Laying Down the Paw (15 page)

Dub grabbed several boxes of Camels and lay them longways in the box to hide the lottery tickets.

Marquise stepped up next to him and looked down into Dub's box. “Shit, man. I meant to say the Camels are mine, too.”

He grabbed a box of cigarettes out of Dub's cardboard box. Before he could take another Dub pulled the box away. “Get your fucking hand out of my box.”

Marquise laughed. “A'ight, man. Relax.”

When each of them had filled their box, they headed to the front door.

Marquise took one last look at the store clerk and held up his gun. “You never saw us. Got that? Don't make me have to come back here and set you straight.”

The man nodded like a bobblehead doll. “Whatever you say.”

Marquise shoved the barrel of his gun into the front of his jeans, picked up his box, and climbed back out the broken window. Long Dong went after him, then Gato, then Dub.

Gato stopped suddenly on the sidewalk and Dub bumped into his back. He noticed Marquise and Long Dong were standing still, too. Dub stepped to the side to figure out why none of them were moving.

Oh shiiit.

Twenty feet away stood a soaking wet female police officer with a German shepherd on a leash. The cop raised her hand. “Hold it right there.”

 

TWENTY-TWO

LOOT-N-SHOOT

Megan

I'd spent the last half hour dripping and shivering, partly from nerves, partly from the cooler air that had now settled over the city. My soaking shoes emitted a wet
skwunch
with each step as I gingerly picked my way around the area, calling into the wreckage, trying to figure out whether there were any survivors who needed immediate help. With my cruiser out of commission and the roads fully blocked with debris, I couldn't do much other than radio reports into dispatch to help them determine where to direct the emergency crews.

Brigit trotted along beside me, stopping occasionally to shake moisture from her fur. She sniffed at the rubble, probably hoping to find food scraps or an errant squirrel who'd been caught up in the storm.

The windows at the pizza place had all shattered and the dining room furniture had been scattered by the storm, chairs and tables positioned haphazardly about the space, some still standing on their legs, others lying on their sides. Luckily, the five customers who'd been eating lunch and the seven employees who'd been on duty had all taken cover in the freezer. They'd emerged slightly frostbitten but without a scratch on them. I'd advised them their best course of action would be to wait for the city's street crews to clear the roadways before trying to leave, but that if they wanted to attempt to walk home they should be extra careful given the wreckage strewn about.

The doughnut shop had fared much worse, its entire roof missing and two of the walls caved in. Bricks mixed with squashed éclairs and rain-soaked napkins lay in a messy pile. Brigit had helped herself to a squashed, rain-soaked bear claw as I'd called into the rubble—
“Is anyone in there? Hello? Anybody?”
—but heard no response. According to the hours posted in the part of the front window that was still intact, the place was open only from 6 to 10
A.M.
each day. With any luck, nobody had been in the place when it came down.

My next stop had been the Bag-N-Bottle, where I discovered a surprisingly integrated street gang exiting the space after having looted the store.

I raised a palm. “Hold it right there.”

The four men who'd just emerged from the Bag-N-Bottle stopped in their tracks and stared at me. All carried cardboard boxes, all appeared to be in their twenties, and all wore orange latex gloves, blue jeans, and hooded sweatshirts, like some type of hip-hop cleaning crew.
DJ Tidy and the Kleen Machine.

Their attire was where their similarities stopped, however. The first who'd come out was a well-muscled African-American, with hard, soulless eyes, the color of which matched his dark-roast skin. The next was a skinny Asian with a neck tattoo and a flinty glare. The third was a lanky Latino with a somewhat pointy, lightly bearded chin that gave him a feline appearance. He was far more predatory panther than happy housecat, though, his gaze powerful and penetrating and pissed as hell.

The last one was a little harder to pinpoint, race-wise. His hair was dark and curly, like a Labradoodle's, with a cowlick on the left. His skin was the color of cappuccino, approximately two shades darker than my own latte color. His face bore approximately three days' worth of dark stubble. He resembled a scruffy version of the singer Prince. If I had to guess, I'd say that, like me, he was of mixed race. He wore a white hoodie with a black cartoon tornado on the front. Fitting, I supposed. A few inches of chain hung down from under his hoodie. Looked like he carried one of those chain wallets popular with bikers.

