Laying Down the Paw

by Diane Kelly

  I took a look. “That’s your health insurance card. See?” I pointed. “It says ‘Blue Cross Blue Shield’ right there.”

  “Oh.” He looked down at the card. “Yeah. I had a kidney stone once, you know. Hurt like a motherfu—.”

  “Wonderful.” I made a circular motion with my hand, signaling him to speed things up here. “Your license?”

  After showing me his library card, his Visa credit card, and his business card—MARTINDALE’S MOLD REMEDIATION—he finally managed to find his license. I took it from him and motioned to his glove box. “I need to see your registration, too.”

  He opened his glove box and pulled out his owner’s manual, an ice scraper, and a tire gauge before finding his registration. He held it out the window as my backup pulled to a stop in front of his vehicle. “Here ya’ go. Hey, did I ever … ever get my three wishes?”

  “If your wish was for Officer Hinojosa to haul you off to the drunk tank, it’s about to come true.”

  “Jail?” The man scowled. “But I only had one drink!”

  “It must’ve been a big one.”

  He used both hands to measure now. “It was yay big. ’Course my girlfriend kept refilling it.”

  Hinojosa stepped up. My eye roll told him all he needed to know. He pulled out a penlight and shined it in the man’s eyes. Sure enough, his pupils reacted slowly.

  My coworker opened the man’s door. “Step on out here, sir.”

  The man attempted to slide out, only to find himself held back by his seatbelt. He unclipped it and emerged, wobbling on his feet.

  Hinojosa snorted and gave the man a can-you-really-be-this-stupid? look. “I’ll take it from here, Luz.”

  “Thanks.”

  While Hinojosa led the drunk to his cruiser and took him off to jail, I waited for the tow truck. Once the SUV was on its way to impound, I returned to my car and glanced back at Brigit. Her head was still down but her eyes were open now. “You’re lucky you don’t have to try to reason with these idiots.”

  She merely took Duckie in her mouth, rolled over, and went back to sleep. Obviously she was already aware how lucky she was.

  The Big Dick was back on the radio a moment later. “I need backup and an ambulance for two gunshot victims.”

  Whoa.

  Looked like the reported gunfire wasn’t firecrackers or a tap dancer after all. Probably it was a robbery, or maybe an attempted murder-suicide that had somehow been botched. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t involve me. By the time I’d grabbed my mic to respond, two other officers had already indicated they were on their way to the scene. Any more would just get in the way and leave the rest of W1 without coverage. Saying a quick and silent prayer for any innocent victims, I returned my mic to its holder and set back out on patrol.

  The next few hours were typical. I issued two speeding tickets and one warning for a broken taillight. Took a report at a twenty-four-hour eatery involving a dine and dash. Pulled a busted mattress out of the intersection of Main and Rosedale. For goodness’ sake. Tie these things down, people!

  After three o’clock, when most of the bars had shut down and the patrons had made their way home, I cruised through several of the apartment complexes near TCU to keep an eye on the after-party action. Couldn’t hurt to let the college kids know the police were around to either keep them in line or provide assistance, depending on the circumstances.

  As I was about to pull out of a complex, my eyes spotted a black van parked in the visitors’ area. Although the inspection sticker was current, the registration was out of date. I pulled up in front of the van, turned on my flashing lights, and stepped out of the cruiser to take a look, taking my flashlight with me.

  I turned the flashlight on and ran it over the side of the van. A local phone number and the words ODD JOBS, YARD WORK, & HAULING—CHEAP RATES were spelled out on the side in silver lettering, along with a phone number. Stepping up to the passenger window, I shined my flashlight into the van. The beam picked up a jar of peanut butter, a half loaf of wheat bread, and something shiny, black, and rumpled spread on the floor. Looked like a garbage bag.

  Returning to my cruiser, I retrieved my roll of orange warning stickers. Brigit was standing on her platform now, her tail whipping side to side in excitement. There were a number of trees and bushes around the place. She probably smelled a squirrel out here, or maybe a possum taking a late-night stroll.

  Woof! Woof-woof!

  “Quiet, girl!” At this late hour, she better shut up or someone would be calling the police on us.

