01-Paw Enforcement

by Diane Kelly

  Crazy and weapons are a bad combination, and we had plenty of both in Texas.

  Of course I had no delusions that law enforcement could prevent every act of violence. Unbalanced people intent on hurting others often withdrew from family and friends, thus leaving no one to unearth their evil intentions. Still, if there was anything I could do to prevent such violence, to save a person from death or injury, to save another child from fear, to stop the bad guys, I’d do it. Somewhere along the way, my fears and frustrations had evolved into a calling.

  As the cruiser made its way slowly up the street, I pointed to a white-brick house with Indian hawthorn bushes and a pecan tree in front. “That’s it.”

  Jackson pulled to a stop in a shady spot at the curb and rolled the windows down far enough to allow Brigit to receive air but not far enough that she could jump out.

  “Stay, girl,” I told my partner.

  She flopped down on the seat, looking irritated.

  As Jackson and I walked up the driveway, we heard a yip-yip-yip from inside the house. The yipping got louder after we rang the bell, then suddenly stopped.

  A moment later, a dark-haired, fortyish woman opened the door, a black teacup Chihuahua cradled in her hands. The bug-eyed dog yipped at us again: Yip-yip-yip!

  Brigit returned the sentiment through the cruiser’s window: Woof! Woof-woof! Translation: You’d make a nice little snack. I’ve always loved Mexican food.

  Detective Jackson flashed her badge. “I’m Detective Audrey Jackson, Fort Worth Police Department.” She wagged a finger my way. “My assistant, Officer Luz.”

  “Assistant detective.” I liked the sound of that, even if it was an unofficial title.

  The woman ran her gaze over my sandals, jeans, and casual blouse, her eyes squinty with skepticism. “You’re a cop?”

  “Yes, I am.” I pulled a business card from my purse and handed it to her.

  Jackson rocked forward on her toes, her movements indicating her impatience. “We’d like to speak to Vance Ulster, please.”

  The woman stepped back to allow us inside the foyer. “What is this about?” Her brows angled in concern. “Is something wrong? Is someone hurt? Are our kids okay?”

  Jackson raised a palm. “No one is in any immediate danger.” She closed the door behind us. “As far as why we’re here, we’ll take that up with Mr. Ulster.”

  “Oh … okay.” Confused and clearly annoyed she couldn’t get more information out of us, the woman frowned and gestured with the Chihuahua for us to follow her. She led us through a kitchen decorated in a red-and-black rooster motif and opened the sliding glass door at the back of the room. “Vance?” she called out the door. “There’s a couple of policewomen here who want to talk to you.”

  The man from the video feed stood in front of an enormous gas-powered grill at the back of a covered patio. He held a bottle of light beer in one hand, a large metal spatula in the other. Two skinless chicken breasts roughly the size and thickness of a Ritz cracker sizzled and steamed on the grill. Hardly seemed worth the effort. He could’ve cooked the meat quickly and easily in a small frying pan.

  The man looked our way, surprise registering on his face. “Oh … hello. Do you two mind coming out here so I can keep an eye on this meat?”

  Immediately my mind went to the barbecue spatula and meat thermometer we’d found at the bomb site. In addition to the metal spatula in his hand, a long-handled two-pronged meat fork hung from the grill, within easy reach of Ulster. Detective Jackson and I exchanged glances. Evidently she’d noticed the potential weapons, too. Her left eye twitched slightly in what I took as a signal that we should proceed with caution.

  I put a hand in my purse and felt around for my baton. Ah. There it is. If Ulster made any wrong moves, he’d receive a prompt and thorough whacking.

  Jackson led the way. Without being invited, Mrs. Ulster followed the detective outside. I took up the rear.

  While the woman walked over to stand by her husband, Jackson and I stayed a good ten feet away. A cop’s reaction time was normally three-quarters of a second to one and a half seconds after a bad guy’s move. Putting some space between us and Ulster gave us time to react should he lunge at us with the meat fork.

  “We have some questions about the U-Haul you rented,” Jackson told him.

