by Kelly, Diane
“Early twenties, I’d say.”
Much too young for this creep. He didn’t even have the sense to be ashamed of himself for trying to pick up a woman young enough to be his daughter. “Was she a blonde?”
He shook his head. “No. She was dark headed.”
Hmm … Had the blonde maybe worn a disguise? Or is the brown-haired girl on crutches now starring in this show?
“Tall or short?” I asked.
He shrugged his skinny shoulders. “Average.”
“Heavy or thin?”
Another shrug. Another average.
“Any distinguishing characteristics? A tattoo maybe? A scar? Maybe a mole or birthmark?”
“Can’t remember noticing anything like that.”
“Eye color?”
“Not sure. I remember she was wearing a red shirt, though.”
No doubt the red shirt was cut low, exposing some cleavage and thereby explaining why the man had noticed virtually nothing about the young woman’s face.
“Was anyone with her?” I asked. Perhaps a woman with really cute boots?
He shook his head again. “No. She was alone. She told me she’d come to the stock show with a friend, but that her friend had left with some guy.”
My mind toyed again with the idea that the pickpocket could be the young woman who’d been on the crutches before. “What kind of shoes was the woman wearing?”
“Some kind of flat black ones,” the guy said.
“Not boots?”
“No.”
I pulled out my notepad and jotted down the man’s name and contact information, a description of the thief, and a list of the contents of the man’s wallet, including one Trojan-brand Ecstasy condom. Ew. Ew. Ew. This guy carried a rubber with him, as if he expected to get lucky? Who did he think he was, Ryan Gosling? Bradley Cooper? Not even close. This guy looked more like Steve Buscemi, who was a wonderfully talented actor but not exactly a sex symbol.
As the man stalked off, I turned to Clint. “I’m going to need a very large, very potent margarita to erase the image of that man naked from my b-brain.”
“No shit,” Clint said. “I might have to put a bullet in my head.”
An hour later, the two of us had returned our cruisers to our respective divisions, changed into civilian clothes, and met up at the Fox and Hound. I’d dropped Brigit off at my apartment. I prayed she wasn’t chewing up my shoes by now.
One of the pub’s Perfect Patrón margaritas sat on the table in front of me. Normally I went for the 3-Citrus Skinny Margarita, but tonight called for something that didn’t hold back. Clint had ordered a Corona with lime.
After taking a sip of my drink, I asked, “What do you think? Could the purse snatching and the mugging and the pickpocketing be related?”
Clint mulled things over for a moment. “Hard to say. It’s unusual that all of these crimes were committed by women. Usually the bad guys are, well, guys.”
“I had the same thought.” I took another sip, the alcohol beginning to free up my brain for creative thinking. “Maybe we’ve got some k-kind of female gang activity on our hands. You know, like those cheerleaders who robbed the banks.”
Clint held his beer bottle poised at his lips. “Wasn’t that just in a movie?”
I raised my palms. “Fact or fiction, it could happen.”
“True.” He tipped his bottle for a long drink.
I, too, took another long sip of my drink, freeing my mind even further. “What kind of young women would do this kind of thing?”
“Ones looking for some quick cash to buy drugs.”
Could be. Then again, people wanted cash for all kinds of reasons. To pay their bills. To cover an unexpected expense. To treat themselves to fancy jewelry or high-end electronics or cute boots.
“I talked to one of the detectives today,” I said. “We think the accomplice’s boots may be the key to solving this. The victims were able to describe them to me in good detail. They might be able to identify the boots if they saw them again.”
He shook his head. “You women and your shoes. I’ve got black boots, brown boots, and a pair of tennis shoes. Three pairs of footwear. That does me.”
It was my turn to shake my head. “You men and your lack of fashion sense.”
Clint’s mouth spread in a grin. “What exactly are you proposing? Putting a bunch of boots in a lineup and seeing if the victims can pick them out from the crowd?”
