Laying Down the Paw (35 page)

What kind of woman puts a man before her own child?

I simply couldn't fathom such a thing.

 

FIFTY-THREE

WHERE'S THE BEEF?

Brigit

Brigit's nose told her that the boy from the liquor store, the one who'd shared his beef jerky with her, had been in this apartment. His scent was fading, though. She wondered if he were back in the van she'd smelled him in, or whether he was back at the YMCA.

She also smelled an old burrito. She spied it up on the counter, being eaten by flies. Why should mere insects be permitted to eat something that size? She strained at her leash but Megan wouldn't budge.

Although her nose detected a faint remnant of methamphetamine, this scent, too, had faded, the drug no longer on site. No point in giving an alert.

A few minutes later, they left the apartment. Brigit put her nose to the air as they stepped out the door. She could sense a change in the weather coming. It was already cold, but it would get much, much colder soon. Wet again, too.

She forgot all about the weather when, on the way back to the cruiser, she heard Megan say one of her favorite words.

Lunch.

 

FIFTY-FOUR

OUT OF LUCK

Dub

Dub had spent another night in his van. Last night he'd parked in the industrial area near the day labor site, hoping his van would look more at home there. He was still stuck with the damn fridge. He'd thought about dropping it in an empty lot or down an alley so that he could have more space in the back of the van, but he was afraid someone would spot him and report him for illegal dumping. The last thing he needed right now was to attract attention.

To make matters worse, Jenna wasn't responding to his texts or calls. Had her parents found her secret phone? Or had Jenna decided he wasn't worth the trouble and moved on? He couldn't blame her if she had.

He'd thought about leaving town, but he had only an eighth of a tank of gas left. The way this old van sucked down gas he'd only get as far as Dallas before running out. And he couldn't afford to put more gas in it. The small amount of money he had left would be needed for food. He'd already gone through half of the cereal bars, all of the bananas, and most of the peanut butter and bread. Today for lunch he'd eat the alphabet soup, just as soon as he could heat the stuff up with the van's cigarette lighter. It was taking forever. The dang thing only stayed hot for fifteen seconds at a time. Still, he kept trying, pushing the lighter back into the socket to heat, stirring the soup, then holding the lighter back under the can when it popped out, glowing orange.

Funny, after enjoying his freedom while living with Trent and Wes, he hadn't wanted to go back to the state school. But here he was, a prisoner in this van. He couldn't show his face for fear of being hauled to jail for shooting that couple in their home.

It was freezing in the van and getting worse by the minute. As much as he would've loved a hot meal, he gave up on trying to heat the soup and decided to go ahead and eat it cold. When he looked down into the can he wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. Floating in the orange broth at the top of the can were the letters F U.

“Story of my life,” he muttered to himself.

He shoved his plastic spoon into the soup and stirred it up.

 

FIFTY-FIVE

SNEAKY

Megan

It was straight up noon by the time the detective, Brigit, and I left Katrina's apartment. As the weatherman had forecasted, the day was growing colder rather than warmer. Freezing temperatures were expected tonight, along with precipitation—probably mere snow flurries but they couldn't rule out the possibility of an ice storm. Brigit and I could stay home, curl up in front of the fireplace with a good book, or maybe build a snowman.

We returned to the same sandwich shop we'd eaten at the last time we'd been out to the complex. As we ate, I scrolled through the list of contacts in Dub's cell phone. There were only a handful. Cell numbers for both Trent and Wes, along with work numbers. A number identified as “Home” that, when I tried it, turned out to be Wes and Trent's landline. The only other contacts listed were for a Zach, a Fitzsimmons, and a Jenna, all of whom were presumably the friends Wes and Trent had contacted, looking for Dub.

“Think we should try these numbers?” I asked the detective. “I mean, I know Trent and Wes said they spoke with everyone on Dub's contacts list, but people might give the police more information. Plus, I see that Wade made a call to Jenna on Sunday the eighth in the early afternoon. That could mean something.”

“It's definitely worth a try,” Jackson said. “One of them may have heard from Wade since they spoke with Trent and Wes.”

Because the kids in Wade's contacts list would be in school until later in the afternoon, we returned to the police station to attend to other aspects of the case.

Jackson contacted the crime scene techs to see what evidence they'd found at the scene, frowning as she listened on the phone. “Not a single print? Well, I guess that was to be expected. Mrs. Prentiss said the guy was wearing latex gloves.”

We also placed a call to Gainesville State School and spoke with Dub's basketball coach.

“He was a good kid,” the man said. “Always showed up for practice on time, never complained about all the running I had them do. We had a few altercations among the players, but Dub wasn't involved in any of them. He was friendly, well liked. I can't imagine him shooting anyone. 'Course I've been surprised before. Never say never, right?”

The staff at the McFadden Ranch halfway house were just as complimentary. “Dub always made his bed without being asked,” the male counselor noted. “He pitched in around the place. He wasn't afraid of hard work. Had good study habits. I really thought he'd be one of those who'd make it out. Looks like I was wrong.”

Or was he?

I chewed on the end of my pen. “Where do runaways go in Fort Worth?” I asked Detective Jackson.

She shrugged. “There's not really one primary place I can think of. Some of them end up in the parks or under the overpasses with the other homeless folks. Others, well … you know.”

I was glad she didn't fill in her sentence.
I did know.
And it was too hard to think about.

When it was a half hour past the time high school let out, the detective phoned Zack, activating the speaker button so I could join in the conversation. After we identified ourselves, Jackson asked the boy if he'd heard from Dub.

“Not since the day before he took off,” Zach said. “We used to hang together at lunch. But he hasn't texted or called or sent me a message on Facebook or IM'd or anything.”

“All right,” Jackson said. “Let us know if you do hear from him, okay?” She gave him both her number and mine.

