Laying Down the Paw (28 page)

“Certainly,” Mrs. Fancher replied. “I was watering the houseplants I keep on a stand near my front windows when I noticed a van in the Harringtons' driveway. It surprised me because I knew the Harringtons were out of town. They'd asked me to bring in their mail.”

That answered the question as to whether the Harringtons had put a hold on their mail. They hadn't. Either this burglary was unrelated to the others or the post office was a false lead.

“What did the van look like?”

“It was black,” Fancher said, “and it looked old. It was dinged up and the paint wasn't very shiny. My eyes aren't good enough for me to see the license plate, but I could read what it said on the side. I wrote it down.”

She pulled a slip of paper from her pocket and handed it to the detective, who held it out so that I could read it, too. Written on the slip was:
Plumbing problems? Call (817) 555-CLOG
.

“Okay if we keep this?” Jackson asked.

“Of course,” Mrs. Fancher replied. “There was a picture on the side of the van, too. A smiling man holding a toilet plunger.”

As the woman spoke, Jackson eyed me, formed a phone with her thumb and index finger and held it to her ear, the gesture indicating she wanted me to call the number.

I whipped out my cell, dialed the number, and stepped aside.

A woman answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Is this the plumbing service?” I asked.

“No.” Her voice was irritated. “This isn't their number anymore. Hasn't been for years.”

When I explained who I was and why I'd called, her tone became more congenial. “Sorry,” she said. “I don't know anything other than that we've had this number for seven years. We used to get calls for the plumber constantly, but it's slowed down some over time. I guess he went out of business.”

I thanked her and, when Jackson lifted her brows in question, informed the detective that the phone number was a dead end.

“Rats.” She frowned and turned her attention back to Mrs. Fancher.

As we learned, when Mrs. Fancher had spotted the van in the driveway, she'd phoned Nancy Harrington on her cell. The Harringtons' flight had been delayed while mechanics took care of a maintenance issue, so their plane hadn't taken off yet. After speaking with Mrs. Fancher, Nancy had phoned the police. The Harringtons put their travel plans on hold and returned home to find their house ransacked.

Jackson's head bobbed as she jotted some notes. She looked back up at Mrs. Fancher. “Did you get a look at the people who were over here?”

“I tried,” she cringed with apparent guilt, “but I was afraid to come outside.”

Jackson raised a palm. “You did exactly what you should have done, ma'am. Burglars can sometimes be violent if they realize someone has seen them. They don't like to leave witnesses.”

Mrs. Fancher nodded, looking somewhat appeased. “Best I could tell there were only two of them. I saw a man with dark hair get into the driver's seat. I suppose it's possible there were others who'd climbed in the back, but I didn't see anyone else.”

“So the second man climbed into the passenger seat?”

“No,” Mrs. Fancher said. “By that time you could hear the police sirens and the driver sped away. He left the other guy standing in the driveway. The man stood there a few seconds, then took off running down the street.”

“Any guess as to the age of the men?”

“Maybe in their twenties? I don't know for sure.”

“What about their physical characteristics? You mentioned the dark hair. How big were they?”

“Neither one was very tall,” she said. “The driver looked heavier, more muscular. The other one looked thinner. The driver wore jeans and a dark shirt. The one who got left behind was wearing jeans, a blue jacket, and work gloves.”

When the detective finished with Mrs. Fancher, she thanked her and told her she could go back home.

As the woman left, Nancy Harrington whispered, “I'd always considered Mrs. Fancher to be a little nosy, but I've got to say I'm glad to have her around now.”

“Yep,” Jackson said. “A nosy neighbor can be a good thing.”

The conversation turned from the burglars to the items they'd taken.

“My electric guitar and amp,” Neil said. “And my laptop. Our TV.”

“My jewelry box,” Nancy added.

“My Xbox,” Neil said.

“Our mountain bikes.” Nancy turned her head to look into the garage, where the bikes presumably had been stored. “Oh, my gosh! The gun cabinet is gone!”

