Paw Enforcement 02 - Paw and Order

by Kelly, Diane

  I pushed the doorbell. It played a tone that sounded like a grandfather clock. Ding-dong ding-dong, ding-ding-ding-dong.

  Twenty seconds later, the door opened. Erica stood there in a green bathrobe that hung open to reveal wrinkled pink pajamas. Though she was definitely the same woman I’d seen in her driver’s license photo, today her nose was pink and crusty, her eyes swollen, and her pallor pale and green.

  “Miss Ryan?” I said.

  She wiped her nose with a tissue and replied in a stuffed-sinus voice, “It’s Spencer now.”

  “Oh. Right. I have some questions I’d like to ask you.”

  “About what?”

  “About Dwayne Donaldson.”

  Her crusty pink nose scrunched. “Who?”

  She seemed genuinely unfamiliar with the name, but I knew she could be acting. Or, perhaps, she didn’t know the name of the guy she’d bought drugs from.

  “Dwayne Donaldson. He’s a convicted methamphetamine dealer.”

  Her head tilted to the side. “I don’t know him.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She wiped her nose again. “Look, I need to sit down. Me and the kids have got the flu. Why don’t y’all come in?”

  I exchanged a glance with Officer Munsen. Being invited in by a suspect was highly unusual.

  Erica led us into her kitchen, where a towheaded toddler sat in a high chair. Several Froot Loops lay on the tray in front of the little girl, while several others were stuck to her cheeks.

  Erica took a seat at the kitchen table. I sat next to her, ordering Brigit to lie at my feet. Munsen, evidently fearing he’d catch the flu virus if he came too close, remained standing in the doorway.

  “Donaldson lives in the Eastside Arms apartment complex in Fort Worth,” I said. “I saw him step away from your car on Saturday before you sped off in it.”

  Sure, I was overstating the case a bit. After all, I only thought I’d seen her and her car. But I’d learned that suspects were much more likely to admit their bad behavior if they thought law enforcement had definitive evidence.

  She shook her head, wincing at the movement. “It wasn’t me,” she insisted.

  The toddler leaned sideways in her high chair to get a better look at Brigit. A Froot Loop fell from the baby’s cheek to the floor, where Brigit promptly snatched it up with a loud crunch.

  “You have an alibi?” I asked Erica.

  The baby picked up a piece of cereal from her tray. She tried to drop it to Brigit but it stuck to her hand. She flung her hand three times but the cereal hung on as if glued to her skin.

  Before Erica could answer me, a child’s wail came from down the hall. “Mommy! I threw up again! On the floor this time!”

  “I’ll be right there!” Erica put a hand to her forehead and looked at me with her one exposed eye. “Any chance you could just shoot me? Put me out of my misery?”

  “Your alibi?” I reminded her.

  She removed her hand. “My car’s been in the shop since last Thursday. Some idiot ran a red light and broadsided me. Luckily none of the kids were in the car.”

  Brigit pushed herself up on her front legs and licked the sticky Froot Loop from the toddler’s fingers. Crunch. The baby giggled.

  “No!” I admonished the dog. Brigit gave me a dirty look and settled back down on the floor. “Sorry,” I told Erica.

  She blew her nose into the tissue. “A few dog germs are the least of my worries right now.”

  I told her about the criminal record I’d found. “Do you continue to use marijuana?”

  “I didn’t even use it then,” she said. “I went out with a group of friends one night, and one of them brought some new girl along, someone they didn’t know very well, and she had a joint. She smoked it in my car and left the butt in the ashtray. She offered some to the rest of us but we weren’t into that kind of thing. I got a flat tire on my way home later that night and a cop pulled over to help me. He saw the end of the joint in the ashtray and busted me for it.”

  Her story sounded plausible. “Why didn’t you fight the conviction?”

  “Because the DA said if I’d agree not to fight the charge, all I’d get was probation. It seemed like a quick solution. I was a flight attendant at the time and traveling a lot. Going to court and meeting with attorneys would have been a huge hassle.” She blew her nose again. “In hindsight, I should’ve lawyered up and fought the charge. It’s dogged me ever since.”

  “Mommy!” screamed the child from down the hall.

