Paw Enforcement 02 - Paw and Order (21 page)

My God, why was the machine taking so fucking long?!?

In hindsight, maybe the coffee had been a bad idea. She was jittery enough already without the extra stimulation of the caffeine.

A moment later, the signature screen popped up. She put the stylus to the screen and nearly signed her own name out of habit, yanking her hand back when she realized what she'd been about to do.
What was the name on the card again?

As surreptitiously as she could, she glanced at the card in her hand. Dominique L. Petropoulos.
My God, could the name be any more complicated? Is it too much to ask for an Ann Smith or a Sue Jones?

Quickly, she scribbled the name with the stylus. She'd probably left out a vowel or two, but with the barely legible writing who would be able to tell? She tapped the button to finalize the transaction. When a message popped up indicating the payment had been authorized relief surged through her. It was all she could do not to blurt out
Woo-hoo!

The cash register belched out the receipt tape. When it stopped, the cashier reached out to tear the tape from the machine.
Rrrrip!

“Here you go,” the woman said, holding the receipt out. “You have a good night, hon.”

“You, too!” Robin Hood called sweetly as she rounded up her bags.

Then forget you ever saw me.

 

TWENTY-FIVE

TO CATCH A THIEF

Megan

On Saturday, I was scheduled to work 3
P.M.
to midnight at the stock show. That left my morning free. I took Brigit for a run, after which she rolled around gleefully on my stinky sweat socks. Why did dogs have to be so disgusting sometimes?

I ate a quick breakfast and grabbed the stash of quarters I kept in a plastic margarine tub in my kitchen junk drawer. I gathered up my laundry, found the bottle of detergent under the kitchen sink, and rounded up my dog. “C'mon, girl.”

Brigit hopped down from where she lay shedding on my futon and followed me out the door. As I made my way to the steps, a piece of paper taped to the door of the apartment to the left caught my eye.
NOTICE TO VACATE
. Though it used more proper, legalistic terminology, the document basically informed the fiftyish hippie who lived there that he had three days to move both his property and sorry, deadbeat ass off the premises and that, if he failed to do so, the aforementioned property and/or sorry, deadbeat ass would be removed by force and sold to cover his past-due rent.

I couldn't say I'd be sorry to see him go. Present company excluded, the tenants here at Eastside Arms generally occupied the bottom rung of the social ladder. Exhibit A, the aforementioned drug-dealing Dwayne Donaldson. Exhibit B, my next-door neighbor. This particular resident had always given off an especially pervy vibe. His eyes would flick to my breasts when he spoke to me and the cheesy music audible through the thin wall separating our apartments sounded like a porn soundtrack.
Bow chicka bow-wow.

Holding my heavy, overflowing basket to the side so I could see the steps, I made my way down the stairs and to the laundry room at the end of the first floor of Building A, stopping twice to pick up socks that had slid off the heap.
Blurgh.
The hippie sat on one of the two plastic lawn chairs inside the laundry room. He must have been trying to get a load or two in before packing up to move out. He wore cheap flip-flops, a thin T-shirt, and a pair of lounge pants under which he was clearly swinging free. I supposed I couldn't fault him too much. I was currently swinging free, too, having tossed my sweaty sports bra into the basket after my earlier run.

As usual, his eyes went to my chest before traveling up to my face. Again, couldn't fault him too much since my eyes had just been taking in his free-swinging man junk. Then again, my glimpse had been quick and unintentional and absolutely horrified while his lingered with purpose and seemed to bring him no end of pleasure.

“Hey,” he said, the pervy grin spreading his lips.

“Morning,” I said, purposely leaving off the “good” so that it was more an acknowledgment of the time of day than a wishful greeting. I turned to look at the washing machines. All four were in use,
chug-chug-chugging
away as they agitated their contents.
Damn
; now I was agitated, too.

Rather than carry my heavy basket back up the stairs, I slid it under the table used for folding clean clothes. “I'll come back in a little bit.”

