by Diane Kelly
I noticed the detective had used the word “him.” True, most violent criminals were men, but a female suspect couldn’t be ruled out, right? Then again, if a woman had planted this bomb, it would’ve been filled with tweezers and nail scissors and safety pins. Way for me to engage in sexual stereotypes, eh?
The detective cut an intent look at me and Seth. “These fishhooks,” she said. “Keep that information to yourselves, okay? Along with anything else we might find.”
We both indicated our agreement to keep mum.
“There’s a pet store in the mall,” I told Jackson. “They sell fish. They’ve got a big aquarium in the front window.”
She said nothing, though her lips pursed and she made a note on her pad. She lifted a chin to indicate the food court. “There’s a sushi stand over there, too. They serve fish.”
Another possible connection, though I considered it unlikely. No pun intended, but nobody at the sushi stand had struck me as fishy.
When the detective stood and continued on, Seth and I followed her, side by side, carefully looking over the assorted shrapnel littering the floor. Thumbtacks. Straight pins. Sewing needles.
Jackson stopped and knelt again, examining the mess more closely. “Is there a sewing shop in the mall? Some kind of craft store?”
“No,” I said, “but the bridal shop employs a full-time tailor. He’s an older guy named Vu.”
“Vietnamese?”
“I think so.”
Jackson stood, jotted another note on her pad, and stepped forward again.
“You wouldn’t believe the weird stuff people put in bombs,” Seth said. “When I was in Afghanistan we dismantled one that was filled with old car parts. Spark plugs, engine bolts, even rusty wiper blades. They’ll use whatever they can get their hands on.”
“You served in Afghanistan?” I asked.
“Spent eight years in the Army as an explosive ordnance disposal specialist.”
Most people try to avoid bombs. I couldn’t even imagine what it must have been like to go out looking for them, to know each mission could be the last. His job had been one of the riskiest in the Army. The news was filled with reports of troops maimed or killed by improvised explosive devices. Had Seth lost others from his platoon? Friends?
Seth’s eyes grew dark as he glanced my way. “Operation Enduring Freedom. What a name for a war, huh?” He chuckled without mirth. “How the hell can freedom ‘endure’ in a place where there was no freedom to begin with? Someone want to explain that to me?”
Our eyes locked and I found myself wishing I had answers to give him. He looked like he could use some. Clearly those scars on his back weren’t the only scars he suffered.
As if realizing he’d said too much, Seth shifted his focus back to the floor in front of us. Detective Jackson eyed him with an assessing glance before turning her attention to a trio of nails lodged in a table.
I tried to think of something appropriate to say in response to Seth but could only come up with, “Thanks for your service.”
“It’s not over yet,” he said. “I’m still in the reserves.”
That explained the short haircut.
When he walked on, I went with him, feeling much too aware of him, of his proximity, of the conflicted soul trapped inside that undeniably delectable body. No doubt this bomb brought back bad memories for Seth. But this was not the time or place to analyze him. I needed to focus on the task at hand—looking for clues that might tell us who the bomber was.
My eyes scanned the room, searching for something that might trip a latent recollection. I wished I could replay the morning in my mind, check my mental footage for an important detail I might have missed. Maybe I could go under hypnosis and see if that helped. I’d heard the process could release repressed memories.
As we traversed the room, we found four mangled fondue forks on the floor, a unicorn-shaped corkscrew impaled in the front flank of a blue carousel horse, a barbecue spatula with a serrated edge on one side, and a pointy meat thermometer lodged in the dirt of a potted plant, the clear plastic cover over its face shattered.
An hour later I followed Seth and the detective out of the mall, more disturbed, more anxious, and more in awe of Seth, but none the wiser.
When we reached the detective’s car, she handed both of us a business card. “Call me if you come up with something.” With that, she climbed in and drove off.
Seth and I continued over to where the chief was speaking to members of the media, giving them select details about the day’s events.
