Upholding the Paw (9 page)

Jackson put her hand on the inside door handle. “Let's roll.”

I climbed out of the car and followed her. The two of us stood waiting to the side as the bus pulled to a stop, the air brakes giving off a loud hiss. The tall door swung open with a squeak and five high school kids climbed off. Before Scheck could close the door, Detective Jackson put a foot on the bottom step and looked up at the driver. “Come on out here a moment, Mr. Scheck.” She waved him down with her hand.

A moment later a man in his early thirties climbed down the steps and onto the curb. He wore rubber-soled loafers, khaki pants worn thin from numerous washings, and a faded green button-down shirt. The button on the left side of the collar was chipped. His brown hair was cut short and his face was clean shaven. Despite the bright sunshine, he wore no sunglasses.
Hmm …

Dozens of pimpled faces pressed to the bus windows as Scheck looked from the detective to me and back again. “What's this about?”

“We have a few questions for you,” Jackson asked. “Can you tell me where you've been today?”

“Today?” he repeated. “Well, I ran my usual bus rounds this morning. Finished up around nine thirty and went on back home. Stayed there until it was time for me to get back to my afternoon bus rounds.”

Several
clicks
sounded as students released the window latches, followed by the
shhht
of windows being slid down. A number of teens leaned out the windows, hoping to eavesdrop on our conversation. I shook my head and motioned upward with my hand. Most of them pulled their windows closed again. The few who didn't scrambled to close theirs when I took a warning step closer to the bus.

“You didn't go anywhere else?” Jackson asked Scheck once we could speak privately again.

“No.” His eyes narrowed and a vein popped out in his neck. “Why?”

Jackson paused a moment, probably debating how much to tell the man. “There was an incident at a bank today. We're trying to figure out who might have been behind it. One of the tellers indicated you two had a run-in recently.”

“A run-in?” Scheck snorted. “Are you talking about that pompous prick at Cowtown Bank who shorted me a hundred bucks?”

Jackson nodded.

“I don't know what he told you,” Scheck said, “but he's full of shit. The bank manager, too. They claimed his drawer balanced but I think the two of them are in cahoots together. They probably pocketed the money for themselves.”

Scheck's speculation got me wondering. Had Dawson actually shorted Scheck, hoping the man wouldn't notice and that he'd be able to pocket the cash before closing his till for the day? If so, would Dawson be willing to take things a step further and set up a robbery?

“Any chance there's anyone who can vouch for you?” Jackson asked Scheck. “Anyone who can verify that you were home this morning?”

“My wife can,” Scheck said. “She was home the whole time.”

“We've already talked to her,” Jackson said. “She said she was asleep all morning.”

“Jesus.” Scheck shook his head, incredulous, and glanced back at his bus. “Look. I've got to get these kids home. Let's cut to the chase. What, exactly, are you accusing me of?”

“We're just wondering if you might know anything about this morning's robbery at Cowtown bank.”

Scheck's brows drew inward, forming an angry V. “A bank robbery? Are you kidding me?”

“Don't act so surprised,” Jackson said. “We know you've been arrested for a theft crime before.”

“And the charges were dropped!” he spat. He crossed his arms over his chest now, just as his wife had done not long before. “I'm not saying anything else to you two. Not without a lawyer.”

Scheck was within his rights to be silent, and we had too little evidence to arrest him. We had no choice but to let him go.

Jackson took a step back. “All right, Mr. Scheck. We'll let you be on your way.”

He cut one last, furious glance in our direction and climbed back onto the bus. As he did, a teenage boy called out, “You in trouble, Mr. Scheck?”

“None of your business!” Scheck hollered back as he swung the door closed.

Chapter Seventeen

Heavy Breather

Brigit

Her partner could be such a killjoy sometimes. What would it have hurt to let Brigit chase those two squirrels? The odds of her catching the speedy suckers were slim to none. And even if she did manage to catch one of them, it's not like they were on the endangered species list. Heck, there had to be at least three million of the pesky rodents in the city of Fort Worth alone.

