Paw Enforcement 02 - Paw and Order (34 page)

As easy as this had been, she felt a little silly for buying the gun and bringing it with her tonight. Thankfully, the weapon had been unnecessary. Good thing since she wasn't entirely sure she knew how to use it. She should probably find a gun range and get in some practice.

Gathering her purse, she took one last look around the room, satisfying herself that she'd touched nothing from which prints could be lifted. There was no evidence to prove she'd been here. For the first time in her life, she was glad to be a nobody.

“See ya', Sam,” she called softly as she opened the door. “Sweet dreams.”

 

FORTY-NINE

PHOTO BOMB

Megan

On Sunday morning, I drove to my parents' house in Arlington Heights. The place was a single-story three-bedroom, two-bath wood frame house with faded yellow paint, peeling trim, and virtually no landscaping. My busy parents had had little time for home maintenance while they were raising young children, and they continued to neglect the place out of habit.

I'd worn a long-sleeved FWPD tee and brought Brigit with me in her police vest. After the way she'd shredded my closet door, I didn't dare leave her at home for extended periods of time. She might eat through the drywall and into the apartment next door. I'd rented the crappy place because it was cheap and would free up some extra funds for repaying my student loans. I was beginning to think it would be worth a few hundred dollars more a month in rent to get a house. Maybe if Brigit had a yard to run around in she'd work off her excess energy chasing squirrels and stop taking it out on my shoes.

I parked at the curb and led my partner inside, having my usual fight with the front door, which had hung slightly askew for years and tended to stick in the frame. “Good morning!” I called as I stepped inside.

Though I saw no one, various greetings carried from the kitchen and bedrooms down the hall.

“Hey, Megan!” from Gabby.

“Yo, big sis!” from Joey.

“See if you can find my keys!” This came from my mother and was of no surprise as we went through this same routine every Sunday I came by.

My first human sighting was when my tall, dark-haired father stuck his head out of the master bedroom door, pulled the foam-covered toothbrush from his mouth, and waved it at me in greeting.

Brigit and I aimed for the kitchen, enduring a cat-caphony of hisses and yowls as we passed my mother's three orange tabby tomcats in the living room. When we reached the kitchen, Brigit promptly set to work cleaning out their food bowl.
Crunch-crunch-crunch
. I set about finding my mother's keys, looking under errant dishtowels, poking around behind the toaster, checking among the piles of mail and advertising circulars on the countertop. After a minute or two I finally located them under Gabby's algebra textbook.

“Found 'em, Mom!”

“Thanks!” She rushed into the kitchen like an auburn-haired whirlwind and grabbed the keys out of my hand. “Come on, everybody!” she yelled. “We're late!”

Ten minutes later we pulled up to the church, took the last two available spots at the far end of the lot, and ran up the stairs and into the foyer. We dipped our fingers in the holy water and crossed ourselves, putting our fingers to hearts pounding from exertion. When I'd completed my “Father, Son, and Holy Spirit” and returned my arm to my side, Brigit lifted her head and licked the remaining drops of holy water from my fingertips. I half expected a heavenly glow to erupt from her anus.

My parents, Gabby, Joey, and I slipped into the back row, with Brigit hopping up onto the pew next to me. We'd arrived just in time. The altar boys began their procession down the aisle.

After murmurs of “Thanks be to God” and various other Catholic rituals, it was time for communion. I led Brigit down the aisle with me when I went up to the altar. I knew better than to share my wafer with her, though. Last time she'd choked on it and horked it up in the pew. I'd feared I'd be smitten down by the Almighty or at the very least excommunicated.

When we returned to the pew, she lay down at my feet by the kneeler rather than sitting on the bench. She had more space down there and could stretch out to take a nap. A few minutes later my brother Joey nudged me with his elbow and pointed downward.
Holy crap!
The darn dog had chewed through the padding on the kneeler, the stuffing in tufts on the floor, the vinyl cover in shreds. I couldn't take her anywhere.

I put my hands together, closed my eyes, and prayed for forgiveness on Brigit's behalf.