We repeated the same basic conversation with Patrick Fitzsimmons. He hadn't heard from Dub via any of the myriad means of communication since Dub had run off.

Jenna was a different story.

While the contact number for
Jenna Cell
went straight to voicemail, we got an answer at the number identified as
Jenna Home
.

Her voice was tentative and wary. “Is he in trouble?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” the detective said. “How about we come over to your house and talk to you about it?”

“Can you come now?” Jenna asked. “Before my mother gets home? She went to run some errands but she'll be home in an hour.”

Jackson looked at me and raised a brow. “We're on our way.”

We scurried to the cruiser, loaded Brigit in her bay, and took off for Jenna's house. She lived at Berkeley Place, about a half mile from Lilac Street, where Dub had lived with Trent and Wes. She was watching from an upstairs window of the traditional brick and wood home as we pulled up. By the time we'd exited the cruiser and made our way to the front porch, she'd opened the front door.

I gave the girl a once-over as we stepped into the foyer. She was a petite thing, maybe five feet one inch tall, and probably weighed less than my furry partner. Her copper-colored hair hung in a straight sheet down to her teeny-tiny boob buds. Like me, she had a scattering of freckles on her face. Her blue eyes were bright with worry.

“Is Dub in trouble for running away and missing school?” she asked. “Will he be sent back to juvie if he's found?”

“Wade Mayhew has far bigger things to worry about than missing a few days of school,” the detective said. “He's been implicated in a burglary and shooting.”

“What?” Jenna shrieked. “That can't be true!”

“You ever see him wear a white hoodie with a tornado on it?” Jackson asked.

Jenna swallowed, looking as if she knew exactly the garment Jackson had referenced but as if she wasn't sure whether she should admit it.

The detective didn't wait for an answer that probably wasn't coming anyway. “The young man who shot the couple was wearing it.”

Jenna shook her head. “No, no, no! Dub's not like that! I mean, he's had it really hard and all, but he only did those things before because if he didn't his father would beat him.”

“He told you about that?” I asked.

The girl nodded. “We were close.”

“Were you dating?” I asked.

She nodded again.

Jackson eyed the girl closely. “We also think your Dub might have killed a man in Forest Park on the evening of Sunday, February eighth.”

Jenna's face contorted and her eyes went wide. She shook her head. “No. He couldn't have!”

Jackson tilted her head. “And how do you know that?”

“Because he was
here
that night,” Jenna said, tears spilling down her cheeks. “In my room. My mother told me I couldn't see him anymore once she found out he'd been in juvie and the state school and all that. She wouldn't believe me that he's a good guy.”

Jackson's brow furrowed. “If you weren't allowed to see him, how could he be here at your house?”

“My parents were gone,” she said. “When they came home early, he snuck out my window.”

I motioned for her to follow me outside onto the lawn. I looked up at the house. “Which window is yours?”

“It's around the side.”

The wind had picked up and bit into us as we stepped across the yard.

After rounding the corner of the house, Jenna pointed up to a second-story window directly above the outdoor A/C unit. Jackson and I looked up at the window. The screen was a little bent on one side, as if it had been pulled off and replaced. Scuff marks were apparent on the wood siding, too, as if someone had scrabbled on the wall with their feet, seeking purchase. I almost felt sorry for the children I didn't have yet. With a mother like me who noticed clues like this, they wouldn't be able to get away with anything.

Jackson turned back to Jenna. “You're sure it was the eighth? A hundred percent sure?”

“Positive,” she said. “Since my parents wouldn't let me see Dub, he and I had to sneak around and plan in advance. I knew my parents were going to a political fundraiser dinner that night at the Worthington Hotel. The invitation had been on our fridge for weeks.”

I pulled up the Internet on my phone and verified that there had, indeed, been a political fundraising event at the Worthington on the eighth. It was doubtful now that Dub had been Samuelson's killer. But if not him, then who? And even if he hadn't killed Samuelson, that didn't mean he wasn't the one who'd shot Mr. and Mrs. Prentiss.

We thanked the girl for having the courage to talk with us.

“If you find Dub,” she said, her lip quivering with emotion, “tell him I miss him. And tell him that … that everything is okay now.”

Uh-oh.

“Jenna,” I said, “did you and Dub—”

Before I could even finish she looked down but nodded.

“But you're not—”

She shook her head. “I thought I might be pregnant but I found out this morning that I'm not.”

“You didn't use protection?” If kids were going to do something stupid, they should at least be smart about it.

“Dub had a condom, but…” She teared up again, hunched her shoulders, and shook her head.

In other words, their raging teenage hormones had gotten the best of them. But I couldn't fault them too much. It took quite a bit of restraint for me to resist Seth's advances.

Jenna opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it again.

“Jenna,” I asked. “Are you in contact with Dub?”

“I was,” she admitted. “My mother took away my cell phone and laptop, but then Dub came to the school a few days ago and brought me one of those prepaid phones.”

Hmm.
Even though Dub had run away from home, he hadn't run out on Jenna. That showed character, didn't it? He seemed to have real feelings for the girl. Dub had never had anyone to hold on to. Or maybe I was giving him too much credit. Maybe Jenna was nothing more than a booty call. I supposed I couldn't really be sure.

“Can you show us the phone?” I asked.

“My parents found it last night and took that away, too.”

“What's the number for Dub's phone?” I asked.

“I don't know. He'd already put his number in the contacts list when he gave me the phone. I didn't think to memorize it.”

“Do you know where he bought the phones?” If so, we could try to track down his number and trace his phone.

She shook her head.

“Do you know where your parents put the phone they took from you?” If we could get her number, we could contact the provider and find out who'd called her phone.

“Yes,” she said. “My dad stomped on it and then threw it in the trash in the kitchen.”