Upholding the Paw (7 page)

Mackey and I bolted out from behind our respective bushes at the same time, though his longer legs got him to the warehouse door two steps ahead of me. He grabbed the handle and slid the large door open, the sunshine now forming a bright square on the floor of the dim warehouse. Gun raised in both hands, Derek darted inside. Brigit and I followed immediately behind him.

It took a second or two for my eyes to adjust fully to the relatively dark interior, which was lit only by what meager light could stream through the dusty windows situated high on the walls and the open door. When my eyes finally adjusted, they took in an ancient, dilapidated forklift missing at least two tires, a series of rusty pulleys hanging from the ceiling, and row after row of rolled-up carpet stacked ten to twelve feet high. There was no bus in sight, but with the piles of carpeting impeding our view we couldn't see more than a few feet in any direction. The bus could easily be hidden among the towering rolls.

At first, the dimly lit warehouse appeared empty, but then we heard the soft sound of footsteps. Mackey gestured to get my attention then cocked his head, indicating he'd approach from the far end of the warehouse and that Brigit and I should proceed along the narrow pathway flanking the front wall.

After nodding in acknowledgment, I gave my four-legged partner the signal to follow me and crept as quietly as I could down the space, stopping at the edge of each stack of carpet to peek around it. I only hoped I wouldn't peer around a pile to find myself staring down the barrel of a rifle.

Nobody was between the first and second stacks. Nobody between the second and third ones, either. But when I peeked around the third stack, my eyes spotted a large black man in jeans, sweater, and pocketed canvas work apron wrestling with a roll of carpet.

I was about to yell “Hands up!” but Mackey beat me to the punch. He angled his gun around the end of the row and yelled, “Fort Worth Police! Put your hands up!”

The man didn't put his hands up, though. He didn't look Derek's way, either. Instead, he continued to look up at the roll he'd been wrangling and slid a hand into a large pocket on the front of his apron.

Oh, Lord! Was he going for a gun?

My eyes met Derek's across the space.
What should we do now?

As much as I didn't want to give Brigit the order to take the man down, I knew this situation was precisely what we'd trained for. I issued the order and said a quick prayer for her safety as she bolted down the row, leapt into the air, and latched onto the back of the man's sweater. She took him to the ground before he could even turn his head. Unfortunately, he'd still had one forearm wrapped around the roll of carpet. The roll fell to the ground with him, instigating an instant avalanche.
Thomp-thomp-thomp!
Roll after roll cascaded over the man and my partner. Berbers. Friezes. Saxony. My shaggy dog narrowly missed being buried by shag carpeting.

The man writhed on the floor under his weighty load. “What the hell!?!”

Mackey ran up from his end while I ran up from mine. We reached the man simultaneously and pointed our guns at him. I rounded up Brigit while Mackey used his foot to force the rolls aside. When the man was unearthed, he lay on his back and raised his hands over his head, eyes wide and mouth gaping in surprise. It was then I noticed the black wire coming from his ear buds and heard the faint sounds of Maxwell's Grammy Award–winning R&B song
Pretty Wings
. No wonder the guy hadn't heard us tell him to put his hands up. He had his music turned up to full volume.

Mackey reached down and yanked the main wire, the buds springing from the man's ears. “What are you doing here?”

“I work here!” the man cried looking from Derek to me. “I'm pulling out carpet for the installers. They're on their way to pick it up.”

“Don't move,” Mackey ordered. He bent down and patted the man's pockets, pulling out a retractable blade. He held it up. “What's this for?”

“Cutting the carpet!” the guy cried. “It's my job.”

“Where's the bus?” Mackey demanded.

“Bus?” The man's brow furrowed. “I don't know anything about a bus.”

Clearly we'd gotten the wrong man here. I reached a hand down and helped him to his feet. “So sorry, sir. We owe you a big apology.”

I explained the situation and the man was gracious enough to cut us some slack.

“I haven't seen or heard a bus,” he said, brushing carpet lint off his sleeves. “Of course I didn't hear y'all, either. My boss always texts me when he needs something. I keep my phone on vibrate.”