Brigit knew if she expressed her displeasure via incessant barking Megan would eventually muzzle her. No, the dog was smart enough to exact a more subtle form of revenge. She stood directly behind Megan and panted her warm, moist, chicken-nugget scented breath down her partner's neck.

Heh-heh-heh.

Chapter Eighteen

Cocktail Hour

The Conductor

Smokestack was the weak link in their group, the only one with a criminal record and definitely the least intelligent. Why the Conductor had ever decided to go on a crime spree with a man he had little respect for and didn't trust was beyond him. But Smokestack had preyed on him in a moment of weakness, preyed on the Switchman, too, proposing the plan, implying that if they didn't vindicate themselves they were a couple of doormats.

So here they were, looking around for their dumber-than-a-doorknob partner-in-crime. They spotted him standing behind one of the gas pumps.

The Conductor raised his hand and pointed. “There he is. Let's get our money and split. This stopped being fun an hour ago.”

The Switchman lifted his chin in agreement and the two stepped over to the pump.

“Look,” the Conductor said to Smokestack, “we're not doing ourselves any favors hanging together like this.” He gestured at the bag of cash creating an odd bulge in Smokestack's pants. “Let's step behind the store, divvy up the money, and go our separate ways before the cops find us.”

“Sure, sure,” Smokestack said. “I just gotta do one more thing first.” He raised his hand, which held the beer bottle. Only now, the bottle was filled with a clear liquid with a slight yellow tint and had a paper towel stuffed in the neck. The beer had morphed into a cocktail.
A Molotov cocktail.

Before the Conductor could stop him, Smokestack whipped out his lighter and set the paper towel aflame.

“What the hell are you doing?!?” The Conductor made a grab for the bottle.
Didn't this punk realize that starting another fire would only give the cops a fresh trail to follow?

Smokestack—
THE GODDAM MORON!
—yanked the bottle out of the Conductor's reach. The Conductor watched helplessly as his accomplice bolted toward the doors of the convenience store, yanked one open, and tossed the glass bottle inside. There was a
crash
and
tinkle
as the glass shattered and showered the floor, followed by a
fwoom
as flames leapt up from the puddle of gasoline rushing across the floor.

Dammit! That stupid little fucker might as well have shot a flare gun into the air to signal the cops.

“Let's go!” hollered the Switchman, stepping back and waving for the Conductor to follow him. “Let's just go!”

If the Switchman thought the Conductor was going to let Smokestack keep his share of the money, especially now, he was as stupid as that pot-smoking hipster. “Hell, no! I'm not leaving without my cash!”

The Conductor ran back into the store to find the air filled with a mixture of gray smoke and white fog from the fire extinguisher the clerk held aimed at the flames. Smokestack lay sprawled over the checkout counter, three inches of ass-crack showing above the waist of his grungy jeans as he pounded a fist on the cash register, trying to get it open.
Bam-bam-bam!

The fire snaked its way down the aisles, igniting boxes of cookies, Twinkies, and tampons. The Conductor grabbed Smokestack's legs and tried to pull him backward, but the moron wrapped his free hand around the counter and hung on tight.
Bam-bam-bam!

“Come on, you idiot!” the Conductor yelled. Honestly, he didn't give a shit what happened to this pasty-face punk, but he knew that if Smokestack was apprehended he'd take the Conductor and the Switchman down with him. He yanked again on Smokestack's legs but only managed to pull his jeans down farther, a full half foot of ass crack now visible.

Ching!
Evidently Smokestack had finally hit the correct button because the drawer slid open. He released his hold on the countertop and snatched two fistfuls of cash before the Conductor was able to grab him by the shoulders and pull him off the countertop. Hot with fury, he shoved Smokestack through the thickening smoke toward the doors.

The instant they were outside, he heard the wail of approaching sirens.
Hell!
The clerk must have activated a silent alarm before grabbing the extinguisher. Or maybe the store had one of those smoke alarms that automatically contacts the fire department when it goes off.

“Run!” yelled the Conductor, motioning at the Switchman this time.

The Switchman, who'd been waiting by the pumps, began running before even turning his head.
Screech! Thunk!
He plowed right into a car that had been headed toward the pumps, doubling over the hood. Fortunately, the car was one of those tiny Fiats. A pistachio-green one. Not big enough or moving fast enough to cause life-threatening injuries.