 

FORTY-ONE

NO FUR, NO FUN

Brigit

While her partner and the detective spoke with the man and woman, Brigit subtly snuffled around their yard and sniffed their shoes and pant legs. While she could tell a couple of dogs had relieved themselves on this couple's mailbox recently, she could tell this man and woman had no dog of their own. The pieces of stray fur on their pants and the unmistakable scent of feline told her they were slaves to a cat.

Poor schmucks.

Brigit sniffed along, pulling her leash fully taut as she scented the driveway.
What is that smell? Could it be? Yes!

Her tail swung side to side in happy surprise. The boy who'd fed her the jerky had been here in the driveway not long ago. She could tell he had no dried meat on him today but, still, she was sorry she'd missed him. He'd seemed very nice and she sensed that he could benefit from a dog's unconditional love.

Disappointed and bored now, she flopped down in the grass and heaved a long, doggie sigh.

 

FORTY-TWO

LEFT BEHIND

Dub

Unbelievable.

His father forces him to burglarize a house, then leaves him behind to be arrested.
Asshole.

If that wasn't bad enough, Andro now had Dub's cash and his van. Dub couldn't report the van stolen because someone had obviously seen it at the house and would connect him with the crime. Besides, he couldn't prove he owned the van. The title was still in the van's glove compartment. Hell, he didn't even have a driver's license and was only fifteen. Could he even legally own a vehicle?

So, once again, his father got away with his crimes and Dub was left holding the bag. With any luck, the police would catch his father fleeing in the van and arrest him. He deserved to be caught, to spend some time in prison, to pay for his crimes. So far, the only one who'd paid for Andro's crimes were Dub and his mother.

Dub still had his bus pass in his wallet. At least he wouldn't have to walk all the way back home.

 

FORTY-THREE

THE MURDER CASE TANKS

Megan

Wednesday morning, Brigit and I met Detective Jackson at the W1 station at 8:00. Rather than fill the detective's unmarked car with Brigit's fur, she suggested we take my cruiser.

I believed she deserved due warning. “I'm driving the Barf-mobile.”

“Thanks for the heads-up. The shaking I can handle, but that smell?” She grimaced and pulled a small jar of VapoRub from her desk drawer, scooping up a smidge with her index finger and spreading it over her upper lip. “Works like a charm, especially when you're faced with a decomposed corpse.”

Yuck.
“Thanks for the tip.”

She held the jar out to me and I snagged a swipe. The stuff would not only mask a scent and clear your nostrils, but with all the oil it contained it was probably a great wrinkle fighter, too.

We piled into the car and shook and shimmied and bounced our way down I-35 to the Hill County jail in Hillsboro. A stocky female sheriff's deputy checked us in and led us down the hall to an interrogation room. Haynes was already seated inside. Next to him sat a young white male attorney who looked to be fresh out of law school. He wore a suit a size too big and a few years out of date. A public defender, no doubt. They performed an important service, but weren't exactly paid the big bucks to do it. He'd probably borrowed the suit from a friend.

Jackson and I introduced ourselves and shook hands with the attorney, who'd stood from the table. Haynes refused to stand, merely glaring at us from under thick, dark brows. His curls were much shorter today than they had been in the photograph Detective Jackson had shown me on her phone days ago. With the shorter hair, he looked very much like the person of interest depicted in the police sketch. He also resembled the guy from the Bag-N-Bottle who'd fed jerky to Brigit. But while the guy who'd looted the liquor store had sad eyes, Haynes's eyes glowed with evil, as if the fires of hell burned within him.

After we took seats, the attorney said, “I hope you two—” he cast a glance at Brigit, “—or
three
—haven't wasted your time coming down here. I've advised my client not to say anything.”

Detective Jackson raised a shoulder. “That is his right. But if he doesn't give us a good alibi we might soon be charging him with murder.”

The attorney's eyes went wide. “I thought you were coming down here to discuss a drug offense.”

“I suppose it's a drug offense, in a way,” Jackson replied. “The man who was killed was a known dealer of methamphetamine.”

