Laying Down the Paw (23 page)

Jackson showed me how to log in to the Gangnet database. “Run a search to see if you can find any gang members who attended any of those Texas schools you mentioned that have a tornado mascot.”

It was a long shot, but it was the best shot we had.

I moved my cursor to the search box and typed in
Texline High School.
There were no matches. I typed
Ball High School
next. One entry popped up, a listing for an African-American guy who'd graduated from Ball High in 2003. He'd gone on to an illustrious career moving marijuana in the nearby city of Houston. Though the man depicted in the mug shot was too old to be the person at the Bag-N-Bottle, it was possible the two might know each other, right? After all, they were potentially from the same hometown.

I continued to read down his bio until I reached the field depicting his
Last Known Address
. Rather than a street name and number, the field contained the words
Deceased 03/24/15.
He'd been only thirty years old when he'd died.
Sheesh.
The report noted that he'd been shot in the back of the head and left in the brush next to a highway outside of Houston. His killer or killers had yet to be found.

So much for that potential lead.

Next, while Brigit snored and twitched at my feet, dreaming her doggie dreams, I searched for gang members who'd attended Texas State Technical College. There was only one, also an African-American, a young man of twenty who'd dropped out of the TSTC Welding Technology program in Waco and been sucked into gang activity up the road in Dallas. He'd been caught last year with four pounds of heroin, a sizable stash. Per the report, he was currently serving time in the Telford Unit in New Boston, which sat three hours to the northeast of Fort Worth.

I looked over his picture.

Darn. Not my guy, either.

I mentioned him to Detective Jackson. “Think there's any point in trying to contact him at the jail?” I asked. “See if maybe he knew the looter at TSTC?”

She mulled it over a moment. “Not yet,” she said. “It takes forever to get an inmate on the phone. We'd have to jump through a bunch of hoops. Besides, we don't even know for certain that the tornado you saw on the sweatshirt was the TSTC mascot. There are several TSTC campuses and multiple programs. The chances of that man on your screen knowing the looter are probably equal to the chances of winning the lottery.”

True again.
But somebody wins the lottery, right?

I spent another two hours looking through the Gangnet files, trying a variety of searches that might unearth any of the four men. I searched by location, approximate age, and physical characteristics. The more photographs I looked at, though, the more muddled my memory seemed to become. Did the Asian guy have a shaved head, or was his hair spiky like his tattoo? Did the Latino have a silver cap on his front tooth or not? Did the black guy have pierced ears?

Hell if I could remember.

Although I found some gang members in the Fort Worth area who could possibly have been the men I'd encountered, I wasn't sure about any of them. The only thing I was sure of at the moment was that, no matter what it took, somehow, someway I'd track these men down.

 

THIRTY-TWO

DOGGIE DREAMS

Brigit

Zzzzzzzzz …

 

THIRTY-THREE

SICK DAY

Dub

He woke with a start, surprised to find the apartment so light. He'd been unable to sleep and had stayed up late watching television and reading through his history book. He'd have the entire thing finished soon, for all the good it would do him.

He rolled out of the recliner, walked to the kitchen, and glanced at the clock on the stove. 9:00
A.M.
Uh-oh.
His mother's shift had started at eight.

He stepped to her bedroom door. “Mom? It's past nine. You're late for work.”

She didn't answer.

He tried again, knocking this time.
RAP-RAP-RAP.
“Mom? You up?”

Still no answer.

He tried the knob. The door was locked.
Dammit.
He couldn't even get in the bathroom to take a piss. “Mom! Open the door!”

Still nothing.

He knocked full out now.
Bam-bam-bam!
“Mom!” He put his ear to the door.

He heard no rustling.

No snoring.

No breathing.

No signs of life whatsoever.

Gulping back the thick lump that had formed in his throat, he ran to the kitchen, found a paper clip in the junk drawer, and pulled it straight as he rushed back to the bedroom door. He jammed the end of the metal strip into the hole on the doorknob, poking and poking and poking until he heard the
click
of the lock releasing. Tossing the clip aside, he threw the door open and ran to his mother, falling to his knees next to her mattress.