Something about this last guy seemed familiar. Had I crossed paths with him before? Maybe pulled him over for speeding or running a red light? Who knew? Certainly not me. Not at the moment, anyway. My thoughts were as scattered as the debris around me. But the fact that he'd taken pains to wear gloves told me he his prints could be on file with law enforcement. Then again, maybe he was just a smart cookie who knew better than to leave any evidence behind, record or not.

My first instinct was to tell the four to put the boxes down and their hands up, but then I realized that as long as they were holding on to their boxes none of them would be able to pull a weapon on me, should they have one. My mind attempted to access my police training, to remember how to handle a situation like this, but my mind was still rattled. The last half hour of my life had been terrifying and traumatic and, honestly, the only thing I wanted to do right now was curl up in a nice, warm bed and cry. It took everything in me not to fall to pieces in front of these thugs.

Should I order them to stay still, then frisk each of them? Frankly, getting closer to the group didn't seem wise. One of them might attack me while I was searching another.

Should I have them spread out? Divide and conquer? That could work, though I couldn't have them spread too far apart or I wouldn't be able to watch them all at once. For the first time since I'd been partnered with Brigit, I found myself wishing I had a human partner to consult with.

“You.” I pointed to the one in the tornado hoodie. “Take two steps to your right.”

He exhaled a long, frustrated breath, but did as I told him.

“You on the other end,” I said, pointing to the Asian, “take two steps to your left.”

He, too, did as he was told, though he cast a glance at the large black guy before doing so, as if seeking permission or forgiveness.

“You,” I pointed to the cat man now, “take a big step forward.”

After several seconds' hesitation he took a step toward me, but calling it a big step would have been an exaggeration.

My eyes met those of their leader now. I'd seen eyes more full of hate, eyes more full of rage. But what I hadn't seen before were eyes so cold and uncaring. This guy didn't give a shit about anything, maybe not even himself. And people who didn't care about anything could do some very vile things.

His upper lip quirked in a sneer. “If you think I'm gonna play your game of
Mother May I?
you are sorely mistaken, sister.”

Before I could realize what was happening, he set his box on the ground, pulled off his right glove, and whipped out a handgun from under his sweatshirt. He aimed the gun at my face.

Holy
.

Shit.

I had to fight to keep from wetting myself. Not that these hoodlums would have noticed, what with me being soaked to the skin. My hand shook as I pushed the button on my shoulder-mounted radio. “Backup needed at the Bag-N-Bottle on Berry Street. Armed robbery in progress.”

The dispatcher's voice came back a few seconds later, her response loud enough for the men to hear. “Access to the area is still limited. It may be awhile.”

The sneering man laughed full out now.

I'm in trouble here.

BIG trouble.

My Kevlar vest would protect my chest, but my head was totally exposed, and Brigit had no protection at all. I probably should have pulled my gun from my holster then, but as I'd mentioned, my brain was still swirling like the twister that had just passed through. Instead, my hand reflexively went for my weapon of choice. My baton. I yanked it from my belt and extended it with a flick of my wrist.
Snap!

The man with the gun laughed again and shook his head. “What's your plan, chickee chickee? Gonna hit my bullet away with your stick?” He made a swinging motion with his left hand, mimicking a batter taking a swing at a baseball.

“Maybe I am.”
Yeah, right.

Okay, so I'd just made a fool of myself. Time for some redemption.

I bent down and used my left hand to unclip the leash from Brigit's collar, but gave her the order to stay by my side for now. Realizing things were heating up, she quivered next to me, ready for action. I transferred my baton to my left hand and pulled my gun from my holster, pointing it back at the guy. Well, I
sort of
pointed it at him. I was shaking so hard I couldn't keep my aim straight.
Damn!

