Upholding the Paw (2 page)

No doubt the fire was the same one to which Seth and his coworkers were headed. The location was less than a quarter mile from the fire station. In fact, my nose detected a hint of smoke carried on the breeze.

I reached up and squeezed the mic. “Officer Luz and Brigit responding.” I returned my attention to Seth. “Looks like we'll be working this one together.”

He gave me a soft, sexy smile as he walked backward away from me. “I can think of some other hot things we could do together.”

I tried to fight a grin but lost. “Keep your pants on.”

A nonsensical reply, really. He was on his way to put on
more
pants. Thick, flame-retardant ones.

I loaded Brigit into the back of my cruiser, hopped inside, and took off, lights flashing and siren wailing.
Woo-woo-woo!
Less than a minute later I rolled up Eighth Avenue, surprised—
and irked
—to see Derek Mackey's cruiser sitting at the curb in front of a Subway sandwich shop.

Derek “The Big Dick” Mackey was an ass of epic proportions. An attention whore who claimed credit for the victories of others. A sexist pig from the tips of his steel-toed loafers to the top of his flaming orange burr haircut.

He was also my former partner.

Before Brigit, I'd been paired with The Big Dick for several long, insult-laced, and fart-filled months it would take years of therapy for me to work through entirely. Who would've thought losing my temper, activating my Taser, and delivering fifteen hundred volts of electricity to Derek's testicles would have saved me? Luckily for me, Chief Garelik decided to give me a second chance. Rather than fire me, he'd reassigned me to work with Brigit. Derek was the chief's golden boy, and the chief knew if he fired me I could have sought revenge and revealed some things about Derek and his less-than-exemplary behavior that would have tarnished his protégé's gold plating.

At any rate, Derek and I despised each other, even more so since we'd discovered that both of us planned to seek detective positions in the future. And there the guy was, climbing out of his patrol car.

I pulled my vehicle to the curb behind Derek's and hopped out, leaving Brigit in the cruiser with the windows cracked. Flames reached skyward from a large metal bin at the back of the lot, releasing the acrid smell of smoke and the funky smell of barbecued garbage.
Yick.

What had caught fire? Had someone tossed a cigarette into the bin and accidentally set off a conflagration? Or had the fire been intentionally set? If so, why?

Ignoring Derek, I headed toward the sandwich shop to evacuate the employees who were on site, preparing for the lunch rush. Fires were unpredictable and spread without warning. Better safe than sorry.

“Hey!” Derek yelled, jogging up behind me. “I was here first.”

“And I responded on the radio that I'd take the call. That means it's mine.”

I didn't break stride, nor did I look his way. Just because I didn't get my jollies from fistfights didn't mean I wouldn't stick up for myself.

He sped up, veering in front of me to block my way. “I have seniority.”

“What you have is a chip on your shoulder.”

The guy couldn't stand that I'd bested him several times recently. Working under detectives Audrey Jackson and Hector Bustamente, who'd become my mentors, I'd helped to identify and take down culprits in a couple of major cases. The busts would surely help my chances of landing a detective position someday. If Derek weren't such a cocky S.O.B., maybe one of the detectives would have taken him under wing, too.

He turned to face me now and stopped, a mountain of man and muscle. I had no choice but to stop, too, lest I run straight into him.

His face flamed nearly as red as his hair. “I don't have a chip on my shoulder,” he spat. “
You
have an attitude problem.”

I closed my eyes and mentally counted to ten as I'd been taught in the anger management class the chief ordered me to take after the Tasering incident. What can I say? I'd inherited my mother's Irish temper. You can't fight genetics.

One.

Two.

Three.

As much as I didn't want to back down, I knew a person should choose their battles wisely.

Four.

Five.

Six.