Her face lay slack, her mouth hanging open just enough to allow a small puddle of drool to collect on the pillow beneath her head.

His ears roaring in panic, Dub put a hand to her shoulder and shook her. “Mom? Mom, are you okay?”

Guilt slammed him when he realized he would be nearly as relieved to find she had passed away as he would to find her alive. At least then he would no longer be sucked into this recurring nightmare. It would be over once and for all.

Her right eye fluttered, then opened to a slit. “Why you carryin' on like this?” she mumbled. “Someone dead?”

He choked back a sob. “I thought you were.”

Her eye slid shut again.

He stood and kicked the side of her mattress. “Get up! You have to go to work.”

“I'm not going,” she said. “I'm sick.”

“You're not sick!” He gave her mattress another kick. “You're wasted.”

She was using again. She'd lose this job, just like she'd lost so many others before. She'd lose the apartment, just like she'd lost so many before. She'd lose herself again, too.

Same song, same verse.

And he was sick of it.

Trying to get her out of bed in this condition would do no good. He stood and gave her mattress a final kick.
Sorry excuse for a mother.

After using the bathroom, he found the phone number for the Taco Bell on the Internet and called the manager. “I'm calling for Katrina Mayhew. My mother won't be able to come into work today,” he said. “Sorry, but she's not feeling well.”

“I didn't realize Katrina had a son.”

“That's all right,” Dub said softly. “She doesn't seem to realize it, either.”

“Excuse me?”

He didn't explain. He just said, “Have a nice day” and hung up the phone.

He ran a hand through his hair. Why was his mother like this? Why wasn't she like those other mothers, who actually enjoyed caring for their children, who cooked and cleaned, who licked their fingers and styled their children's hair with their saliva? He'd seen mothers do that. Lots of times.

Okay, maybe the whole spit-style thing was gross, but he couldn't remember his mother even once trying to fight his crazy cowlick with a brush or comb. And now she was missing work and would probably lose her job. It would be one thing if she were on her own, but she'd convinced Dub to stay with her. How could she not care at all?

Screw it.

Someone needed to go to work and earn a few bucks, and it clearly wasn't going to be his mother. Not in the condition she was in.

He grabbed his cell phone, hoping that maybe someone had left a message for him, wanting to hire him for an odd job. No such luck.

He took a quick shower, dressed, and brushed his teeth.
Bam!
Dub slammed the door of the apartment as he headed out. His mother probably hadn't even heard it, but it made him feel better anyway.

He walked out to his van, trying to figure out what to do to earn some money. The only thing he could think to do was to go to the day labor site and see if someone might hire him.

On his way, he made a quick stop at Paschal High, parking in a visitor's spot and waiting until he heard the bell ring.
Bzzzzzzzt.
He hopped out of his van and hurried into the building, keeping his head down in case any of his teachers happened to be in the halls. The last thing he needed was one of them asking why he hadn't been to class and calling the police.

He turned down a noisy, crowded hallway and stopped.

There she was. At her locker.

Jenna Seaver, with her pretty reddish hair and her baby blue eyes and her way of making him feel like he was more than his rap sheet, that he was someone who mattered, that, no matter what anyone else thought or said, she knew the real him and that he was special and wonderful and good.

She could've been with another boy, one with better grades, better looks, less baggage. But she'd chosen him, seen something in him that he'd only caught glimpses of himself.

He was crazy for her.

His heart twisted. Probably the best thing he could for her was to turn back around and walk out of her life forever. What did he have to offer a girl like her? He'd only bring her down.

But he couldn't leave her.

Not yet, anyway.

Especially when she turned and saw him and her eyes got all bright and her mouth got all smiley and she squealed.

She rushed toward him. “Dub! Oh, my God!” She dropped her books at their feet and grabbed him in a hug so tight he couldn't move his arms. The hug even hurt a little, but in a good way.

