Paw Enforcement 02 - Paw and Order

by Kelly, Diane

  Crystal scowled. “You don’t have to talk down to me. I’m not stupid. I looked around first to make sure nobody was watching. Besides, you said nobody would realize we were together.”

  Robin Hood’s own words coming back to bite her in the ass.

  “You’re right,” she said, forcing levity into her voice. “I’m just being paranoid.” Really, what were the odds of anyone realizing her sisters had been in on the theft? Slim to none. The police were too busy to spend much time on a minor theft. They’d take a report from the victims and that would be it.

  Right?

  TWENTY-TWO

  PISSED OFF

  Megan

  Two thirtyish women with stylish haircuts stormed toward me, their expressions so full of fury it wouldn’t have surprised me to see flames shoot out of their nostrils.

  “Our purses were stolen!” cried the first one to reach me, a tall woman with reddish-brown hair and a purplish bruise developing on her brow bone.

  “And our rings!” added her darker-haired friend. “Our wedding rings and engagement rings!”

  “Where did this happen?”

  “The women’s restroom,” said the redhead. “Right over there!” She pointed to a door thirty yards away. “We were shoved up against the wall and held at gunpoint!”

  Looked like the purse thief was not only back in business, but that she’d taken things up a notch.

  I asked the women their names. The redhead was Lisa. The one with the dark curls was Dominique.

  “Can you give me a description of the thief?” I asked, readying my shoulder-mounted radio to send a BOLO, or be-on-the-lookout, alert.

  “No,” said Dominique, wrapping her arms around herself in an instinctive act of self-comfort. “They put dark pillowcases over our heads.”

  “Wait. They? There was more than one person?”

  “Yes,” said Lisa. “There were two of them.”

  The thief hadn’t just taken things up a notch, she’d also recruited a helper—assuming, of course, that tonight’s thief was the same one who’d snatched the purse last week. Though both crimes had taken place in a ladies’ restroom, the difference in MO could mean that the incidents were unrelated and new criminals were at work here. Still, it seemed odd that so many female thieves would be working the rodeo when there were relatively few female robbers to begin with.

  “I got a glimpse of the woman who attacked me,” said Lisa. “She has short blond hair.”

  “How old?”

  “Hard to say. Somewhere between eighteen and mid-twenties, I guess. I only got a quick look before she covered my head and all I could really see was her eyes. She was wearing a bandana over her nose and mouth like the train robbers in those old western shows.”

  “What about her build?”

  “Medium all around, I think. Like I said, I only got a quick look.”

  “What was she wearing?” I asked.

  She seemed even less sure about the thief’s attire. “Jeans? And a dark-colored top. Black, maybe. Or navy blue?”

  “Did you actually see their guns?” I asked, knowing in many cases criminals faked a weapon rather than be caught with one.

  Lisa shook her head.

  Dominique said, “No, but she stuck it right into my ribs. Right here.”

  She lifted her shirt to show me a red, circular spot on her side. The circumference of the bruise appeared a little on the small side for a gun barrel, but I couldn’t definitively rule it out. Lisa lifted her shirt and showed me her spot, too. Again, it looked small for a gun, but I couldn’t be certain.

  I raised a finger to silence the women and pushed the button on my shoulder mic, turning my head to speak into it. “I have a report of a robbery. The suspects are two females in their twenties. One has short blond hair, jeans, and a dark shirt. They may be armed. Everyone keep an eye out.” I pulled my notepad and pen from the breast pocket of my shirt and turned my attention back to the women. “Did you follow the thieves?”

  “We tried,” Dominique said, “but when we came out of the bathroom a woman got in the way and slowed us down.”

  “Got in the way? What do you mean?”

  “We couldn’t get around her until she hobbled aside,” she explained. “She was on crutches.”

  Crutches?

  A red flag popped up in my mind and began waving. “The woman on crutches. Was she alone?”

  The two exchanged glances.

  “I don’t know,” Lisa said. “I was so upset I really didn’t pay that much attention. I was just trying to follow the thief.”