“Essentially.” I realized it sounded a little silly, but it could work. I explained about the printouts. “I’m going to visit the victims and see if they might recognize the boots from the Web site photos. I’ve also found a couple of suspects that look promising. Young women who have records for stealing purses and jewelry.”
“You’re an exceptionally dedicated cop.” He raised his beer in salute. “I’ll give you that.”
I raised my margarita glass and tapped it against his bottle. Clink!
Clint sat back in his chair. “That’s enough shop talk. I know Megan Luz, the police officer. Now I want to know about Megan Luz, the woman. Your turn-ons. Turnoffs. Most sexy secret fantasy.”
“Hmm … turn-ons. I’d have to say men who read. Who are kind to animals and kids and little old ladies. Who buy me top-shelf margaritas.” Whoa. The drink hadn’t just loosened my brain, it had loosened my mouth, as well.
Clint sent a fresh smile my way. “Go on.”
“Turnoffs. Let’s see.” Another sip. “Guys with excessive egos. No goals or sense of direction. Men who pretend to be something they’re not.”
“Got it,” Clint said. “Now for your most sexy secret fantasy. Does that involve a guy pretending to be something he’s not? Some role-play, maybe? I’ve got a Lone Ranger outfit. I’d be willing to wear an Indian headdress and a loincloth, too. Or were you thinking more along the lines of a gorilla costume?”
I waved a finger. “Nuh-uh-uh. I’m not going to give it up that easily.”
“Damn.”
“And the gorilla costume? That’s just disturbing.”
He held up his hands. “Just feeling you out.”
I swirled the straw in my margarita, mixing the alcohol back in with the parts that hadn’t melted yet. “What about you?” I asked. “Turn-ons and turnoffs?”
“Turn-ons,” he said. “Strong women that don’t have to be coddled. The smell of cherry pie baking. Tight jeans or short skirts with high heels.”
I rolled my eyes. “Gee. You’re deep.”
He smiled around his beer bottle. “Never claimed to be.”
“Turnoffs?” I prodded.
“Clingy women. Turtlenecks. Earth shoes.”
“Sexiest fantasy?”
He narrowed his eyes, casting me a look so hot it threatened to melt my margarita on the spot. “I could tell you, but you’d never be the same afterward.”
A vibration in the outside pocket of my purse alerted me to a phone call. I pulled out my cell and checked the readout.
Seth.
Really? His timing sucked. Besides, one-thirty on a Saturday night? What could he possibly want at this hour, some type of drunken booty call? That was not on the table. Or maybe he’d just gotten off work. Firefighters worked odd hours. But calling this late was rude. Whatever it was could wait until tomorrow.
I punched the button to ignore the call and shoved my phone back into my purse. I looked up to find Clint eyeing me intently.
“Boy trouble?”
I closed my eyes and let out a long breath. I supposed I could explain about Seth, that we weren’t serious, that we had a casual and open relationship, that I wasn’t sure if I even wanted to pursue something with the guy. But frankly I didn’t want to talk about it. “Yeah.”
“Need me to kick someone’s ass?”
“Thanks for the offer,” I said, “but if there’s an ass that needs kicking, I’ll take care of it myself.”
“I always admire a self-sufficient woman.” Clint tilted his head. “You involved with
someone?”
Good question. Am I? “I don’t really know.”
He raised a knowing brow. “One of those on-again, off-again things?”
I supposed that would be one way to describe it, but what was the term I’d used with Detective Jackson? Oh, yeah. “Uncertain would be a better term.”
“Hm.” He took a drink from his bottle. “Well, one thing that’s certain is that you are here with me now and I am going to take full advantage of that.” His brown eyes locked on mine in a look that was part challenge, part promise, part panty-melting sexual predation.
My phone gave off another wiggle, indicating Seth had left a voice mail, but I wasn’t about to spoil this nice time I was having with Clint. This deputy made me feel interesting and worthwhile, attractive and desired. I’d listen to the message later.
After another round of drinks, the waitress came around to announce last call. “Bar’s closing in fifteen minutes.”
Clint nudged my foot under the table. “Let’s go back to your place.”