*   *   *

Clint called me early Sunday afternoon, not long after I'd returned to my apartment. “I want to take you to dinner.”

“And I want to let you take me to dinner.” I'd had lunch at my parents' house. My mother had made her infamous lasagna, which Joey referred to as “las-agony.” Parts of it were undercooked and the rest had burned and stuck to the pan. She'd set the dirty casserole dish on the floor and let Brigit have at the burnt remnants. A good strategy. That dog could lick anything clean. It saved a human from having to scrub the pan and it kept the dog occupied. But, needless to say, the meal had been less than satisfying. A nice dinner would be welcome.

“How's six o'clock?” Clint asked.

“Great. See you then.”

Seth phoned an hour later. “Let's get together for dinner tonight.”

“Sorry,” I told him. “I can't.”

Seth was quiet for a moment. “You having dinner with your family?”

“No.”

He was quiet another moment. “You having dinner with Deputy Dawg?”

“Yes.”

He wasn't quiet this time. This time he was loud. “What the hell, Megan? What's it going to take for you not to see him?”

“It's going to take …
time.
”

He made a sound that was very similar to Brigit's growl. “For God's sake. I told you I screwed up. Can't you just get over it?”

Just get over it?
Did he have no idea how badly he'd hurt me? How shitty he'd made me feel? And did he not realize that the reason I couldn't get over it right away was because I'd had serious feelings for him and his rejection had scarred me to my core? Of course I supposed he was feeling rejected now, too.

“Let's talk later,” I said. “Okay?”

“I'll think about it.” With a click, he was gone.

I fumed for a few seconds.
Who the hell does Seth think he is, getting mad at me for going out with another guy? He's the one who called things off before. He's the reason I'm going out with Clint. He's getting a taste of his own medicine here. Screw him!

But when the anger left me I felt empty and grief-stricken instead.

Why does dating Seth seem as dangerous and chaotic and crazy as riding a bull in a rodeo?

*   *   *

Clint picked me up at six and we went to dinner at a casual place in Sundance Square. Over our meal, Clint mentioned a suspicious death he'd heard about at the Stockyards Hotel.

“It's a possible homicide,” he said. “The maid found the guy this afternoon. He was dead in the bed with a pillow over his face. All of his valuables were gone. Wallet. Watch. Rings. Electronics.”

“So he was robbed? And s-smothered?”

Clint fished a French fry off the pile on his plate. “Looks like it.”

Who would do such a horrible thing? Kill someone just for their belongings?
It was sad and sick and selfish. “Any suspects?”

“Haven't heard. Far as I know they're still interviewing potential witnesses.”

I guessed I was lucky the thief at the stock show had resorted to violence only after a victim had tried to restrain her and that she hadn't inflicted fatal wounds. I wasn't ready to deal with a cold-blooded killer.

“What's going on with the stock show robberies?” Clint asked. “Any progress?”

I told him about Detective Bustamente and our plans to visit the Kroger store and the Justin Boots outlet.

“You like that part of police work?” he asked. “The mental part? Questioning witnesses? Figuring out the clues?”

“Definitely.” Frankly, it was the only part of police work I did like. The other parts were either boring or frightening.

“Not me,” Clint said. “I like the physical part best. Chasing people. Cracking skulls. Kicking ass.”

“You're such a
guy.
”

“That I am,” he said unapologetically, ripping a fry in half with his teeth like a rabid wolverine.

I had to laugh. But then I wanted to cry.
Why can't things be this easy with Seth?

After dinner, Clint took me back to his place, a two-bedroom condo situated on the brink of where the city gave way to the western suburbs. His décor was manly and spare. Lots of oversized pieces in earth tones with few decorator accents.

We settled in on his couch to watch a movie. Just two minutes in and his mouth was on my neck, nuzzling behind my ear, causing certain parts of me to throb with want. His lips moved, trailing kisses just under my jawbone until he captured my mouth with his. He put his chest against mine, a hand on my back, and gently eased me down until we were lying side by side on the couch.