  “What did the woman on crutches look like?”

  Dominique scrunched her shoulders. “Brown hair, average size.” She looked to her friend. “I don’t remember anything that stood out about her other than the crutches. Do you, Lisa?”

  Lisa shook her head.

  Dammit. I’d been keeping an eye out for a woman on crutches, just in case. Yet she’d somehow slipped by me. I probably shouldn’t fault myself. After all, the stock show crowd was large and constantly in motion. The grounds were large, too. I couldn’t be everywhere. But still, the thought that these thieves could commit a second theft right under my nose had me feeling as if I hadn’t done my job.

  Lisa put a hand to her tender brow. “Damn, this is starting to hurt!”

  I got back on my radio. “Can someone bring a bag of ice to the ladies’ room near the dance hall? I’ve got an injured victim here.”

  One of my fellow officers responded. “I’m on it.”

  “You want to see a medic?” I shined my penlight in Lisa’s eyes, making sure her pupils responded.

  “No. I think I’ll be okay once I get some ice on it.”

  “All right, then.” I waved a hand. “Follow me.”

  As we made our way to the restroom, Brigit lifted her nose in the air and twitched her nostrils as if searching for scented clues. Problem was, even if she smelled the thief, she wasn’t trained like a search and rescue dog to pursue a specific person by scent. When she went after a fleeing subject, she simply knew to aim for the person who was running. When we searched in a building, woods, or neighborhood where someone might be hiding, she knew to scent for areas of the ground or structure that had been recently disturbed.

  I stopped in front of the ladies’ room door, noting a piece of transparent tape and the remnants of a white sheet of paper stuck to the door. “Was there a sign on the door when you went inside?”

  “Not that I noticed,” Lisa replied.

  “Me, neither,” said Dominique.

  Hmm …

  This was a different bathroom from where the purse snatching had taken place last weekend. While the theft the week before occurred in the building where the rodeo was held, this one was in the building that housed the dance hall. The strains of country music drifted from the open doors down the corridor.

  We stepped inside. My eyes scanned the floor, searching for any of the coins that had been dropped. I found three pennies under the sink, two dimes near the floor drain, and a nickel against the wall. I placed a paper towel next to each of them, and used my keys to nudge them onto the towel lest I disturb any fingerprints the thieves might have left. When I’d collected all the coins, I folded up the towel and stuck it in my pocket.

  Whipping my baton from my belt I extended it with a snap. Sticking it down into the trash can, I rummaged around, looking to see if the purses had been dropped inside. Nope. No sign of them. Lisa and Dominique followed me and Brigit as I stepped back out of the bathroom and performed a quick peek into another trash can nearby. Nope. Nothing. Just a bunch of food wrappers and soda cups.

  I unzipped my jacket and pulled my notepad, pen, and a couple of business cards from the breast pocket of my shirt. I handed the cards to the ladies, and readied my pad and pen. “You first,” I said, pointing my pen at Lisa. “Describe your purse and tell me what all was in it.”

  “It was a Louis Vuitton,” she said. “The black Melrose Avenue model. I jus
t bought it two weeks ago.” She rattled off the contents. Miscellaneous cosmetics. A comb. A black leather wallet with her checkbook, debit card, and several credit cards inside. “And a Starbucks gift card. One that says ‘Happy Birthday’ on it. The office took up a collection and gave it to me three days ago. I hadn’t even had a chance to use it yet.”

  “Any drugs in your purse?”

  She looked taken aback. “Drugs?”

  “Prescriptions,” I clarified. “Painkillers? Xanax? Ritalin? Anything like that?”

  “No.”

  When Lisa finished, I turned to Dominique.

  “My purse was a Giani Bernini. Black on the bottom with a strip of dark brown around the top.” She listed the contents of her purse, which were similar to Lisa’s. Miscellaneous cosmetics. A small hairbrush. A brown leather wallet with her debit card and credit cards inside. No checkbook. “I leave that at home. I hardly ever use it these days.”