  I peeled off one of the stickers, used a fine point black marker to fill in the date, and slapped it on the windshield of the van. Smack.

  Brigit was still standing when I returned to the cruiser again. There was little traffic at the complex this time of night, only an occasional resident pulling in, so it seemed safe to let her out of the car without leashing her. She probably needed to pee.

  I opened the back door and let her out of her enclosure. With a jingle of her tags, she hopped down to the pavement and trotted over to the van. Her tail continued to wag as she sniffed around the side doors and circled around to the back. She barked again—woof-woof!—as if ordering the doors to magically open.

  “That’s it!” I hissed, swinging a pointed finger. “Back in the car!”

  Only half obeying, she trotted back to the car, but took a detour into the bushes first for a quick tinkle.

  “Loudmouth,” I muttered.

  She gave me a look that was the canine version of So? Sue me.

  When my shift was finally over at 8 A.M., I returned my cruiser to the lot at the W1 station and loaded Brigit into my Smart Car. As I slid into my seat, Seth texted me. Swimming at the Y. Meet me for breakfast?

  I texted him back. Keep swimming. I’ll meet you there.

  More exercise would be good for Seth. My plan to meet him at the YMCA had nothing at all to do with the fact that Seth had incredible shoulders, a nice chest, and tight abs, and that meeting him at the pool would give me a chance to ogle them.

  Okay, even I didn’t believe myself on that one.

  But after a long night of dealing with drunks and diner dashes and disabled vehicles, didn’t a girl deserve to ogle a little?

  FORTY-SEVEN

  GOOD BOY!

  Brigit

  Her partner could really be stupid sometimes. Didn’t Megan realize the boy with the beef jerky was inside the van? Well, he didn’t have beef jerky anymore, but he did have peanut butter. She could smell it. That stuff was almost as good as meat. It stuck to the roof of her mouth, but she didn’t mind.

  If Megan wasn’t going to let her visit with the boy, Brigit supposed she might as well go back to sleep. These night patrols were sooooo dull. She spun around three times and flopped to the floor of her enclosure. Resting her head on Duckie, she exhaled a long, bored breath and closed her eyes.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  BLOODY SUNDAY

  Dub

  Dub woke Sunday morning feeling stiff and sore. The sleeping bag was thick, but the metal floor of the van had been hard underneath it. He felt like he’d slept on a rock.

  At least he was still free. A security guard employed by Walmart had apparently noticed Dub’s van had been in the lot all night on Friday. When Dub went inside the store Saturday morning to use the bathroom, the guard stopped Dub and told him that overnight parking was not allowed. Dub had been forced to find another place to park on Saturday night. He’d chosen an apartment complex near the TCU campus. He figured college kids would be less likely to report the van.

  He’d nearly panicked last night. He’d woken to police lights flashing outside the van. He’d pulled the sleeping bag over his head and laid as still as possible. A cop had shined a flashlight in the window and slapped a violation sticker on his windshield. He’d heard a dog bark and sniff around the doors, and a female voice ordering the dog back into the car. Thank goodness the cop hadn’t noticed him inside the van and he hadn’t been arrested
.

  He couldn’t be sure whether the officer and the dog had been the same ones he’d run into at the Bag-N-Bottle, but chances were good. There were way more male cops than female cops, and probably not many K-9 teams. But if he were going to be caught and taken into custody, he’d rather it be by those two than some dickwad who’d rough Dub up first.

  Dub found his keys, climbed into the driver’s seat, and drove to a gas station to use the restroom and brush his teeth. When he finished, he splashed some warm water on his face and scratched at his scruffy beard. He wished he could afford to shave. The damn thing was itchy and made him look like a terrorist. Sometimes he wished the puberty fairy hadn’t been quite so generous with the facial hair and had instead made him a few inches taller.

  The clerk frowned at Dub as he walked to the exit. “Next time you come in to use the bathroom,” the man said, “buy something.”

  Ignoring the clerk, Dub returned to his van. As he pulled away from the curb, he caught a whiff of himself. Phew. He could really use a shower.