But concede to this jerk? No way would I give Derek the satisfaction.
Uh-oh.
The counting didn't seem to be working. I might have to go well into the double digits before I cooled off.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

All right, all right. Arguing over a crowd control call simply wasn't worth the effort, especially since chances were the fire would be put out in mere seconds. I raised a palm with as much forced graciousness as I could muster. “You want this call? You got it. No need to get your jockeys in a bunch.”

Derek responded with a smug smirk as I turned to go back to my car.

Butthead.

I climbed into my cruiser and cast a glance back at Brigit, whose chin was coated in fresh saliva. She probably thought the burning garbage smelled yummy. “Know what, pup? You're twice the partner D-Derek ever was.”

Despite the drool, it was true. She wagged her tail in agreement.

As the fire truck pulled up, my radio crackled to life again. “Armed robbery in progress at Cowtown National Bank on west Rosedale. Who can respond?”

I grabbed my mic from the dash and squeezed the button. “Officers Luz and Brigit en route.”

Derek turned in the doorway of the sub shop and cut a hard look my way. Undoubtedly he'd heard the exchange through his shoulder-mount and now regretted insisting on taking the fire call.
Ha!
A bank robbery would be a lot more interesting than setting up saw horses and directing traffic around the fire trucks. A robbery would be scarier, too, but I couldn't—
wouldn't
—let my fears hamper me.

I flipped on my lights and siren and raised a hand in good-bye, treating Derek to
my
smug smirk this time. “Karma's a bitch!”

Chapter Two

Sub Sandwich to Go?

Fort Worth PD K-9 Officer Brigit

All in all, Megan wasn't a bad partner. She brushed Brigit every night, a hundred strokes. She let Brigit sleep in bed with her. She even bought Brigit her favorite treats when they went to the grocery store.

But now? Megan had driven to a sandwich shop and left the windows cracked, treating Brigit to the mouth-watering scents of turkey, pastrami, bologna, and meatballs. Smoke, too, but Brigit's superior nose could nonetheless distinguish the scents. Brigit had hoped Megan would return to the car with a sandwich, but she'd come back empty-handed. Brigit had wagged her tail, hoping Megan would take a hint and go buy the dog some fresh meat. She hadn't.

Ugh.

Humans could be so difficult to train.

At least things seemed to be picking up now. The siren whooped and Megan was driving like a bat out of hell. That could mean only one thing.

They were about to see some action.

Brigit lived for action.

Chapter Three

Phase One: Complete

Smokestack

One of them had a personal score to settle. The other had his dignity to avenge. But Smokestack? Heck, he was just along for shits and giggles. So far there'd been quite a few giggles thanks to that special banana nut muffin he'd eaten earlier.

Cannabis. The breakfast of champions.

He might have no education and no job training, but he was a master at manipulation. Hell, for two years he'd had his parents convinced he was attending college when in reality he'd dropped his classes each semester, got a refund of the tuition they'd paid, and spent his days—and his parents' money—at pool halls and strip clubs. But that money had all been spent now. He'd managed to snag a credit card a drunk had dropped under the next table at a strip club, but that was a short-term solution. Sooner or later the guy would realize he'd lost the card and it would be deactivated.

Convincing the other two to rob the bank had been a cinch. Both were down and out, throwing themselves a pity party when they'd gone out for beers after last night's meeting. All he'd had to do was play on their fragile egos, convince them they'd been treated unfairly, and persuade them to fight back against the injustices they'd suffered.

“You were victims!” he'd exclaimed with outrage. “Only a couple of total pussies would take that lying down.”

He'd suggested this little escapade because he liked to start fires. The fact that he'd also get a one-third share of the take was icing on the cake.

Without an education, steady job, or discernible abdominal muscles, it was hard enough getting laid. The girls he went after tended to be streetwise, less gullible. Add in the fact that his crash pad was his childhood room in his parents' house, and he was constantly getting derailed. But he and his cohorts had come away from the bank with nearly three grand. The other two didn't know it yet, but the bank was just the beginning. With any luck, by the end of the day he'd have enough cash to buy himself a year's supply of chronic, a lap dance from redheaded Ruby at club Blue Balls, and a new apartment so that he could finally move out of his parents' place.

