Laying Down the Paw

by Diane Kelly

  The detective stood. “I’m going to verify this information.”

  Haynes sneered at her. “Knock yourself out.”

  I stood, also, and gave a low whistle to rouse Brigit. Jackson and I exchanged a final handshake with Haynes’s attorney, bade good-bye to the deputy manning the front desk, and returned to the Barf-mobile.

  “What now?” I asked once we were seated inside.

  “We follow up on Gallegos and Duong. Their curly-haired buddy may or may not be our killer, but I’d at least like to snag their black friend. Anyone who’s pulled a gun on a cop needs to be reckoned with.”

  While I drove back to Fort Worth, Jackson phoned the Austin Police Department from her cell phone and verified that Haynes had, in fact, spent Sunday night in jail for assault. When the detective completed her conversation with Austin PD, she called Melinda from her cell to obtain home addresses for Gallegos and Duong. The detective activated the speaker feature so her hands would be free to jot down the addresses.

  Melinda’s voice came across the line. “Looks like they live in the same apartment complex. They’ve got the same street address but different unit numbers.”

  Jackson wrote down their addresses, thanked Melinda, and thumbed a button on her phone to end the call. “They live in West Morningside.”

  The neighborhood began just north of Berry Street and continued eastward for several blocks, in close proximity to the Bag-N-Bottle.

  Forty-five minutes later, I turned into the apartment complex. The place was constructed of a salmon-hued brick that had been popular decades ago. The gray awnings were faded and frayed. Oil spots and potholes dotted the parking lot.

  “Bring your laptop with you,” Jackson advised. “We may need it.”

  We checked in with the on-site manager, a haggard woman in her fifties with monotone jet black hair and deep facial lines that told of numerous summers spent basking in the Texas sun. Let’s Make a Deal played on the small television set sitting on top of a modern black lacquer credenza that didn’t match her classic oak desk.

  She gestured for us to take a seat.

  Detective Jackson explained that we’d arrested Gallegos and Duong. “We’re looking for two other young men who might live here. A black man with a swirl pattern cut into his hair and another who may be mixed race.”

  “I can go over the current list of tenants with you,” she said. “Would that help?”

  Jackson nodded. “Sure would.”

  “We’ve got sixty-three units,” the woman said as she turned to her computer. “Most of them are occupied now. Just a couple of vacancies.”

  For the next fifteen minutes, the woman went methodically down the list, giving us the names and birth dates of all male tenants. Several of them sounded like possible matches, but when I pulled their driver’s license pictures up on my computer, it was clear that none were either of the men I’d seen at the Bag-N-Bottle on Valentine’s Day.

  Jackson harrumphed. “What can you tell us about Gustavo Gallegos and Lahn Duong?”

  The woman pulled up their records on her screen. “Gustavo Gallegos has lived here since last June. Duong moved in last November. Their names are the only ones on their leases. Of course that doesn’t mean someone else might not be shacking up with ’em.”

  “Is there anyone here they’re friendly with?” the detective asked. “Male or female?”

  “Wish I could help you,” the woman said, “but with the way people come and go around here I don’t bother to pay much attention. I do my job, show apartments, and post eviction notices, and in between I just collect rent and do the bookkeeping. I don’t socialize with the folks here. The management company I’m employed with offered me a discounted apartment at the complex, but who wants to live where they work? My own place is a couple of miles up the road.”

  Jackson nodded. “Understood. You don’t mind if we ask around, do you?”

  The woman made a broad sweep with her hand, indicating the buildings outside the window. “Be my guest.”

  We stood and went first to Duong’s apartment, then to the one belonging to Gallegos. There was no answer at either place, though Brigit performed a voluntary snuffle around the bottom and sides of each of their doors. I wondered if she recognized their scents from the Bag-N-Bottle. I wished I could ask her whether she smelled the other two men in the vicinity. Too bad the dog couldn’t tell me.