  “Are we done here?” she asked. “If I don’t get things cleaned up soon I’ll never get the smell out of the carpet.”

  “We’re done.” I stood from the table, began to offer her my hand, then thought better of it. No sense picking up flu cooties. “Thanks for talking with me.”

  “No problem.”

  Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

  I turned to find Brigit standing on her hind legs, her front paws on the tray of the high chair, licking Froot Loops from the giggling baby’s face. I grabbed her collar and pulled her off. “Bad dog!”

  * * *

  There was no sign of Clint at the rodeo on Tuesday or Wednesday. Must have been his days off. I caught a couple brief glimpses of him on Thursday. The first time he was engaged in conversation with a mounted FWPD officer. The second time he was chatting up a curvy redhead who leaned back suggestively against a lightpost, her breasts thrust upward as she gave him a shameless and seductive smile. He’d given her a smile right back, one that looked suspiciously similar to the smiles he’d given me.

  As disappointed and disgusted as I felt, I supposed it was just as well, really. When Seth had brought me home last Sunday, I’d invited him in for lunch. After a bowl of pasta marinara, he’d drawn me into his arms and given me a kiss that was better than any dessert could have been, better even than crème brûlée or a lemon tart or chocolate-covered strawberries. When he’d left, I’d felt sexually frustrated but much better about where the two of us stood.

  Still, I wasn’t sure about things. Seth seemed to have many complex layers, and I wasn’t entirely sure what I might discover if I kept digging deeper. Clint, on the other hand, seemed much more simple and straightforward, a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of guy.

  By Friday afternoon, the purse snatching seemed like a distant memory. Though I’d kept my eyes peeled for a woman in a dark leather jacket with pink fingernails and a young brown-haired woman on crutches, I’d seen neither. The week had been calm and uneventful and boring. Until now.

  “Well, hello there, filly.”

  I looked up to see Clint sitting on Jack’s back. Lost in my thoughts, I hadn’t even noticed the two of them standing watch near the cattle barns. “Hey, Clint.” I stepped up and gave Jack a pat on the neck. “Hey, boy.”

  The horse responded with a friendly nicker and nuzzled my shoulder, which I took as positive signs.

  Clint swung his leg over the back of the horse and dismounted. “What say we go watch the cattle auction? Make sure there’s no rustlers lying in wait to nab a cow or steer?”

  I doubted we’d run into any livestock thieves. Horse and cattle rustlers had pretty much gone the way of pirates. But I knew the suggestion was Clint’s not-so-subtle way of saying he’d like to spend some time with me. I wouldn’t mind spending some time with him, either. “Okay.”

  He led his horse by the reins and I led my dog by the leash as we entered the barn. Temporary bleachers had been erected on one side of an open area and provided seating for two dozen cattle ranchers who held numbered paddles in their hands. Next to the bleachers sat three women at a table topped with paperwork, laptop computers, and printers. The accounting staff, evidently. The contrast between the high-tech equipment and the barnyard smells and sounds bordered on amusing.

  Clint and I took spots on the second row of bleachers, sitting on the end where Clint could keep hold of Jack’s reins. Brigit hopped onto the aluminum seat beside me and lay down sideways, her head resting on my th
igh.

  A man with a wireless microphone walked into the arena to begin the auction. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Fort Worth Stock Show and Rodeo. We hope you all have been enjoying yourselves. In just a moment here we’ll be kicking off our livestock auction. But before we do, it is my most sincere pleasure to introduce our celebrity auctioneer.”

  What? There were celebrity auctioneers? Who knew?

  “Let’s put our hands together and give a warm welcome to a fast-talking man with a slick tongue, Jimmy Don Robichaux, also known as the Speedy Mouth of the South!”

  As the announcer turned and held out his arm in invitation, a bearded man in boots, jeans, and a khaki duster strolled into the arena, one arm crooked over his head in greeting.

  “Admit it.” Clint nudged me in the ribs with his elbow, a roguish twinkle in his eye. “All that talk about slick tongues and fast mouths has you a little turned on.”

  I cut him a squinty gaze. “Speak for yourself.”