Yeah. Things were definitely on track now.

Chapter Four

Hop on the Bus, Gus

Megan

I punched the gas on my cruiser. Seth looked over from where he hung from the fire truck, a perplexed expression on his face as I sped away from the curb. Of course he knew nothing about the bank robbery. I'd fill him in later—assuming, of course, that the robbers didn't fill with me lead. In that case he'd just have to read about it in the paper.

The
woo-woo-woo
of my siren acted like an electronic cheerleader, telling me to
Go! Go! Go!
before the robbers got away with
two bits, four bits, six bits, a dollar
!

Fueled by adrenaline, I hooked a right on Rosedale, rocketing down the street as drivers pulled to the right to let me by. As much as I hated to admit it, I liked the sense of power my authority gave me. As a child I'd been helpless to stop the bullies who'd teased me about my stutter. But with my badge, weapons, and cruiser, I sure as hell wasn't powerless now.

I sped past a bus stop where an inordinate number of people seemed to be disembarking. But there was no time to ponder the situation. I had bank robbers to catch. I only hoped the robbers would realize resistance was risky and surrender quickly. On the bright side, if they decided to come out of the bank with guns blazing, at least it was a pleasant day to die.

A quick prayer couldn't hurt, right?

Less than a minute and a Hail Mary later, my cruiser whipped into the bank parking lot, tires squealing as I braked to a quick stop.
Screech!

My pulse thrummed and throbbed, and a sticky, anxious sweat coated my skin. I yanked my gun from my belt and slid out of the car, letting Brigit out of the back and ordering her to stay by my side. Her unique skills could be useful in taking a suspect down or chasing them should they attempt to flee. Still, as always when I deployed her, my heart squeezed a little. Sure, she was a tool, a piece of equipment designed to assist me in my work. But she was also a sentient creature, a living being, not to mention my partner, roommate, and fuzzy-wuzzy buddy. The decisions I made could put her life at risk. If anything happened to her, could I ever forgive myself?

I forced the thought from my head. I couldn't think about that now. The two of us had a job to do.

With my K-9 partner by my side, I hunkered down and ran as fast as I could to the brick wall next to the front doors, plastering my back flat against it.

What was going on inside?

Had the men who'd held up the bank taken hostages?

Had anyone been hurt?

I pushed the button to call dispatch. “What's the status at the bank?”

“We don't know,” the dispatcher said. “We got a quick call from someone on a cell phone two minutes ago but the call dropped.”

Dammit!
Brigit and I were working blind here.

A second cruiser pulled into the lot. Officer Spalding.
Thank God.
Spalding was a stocky black officer with ten years under his belt. Just the man you wanted to have your back.

He slipped from his cruiser, readied his weapon and bullhorn, and crouched down behind the open door of his car. Raising the bullhorn to his mouth, he aimed it at the front doors of the bank and calmly said, “Law enforcement has surrounded the building. Come out with your hands in the air.”

Trembling, I crouched next to Brigit, whispered “good girl” to let her know she was doing well, and aimed my gun at the door in case the robbers decided to come out shooting.
Please, please, please, dear Lord! Don't let that happen!
Truth be told, my gun skills sucked. Having been a twirler in my high school marching band, I was much better with my baton. Problem was, a baton was of limited use. It required your target to be within striking distance. While I had a Kevlar vest to stop bullets, Brigit was unprotected. She'd make an easy target. My heart squeezed again, even harder this time.
Please don't let Brigit get hurt!

A moment later, the glass door opened a few inches, then banged shut again.

What was happening?

Were the robbers scrabbling with innocent customers?

If so, it was my job to stop it before anyone got hurt.

Gulping back the cantaloupe-size lump of fear that had formed in my esophagus, I gave Brigit the order to follow me, ran to the door, and yanked it open, dashing inside.