In front of the pack stood Trish LeGrande, a pushy, big-busted reporter from one of the Dallas stations. Trish had a unique shade of blond hair akin to butterscotch pudding and owned a predominately pink wardrobe. Today she wore a sleeveless pink ruffled dress that would be more appropriate for a cotillion dance than a field report. She used to do the upbeat feel-good filler segments on slow news days, reporting on a neighborhood beautification project, a boat show at the convention center, or the latest fried-food craze at the state fair: You gotta try these delicious fried cactus bites! Yummy! She’d recently been promoted to a field reporter position. I wondered who she’d slept with to land the promotion.
The chief looked into the closest camera. “I’m very proud of the way my officers handled this crisis.” He put a hand on the Big Dick’s shoulder. “Officer Derek Mackey here was one of the first responders. He risked his life to evacuate the building. That’s the kind of exemplary behavior the citizens of Fort Worth can expect from their police force.”
Uh … hello?!?
All Mackey had done was holler through a bullhorn. Brigit had found the bomb; then she and I had raced a ticking clock to make sure everyone got out of the courtyard. She’d suffered a nail in the hip and I’d taken a screw in the ass for the city’s citizens. Where were our accolades? Reflexively my hand went to my baton and ripped it from my belt. A flick of my wrist and the baton extended. SNAP!
At the sound, everyone’s heads turned toward me.
Uh-oh.
I looked down and used my baton to knock nonexistent dirt off my shoe.
Next to me, Seth chuckled, this time with mirth. Under his breath he said, “I saw that.”
“Hush,” I whispered, cutting my eyes to indicate my stick, “or you’ll be next.”
“That’s okay,” he replied with a grin. “I think I’d like it.”
Trish called out to me. “Were you one of the first responders, too?”
Normally, the police department designated one of the public-relations experts to handle press conferences lest an officer inadvertently let a secret detail slip. I had to be careful with my words. As the cameraman stepped into place to film me, I glanced over at the chief.
He answered for me: “Officer Luz was having lunch in the courtyard when the bomb exploded. Due to the serious nature of this crime and the ongoing investigation, she will not be able to engage the press.”
Undaunted, Trish turned back to me and leaned to her left, eyeing the right side of my head. “Surely you can at least tell me what’s in your hair?”
My hair?
I put my hand up to my temple to discover a squishy, greasy glob stuck to my locks. I pulled the goo from my head and held it up in front of my face. The smell was unmistakable. “It’s tuna salad.”
Blurgh.
Brigit leaped up and licked the remaining fishy, mayonnaise-drenched blob from the side of my head. Derek and the reporters broke out in laughs.
“Hahaha!”
“Did you see that?”
“What a riot!”
Boy, did this day suck.
I turned to Seth for support only to find him fighting a laugh, too. The man must have a death wish.
I shot him a glare. “You promised me a margarita. Time to pay the piper.”
TWENTY-NINE
AN UNEXPECTED TREAT
Brigit
Fish! Yum!
THIRTY
BREAKING NEWS
&n
bsp; The Rattler
His pizza and beer now processing through his intestines, the Rattler decided it was time to go. No sense hanging around the restaurant too long and raising suspicions. Besides, it was nearly five o’clock and he was eager to see Trish LeGrande’s early news report on the bombing. For the first time ever, he’d actually listen to what the woman had to say rather than just staring at her tits.
THIRTY-ONE
FROZEN, WITH SALT
Megan
Seth typed my address into his phone’s GPS.
“When you see a crappy blue apartment complex,” I told him, “you’ll know you’ve arrived.”
He slid his phone back into his pocket. “Is six o’clock good?”
I glanced at my watch. “Sure.” I had just over an hour to freshen up before our … date?
It was a date, wasn’t it? Or was it merely a friendly invitation for a drink from one public servant to another? Time would tell, I suppose.
When I left my cruiser in the parking lot at the W1 station, fifteen minutes remained on my shift. Cutting out early constituted dereliction of duty, but screw it. The chief and the citizens of Fort Worth would just have to deal. I’d more than earned my pay today already. I did, however, take advantage of the extra time to deliver a solid whack with my baton to Derek’s rubber testicles.