  “Was there a problem with the truck?” he asked. “It was in good condition when I turned it in.”

  Mrs. Ulster chimed in: “We’ve got the paperwork if you need to see it.”

  Ignoring Mrs. Ulster, Jackson kept her focus on Vance. “What did you use the truck for?”

  The man turned off the gas feed to the grill. “We bought a new living-room set. The store—”

  “—wanted to charge us a one-hundred-and-fifty-dollar delivery fee,” Mrs. Ulster said, finishing her husband’s sentence. “That’s highway robbery, if you ask me. Vance rented the truck so he could pick up the furniture himself.”

  “Where did you buy the furniture?” Jackson asked Vance.

  The man began, “The Sofa Spot in—”

  “—the Chisholm Trail mall,” Mrs. Ulster said.

  I’d heard of people being married so long they could finish each other’s sentences, but in this case Mrs. Ulster’s words didn’t seem so much an act of love as a form of control.

  “Want to see the furniture?” she asked. Without waiting for an answer, she said, “Show ’em, Vance.”

  The man pushed the skinless meat to the back of the grill, turned off the gas, and hung the spatula from a hook on the side. He gestured for us to follow him back into the house. Inside, he led us to a family room, his wife on his heels. Sure enough, a new sofa and matching love seat sat in the room, still wrapped in the shipping plastic.

  “When did you pick the furniture up?” Jackson asked.

  “Around noontime yesterday,” Vance said. “They’d just finished loading it on the truck when—”

  “—that bomb went off in the food court,” Mrs. Ulster said. “Vance got out of there as fast as he could.”

  “Can’t say as I blame him,” Jackson replied. She pulled her notepad out of her pocket and turned her gaze on Vance. “When you were at the mall, did you go anywhere other than the sofa place?”

  Of course the detective and I already knew the answer to that question.

  Ulster’s eyes cut to his wife. “No. The only place I went—”

  Again his wife completed his sentence. “—was the sofa store.”

  Wrong answer.

  I glanced over at Jackson but noticed she maintained a poker face, remaining cool and loose. If I wanted to make detective, I’d have to learn how to do that.

  “So you didn’t visit any other shops?” Jackson asked. “Maybe stop for a drink somewhere or have lunch?”

  Vance’s gaze again cut to his wife. “No.”

  Liar!

  The word roared so loud in my head I feared the others would hear it. I felt myself go rigid and hoped Ulster wouldn’t notice. My grip instinctively tightened on my baton.

  “Did you happen to notice anything unusual at the mall?” Jackson asked. “Anyone suspicious?”

  “Nothing,” he replied. “Everything seemed normal until—”

  “—the big boom!” Mrs. Ulster supplied, raising the Chihuahua in the air as if punctuating her words with the pup. The poor dog wriggled in her grip, tired of being used as a prop.

  Jackson whirled on Mrs. Ulster. “Were you even there?”

  “Well, no,” said the woman, taken aback. “But Vance told me all about it.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d let him tell us, too.”

  The woman’s eyes flashed and her lips pursed into a tiny pink raisin.

  Jackson pulled a business card from her breast pocket and handed it to Vance. “If anything new comes to mind, give me a call. Thanks for your time.”

  Wait a minute. Wasn’t she going to arrest this guy? He was clearly lying.

  Mr. Ulster went back outside to tend t
o the chicken while Mrs. Ulster walked us back to the front door, closing and locking it behind us without saying good-bye. Click.

  Jackson headed down the walkway to her car.

  I followed. “Ulster was clearly lying. Why didn’t you arrest him?”

  She turned. “And waste my time? That chickenshit in there isn’t the bomber. He’s just some pussy-whipped—”

  A loud PSSST interrupted her.

  Psst! Psst! Vance’s voice followed: “Over here!”

  We turned to see his head peeking around the corner of the house. His eyes were wide. “I went to the food court!” Vance said in a loud, frantic whisper. “I got lunch at that meat-on-a-stick place. I didn’t want my wife to know. She’s got me on a strict diet. I mean, look at me!” He held up his bottle. “She’s got me drinking light beer and eating skinless chicken. Those tiny pieces of meat aren’t even big enough for the dog!”