“It’s awfully late.”
“You working tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Then sleep in.”
“You’re not going to try to get into my pants, are you?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Fair warning, though. I might try to kiss you. Maybe nibble on your ear a little.” He sent me such a hot look of seduction I was surprised I didn’t turn to liquid and drip off my chair.
TWENTY-NINE
FREE LOVE
Brigit
Megan and Clint fell onto the futon, leaving Brigit with nowhere to go but her doggie bed in the corner and nothing to do but be a voyeur. She plopped down and watched as Clint tried to slide his hand up Megan’s shirt. Megan pushed his hand away, but let him continue to kiss her neck.
Brigit was glad she wasn’t a human. Their sexual relationships were far too complex. When dogs wanted to hump, they humped, pure and simple. No regrets afterward, no guilt, no tears if he didn’t call. No walk of shame though, really, a dog didn’t mind any kind of walk, shameful or otherwise. And if a dog wanted to hump another dog soon after, there were no hard feelings. Free love. A dog could even hump a blanket or a couch cushion if it wanted to.
Yeah, humans were ridiculous. But they could open cans. For that reason alone, Brigit figured it couldn’t hurt to keep one around.
THIRTY
MEN ARE SO EASY
Robin Hood
Men are so easy, she thought as she drove home that night.
Getting that man all hot and bothered and taking his wallet had been a piece of cake. Hell, maybe she should’ve been targeting men from the beginning. She bet the guy wouldn’t even be able to give the cops a good description of her. She’d purposely worn a tight, low-cut top and a padded push-up bra, knowing that with such distractions in place any potential victim wouldn’t have his eyes on her face.
The only downside was that, since she’d had to hand the wallet off to Crystal and Heather, she hadn’t been able to skim any funds off the top. They’d split the man’s $97 three ways, with Crystal and Heather each taking $32 and Robin Hood getting an extra dollar for her efforts. Heather had taken the condom. She was the only one who currently had a boyfriend. Robin Hood hadn’t gotten any since New Year’s Eve when she and Ethan had hooked up for the last time.
Thirty-three dollars was hardly worth the planning and effort she’d put into tonight. And having that creep’s tongue in her mouth? Uck. She wouldn’t do anything like that again for anything less than a guaranteed grand.
She would definitely target a more attractive guy next time.
THIRTY-ONE
NO KNOCK-KNOCK JOKE HERE
Megan
With Clint’s tongue in my ear, I barely heard the knock at my door.
Knock-knock.
I pushed him back. “Was that someone at the door?”
“Shhh,” Clint said, nuzzling my neck. “If we’re quiet maybe they’ll go away.”
Knock-knock.
I knew I couldn’t ignore whoever was at the door. Chances were it was one of my neighbors stopping by to report that their hubcaps had been stolen or that they’d seen a suspicious person lurking about the property. But, hell, the most suspicious-looking people around here were the tenants.
I stood and stepped to the door. “Who is it?” I asked. Just because I was a cop didn’t mean I wasn’t going to take precautions, find out who was on the other side of the door before I opened it.
A male voice came through the door. “It’s Seth.”
Shit.
I glanced over at Clint, who raised a brow. “This have anything to do with your boy trouble?”
I nodded. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
He didn’t look real happy about it, but he raised a shoulder, grabbed the remote, and flipped on the television.
I slipped out the door and onto the walkway. Seth stood there, his shoulders slumped, exhaustion on his face. Something had happened. Something bad. I could tell.
When I tried to pull the door closed behind me, Brigit stuck her snout in the crack and forced it open, bounding out the door and down the stairs, heading straight for the dirt patch behind the Dumpster to pee.
Before I could get the door shut again, Seth cast a glance inside. When he spotted Clint, his posture went rigid. He gripped the rail as if choking it with his bare hand. “Looks like this isn’t a good time.”
“Not really.” It wasn’t, obviously. But I couldn’t just turn Seth away, not with that look on his face. “Are you okay?”