Her eyes locked on Haynes, probably to get a reading on his response. I turned my eyes his way, too.

“His name was Brian Keith Samuelson,” she told Haynes. “You know him?”

“I'd like to speak privately—” the attorney began, but his words were interrupted by Haynes saying, “Never heard of him.”

There'd been no flicker of alarm in Haynes's eyes when Samuelson's name was mentioned, no noticeable change in posture or respiration. Either the guy was an emotionless sociopath or he truly didn't know Samuelson. Of course I supposed both things could be true, too.

“He was killed in Fort Worth on Sunday, February eighth. Someone repeatedly slammed his face into a tree.”

The detective didn't mention the broken chain embedded in his neck or the telltale marks on his face caused by brass knuckles. Those were facts the department had decided to keep in reserve.

“Sunday, February eighth?” Haynes repeated. A slow, sick smile spread across his face. “Oh, hell yeah, I got a good alibi.” He expelled a nasty chuckle and leaned forward across the table. “I was on a double date with Beyoncé and Rihanna.”

Another dumbass being a smartass.
Forget siccing Brigit on him, I was tempted to bite this guy myself.

Detective Jackson, on the other hand, kept her cool. “I'm having a little trouble believing your story, Mr. Haynes. You want to tell me what you were really doing?”

He sat back in his chair. “I was in the city jail down in Austin.”

His attorney cocked his head. “You sure about that, Owen?”

“Of course I'm sure!” Haynes spat. “Whose side are you on?”

“Yours, Owen,” the attorney said resignedly. “Yours.”

“Anyways,” Haynes continued, returning his attention to the detective and me. “I went down there to visit my cousin. Him and me went to a bar on South Congress, and when we came out two punk-ass guys started some shit. The cops took us in, too, even though we weren't the ones who started it. I thought people in Austin were supposed to be cool but they're just as big o' pricks as they got anywhere.”

“What time were you picked up?” I asked. If it wasn't until late in the evening, it would still be possible he'd committed the murder and then made the three-hour drive down to Austin.

His evil eyes looked up in thought. “Around five o'clock.”

Jackson and I exchanged glances. Assuming what Haynes was telling us was true, we could rule him out as a suspect.

The detective stood. “I'm going to verify this information.”

Haynes sneered at her. “Knock yourself out.”

I stood, also, and gave a low whistle to rouse Brigit. Jackson and I exchanged a final handshake with Haynes's attorney, bade good-bye to the deputy manning the front desk, and returned to the Barf-mobile.

“What now?” I asked once we were seated inside.

“We follow up on Gallegos and Duong. Their curly-haired buddy may or may not be our killer, but I'd at least like to snag their black friend. Anyone who's pulled a gun on a cop needs to be reckoned with.”

While I drove back to Fort Worth, Jackson phoned the Austin Police Department from her cell phone and verified that Haynes had, in fact, spent Sunday night in jail for assault. When the detective completed her conversation with Austin PD, she called Melinda from her cell to obtain home addresses for Gallegos and Duong. The detective activated the speaker feature so her hands would be free to jot down the addresses.

Melinda's voice came across the line. “Looks like they live in the same apartment complex. They've got the same street address but different unit numbers.”

Jackson wrote down their addresses, thanked Melinda, and thumbed a button on her phone to end the call. “They live in West Morningside.”

The neighborhood began just north of Berry Street and continued eastward for several blocks, in close proximity to the Bag-N-Bottle.

Forty-five minutes later, I turned into the apartment complex. The place was constructed of a salmon-hued brick that had been popular decades ago. The gray awnings were faded and frayed. Oil spots and potholes dotted the parking lot.

“Bring your laptop with you,” Jackson advised. “We may need it.”

We checked in with the on-site manager, a haggard woman in her fifties with monotone jet black hair and deep facial lines that told of numerous summers spent basking in the Texas sun.
Let's Make a Deal
played on the small television set sitting on top of a modern black lacquer credenza that didn't match her classic oak desk.

She gestured for us to take a seat.