I supposed it was possible one of the bank robbers had pocketed the cell phone we'd traced. If so, he could be hiding in the warehouse without this man's knowledge. I suggested as much to Mackey.

He gestured to Brigit. “Send the dog out. If someone's here, she'll find 'em.”

Mackey and I decided to wait with the man. If the bank robbers were in the building, his life could be in danger, too. I sent Brigit on a hunting expedition, ordering her to search the building for anyone who might be hiding among the rows.

Fear wrapped its cold fingers around my throat while my furry partner scuttled around the space, sniffing here and there for criminals playing hide-and-seek. Though building searches were Brigit's job, it made me sick to send her out on such missions, knowing a person desperate to escape apprehension could be capable of hurting her …
or worse
. Her padding footsteps could be heard as she made her way around the space, but other than that the warehouse was silent.

Relief buoyed me when she returned to my side without alerting.

But what does this mean? Had the bus been here at the warehouse momentarily and then moved on? Could the bus be in one of the other nearby warehouses?

The triangulation technology was good but not perfect. Signals could bounce off objects nearby and create what was known as multipath error. Still, we had to be close.

Mackey let out a long, loud breath. “This was damn disappointing.”

Both of us stepped to the open doorway. While Mackey continued out onto the street, I pulled my notepad from my breast pocket and flipped to the page on which I'd jotted the bus driver's cell number. Using my own phone, I dialed the number. Maybe we'd hear it ring and could track it to another building.

“Gah!” I nearly jumped out of my skin when Willie Nelson singing
On the Road Again
blared from the bushes I'd been hiding in only minutes before.

Mackey darted over and Jackson jogged up as I carefully fished the cell phone out of the foliage. We'd expected to find a forty-foot bus and instead found a 4.7-inch phone with a cracked screen. Looked like the men who'd held up the bank and hijacked the bus had spotted the phone and tossed it out.

Jackson angled her head. “Bag the phone and give it to Mackey.” She turned to Derek. “Run the phone to the crime scene techs at the bank. Have them check it for prints.”

He didn't bother arguing with her this time.

She turned back to me. “Let's pay Chris Vogel and Arthur Scheck a visit.”

Chapter Fourteen

Dust Bunnies

Brigit

Searching that old, dusty building had been fun. Anytime she was allowed to roam around free was a good time to Brigit. Leashes were for troublesome toddlers and dogs who didn't know how to behave. Not well-trained canines like her.

According to Brigit's nose, the man she'd tackled had been the only human inside the place today. A rat had recently wandered through but moved on, probably because there was no food to be found on site.

And speaking of food, it was lunchtime. Better give her partner a reminder.

Woof-woof!

Chapter Fifteen

Thank You, Come Again

The Switchman

This was
not
the plan they'd agreed to over beers after last night's club meeting. They were supposed to make a quick hit at the bank, jack a bus, go for a short joyride, and call it a day before law enforcement had time to get on their trail. It had sounded so simple. He should've known there'd be a hitch. Nothing had gone his way lately.

The Switchman wasn't big on the idea of continuing on together, but Smokestack had the bank bag full of money shoved down tight inside his boxer briefs. The Switchman didn't want to leave without getting his share, but no way was he sticking his hands down another man's pants. Besides, if there was any truth to Smokestack's stories of his seedy sexual exploits, any manner of sexually transmitted vermin could be living in the guy's underpants.

How the Switchman and the Conductor had let the dumbass talk them into this crime spree was beyond him now. The two had been simply commiserating over their terminations, complaining about the injustice and unfairness of losing their jobs. All it had taken was Smokestack calling them a couple of pussies to agree to this misguided plan of vengeance.

In hindsight, the Switchman now felt he'd been a wimp for going along with this stupid plan. But it was too late for second thoughts now. What was done was done.

A telltale
ding
sounded as Smokestack pulled open the door of the convenience store. The Conductor followed him in, his rifle now hidden in a duffel bag. The Switchman was the last one through the door, lagging behind so he'd appear to be unassociated with the other two.