“I just started my loads,” the hippie said. “Most weren't full. Why don't you throw yours in with mine?”

Oh. God.
The mere thought of his underwear, assuming he owned any, swishing around with mine in the machine was enough to bring bile into my throat.

“Thanks for the offer,” I said, “but I've got full loads.”

Patting my thigh to round up Brigit, I all but ran back to my apartment, tempted to take another shower.
Yick.
I'd felt less disgusting after the run.

My cell phone bleeped with an incoming call. I checked the readout. The call came from FWPD. With any luck it would be the fingerprint tech telling me she had positively identified the person who'd been using the crutches and had a current address for her. Or maybe she'd been able to lift prints from the coins and had made a match. I'd round up the thieves, send them to the station for booking, and place a personal call to the chief to let him know that Megan Luz and her partner Brigit had singlehandedly solved the case. Well, singlehandedly and single
paw
edly.

I pushed the button to accept the call. “Megan Luz.”

After identifying herself, the tech said, “Sorry. I was able to lift four different sets of prints from the crutches, but none matched anyone in the database.”

“What about the coins?”

“No luck there. They'd been wiped clean.”

It was time for my second
damn
of the day. “I appreciate your help. Thanks for calling.”

I pushed the button to end the call.
What now?
The crutches were the only lead I had. I racked my brain but came up empty.

But two minds were better than one, weren't they? Maybe Detective Jackson could help.

Detective Audrey Jackson had been the lead investigator on the bombing case. After I'd told her about my aspirations to become a detective someday, she'd graciously taken me under her wing. Of course who wouldn't graciously accept the help of an ambitious street cop willing to put in unpaid overtime to help out?

Though the detectives' work could eventually take them all over the city, their caseloads involved crimes that originated within their district. Because the purse snatchings had not taken place in W1, Jackson would not have jurisdiction over the thefts. Nevertheless, it couldn't hurt to run things by her first, get her thoughts. Maybe she'd be willing to help me out, serve as a sounding board, give me some advice.

I pulled up her number on my cell phone's contacts list and placed the call. “Hi, Detective Jackson,” I said when she answered. “I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time.”

Fortunately, she was in the office, catching up on paperwork. When I told her I had something I wanted to run by her, she suggested I stop by so we could speak in person.

“Great! I'll be right there.”

I slipped into my uniform, shoes, and belt, then dressed Brigit in her police vest and attached her leash to her collar. By the time we arrived at the W1 station, it was twenty past noon. I rapped on the door to the detective's office and she glanced up from the half-eaten sub sandwich on her desk.

Her mouth full, she waved me in and pointed to the spare chair pushed back against the wall. I grabbed one of the arms and pulled it closer to her desk.

She swallowed her bite and took a quick swig from a plastic water bottle. “How are things with the guy from the bomb squad?”

Her question caught me off guard, and my cheeks heated with a blush. “How did you know about us?”

She let loose a chuckle. “I'm a detective, remember? I'm trained to look for clues, evaluate the evidence.”

What clues? What evidence?
My confusion must have been written on my face, because Jackson said, “After the bombs exploded at the country club. The two of you rode up together in his car.”

“Oh. Right.” We'd been at a museum in Dallas, on a date, when news came in about the explosions.

She arched a brow. “Is your relationship a secret or something?”

“No, that's not it. It's just…”

“Complicated?”

I mulled things over a moment. “Uncertain would probably be a more precise word.”

“Precision is important for a detective.” Jackson offered me a nod and an encouraging smile before her tone and demeanor became all business. “So, what's up, Megan?”

“I was hoping you could give me some guidance, Detective Jackson.” I told her every detail I knew about the purse snatching and mugging. That one thief had blond hair and a bandana. About the presumed accomplice with the crutches and multiple pairs of cute boots. About Chief Garelik's demand for me to catch the thief, pronto.

