough watering before we left. We had the post office hold our mail.”

  I jotted a note on my pad. Mail hold.

  “Do you have a lawn service?” I asked. “Or a housekeeper?”

  “No,” she said. “We tend to be do-it-yourself types.”

  That didn’t surprise me. The way they were both jogging in place while we talked told me they were high-energy people.

  “Have you had any workers at your house lately? Maybe an appliance repairman or plumber or electrician?”

  Both of the Bayers shook their heads.

  John followed up with, “I think the last time we had a repairman at our house was last June or July, for the garbage disposal. Remember?”

  “How could I forget?” Elena replied before turning back to me. “Something went wrong and the darn thing wouldn’t turn off.” She put her hands up on either side of her face and wiggled her fingers. “It was so loud you couldn’t hear yourself think. I thought my head was going to explode.”

  I could think of no more questions to ask, so I thanked them for their time and told them I’d let them know if anything panned out.

  As I walked back to the cruiser, I wondered. Had anything they told me been useful? Was there some clue in there to cling to? Had the Bayer’s home been a random hit? Had the burglar or burglars simply cased houses in the neighborhood, looking for one that appeared to be unoccupied? Or was there some other reason the thief or thieves had chosen their home to rob?

  SEVENTEEN

  MY KINGDOM FOR OPPOSABLE THUMBS

  Brigit

  Brigit knew today must be a special day because Megan had exchanged her usual collar for a new one. She had no idea what holiday it might be, but she hoped it was one of the holidays where the humans would eat turkey or ham or barbecue and feed her the scraps. She loved those holidays. Heck, she even liked pumpkin pie. Cranberry sauce, though? The humans could keep that tart and tangy slop to themselves.

  The morning had been exciting. They’d engaged in a high-speed chase. Brigit loved to go fast in the car. Of course she liked it better when Megan remembered to put the windows down so she could feel the wind in her fur and bark into the breeze. If only Brigit had opposable thumbs she could take care of such matters herself.

  As instructed, Brigit was being a “good girl” and “waiting nicely” in the back of the cruiser while Megan talked to a man and a woman. But she was beginning to get bored. Much longer and she’d have to start barking in protest or see if she could chew her way out of her metal mesh enclosure.

  Oh, wait. Here comes Megan now.

  EIGHTEEN

  HEARTBROKEN

  Dub

  It was Valentine’s Day, and Dub’s heart was broken.

  Since he’d moved in with his mother, he’d only been able to contact Jenna once. He couldn’t risk calling her from his mother’s phone and having someone track him down, and he didn’t have enough money to buy a prepaid phone. He’d walked all around the neighborhood and finally found a pay phone inside an old laundromat down the street.

  He’d tried her cell number first, but it went straight to voicemail. He’d gotten the Seavers’ home number from information and tried that next, crossing his fingers that Jenna would answer.

  She had.

  It hadn’t been easy to talk over the thunk-thunk-thunk of someone’s heavy towels in a nearby dryer, but at least he’d been able to tell her how much he missed her. She’d cried on the phone, which only made him feel worse. He’d hoped they’d be able to sneak away, maybe meet up in a park somewhere, but her parents had grounded her and taken away her cell phone when they found recent selfies of the two of them in her camera roll. Jenna’s parents didn’t think Dub was good enough for their daughter. They were probably right. Jenna deserved the best, not some juvenile delinquent who’d been caught burglarizing houses and in possession of crystal meth.

  And now he was a dropout, too. When he’d left his life in Fairmount behind, he’d had to cut all ties with Trent and Wes and had stopped going to school, where his foster fathers or CPS or the police could have easily found him. He couldn’t protect his mother if he were rounded up and taken back to Gainesville or a foster home or a detention facility. He knew that. But it didn’t mean he was happy with this decision. Hell, it didn’t mean he was happy at all.

  He was only doing his duty.

  After calling Jenna, he’d placed a quick call to Wes and Trent, dialing their home number rather than calling their cell phones because he didn’t really want to talk to them. It would be too hard. He’d left a message on their answering machine that was half lie, half truth.