  “Okay, I will. I am turned on.” Chuckling, he leaned back on the seat, resting his elbows on the empty bench behind us. His legs relaxed, his left knee brushing up against my right. Though I pretended not to notice, the touch sent a thrill through me. It’s like our knees were kissing. It was a chaste, closed-mouth type of kiss, but exciting nonetheless.

  Wasting no time, the auctioneer took the mic and got down to business. “First up on the auction block is a nice Hereford heifer.”

  A thirtyish man led a huge reddish-brown and white cow into the arena. A numbered plastic tag hung from the cow’s ear like a dangly earring. But in her case the tag was not so much a fashion statement as a means of distinguishing this particular cow from dozens of others who looked very similar to her.

  After describing the cow, giving her age and weight—details that would have caused a human female to slap his face—the auctioneer began the sale. “We’ll start the bidding at sixteen hundred dollars. Who’ll give me sixteen hundred?”

  A man on the front row raised his paddle. “I’ll give ya sixteen.”

  Warmed up now, the auctioneer began his fast talking, his speech running together as if he were saying one very long, multisyllabic word. “I-see-sixteen-hundred-dollars-who-will-give-me-seventeen? We’ve-got-seventeen-hundred-from-the-gentleman-on-the-back-row-who-will-give-me-eighteen? Do-I-hear-eighteen?”

  His rapid-fire talk was impressive, especially to someone like me who had to enunciate carefully to keep from tripping over her words. I wondered if the guy had ever used his fast talk on women.

  The auctioneer continued, taking the bid higher and higher. At one point, Brigit lifted her paw as if bidding on the beast.

  The auctioneer chuckled. “Folks-the-furry-dog-on-the-second-row-has-bid-twenty-two-hundred. Now-are-we-going-to-let-this-dog-take-this-cow-home-or-is-one-of-you-going-to-give-me-twenty-three?”

  I scratched the back of Brigit’s neck. “Somebody better outbid you, girl. There’s no room at our place for a cow.”

  “Not even in the freezer?” Clint asked.

  Now it was my elbow in his ribs.

  A rancher in the back raised his paddle and the bidding continued.

  Shortly before seven o’clock, I parted ways with Clint and headed to the midway. My fifteen-year-old sister Gabrielle and her boyfriend T.J. planned to come to the festival tonight, and we’d agreed to meet up by the Tilt-A-Whirl. With my irregular work schedule, getting time with my family was sometimes difficult. At times, I was glad to have work as a convenient excuse to miss family dinners. My mother was a lousy cook and with seven people at the table meals were often loud and chaotic. Though I’d been used to the hectic nature of my family growing up, since I’d lived alone I’d become used to the quiet, relatively controlled sanctuary of my apartment. At other times, though, like when Gabby invited me to go shopping with her and our mother for a dress for the homecoming dance, I lamented the fact that my scheduled shift preventing me from going with them.

  As I passed one of the stages, I stopped for a few minutes to listen to the Texas Girls’ Choir. They hit each note perfectly, and the tiny girl who belted out a surprisingly soulful solo was good enough to bring many of those passing by to a full stop to listen.

  When the choir wrapped up, my partner and I strolled down the game aisle where Seth had won the dog for me, the dog that Brigit had promptly ripped to shreds the minute we got home. People threw darts at balloons, baseballs at milk jugs, and basketballs at orange-netted hoops. At another booth, a young boy chewed his lip in concentration as he tossed a dingy, once-white rope, attempting to lasso a painted wooden steer. A group of people aimed water guns at small targets that sent metal racehorses moving down a track.

  The prizes, displayed overhead and hung along the sides of the booths, included the usual stuffed animals of various sizes, though here at the stock show they were primarily rodeo or farm themed. Small white sheep not much bigger than a Beanie Baby. Pink pigs the size of a bowling ball. A yellow long-legged chicken. And the granddaddy of all stock show midway prizes, an enormous brown and white steer with horns that spanned four feet across.

  Brigit and I reached the Tilt-A-Whirl and waited until ten minutes after seven, when Gabby and T.J. came running toward us, hand in hand. With her long black hair and scattered freckles, Gabby looked like a younger, more carefree version of me. T.J. was a cute kid, clean-cut with gingery brown hair, a slightly upturned nose, and an affable smile. Under Gabby’s free arm was tucked one of the huge brown and white stuffed steers. Somebody had gotten lucky.