  “What about you?” I asked. “Any medications or drugs in your purse?”

  “Just aspirin,” she said.

  I pushed my baton closed and returned it to my belt. “Did the girl on crutches have a cast on her leg? Maybe a brace?”

  “I don’t remember seeing one,” Dominique said. “Her one leg just hung limplike.”

  Same as the girl last week, who hadn’t had a cast, either.

  My eyes scanned the vicinity, searching for security cameras but finding none. “When she left the area, did you see which way she went?”

  The two women looked at each other again.

  “Left?” Lisa pointed tentatively toward the exit.

  “I think you’re right,” Dominique said.

  The fact that the girl on crutches had headed out of the building rather than turning right to go to the dance hall was further evidence that her presence at both purse snatchings was not likely coincidental. She’d probably been in on the heist, her job to impede the victims in their attempts to pursue the thief.

  I pushed the mic on my radio again. “Look for a young woman on crutches, too. She’s wearing…” I raised an inquisitive brow and looked to the women for details.

  They both shrugged and shook their heads. This lack of details was exactly why it was so hard for law enforcement to track down these types of criminals. The victims were too upset to register details and retain information.

  Dominique gave me an apologetic smile. “The only thing I remember were her boots.”

  “Me, too!” Lisa cried.

  They were as bad as that woman last week. “Were the boots tan and pink?”

  “No,” Dominique said. “They were black on the foot part, and a bluish-green up the leg.”

  “Somewhere between turquoise and sea-foam green,” Lisa clarified.

  As if that description would mean anything to the male officers. “She’s wearing boots,” I said into my radio mic. “Black and light green.” Close enough. No sense confusing them.

  “Is that all she’s wearing?” came Derek’s voice. “Just boots? Hell, that calls for an APB.”

  Blurgh. The guy was such an ass.

  “Just look for crutches, okay?” Really, how many women on crutches are there likely to be out here hobbling around the stock show grounds? Turning my attention back to the women, I asked, “Where were you just prior to going to the bathroom?”

  “In the dance hall,” Lisa said.

  “Do you think the thief could have followed you from there?”

  “It’s possible,” Lisa said. “We’d been in there for a while. Had a couple of beers. That’s why we needed to visit the ladies’ room.”

  Chances were the thief had watched the two of them drink those beers, knowing that as their cups emptied their bladders would fill.

  “What about before that?” I asked, trying to gather as much information as possible in an attempt to figure out the thief’s MO.

  Lisa looked up in thought. “We had dinner at Blue Mesa Grill on University.”

  “Then we drove here,” Dominique continued. “We parked and headed straight for the dance hall. We don’t come for the animals or the rides. We come for the bands.”

  Lisa’s eyes snapped wide. “We didn’t go straight to the dance hall. We stopped at the ATM, remember?”

  Dominique’s eyes went wide, too. “That’s right!”

  I summarized the obvious conclusion. “The thief had probably been watching the cash machine and followed you two after you made the withdrawals.”

  “Yikes.” Dominique shuddered and cringed. “That makes me feel so … violated.”

  Another FWPD officer arrived then with a small blue ice pack. He handed it to Lisa.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  I nodded in acknowledgment.

  As he stepped away, I advised them to cancel their debit and credit cards as soon as possible. I jotted down their contact information and told them I’d file a report.

  Lisa looked at me with hopeful eyes. “Do you think you’ll catch them?”

  “I can’t promise you we’ll catch them,” I said. “But I can promise you we’ll do our best.” Always did. Brigit and I gave 110 percent. I knew 100 percent was the purported maximum, but if Sophie + Clint = ♥ then we were living in a world where math made no sense and I could tack on an extra 10 percent if I damn well wanted to.

  “Is something going on?” called a familiar female voice from down the hall.

  I turned to find Trish LeGrande, a television reporter from Dallas, trotting toward me, her cameraman hurrying along behind her. Trish was decked out in rodeo garb—jeans, a pair of tan boots embossed with magnolia flowers, and a fringed suede western-cut jacket in her trademark pink. A pink scarf encircled her neck, tied just so, the ends sticking out at jaunty angles. She’d worn her butterscotch-colored hair in a long braid and topped it off with a pink-banded cowboy hat.