  I liked living with you two. But I think it’s best if I go back to my family in Memphis. Thanks for everything, and … I’m really, really sorry.

  He hoped the message would throw them—and anyone else who might be looking for him—off track. He also wondered how they’d reacted, whether anyone had searched his room. Had they found the brass knuckles he’d hidden? God, he hoped not. The things were illegal in Texas. But you could buy anything online. They’d wonder why he had them, whether he’d ever used them …

  Damn, he was miserable. But just because he was miserable didn’t mean he couldn’t make his mother happy. He had twelve dollars in his wallet. Why not go get her a little something to celebrate the day, surprise her when she arrived home from work tonight? Other than the cards he’d made in elementary school, he couldn’t remember anyone ever giving her anything for Valentine’s Day.

  He left the apartment and walked down the street to the grocery store. Weird how warm it was outside. But that was north Texas weather for you. One minute you were freezing your butt off, the next minute you were hotter than hell.

  When he reached the store, he looked over the special display of Valentine’s gifts at the front.

  Flowers.

  Bath oils.

  Wine.

  Nah. He’d stick with candy. His mother looked so much better with some meat on her bones. She could stand to add a little more.

  As he looked over the various boxes of candy, he scratched at the tufts of hair on his cheeks and chin. Dang, it itched. But he knew the facial hair made him look older, tougher. It would also make it harder for anyone to recognize him if the police or social workers came looking. No sense spending any of his money on a razor or shaving cream.

  After thinking things over, he chose the most expensive box of candy he could afford, a $10.99 box of assorted chocolates that came to $11.90 with tax. He took the dime from the cashier and slid it into a charity box with a photo of a sick, bald kid on it. Maybe he didn’t have it so bad, after all.

  As he walked back to the apartment, dark clouds formed in the sky. The wind seemed to be picking up, too, blowing plastic bags and trash and grit around, shaking the trees. Looked like bad weather was on the way.

  He tucked the candy heart under his arm and picked up the pace. No sense getting caught in the rain.

  NINETEEN

  TWIST AND SHOUT

  Megan

  As the day wore on, the skies began to darken, large clouds forming on the horizon and working their way toward the city. The winds picked up, too, gusting in bursts that had me tightening my grip on the steering wheel and Brigit
whimpering in concern as the car shimmied and veered.

  “It’s okay, girl,” I said in my best soothing voice. “It’s okay.”

  Rain began to fall, lightly at first, but quickly gaining momentum until it splattered loudly on the roof and windshield of the cruiser. Even on high speed, the cruiser’s wipers couldn’t keep up, diminishing visibility of the city around us. It felt as if we were driving through a never-ending car wash.

  So much for that Canadian cold front stalling out over Oklahoma. It had hurried on down and was now clashing with the warm air Mexico had sent our way.

  On the bright side, few people were out and about in the monsoon conditions. On the not-so-bright side, those who were out tended to be people with poor judgment and even worse driving skills. Call after call came in from dispatch regarding motorists who’d slid into each other, off the roads, or down embankments.

  I sighed. It was only a matter of time until one of those collision calls would require me to respond.

  The female dispatcher’s voice came over the radio. “We’ve got disabled vehicles on Rosedale eastbound at Washington. Who can respond?”

  I eyed my partner in the rearview mirror. “You’re lucky you’re a dog today, you know that?”

  Brigit gave me an open-mouthed look and a tail wag that said she felt lucky to be a dog every day.

  I pushed the button on my mic. “Officer Luz responding.”

  Carefully, I headed up Henderson to Rosedale, and turned right onto the major thoroughfare. Barely visible through the steady stream of water down my windshield was a dark Mercedes sedan with its emergency lights flashing like red beacons. Sideways in front of it was the red sports car it had hit broadside.

  I flipped on my flashing lights and pulled up behind the vehicles. After wriggling into my nylon police-issue poncho, I emerged from the cruiser into a warm, wet hell. By now, the winds had picked up so much that the rain blew sideways across the road. The poncho, which hung only to the middle of my thighs, did nothing to protect the lower two thirds of my legs from being soaked to the bone. Meanwhile, Brigit stood in the cruiser, dry and warm. Lucky bitch.