  Jackson’s jaw clenched and she pointed a finger at him. “I have half a mind to drag you in for obstructing justice. I don’t care how afraid you are of your wife, you don’t ever lie to a police officer. You hear me?”

  “I’m sorry!” he hissed. “But last time my wife caught me cheating on my diet she fed me nothing but kale and cauliflower for an entire week!”

  Jackson exhaled loudly. “Tell me the truth, now. Did you see anything suspicious in the food court? Anyone that looked out of place?”

  He shook his head. “I was too busy keeping an eye out for my wife. She follows me sometimes to make sure I don’t cheat on my diet.”

  “Maybe you two should go to couples therapy,” I suggested. Or maybe this guy could just grow a pair. Then again, he could stand to lose a pound or two. Maybe his wife was just looking out for him. I’d dated only sparingly. What did I know about the dynamics of love?

  Jackson shot me a glare. “What part of ‘keep your mouth shut’ did you not understand?”

  I offered a contrite cringe in response.

  The detective waved a dismissive hand at Ulster and we returned to her car.

  Once we were seated with the windows up, Jackson said, “Which way now?”

  I typed the address for the Lipscombs’ house into my GPS. “West on I-Twenty. Take the Winscott Road exit.”

  Fifteen minutes later we pulled up to a modest house in an older neighborhood. The house was covered in light-blue aluminum siding and had a small covered porch but no garage. There were no cars in the driveway.

  Brigit waited in the car again while Detective Jackson and I went to the door. She rapped loudly three times and we waited to see if someone would come to the door. I felt exposed on the porch without my ballistic vest. What if the Lipscombs had been the bombers and, after they invited us in, they attacked? What if they decided to shoot us through the door? What if I was becoming paranoid?

  When nobody had come to the door within a reasonable time, Jackson jabbed the doorbell three times in quick succession, like a sugar-crazed kid on Halloween. Ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong!

  Still no response.

  She stepped to the front window and cupped her hands around her face to peer inside. Though the curtains were drawn, there was a half-inch gap between them.

  “See anything?” I asked.

  “The world’s ugliest easy chair and a bunch of stained carpet.”

  She stepped aside so I could take a look. She was right. The recliner was shaped like Buddha and covered in an earwax-gold fabric. The light-tan carpet bore a number of dark stains. Along the back wall was a huge aquarium with a light shining into one part of it. There were no fish inside. Rather, the glass box was filled with dirt, a shallow ceramic water dish, and a snake that looked to be about six feet long. Hard to tell for sure, given that he was curled up.

  Jackson consulted her notepad and dialed the Lipscombs’ home phone number. We could hear the phone ringing inside.

  Rrring … rrring … rrring.

  Eventually a machine picked up. “You have reached Sherry and Michael—”

  The machine clicked off when Jackson hung up.

  The roar of a lawn mower starting up across the street drew our attention. A sturdy barefoot woman pushed a three-wheeled mower over her small lawn, kicking up a cloud of dirt and grass clippings. If she wasn’t careful, she might soon be kicking up a toe.

  Jackson gestured for me to follow her. “Maybe she knows something.”

  Brigit stood on the backseat of the unmarked cruiser, her head turning to watch us as we crossed the street. When we reached the curb on the other side, Jackson flashed her badge and motioned for the woman to turn off the mower.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” the detective said, introducing herself. “We’re looking for Sherry and Michael Lipscomb. Any idea where they might be?”

  “They headed out yesterday evening for a camping trip,” the woman said.

  Jackson waved a fly out of her face. “Do you know where they were going?”

  The woman lifted her shoulders. “They didn’t even know where they were headed. They said they’d go wherever the winds blow them.”

  Interesting choice of words.

  Jackson continued to fish for information: “Any idea when they’re coming back?”