On my way home, I pulled into the drive-thru at the dry cleaner’s and wriggled out of my uniform. A moment later, the owner’s adolescent son came to the window. Just my luck. Thank goodness my Kevlar vest covered my chest.
I slunk down in my seat as the skinny Asian kid looked down into my car. He eyed my Kevlar vest before his gaze moved down to my panties. The pair read: “PINK” across my pubic bone as if describing their intimate contents.
I shoved my pants and shirt at him. “Here.”
The boy took them from me and looked them over. “What’s all this?” he asked, gesturing to the stains.
“Ketchup,” I told him. “Mustard. Barbecue sauce. Tuna.” My clothes bore a few greasy French fry stains, too, though God only knew what the green goop was. Guacamole from the taco stand, wasabi from the sushi counter, or green goddess salad dressing from the deli. Take your pick.
The kid handed me a claim ticket and gave me their standard not-all-stains-can-be-removed spiel. “We’ll do our best. No guarantees.”
That’s really all anyone can ask for, right?
“Can you patch the hole in the pants, too?” I asked.
He separated the pants from the shirt and took a quick look. “Mom!” he called back over his shoulder. A woman appeared at the window a moment later. The boy said something to her in Cantonese and stuck his finger through the hole the EMT had cut in my pants.
The woman replied in her native tongue to the boy, then turned to me. “We can do. Ten dollar more. Okay?”
“Great. Thanks.”
When I pulled into my apartment complex a few minutes later, Rhino was sitting in his usual spot on the side of the pool. Ditto for my elderly neighbor on the stairs. Neither batted an eye as I made my way up the stairs in my black socks, loafers, hole-in-the-back panties, and Kevlar vest. I should probably consider moving.
Once inside my apartment, I poured a full cup of lavender-scented bubble bath into my tub and turned on the hot water. A warm bath would relax me. Of course the water that came out of the hot tap in this place was barely tepid and would cool off in seconds. To supplement the meager hot-water supply, I pulled my only two pots out of the cabinet, filled them with water, and set them on the stove to boil.
I turned on the news as I eased myself out of my ballistic vest. There was Trish in her pink ruffled dress and butterscotch hair, expounding on what few details the chief had revealed about the bomb. It’s not like we knew much at this point, but she managed to take up two full minutes providing virtually no hard facts. The woman sure could hog the airtime.
Near the end of the segment, my face popped up on the screen. The voice-over noted that the explosion had caused no serious injuries and had merely spewed garbage throughout the mall courtyard. One unnamed officer—me—had been bombarded. Trish could be heard asking what was in my hair.
On the TV screen, my hand went to my head and removed the glop. “It’s tuna salad.”
Laughter erupted in the background as Brigit jumped up and licked the side of my head.
Oh, God.
I clicked the television off, logged on to my laptop, and pulled up YouTube, searching with the key words “cop,” “dog,” and “tuna.”
Sure enough, the site featured a teaser snippet of me and Brigit that had been played on television an hour ago. The video, which was captioned “Tunabomber,” had already gone viral: 89,347 hits, with only three thumbs-down.
I glanced down at Brigit. “We’re Internet stars.”
She cocked her head and gave a tentative wag of her tail as if to say, That’s all well and good, but where are my treats?
As I logged off my computer, fresh fury welled up in me. I’d been scared to death this afternoon, afraid for my life, afraid for the lives of the people I’d sworn to protect, yet the news agencies and Internet surfers saw the incident as nothing more than a petty crime, a harmless prank, a joke.
I wasn’t a hero.
I was a clown.
I just might need a whole pitcher of margaritas.
I stripped off what few articles of clothing remained on my body, retrieved the pots of boiling water, and dumped them into my tub. The tears I’d fought back all afternoon welled in my eyes as I lowered myself into the bubbles. When I’d settled in, my body began to shake, causing the water to quiver and slosh.