A petite woman with curly blonde hair leapt from the car, leaving the keys in the ignition and the door open. “Oh, my God!” she cried. “Are you okay?”

Smokestack was on the woman in an instant, shoving her aside and slipping into the driver's seat. “Get in!” he hollered.

A hand on his injured knee, the Switchman limped around to the passenger door.

The Conductor froze for a split second.

Should he get in the car? Or take his chances running off on his own?

On foot, he'd likely be apprehended in mere minutes. But if he got in the tiny clown car he still stood a chance—
however small
—of getting away scot-free. He dashed to the car, lifted the back hatch, and dove inside, pulling himself over the seatback just as Smokestack punched the gas and took off with the hatch door sticking up in the air.

Screeeeeee!

Chapter Nineteen

Drive Me Crazy

Megan

Brigit stood directly behind me, breathing down my neck on the entire drive to Vogel's place. Thanks to her moist breath, my dark hair bun was now frizzy around the edges and smelled like fried chicken parts.

Lovely.

Vogel lived in a first-floor apartment at a mega complex on University Drive. I parked my cruiser in front of his building, and Detective Jackson and I climbed out.

She rang his bell twice—
ding-dong ding-dong
—and knocked three times—
rap-rap-rap
—but nobody came to the door. “Looks like he's out,” she said.

“Probably looking for a new job.”

She gestured to the window flanking the door. “Let's see what we can see.”

We sidled onto a grassy patch next to his porch, a common area shared with the apartment next door. Stepping as close to the prickly holly bushes as we dared, we peeked through his mini-blinds, which, though fully lowered, were tilted at an angle that allowed a partial view into the interior.

A peek through the window revealed a blue sofa facing a wall-mounted TV and a single end table with three drawers. Filling the rest of the living room, and leaving precious little space to maneuver, was what appeared to be a ping-pong table converted to a base for an extensive model train display. Multiple plastic and wooden buildings were situated facing one another, forming an old-fashioned Main Street behind which ran two rows of track marked with the standard yellow warning sign—a large black X in the center separating two R's on either side. Miniature people stood about as if frozen in time on their way to purchase bread at the bakery, have lunch at the café, or buy socks at the five and dime. A neighborhood of adorable Victorian houses sat off to the left of downtown, a white poodle frisking in one yard, a calico cat traipsing through another. A white water tower lorded over the entire display, large black letters on the side proclaiming the name of Christopher Vogel's idyllic town: Serena, Texas.

“Poor guy,” I said. “He really had it bad for her.”

Jackson took a step back. “It's hard to envision a guy who plays with toy trains robbing a bank.”

Hard to envision him getting laid, either. Not that I was
trying
to envision such a thing.

Though many considered model trains nerdy, I had to admit I found the little people and buildings and scenery cute and quaint. My father always set up his old train set at Christmastime so that it ran in circles around Mom's miniature snow-covered village. It wouldn't be Christmas without the sound of Dad's train making its rounds and eventually derailing when one of Mom's tabbies wreaked havoc on the city like a feline Godzilla.

The detective pulled out one of her business cards, scribbled “Call Me” on it with a ballpoint pen, and wedged it between the door and frame.

We returned to my cruiser, where we attempted to do online what we'd failed to do in reality. Find Christopher Vogel.

I pulled up his Facebook page and scanned his recent posts. “I don't see anything on here indicating where he might be today.”

Though Vogel hadn't posted anything to clue us in on his whereabouts, he'd made dozens of posts in recent weeks. One dated two months earlier included a photo of a trophy that featured a gold-plated antique train engine. The engraving on the plate affixed to the base read FIRST PLACE 2015 HO SCALE DIORAMA COMPETITION. There were also dozens of posts with photos of him and Serena. The two of them smiling as they raised full glasses of beer at a bar, a neon Coors Light sign illuminated on the wall behind them. A full-length photo of Serena holding the roses Chris had given her for Valentine's Day last month. An off-center selfie of them at the turtle pond in the botanical gardens. The caption for that one read:
Do I have the best girlfriend ever or what?