  Trish used to do strictly the upbeat human-interest stories for the station, reporting on chili cook-offs, child music prodigies, firefighters rescuing kittens from trees. She’d recently begun reporting on more serious matters, though she still handled the occasional fluff piece. Given her outfit, she’d probably come here simply to cover the event for the news, snag some sound bites from kids at the midway or couples scooting their boots in the dance hall. But it was clear from the intense look on her face that she’d be thrilled to get the scoop on a breaking story of greater magnitude.

  “Well?” she demanded when she reached me. “Is there a story here?”

  I stiffened. For one, street cops were supposed to refer all media to the police department’s public relations office. For two, I didn’t want news of the mugging to get out until I’d had time to discuss it with the supervisor on duty, maybe even the chief himself. The stock show and rodeo was a huge annual event, bringing lots of tourist dollars into the city. If word got out that the event wasn’t safe, not only could it put a dent in the revenues, but it could also further damage the reputation of the Fort Worth Police Department, which had already suffered after the bombings and the domestic assault. Thanks to shows like CSI, the public assumed extensive forensic evidence existed at every crime scene and thought every case could be solved in an hour or less. In reality, many crime scenes provided few, if any, clues, and it could take months or years before a crime was solved, if ever. And thirdly, it was thanks to this woman that embarrassing footage of me after the mall bombing with tuna salad in my hair had been repeated ad nauseum on local news and gone viral on the Internet.

  I forced a smile at Trish. My first inclination was to say I’ve got a story for you. It starts with a dark and stormy night and ends with a house crushing you flat, you witch. But instead I said, “Please c-contact our public relations office if you have questions. Thanks.”

  She tossed me a look that said pfft! and turned to Lisa and Dominique. “You two look upset. Is that a bruise on your forehead? Has something happened?”

  Lisa threw her hands in the air, evidently reenergized by this new source of sympathy for he
r plight. “We were robbed at gunpoint! Two thieves stole our wedding rings and purses in this bathroom right here.” She pointed at the door.

  Trish raised a butterscotch brow and looked up, as if quickly thinking through what she might say for her lead-in. She turned to her cameraman. “Start rolling.”

  He lifted the camera to his shoulder and pushed a button. A red light came on to indicate the equipment was in use.

  As Trish stepped up next to the women to begin her coverage, I seized the opportunity to sneak away, tugging on Brigit’s leash to hurry her along. We exited the building and turned to head to the tower where the PD had its makeshift headquarters for the event. I spotted another trash can on the way, and stopped to poke through it with my baton to see if the thief might have dumped the purses there. Purse snatchers and pickpockets often ditched the purses and wallets they stole as quickly as possible to avoid being caught with the evidence. With any luck, I’d find one of the purses. Maybe the thief had eaten a greasy funnel cake before her crime spree and left clear fingerprints. Really, if you’re going to wish for luck, you might as well go all the way, right?

  Unfortunately, luck was not with me. There were no purses in this trash can, either.

  As I continued to make my way toward the tower, another can caught my eye. Something was sticking out of the top. Something long made of wood and topped with padding.

  A pair of crutches.

  Looks like luck may be with me after all.

  I hurried toward the can, but a trio of boys just old enough to be out on their own beat me to it. One of them pulled the crutches from the can, pulling some trash with them, the papers fluttering to the ground around the bin.

  “Look at me!” the boy called, slipping the crutches under his armpits, crooking a leg up behind him, and lurching forward. “I’m Tiny Tim. God bless us, everyone!”

  I raised my palm and ran up. “Stop!”

  The boy took one look at me, noted my uniform, and reflexively lifted his hands over his head. The crutches slid out from under his arms and fell to the sides, hitting the asphalt with a clatter. “I didn’t steal the crutches! I swear! I found them in the trash!”