She chuckled. “Megan, you've been a cop for what, a year? The chief would be thrilled if you caught the thief red-handed, but barring that he doesn't really expect you to investigate and solve the crime. With these kinds of small-time thefts sometimes the best the department can do is beef up patrols and hope it scares the thieves off.”

“I get all that,” I said. “Still, I'd like to catch the thieves if I can. I bet if I put some time into it I could figure things out.”

“You're a smart cookie, Megan,” Detective Jackson said. “But you may have more ambition than sense. You really want to spend your free time on this?”

“I do.”

It might not make sense for me to take such relatively small crimes so seriously, but they had happened on my watch. I felt responsible for them, responsible to the victims. Besides, I wanted to test my moxie, prove myself, impress the chief.

I also feared the crimes would continue to escalate and that someone might get seriously hurt. The first purse snatching had involved no physical contact between the thief and victim, and the manner in which the criminal had taken the purse—snatching it off the hook where it hung—had been relatively impersonal and benign. This last incident was a much more serious mugging. Lisa's head had been bruised when the robber shoved her up against the wall. She was lucky she hadn't suffered a concussion. If the criminals weren't stopped, what might they do next?

Jackson gave me a pointed look. “You realize you're going to have to be careful not to cross a line here. If it looks like you're conducting an unauthorized, unofficial investigation, you might put some noses out of joint.”

“Understood.”

“All right then. I suppose if I can't dissuade you, the least I can do is help you.” Jackson leaned back in her chair. “Tell me what you've come up with so far.”

I pulled out my notebook, where I'd jotted down notes as I'd brainstormed. “I toyed briefly with the idea of trying to find out where the woman might have gotten the crutches. I figured she might have still had them around from some type of previous injury. I thought I could call some orthopedists in the area. But then I remembered that doctors can't give out confidential patient information, so it seemed like it would be a waste of time to contact them.”

She nodded. “You got all that right. Go on.”

“My next thought was that it seems like nearly everyone who has a garage sale has an old pair of crutches.”

With five children to feed and clothe, my parents had had to cut corners and look for bargains wherever possible. As a child, I'd been dragged along by my mother to more yard sales than I could count. Most of our furniture and many of our toys had been secondhand. Heck, my first twirling baton had come from a garage sale. It had been a little dinged up, but I'd nonetheless been thrilled when my mother bought it for me. I'd been even more thrilled when she scraped together enough money to sign me up for twirling lessons.

Jackson eyed me intently as I continued. “I thought I could check the newspaper for garage sale ads and visit the people who'd held sales, see if they might have sold a pair of crutches, but I knew it would be a long shot.”

The crutches would have been sold for cash, which left no paper trail. Besides, unless they'd sold the crutches to a friend or neighbor, the chances of the seller being able to identify who bought the crutches would be infinitesimally small. It would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Given all the time I'd spent at the rodeo recently, I knew just how big and prickly a haystack could be.

Jackson nodded. “If the crutches were a clue in a murder investigation, it would be a different story. You'd want to follow every lead, no matter how small the chances were of the lead paying off. But for a petty theft? It's not worth your time to go hopping down that bunny trail.”

I nodded in agreement. “I've already searched the police reports for incidents that took place in bathrooms and involved female suspects and stolen purses. There were only two in which painkillers were stolen. The others involved stolen purses being discarded in bathrooms. None of them jumped out at me as being similar to these crimes.”

“Put on your thinking cap,” Jackson said. “Better yet, put on your think-like-a-criminal cap. Why are these young ladies working the stock show? Why did they choose these particular victims?”

“I guess they figure the stock show is a busy place and it's easy to disappear into a crowd and get away.”

“Good. And?” She made little arcs in the air with her index finger as if telling me to connect the dots.

“They picked victims that were well dressed, carrying expensive purses. Ones that looked like they had money. The first victim wasn't drunk, but she smelled a little of wine. The other two had been drinking beers in the dance hall.”