  We tried the doors on either side of their apartments, too. While neither of Duong’s adjoining neighbors was home, we had better luck at Gallegos’s place. A young woman with a chubby baby on her hip came to the door. She glanced around the courtyard as if to make sure none of the other residents could spy her talking to the police. Couldn’t much blame her. Talking to law enforcement wasn’t considered the neighborly thing to do in places like this.

  “The curly-haired guy doesn’t ring a bell,” she said, “but I’ve seen the black guy you’re talking about. He’s totally ripped. I don’t think he lives here, though. I think maybe he’s just friends with some of the guys here.”

  We thanked her for her time and returned to the stinky cruiser.

  “All right, aspiring detective,” Jackson said to me. “If this were your case, what would you do now?”

  “Does that mean you’re out of ideas?”

  She chuckled. “You’re a smart cookie. And speaking of cookies, I’m hungry. Let’s get some lunch.”

  We stopped at a sub shop, went inside, and ordered sandwiches. I chose a healthy veggie sandwich for myself. For Brigit, I ordered one with a variety of meats. “No veggies, no condiments.”

  After obtaining our food, we carried our trays to a booth in the corner. Brigit hopped up on the seat next to me. I unwrapped the paper from her sandwich and tore the enormous sub into bite-sized pieces that I placed on the tray. Knowing she’d try to eat the wrapper, too, I wadded it up and set it on the table to my other side.

  As I dug into my sandwich, I mulled things over. “Let’s pay a visit to Roland Wilson,” I suggested. “Might as well let him know we’ve arrested two of the m-men who looted his store.”

  Jackson swallowed her bite and raised her cup of diet soda in acknowledgment. “Sounds like a plan.”

  When we’d finished our lunch, we drove to the Bag-N-Bottle. Plywood boards covered the windows and a wide swatch of clear plastic now served as the roof. While the detective and my partner waited in the cruiser, I went to the door and tried it. Locked. Cupping my hands around my face, I peered inside. No signs of life.

  “Nobody’s here,” I called back to the detective.

  As I settled back into the patrol car, Jackson pulled up Wilson’s home address on the laptop. “He lives just a little southwest of here.”

  She navigated the way, and we arrived at his home ten minutes later.

  Wilson answered the door in a blue bathrobe, white socks, and a pair of corduroy slippers. An attractive woman also dressed in a robe stepped up behind him. The slightly embarrassed looks on their faces told me that our visit might have interrupted the two engaging in a little afternoon delight.

  Since I’d been the one to interact with Wilson previously, I introduced Detective Jackson. Wilson, in turn, introduced the woman behind him as his wife.

  “We arrested two of the men who looted your store,” I told him. “The Asian and the Latino. We caught them selling the liquor at a high school yesterday afternoon.”

  Wilson’s wife put a hand to her chest and said, “Oh, my.” She seemed more concerned about the arrests than relieved. As for the man himself, he merely shook his head.

  “I was hoping maybe you’d changed your mind about things,” I said. “Your testimony would go a long way in putting these guys behind bars where they belong.”

  Wilson frowned. “I told you I didn’t see them.”

  “I’d like to believe you, Mr. Wilson. But I don’t.”

  “You’ve got some nerve,” he said. “Coming to my home, calling me a liar.”

  He began to shu
t the door but I put out a hand to keep him from closing it.

  “We think one of the group could have been involved in an unrelated murder.” I removed my hand. “If people like you don’t speak up, guys like them will keep getting away with their crimes, hurting other people.”

  “Not my problem,” Wilson said. “I’m going to take my insurance check and call it a day. I should’ve sold that place and retired years ago.”

  With that he shoved the door closed.

  * * *

  Seth texted me that afternoon. Watch Mavs game at Ojos Locos tonight?

  I sent a quick reply. Perfect. I could use a margarita. Who we playing?

  The Thunder.

  Huh. That was ironic.

  Seth swung by my place at 6:30 to pick me up.

  “Want to come with us?” I asked Frankie. “There’s liable to be quite a few available guys.”

  She sighed from where she sat, Indian-style, on the futon, still wearing her pajamas since she slept during the day. “I’m still at the all-men-suck phase. I’m not quite ready to get back out there yet.”