  Remembering his membership card, Dub drove to the YMCA. He parked his van in a spot next to an old blue Nova with orange flames painted down the side. He flashed his card to the attendant at the counter and headed to the men’s locker room. He had no soap, no shampoo, and no towel, but figured he could make do with a handful of the liquid soap from the sink dispenser and a dozen or so paper hand towels.

  After the cold, uncomfortable night in the van, the hot shower felt beyond good. He washed his hair and body with the hand soap, and just stood under the spray for a good twenty minutes. What else did he have to do? When he was done, he had no choice but to put his sweats back on, despite the stench. At some point he’d find a Laundromat and wash his clothes. For now, his funds were too tight to splurge on detergent.

  He exited the locker room into the indoor pool area and stopped still. Holy crap! That female cop and her shepherd were standing by the pool, talking to a blond man who was in the water, his arms hooked over the edge.

  Dub ducked his head and hurried by, keeping one eye on the cop, hoping she wouldn’t see him. The dog turned, sniffed the air, and wagged her tail. She looked at Dub and let out a loud Arf! that echoed in the enclosed space.

  The officer looked down at her dog and wagged her finger. “Brigit, hush!”

  Yes, dog! he thought. Please be quiet!

  Once he was in the hallway, Dub jogged as fast as he dared to the exit and ran to his van. He pulled out of the parking lot and lurched down the street, one eye on his rearview mirror.

  Good. Nobody was on his tail. It looked like the cop hadn’t spotted him.

  FORTY-NINE

  A BANG-UP JOB

  Megan

  Seth and I were halfway through our pancakes, Blast and Brigit halfway through their bacon and sausage, when my cell phone rang. The readout indicated it was Detective Jackson calling.

  I tapped the screen to accept the call. “Good morning, Detective Jackson.”

  “You hear about the shooting in Park Place last night?”

  “I did,” I told her. “I worked the night shift. I was tied up with a DUI while it was going on.”

  “Turns out the victims came home late and surprised a burglar.”

  Tragic, of course, though unfortunately not unusual. “Did they get a good look at him?”

  “The husband is unconscious,” she said, “but the wife gave a detailed description. Get this. She said the shooter was a young man with light-brown skin, dark curly hair, and a white hoodie with a tornado printed on the front.”

  My looter and the possible murder suspect.

  Whoa.

  Brigit took advantage of the fact that I was temporarily discombobulated to snatch a hunk of pancake from my plate. Bad dog. I pushed the plate over in front of her, basically rewarding her naughty behavior, but she’d left several hairs stuck in the syrup. I wasn’t above picking a dog hair or two out of a plate of spaghetti and pretending it didn’t happen, but I drew the line at fishing fur from sticky syrup.

  “I’m heading over to the hospital,” the detective continued. “I need to ask the wife some questions while things are still fresh. Want to come with me?”

  “Of course.”

  She gave me the room number and hung up.

  “I have to go,” I told Seth. “It looks like the curly-haired looter was involved in a shooting last night.”

  “I thought you said he was the only one who didn’t pull a gun on you? That he seemed nonviolent?”

  I raised my palms and shook my head. “Maybe I was wrong.”

  Seth stood and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. “Let me know what happens.”

  “I will. Can you take Brigit home for me?” Surely the doctors would frown on me taking an animal into the intensive care unit, and if I left her in my car she might eat the floor mats.

  “Be happy to,” Seth said.

  I finagled my house key off my chain. “You can leave it under the mat when you go.”

  Twenty minutes later, Detective Jackson and I met in the lobby of the hospital. We checked in with the nurse on duty in intensive care.

  “There’s been no change,” she said, “but the good news is he’s still hanging on.”

  Hanging on with the help of life support. Despite the beeps from the heart monitor that indicated he was still alive, Mr. Prentiss looked deathly pale and lifeless in his bed.

  Jackson and I continued to the room where Mrs. Prentiss had been taken. Now that her bullet had been removed and she was in recovery, her condition had been upgraded from critical to serious.

  The woman lay in her bed staring straight ahead as if dazed. Her eyes were pink and puffy, her fox-red hair mussed, her makeup streaked with tears. An IV bag at the head of her bed dripped what I assumed was a low dose of morphine into her veins, enough to ease the pain of her wound but not so much as to render her unconscious.