  “Sorry we’re late!” Gabby cried. “T.J. was playing the ring toss and look what he won for me.” She wiggled the animal in her arms as if I might have overlooked it. Fat chance of that. The thing was nearly as big as Brigit.

  I gave Gabby a hug and T.J. a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Good to see you two.”

  We continued down the row of rides, most of which were geared toward young children. A car ride that went in circles. A plane ride that went in circles. A boat ride that went in circles. I was beginning to detect a theme here. At the end of the row was the pony ride, which also went in circles, but at least that particular ride wasn’t made of cold steel.

  When Gabby saw the Scrambler ride, she squealed. “We have to go on the Scrambler, Megan! Remember that year Dad brought us here and we rode it six times in a row?”

  How could I forget? The year before Gabby had been too short to ride, but to her delight she’d grown just enough to clear the height line. To be honest, I’d hated every second of the ride. It slammed me up against the metal side of the bench and gave me a sideways form of whiplash, leaving me with a painful bruise on my hipbone and a stiff neck the next day. I’d been forced to wear soft sweatpants until my hip healed. But Gabby had been having such a good time, her face beaming with that pure, unadulterated joy reserved for young children. How could I have refused, then? And I wasn’t about to spoil her memory now by telling her how awful the experience had been for me.

  I turned to T.J. “You mind keeping a hold on Brigit’s leash for a few minutes?”

  “No problem.” He reached out to take the leash from me.

  “You have to be firm with her,” I warned. “Let her know who’s boss.”

  “Okay.”

  Gabby likewise ditched her stuffed cow with him.

  Minutes later, Gabby and I were seated on the ride, our hands resting on the metal bar in front of us. Given that I outweighed my sister by a good ten pounds, I’d taken the seat on the outside so I wouldn’t crush her once the ride got going.

  The ride’s operator, a gangly man with more enthusiasm than teeth, turned the key to set the machine in motion. He danced a goofy little jig and swung his arm. “Away we go!”

  The bench my sister and I sat on slid slowly to the right, then back across to the other side, gently at first, but gaining speed and force with each pass. As the motion began to pull me to the outside, I tightened my grip on the bar in a desperate attempt t
o stay in place.

  Gabby did the same next to me, laughing it up all the while. “Hang on, Megan!”

  I imagined this ride had some similarities to riding a wild horse or bull. The same physical forces pulling at the rider. The same sense of disorientation. The same desperate attempt to retain your seat even when your butt seemed to have its own center of gravity.

  Finally, the pull became too great and I slid across the seat, my hipbone once again slamming into the metal side of the bench. Bang! Damn, that hurt! Looked like it would be yoga pants for the next week or so. Gabby slid over a second later, colliding with me. We laughed and squealed like a couple of children and, for just a few moments—and despite the sore hip—I was able to forget about purse snatchers and drug dealers.

  Eventually the ride wound down and slowed to a stop with an earsplitting screeeeech. They might want to put some WD-40 on this thing.

  The operator made his way from car to car, releasing the locks and lifting the safety bars so the riders could exit. “Have a fun night, folks!”

  Gabby and I climbed down from our bench and headed back to T.J., both of us a little wobbly, our brains scrambled. The ride’s name was definitely fitting.

  I found Brigit finishing off the last of a corn dog. “Did you buy her that corn dog?” I asked, hoping she hadn’t snatched it from someone. I wouldn’t put it past her. The darn dog had an insatiable appetite.

  “I couldn’t help it!” T.J. cried. “She pulled me over to the stand and wouldn’t stop barking until I bought her one.”

  I pulled the stick from my partner’s mouth before she could eat that, too. “It’s okay,” I told T.J. “Trust me. I know how persistent she can be.”

  A pain in the butt is what she was. Still, I couldn’t imagine working with another partner.

  After a half hour at the midway, most of which I spent on the sidelines holding the stuffed steer while Gabby and T.J. enjoyed the rides, I begged off. “I better get back on patrol. See y’all later.”