  “When you are,” I told her, “just say the word.” It was the least I could do for her. After all, she’d taken a chance on me, too, letting me move into her place without knowing much about me.

  “Yeah,” Seth added. “I could bring along one of my buddies from the firehouse.”

  Frankie’s face brightened. “Got one that’s over six feet?”

  “Sure.”

  “Give me another week or two,” she said. “My pity party should be over by then.”

  We left Blast and Brigit at the house with Frankie and Zoe and a couple of chew treats apiece. As we left, I admonished my fluffy partner to “be good” and gave her a kiss on the snout. She replied with a swirling tail wag that told me she’d consider being good, but wasn’t going to make any firm promises.

  As we headed to the sports bar in Seth’s Nova, I caught him up on the burglary, looting, and murder cases. “All of the leads have petered out. I’m feeling frustrated.”

  He slid a sly smile my way. “I can relieve that frustration for you.”

  I slid him a sly smile right back. “I just might take you up on that.”

  “We could do it in the hammock,” he suggested. “That would be daring and dangerous. I know how you like a challenge.”

  Normally, I did enjoy a challenging task. There was little reward in work that could be accomplished easily and quickly, and I enjoyed putting my intellect to work, analyzing clues, assessing evidence. But I feared that if the murder case wasn’t solved soon, we’d end up with another body on our hands. Anyone violent enough to punch someone’s face with brass knuckles, smash their face repeatedly against a tree, and attempt to saw their head off with a chain could be capable of anything.

  The waiter took our order and, a few minutes later, plunked a frozen margarita in front of me, a draft beer in front of Seth, and a platter of nachos between us. We’d made only a small dent in the pile when it was time for tip-off.

  While I was only a fair-weather sports fan, tonight’s game against the Thunder was exactly the mindless entertainment I needed to give my brain a break. Plus, it felt nice to be with Seth, to see him getting a chance to relax. Like my job, his work with the fire department could be both physically and emotionally demanding. He deserved some downtime, too.

  Two margaritas and approximately two thousand calories later, we’d polished off the nachos, as well as a basket of fried pickles and jalapeños and a couple of churros for dessert. I hadn’t just fallen off the health food wagon, I’d dived off it headfirst.

  The Mavericks had trounced the Thunder, making the crowd happy and the night lively. Seth draped an arm around my shoulders as we walked back to his car. When I stepped up to the passenger door, expecting him to open it for me, he instead backed me up against the side of the car.

  “Hey!”

  His soft, warm mouth was on my neck. “Hey, yourself,” he mumbled into my flesh, stepping closer to press himself gently against me.

  Maybe it was the margaritas, maybe it was the stress of work, or maybe it was because fooling around can be a lot of fun, but I found myself tilting my head back to allow Seth better access to the sweet spots on my neck and shoulders. He inched closer, the pressure of his body no longer gentle but insistent and thrilling. When I arched my back he emitted a moan and sunk his teeth into my skin. The feeling was so hot it wouldn’t have surprised me to see actual fire shooting down the side of his car along with the painted flames.

  He moved his mouth to mine, his kiss the perfect blend of sweetness and seduction. When we came up for air, I turned my attention to his neck now. After all, turnabout is fair play. I trailed a line of kisses down under his chin, his five o’clock shadow rasping lightly on my lips, and stopped to suck gently at his Adam’s apple.

  He offered a husky chuckle. “Remind me to take you out for margaritas more often.”

  A car passing by let loose a loud honk followed by wolf whistles from the inhabitants.

  I raised my head and put a hand on Seth’s chest to force him back. “It’s getting late and I have to w-work tomorrow.”

  He groaned. “But things were just getting good!”

  I gave him a chaste peck. “Patience is a virtue, Seth.”

  “And blue balls is a recognized medical condition.”

  “No man ever died from it.”

  He groaned again. “Are you sure?”

  FORTY-FOUR

  A NIGHT IN

  Brigit

  Blast and Brigit had begun their evening together lying on the futon and chewing their respective treats. Brigit made short work of her first treat and, when Blast wasn’t looking, stole his remaining snack. He sniffed around for it a few minutes later, but put up no fight when he realized Brigit had taken it.