  Jackson rapped on the door frame. “Mrs. Prentiss? May we come in and speak with you?”

  The woman turned her head our way and, noting my uniform, motioned for us to come in. We pulled a couple of chairs up next to the bed and took a seat. The detective pulled out her digital recorder as well as her notepad. She turned the recorder on and positioned it on the rolling, adjustable table situated over the bed.

  Her preparations done, Jackson put a compassionate hand on the patient’s arm. “I am so sorry about all you’re going through, Mrs. Prentiss.” When the woman nodded and said a soft “Thanks,” the detective removed her hand and picked up her ballpoint pen. “I’ve been told that you got a look at the shooter. Did he look familiar at all?”

  “No,” Mrs. Prentiss said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before.”

  “Can you describe him for me?”

  Mrs. Prentiss spoke slowly, her voice warbling with emotion. “He was a little shorter than average,” she said. “Curly black hair. Olive skin.”

  “Olive?” the detective repeated. “Any guess as to his race or ethnicity?”

  “It’s hard to say,” the woman said. “He looked sort of like Johnny Depp except for the hair.”

  Jackson and I exchanged glances. I’d told her about Stefan Nicolescu, the odd mailman who seemed to know so much. Maybe too much. Nicolescu had Johnny Depp’s coloring, sure, but with his buggy eyes and Jay Leno chin, he looked more like a caricature of Johnny Depp or a reflection of the actor in a funhouse mirror.

  Jackson jotted the Depp reference on her notepad. “Could he have been eastern European?”

  “I really don’t know.” Tears welled up in the woman’s eyes when she noticed the frustration on the detective’s face and mine. “I’m trying. I really am.”

  The detective gave her arm another reassuring pat. “We know you’re doing your best, Mrs. Prentiss.”

  The woman closed her eyes for a moment as if trying to blink back the tears. When she opened them again, the detective continued her questions.

  “What was his build? Thin? Heavy? Average?
”

  “It was hard to tell for sure since he was wearing a bulky sweatshirt,” she said, “but he had the sleeves pushed up and his forearms looked pretty muscular.”

  Hmm. I hadn’t seen the looter’s arms, of course, and his upper body had likewise been obscured by the hoodie, but the looter’s legs had definitely been thin.

  Jackson pulled up a photo of Stefan Nicolescu on her phone. Given that he was wearing his post office uniform, the picture appeared to be a photo taken for a work ID. Obviously, the detective had taken my concerns seriously and followed up on the man. She showed the picture to Mrs. Prentiss. “Is this the guy?”

  Mrs. Prentiss looked at the phone and shook her head. “No. I hate to say this, but if I had seen the man who shot us under different circumstances I would say he was attractive.”

  A violent criminal with good looks. It just didn’t seem right. Still, everything that this woman was telling me pointed to the looter. He’d been scruffy, sure, but still what most women would consider handsome.

  “What about this man?” Jackson pulled out a folded copy of the black-and-white sketch of the murder suspect, opened it up, and showed it to Mrs. Prentiss.

  The woman nodded, fresh tears in her eyes. “That’s a very good likeness. Who is he?”

  “That’s the problem,” the detective said. “We don’t know. But maybe you can tell us something that will help us narrow it down.”

  She continued with her usual line of questions. Who knew that Mr. and Mrs. Prentiss were going to be out Saturday evening? Had they had any work done at their house lately, any repairmen in their home? Did they employ someone to take care of their lawn or clean their house? Had she seen anyone unusual in the neighborhood recently? Did she notice any cars parked near her house when they pulled up? Maybe a truck or van?

  The responses gave us little to go on. They’d had no work done at their house in recent weeks. While they had a professional lawn care service, they’d put services on hold for the winter and none of the workers had been to their house since late October, when the grass went dormant. They hired a housekeeper, but she had been with them for years with no problems. Mrs. Prentiss hadn’t noticed anyone unusual in the area. There might have been a vehicle of some sort parked across the street and down a ways, but since it sat past their house they hadn’t paid it much attention. She didn’t think it had been a black van though.