  Up went the shoulders again. “Who knows. Last fall they spent five weeks out in Big Bend and another three at some state park in Oklahoma. They go to Arkansas on occasion, too. Anywhere there’s good hiking trails. They’re into all that nature stuff.”

  “They camp in tents?”

  “Sometimes,” the woman said. “Sometimes they’ll get a cabin if business has been good.”

  “What kind of business are they in?”

  “Batik. Sherry makes dresses and scarves and stuff, and Michael sells them at craft shows and online.”

  “You know them well?” Jackson asked.

  “Well enough,” the woman said.

  What the heck did that mean? Well enough for what, exactly?

  Jackson scratched at a spot on her cheek. “You know if they’ve got anyone checking their mail? Feeding the snake?”

  The woman shrugged. “If they do, it’s not me.”

  “I’d love to reach them,” Jackson said. “Any chance you’ve got their cell numbers?”

  “They’re in my contacts list,” the woman said. “I’ll get my phone and be right back.”

  The woman disappeared into her house for a couple of minutes.

  “Think she’s calling the Lipscombs?” I asked, keeping my voice low. “Warning them?”

  “Could be,” Jackson said. “Not anything we can do to stop her if she is.”

  The woman returned a moment later with her cell phone and held it out to Detective Jackson. “Here you go.”

  Jackson eyed the readout and instructed me to write the numbers down as she rattled them off. She handed the phone back to the woman and thanked her. “If you happen to see them, tell them to give me a call.” She gave the woman her card.

  We climbed back into the cruiser and she immediately tried both cell numbers, reaching only a voice mail at each one. She left a message on both phones asking the Lipscombs to call her.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  She shot me a pointed look. “I think our animal lovers may be on the lamb.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  THE DOG DAYS OF SUMMER

  Brigit

  Monday morning, Brigit heard the gravelly sound of skateboard wheels tearing up the mall’s walkway behind them. Megan turned and blew her whistle: Tweeeet!

  Damn, that hurt Brigit’s ears!

  “Stop!” Megan hollered.

  When the two boys on the skateboards sailed by without even slowing, Megan unclipped the leash from Brigit’s collar and issued the order for the dog to take them down.

  Gladly.

  Brigit took off after the boys, her nails scrabbling and scraping on the cement. Oh, how she loved a good run. The wind in her hair, the bugs in her teeth. Such pure joy.

  She leaped onto the back of the first boy
she reached and grabbed hold of the collar of his shirt. The kid flew face-first off his skateboard, sending it rocketing back behind him. Luckily, the mall was nearly empty and the board crashed into a large potted ornamental tree without causing injury. The boy, on the other hand, hit the walkway with an oomph! and proceeded to skid ahead on his face, palms, and chest.

  “Fuuuck!” he cried.

  On Megan’s command, Brigit left the boy on the ground for her partner to deal with and took off after the other kid. Glancing back, he pedaled his legs like mad, trying to outrun the dog. As if the punk had a chance. If Brigit were capable of laughing, she would have.

  Another leap, another oomph!, another kid down on the concrete. Brigit earned two liver treats for her efforts. All in all, not a bad way to start the workweek.

  FORTY-FIVE

  HOLE IN ONE

  The Rattler

  As he cruised down Colonial Parkway, he spotted that old woman who drove the green minivan. She’d pulled up next to the Dumpster at the back of the country club parking lot. The club had placed a set of weatherworn wicker patio furniture by the garbage bin for pickup. He slowed as the woman struggled to lift the love seat into her van. Might as well help her. After all, wasn’t she one of the people he was fighting for? The poor? The oppressed? The underprivileged? The powerless?

  He pulled his car up next to her van and climbed out. “Let me help you with that.”

  The old woman offered a genuine gap-toothed smile. “Thanks a bunch. My muscles aren’t what they used to be.”

  He eased the love seat into the back of her van, then inverted the two chairs on top of it.

  While he worked, she informed him of her plans. “I’m going to sand the pieces down, repaint them, and slap some new fabric on the cushions.”

  “Good for you,” he said.