When she stepped back, there were tears in her eyes. “I've missed you so much.”

His throat seemed to shrink and his voice squeaked. “I've missed you, too.”
Oh, hell, he wasn't going to start crying here in the hall, was he?
“Here.” He handed her the prepaid phone he'd bought for her. “Be sure to keep the ringer turned off and hide it from your parents. I put my new number in the contacts for you.”

She looked down at the phone, then back up at him. They stared at each other for a few seconds. Dub had so much more he wanted to say to her. She looked like she had things she wanted to say, too.

But not here, not now.

He coughed to clear his throat. “I gotta get out of here before the tardy bell rings.”

“Okay.” A tear running down her cheek, she stood on her tiptoes to give him a kiss. “I love you, Dub,” she whispered.

He didn't say anything back. He couldn't. But he nodded and she smiled again because she knew what it meant. She
got
him.
God, that felt good.

He left the school and drove to the industrial area where the day laborers gathered each morning. Most of the men were Latino and spoke limited English. When he pulled up in his van, a group of them hurried over, thinking he had come looking for helpers.

“Sorry,” he told them. “I'm looking for work, too.”

He parked his van and climbed out, standing at the edge of the group.

Several contractors came by, looking for workers with experience in roofing, framing, masonry, and drywall. Dub had never done any of those things. Unfortunately, nobody was looking for a fifteen-year-old dumbass who was qualified to do nothing.

He began to step up to the trucks as they stopped. “Do you need somebody to clean?” he asked. “I can pick up nails and sweep or whatever.”

Nobody took him up on his offer. Eventually, it was down to just Dub and an ancient man with a stooped back and a single tooth.

A man in a pickup pulled up, a roll of carpeting sticking out the back of the bed. He looked over at Dub. “Either one of you know how to lay carpet?”

The old man nodded and stepped over to climb into the truck. They drove off, leaving Dub standing in their dust.

Alone.

 

THIRTY-FOUR

POST THIS

Megan

Tuesday morning, I climbed back into the cruiser and drove to the second burglary victim's house in Fairmount.

Unlike the Bayers, this victim, Tessa Gilpin, was single. Her wood and stone home had to be worth at least two hundred grand. Tessa must do pretty well for herself. Curious, I consulted her file. The record noted that Tessa was an engineer with Bell Helicopter.
Impressive.

Tessa had arranged to go into work late this morning so that we could meet first. I led Brigit up to the front door and rang the bell. Tessa answered a moment later. She was dressed in black pants and a red turtleneck, her sleek blond hair pulled back in a barrette. She held a docile dachshund in her arms. He, in turn, was dressed in a blue sweater with little hot dogs all over it.

When the woman noticed Brigit, she emitted a cry of delight and exclaimed, “A K-9! Cool!” She bent down and introduced her dog to Brigit. “Hello, Officer,” she said in an animated voice as if speaking for her dog. “I'm Oscar. Would you like to come in and play with me?”

I wasn't sure what the protocol was here. Was I supposed to respond on Brigit's behalf in a simulated dog voice? And, who, exactly, would Brigit sound like if she could talk? Angelina Jolie? Charlize Theron? Queen Latifah?
Hmm.
Maybe Whoopi Goldberg.

Realizing I'd wasted too much thought on the ridiculous topic already, I decided to skip the dog-speak and simply stepped into Tessa's house. The place was beautiful, with lots of windows, impeccable paint, and tasteful contemporary furnishings. Far more finished and classy than my eclectically furnished rental, though I was perfectly happy with my new place. I'd never been the Martha Stewart/HGTV type.

At least a dozen dog toys lay haphazardly around the room, most on the shiny wood floors, others lying on the couch and coffee table. Oscar was definitely one spoiled dog. Brigit nuzzled a stuffed raccoon toy on the floor and looked up at me as if to say
How come you never bought me one of these? Cheapskate.