He ran his hand up my side, his thumb lingering just below the swell of my breast. I was aware of every pulse of my heart, felt the blood move in my veins, heard it flow past my ears.

His hand slid down to the hem of my sweater and up under it, his fingers splaying across my rib cage.
So close.
I felt my nipples pucker into painful peaks.

He pulled his mouth from mine and put it to my ear. “Let me touch you, Megan.”

God, how I want to hear those words. God how I want to be touched.
But I wanted to hear those words spoken in Seth's voice, to be touched by Seth's hands. As screwed up as our relationship was, and as attracted as I was to Clint, I realized Seth was the man I really wanted to be with.

I wiggled myself back into a sitting position. “I'm sorry, Clint. But I'm not ready for this.”

I realized, too, that my hesitation wasn't solely because of Seth. Clint and I had only been out three times. We hardly knew each other. Regardless of Seth, it was too soon for things to get physical.

Clint groaned. “I get it. But you can't blame a guy for trying.”

We sat up and watched the rest of the movie. When he drove me back to my place, he gave me only a chaste closed-mouth kiss on the lips. It felt horribly unsatisfying, yet I knew it was the right thing to do.

Damn you, Seth.

*   *   *

Monday morning, I met Detective Bustamente at the Kroger store where Dominique's Diners Club card had been used to purchase groceries. Frankly, I was rethinking my agreement to help out on the investigation. I had enough to do without taking on extra work. I'd tossed and turned all night thinking about Clint and Seth, wondering what I should do about both of them, and had woken up tired and grumpy. But I'd promised to be here, and I wasn't about to risk my reputation by failing to follow through.

Today Bustamente wore a pair of khaki pants that were three inches too short, along with white crew socks and black dress shoes. His cotton shirt had a mismatched button a third of the way down. I had to remind myself what Detective Jackson had said. Not to judge this book by its cover.

Given that I was playing detective today rather than street cop, I'd chosen to wear business clothes, too. Loafers. A pair of black slacks. A gray cableknit sweater. I'd left my hair down rather than twisting it up in its usual bun, though I had secured it in back with a silver barrette. I'd brought Brigit along with me. Didn't want the dog getting bored at home and eating my couch.

The head of store security was a man named Kirk, a former marine who was built as stout and sturdy as the amphibious assault vehicles he'd once commanded. He led us into the administrative offices on the second floor of the store and took us back to a small conference room with a built-in television screen.

After the detective and I took seats at the table, Kirk pushed the button on the remote to run the security video. “That's her,” he said, pointing to a young woman whose head was mostly obscured by a hoodie.

The woman approached the checkout counter and unloaded various items onto the belt. From this distance it was difficult to tell exactly what her items were, but we knew from the copy of the receipt Kirk had provided to us that the woman had purchased several high-dollar items, including shrimp, teeth-whitening strips, vitamins, and allergy medication. She'd purchased a variety of gossip and fashion magazines. She'd even bought the most expensive heart-shaped box of chocolates the store sold.

When the video had run its course and showed the young woman leaving the store, Kirk let the cashier into the room. The woman, whom we'd seen in the video, was in her early sixties. She had salt-and-pepper hair that was heavy on the salt, and the soft, fleshy figure of a grandmother who liked to bake cookies for her grandkids and sample the dough.

Bustamente and I shook hands with her and introduced ourselves.

“I'm Loretta Sneed,” she said. “Pleased to meet you.”

She took a seat across the table.

“We appreciate you coming in to talk with us,” Bustamente said. “We'll try to be brief.”

He asked Kirk to run the video again for the woman, then proceeded to ask her a series of questions.

“What, if anything, did you two discuss while you rang up the young woman's groceries?”

“The only thing we talked about was the box of chocolates,” Loretta replied. “I said something to the effect of a person getting sick if they ate the whole thing. She didn't really respond. Just kind of scowled at me.”

“Mm-hm,” Bustamente said, nodding. “And what about the paper you held out to her? What was that all about?”