“Not really,” he said, echoing my words. “I tried to call you,” he said softly. “When you didn’t answer I left a voice mail. Didn’t you get it?”
“I haven’t listened to it yet.”
He hesitated a moment before asking, “Why not?”
“I was on a date, Seth.”
Finished now, Brigit trotted back up the steps, her tail wagging as she stood between us, looking from one of us to the other.
Seth opened his mouth as if to say something, then appeared to think better of it and closed his mouth again. Without another word, he turned and walked down the steps.
“Seth!” I called after him.
He raised a dismissive hand and kept right on walking.
I didn’t know what to do. Should I run after Seth? Go back to Clint? The situation was beyond awkward.
I leaned over the railing as Seth made his way back to his car below me. “Let’s talk in the morning, okay?”
His only response was to raise his hand again. Was the gesture meant to show agreement or refusal? I wasn’t sure.
I opened the door to my apartment, let Brigit inside, and slipped in after her.
Clint waited on my futon. A repeat of the ten o’clock news played on the television.
I plunked down on the opposite side of my couch, picked up one of my cushions, and hugged it to my chest. Clint turned to look at me, his eyes searing into me as if trying to burn away my outer layer to reveal the truth that lay below.
On the TV screen, a male field reporter stood before a small wood-frame house that was engulfed in flames. “Tragedy struck tonight when a Christmas tree that had not yet been disposed of caught fire in this house in Arlington Heights. Three children had been left home alone when the fire broke out. While a twelve-year old was able to carry her two-year-old sibling outside to safety, she returned to the house, not realizing that her seven-year-old brother had escaped safely out the back door. Firefighters found the girl unconscious inside. She was taken to the hospital and is listed in critical condition. A neighbor caught this footage of a fireman carrying the girl from the home.”
The screen switched to shaky video clearly filmed with a cell phone. The video showed a firefighter in a mask exiting the house with a girl’s limp form in his arms. He carried her to a waiting ambulance, then appeared to break down, backing away and falling to a knee. Looking down at the ground, he pulled his mask from his face and ran his sl
eeve across his eyes.
Oh, my God. The firefighter on the screen is Seth.
“Oh, no!” I said on a gasp. “That’s him!”
I leaped up from the couch, feeling like the most sorry excuse for a human being that had ever existed. Seth had come here seeking comfort, and what had I done? Turned my back on him at his time of need. The thought made me feel sick.
“It’s who?” Clint asked, standing, too.
Instinctively I ran to the door and yanked it open to see if Seth had driven off yet. His car still sat in the lot below. I bolted outside, grabbed the railing, and ran down the stairs so fast I lost my footing, stumbled at the end, and fell onto my hands and knees on the asphalt. Forgetting all about Clint, I ran to the Nova’s driver’s window, splaying my scraped hands on it as I leaned in.
“I saw the news report!” I cried through the glass. “Are you okay?”
One look at Seth’s shocked, sickened, and exhausted face told me he was anything but.
Clint had reached the bottom of the steps now. He raised a hand in good-bye, seeming to realize his presence was getting in the way of something far more serious and urgent. “We’ll catch up later.”
My eyes sought his and sent both a silent thank you and an I’m sorry.
I opened the door to Seth’s car. “Come on up.”
THIRTY-TWO
SIXTH SCENTS
Brigit
Brigit lay next to Seth on the couch, resting her head on his thigh and looking up at him as he ran his hand over and over and over her head. Although she appreciated being petted, she knew it was more for himself this time than it was for her, the repetitive motion calming his nerves, soothing him, giving him a way to work off the adrenaline she could smell on him.
But adrenaline wasn’t the only thing she smelled. She also smelled smoke and water and charred flesh and sadness. Okay, so sadness didn’t have a smell, but Brigit could sense it anyway, in the tone of his words, in his slumped posture, in the dullness in his eyes.
She offered a whine to let him know she was sad for him, too, and licked his hand to let him know she was there for him. She might be just a dog, but she was perceptive, and one thing was abundantly clear.