Surely the police had put out an all-points bulletin on the three of them. Being seen together could be dangerous. Of course they'd left their telltale hats and jackets on the bus. He doubted anyone had gotten a good enough look to identify any of them individually, but the combination of two young white guys with a middle-age black man could make them recognizable. Luckily, their sunglasses would not appear out of place given today's cloudless sky. But he and the Conductor were still wearing gloves, and Smokestack still had on his pair of mismatched mittens. While covering their hands wouldn't have raised suspicions in the recent cold weather, today was too warm for anyone to need gloves or mittens.

The Switchman knew he better go his separate way ASAP. He planned to humor Smokestack by buying a beer, downing the thing as quickly as possible, and splitting with his share of the bank's funds. Frankly, the guy was getting on his nerves. He didn't seem to have many brain cells to begin with, and smoking dope nonstop for the last decade hadn't helped.

The Switchman cast a glance toward the checkout counter. The register was manned by a short, thin Asian man who appeared to weigh all of a hundred pounds. Not only was he small, he was old, too, his hair faded to a pewter shade. His face scrunched as he peered through his bifocals and fingered through the handful of change, counting out the coins he'd been handed by the blonde buying a pack of Camels. Thankfully, the clerk hadn't looked up yet.

Smokestack opened the glass door of the refrigerated cooler, grabbed three oversize bottles of beer, and handed one to the Switchman and the other to the Conductor. The Switchman would have preferred a different brand, but no sense engaging in a debate when he wanted to remain inconspicuous and move things along ASAP.

The three headed toward the counter to pay for their beers, Smokestack leading the way. As they stepped up to the register, Smokestack stuck the top of the bottle into his mouth and used his teeth to twist off the cap. Certainly not what four out of five dentists would recommend. He spat the cap into his hand, tossed it into a nearby trash can, and proceeded to drain the entire bottle of beer right there at the counter.

The clerk frowned, his eyes narrowing behind his lenses. “You can't drink that here. Don't you see the sign?” He pointed up to a white sign on the wall behind him that read IT IS A CRIME (MISDEMEANOR) TO CONSUME LIQUOR OR BEER ON THESE PREMISES.

Smokestack raised his hands, his right one clutching the now-empty bottle. He let out a burbling beer-scented belch and said, “Sorry, man. I'm out of here.”

As he headed toward the door, the clerk yelled, “Hey! You have to pay for that!”

The Switchman quickly stepped up to the counter in an attempt at damage control. “I've got it.” He pulled his wallet from his back pocket.

Smokestack turned around at the exit, moving backward to push the door open with his back. “Get me a couple of hot dogs, too. With ketchup. And a bag of barbecue chips. And some Oreos.”

Who did that jackass think he was? The king of England?
Nonetheless, the Switchman grabbed a bag of chips and a package of cookies from a nearby display. He waited with forced patience while the clerk used metal tongs to fish two hot dogs off the rotisserie, dropped them into open buns in white paper containers, and retrieved a red squeeze bottle to draw a squiggly line of ketchup down the top of each steaming link.

The clerk placed the hot dogs on the counter, rang up the purchases, and squinted at the cash register display for the total. “Nineteen eighty-three.”

The Switchman handed the clerk a twenty, accepted his change, and even put the two pennies in the take-a-penny-leave-a-penny bowl on the counter. He turned and had made three steps toward the door when the clerk called after him.

“Sir! You forgot your beer!”

Agh! Way to be inconspicuous.

He looked back to see the clerk holding up the beer, now wrapped in a small brown paper sack. He held it out to him, the paper crinkling with the movement.

The Switchman fought the urge to run out the door and never look back. Instead, he took the beer from the man's hand. “Thanks. I don't know where my head is.”

But he
did
know.

It was up his butt.

Had been since the moment he'd agreed to this stupid crime spree.

Beers and food paid for, the Switchman and the Conductor hurried outside. Smokestack was nowhere to be seen.
Dammit!

The Conductor heaved a frustrated huff. “Where the hell did that imbecile go?”