  Ah, beta males. Gotta love ’em.

  When Frankie had gotten up to get ready for work, she’d turned the television to Animal Planet. The sounds coming from the television included birdcalls, a lion’s roar, and the chimp-chimp-chimp of a group of chimpanzees. Much more interesting than the usual blah-blah-blah of the news shows or the dings and bells and buzzers of the nerdy game shows that Megan liked to watch. Jeopardy! Wheel of Fortune. Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Brigit didn’t give a cat’s ass about being a millionaire. All she needed was a soft bed to sleep on, decent food, and a yard to dig in, though she did admit that having another dog around could be fun. Too bad Blast couldn’t stay here all the time.

  Oh, well. At least Brigit had Zoe, who, despite being a cat, had begun to grow on her. She also had her stuffed mallard, which Megan had taken to calling Duckie. Duckie was no Blast, but he gave Brigit something to do while they were out on patrol.

  Speaking of Duckie, where was he?

  Brigit got up and went in search of her stuffed pal. Aha. There he was, on the floor in the kitchen next to her food bowl where she’d dropped him earlier. Come on, Duckie. You’re missing all the fun!

  FORTY-FIVE

  HOME IS WHERE THE HURT IS

  Dub

  It was Friday evening, and Dub hadn’t seen Long Dong, Gato, or Marquise in several days. Maybe the cold weather was keeping them inside. Or maybe they’d been busy selling off their liquor inventory. Dub really didn’t care. If he never saw those guys again it would be fine with him.

  Dub also hadn’t seen his father since they’d robbed the house earlier in the week. Dub had felt furious when his father had taken off in his van, and his fury had only festered, like an untreated infection. Dub knew what that was like. He’d had strep throat for days once, every swallow feeling like broken glass, before his mother finally took him to a clinic for antibiotics.

  Earlier in the week, a woman had seen Dub’s flyer, called, and offered to pay him fifty dollars to move some things to a storage unit for her. He’d had to turn her down. She drove a car too small to fit some of the furniture items and, without his van, he had no way to haul them. That ba
stard Andro had taken so many things from Dub, and now he’d taken away his ability to earn a living, too.

  Andro would never take anything from him again.

  When Dub had told his mother what went down, she’d made excuses for Andro’s behavior, as usual. He panicked, she said. Nobody thinks straight when they’re in a panic. Or maybe he was trying to draw the cops away in the van so Dub could escape on foot.

  What a load of shit.

  Dub’s mother had given him a twenty-dollar bill and sent him to the grocery store to pick up a few things. Toilet paper. Soap. Soda. Frozen dinners. A loaf of white bread and a package of processed cheese slices. He could hardly believe it, but he missed the times he’d shop with Wes, who’d take forever looking over the apples and lettuce and tomatoes and bananas, checking them for signs of worms or bruising.

  The cashier finished ringing up the items and turned to Dub. “That’ll be twenty-one forty-three.”

  He was short. Damn.

  He ran his eyes over the bags, trying to figure out what they needed the least. “Take the soda off.”

  The woman offered him a look of both pity and judgment before removing the bottle of soda from the bag, punching a button on the register, and scanning the bar code again. Bloop. She eyed the register for the revised total. “That brings it down to nineteen eighty-two.”

  He handed her the twenty-dollar bill and took the eighteen cents change in return.

  He grabbed the plastic grocery bags and walked back to the apartment. The night was dark. There was no moon and a nearly frozen drizzle was falling. Good thing he had his tornado hoodie to keep him warm.

  He walked around the corner that led to the apartment building and came to an instant stop.

  His van sat at the back of the lot, its motor giving off small tinks as it cooled. There was a new dent on the back left fender. Andro must have backed into something. He’d also taped silver duct tape over the plumbing logo. Like that wasn’t obvious and couldn’t easily be pulled off. Paint would have been better. Idiot. With Andro’s DNA, it was a wonder Dub had done as well as he had in school.