Brigit stepped into the doorway and looked at me, emitting a soft whine. When a tear broke free and rolled down my face, she came over and licked it off my cheek with her warm, wet tongue. The gesture was surprisingly sweet and tender, and her concern pushed me over the emotional edge into an all-out sob.
Hank was right. This damn dog has become my best friend.
When Brigit put a paw over the side of the tub I pushed it back. “I’ll b-b-be okay, Brig,” I spluttered between sobs. BFFs or not, the last thing I needed was a hundred-pound dog in the tub with me. Unfortunately, Brigit thought a dog in my bath was the first thing I needed. She leaped in on top of me, sending up a splash that showered the floor and walls with water and suds.
“No!” I tried to push her out, but it was no use. She crouched down in the suds and became deadweight, impossible to lift. She continued to lick my face as I cried. A moment later I was no longer trying to force her out of the tub but clinging to her for dear life, sobbing into her fur.
When I was all cried out, I sat up, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the full-length mirror hanging on my bathroom door. Whoa! My face was coated in fur. I looked like Chewbacca.
Lovely.
When I stood, Brigit hopped out of the tub, dripping water all over the floor before shaking herself. While I pulled the drain plug, she trotted out the door, leaving a wet trail behind her. I heard the unmistakable thud of her still-damp body landing on my futon. Great. My bed would be soaked tonight.
I turned on the shower, washing my hair and rinsing it with the lukewarm water, kicking my feet in the standing water to remove Brigit’s fur from my ankles. I wondered if there was any chance of convincing Grigsby to buy larger or more efficient water heaters for the complex. Given that he’d spent thousands on the AC unit only a few weeks earlier, the chances were slim to none.
Finished now, I stepped out of the tub and toweled off. The water drained rhythmically for a moment; then the drain began to gasp with a glug-glug-glug as Brigit’s hair clogged the pipes. Two inches of water remained in the tub when it stopped draining altogether.
Walking into my living room, I pointed an accusatory finger at my partner. “You clogged the drain, you hairy beast.”
She simply batted her big brown eyes in reply.
I picked up my phone and called Grigsby. “My bathtub dr
ain is clogged.”
“Plumbing stoppages are the tenant’s responsibility,” he snapped. “Read your lease.”
After the day I’d had, there was no fight left in me. “Have I told you how much I hate living here?”
“You and everybody else,” he replied, unconcerned. “You don’t like it? Move.”
I hung up without saying good-bye.
I found a metal coat hanger in my closet, manipulated it into a hook shape, and fished what looked like a wet kitten out of my drain. Had I been the crafty type, I could’ve glued googly eyes to it and sold it on Etsy.
The plumbing crisis now resolved, I blow-dried my hair and slid into a pair of jeans, sandals, and a black crossover top that tied on the side. Cute, but not overtly sexy. I’d just finished putting a little curl in the ends of my long hair and applying my makeup when a knock sounded at the door. It felt as if my heart were returning the gesture, knocking against my ribs.
I opened my door to find Seth standing on the walkway in jeans, loafers, and an old-fashioned gray vest over a black T-shirt. A pewter pocket watch was tucked into the vest, the chain draping down over his hip, the end clipped onto a belt loop. The effect was old-fashioned, quaint, and a little peculiar.
Seth glanced inside my place. “You’re right. This is a crappy apartment.”
“That’s rude,” I said.
“No,” he replied, “it was honest.”
“Sometimes honest is rude. Didn’t your mother teach you about white lies?”
“I was only agreeing with what you said earlier.” His eyes ran over my face and offered me a soft smile. “Would it help if I said you look pretty?”
Despite myself, I found my lips returning the smile. “It might.”
“You smell good, too. Like lavender.” His nose wrinkled as he got a better whiff. “With undertones of wet dog.”
“Brigit climbed into the tub with me.” Next time I’d lock the bathroom door.
“Wow.” Seth walked past me into my apartment. “You’ve got an awful lot of books.”