“Let me help you out.” The bastard chuckled, performing a sort of shimmy dance now as he leaned left, then right, then left again, following the quivering of my gun.

The guy's teasing brought back memories of the kids in school, making fun of my
st-st-stutter.
My body temperature rocketed as my fear turned to anger. Given my wet uniform and hot skin, it wouldn't have surprised me to see steam coming off my uniform.

“Set your gun on the ground,” I demanded through gritted teeth, “or I'll sic my d-dog on you.”

The black guy didn't move, continuing to sneer and raising a brow in challenge.

The Asian guy slid his box on top of a newspaper machine that was chained to the front wall of the store. His hands now free, he, too, removed his gloves and pulled out a gun, also aiming it at my head.

Okay. Back to fear now.

My head felt fuzzy and my throat constricted, closing off my air supply. I swallowed hard, attempting to force my throat open before I passed out from lack of oxygen.

The Latino guy plunked his box onto the asphalt at his feet, the bottles inside giving off loud tinkles as they rattled against each other. Like the others before him, he took off his gloves, dropped them into his box, and pulled a gun from his waistband, though he aimed his weapon at Brigit. “Move on, bitch, or I'll shoot your dog.”

“No!” My stomach clenched into a hard little ball. The woman in me told me to step in front of Brigit and protect her. The cop in me acknowledged that doing so would go against our training. Although she was a dog, Brigit was also a fellow officer and, as such, was expected to do her job, to accept the risks that came with it, and to not impede her coworkers.

In my peripheral vision, I saw Brigit look up at me, probably wondering why I'd cried out. She was lucky she didn't understand the gravity of the situation. These guys could shoot us dead and very likely get away with it. There were no witnesses out here on the street and no security cameras in sight.

“Nobody's shooting the dog.” The one in the tornado hoodie put his box down and stepped forward, blocking the Latino's bead on Brigit. He turned back to address the other men. “Ain't nobody shooting nobody here. This lady cop can't fire on any of us or the others will take her out, and none of us is stupid enough to fire on her over liquor and cigarettes.”

The guy seemed confident, but I wasn't so sure. The other three did, in fact, look stupid enough to sacrifice their lives for a few bottles of hooch and some cartons of cigarettes.

“You're the brains of this operation, huh?” I said.

Turning back to me and my partner, Tornado Hoodie cut me a grin. He reached down into a plastic bag that sat among the cigarettes in his box. He removed a wrapped piece of beef jerky and ripped off the wrapper, having a little trouble with his dexterity given the gloves he wore. He tossed the trash aside. Littering, a citable offense. But not one I planned to do anything about. Especially since this guy seemed to be the voice of reason among the group.

“Here, girl!” he called to Brigit, holding up the jerky. “Come get a treat.”

Brigit lifted her nose, scented the meat on the air, and stepped forward, seeming to forget all of her training.

“Brigit!” I hollered, issuing her the order to return to my side.

Over her shoulder she tossed me a look that said
Quit being so bossy.
But fortunately she obeyed and stepped back in place.

The young man crouched down to dog level. “You're a pretty girl,” he murmured in a high, soothing voice, as he ripped the jerky slice into quarters. “A pretty, pretty girl.”

Next to me, Brigit wagged her tail, responding unashamedly to his flattery.
Furry, four-footed twit.

One by one, he tossed the bite-sized pieces of dried meat to Brigit, and she snatched each of them out of the air.
Schomp. Schomp. Schomp. Schomp.

A sad look flickered over the young man's face as Brigit finished the last of the jerky. Unlike his cohorts, who all had hard, mean eyes, this man had eyes that seemed troubled and disillusioned, but not yet completely hopeless. His skin and his actions illustrated a critical point I'd learned early on in my police career. Few things were entirely black or white.

“When I was little,” he said wistfully to Brigit, “I had a dog like you. Her name was Velvet.”

As if sensing his sorrow and trying to cheer him up, Brigit bent down on her front legs and offered a playful growl and a bark.
Rrrrowl-arf!