Laying Down the Paw (31 page)

Megan

Lucky me.

It was my weekend to work the night shift. I always had a hard time adjusting to the change in schedule. I'd managed to force myself to take a nap Friday afternoon by downing a dose of the ZzzQuil Frankie offered me, but, despite the nap, I'd still had trouble staying awake all night, especially with the heater running in the cruiser and the hypnotic sound of the wipers swishing back and forth as they wiped away the drizzle. Today, napping had been a little easier, tired as I was from the previous night's shift. But spending a Saturday night cruising the streets of Fort Worth was hardly my idea of the perfect weekend, especially when the Big Dick was also working the night shift.

Brigit didn't seem much bothered by the late-night schedule. No wonder. She slept through most of the shift, curled up on her platform in the back, Duckie lying next to her. It didn't make much difference to the dog whether she was on our bed at home or in the back of the patrol car. In fact, the white noise and vibrations of the patrol car seemed to lull her to sleep, as if she were a human baby.

On the bright side, Brigit and I had our K-9 cruiser back, the Barf-mobile returned to the fleet. And, while it was just as cold as it had been the night before, at least the drizzle had stopped.

Several times on Friday night I'd driven through the parking lot at the apartments where Gallegos and Duong lived, looking for the as yet unidentified muscly black guy and/or the curly-haired young man who'd been with the others at the looting. I'd had no luck. Here I was again tonight, cruising the lot. Still no luck. Nobody was crazy enough to be out in this cold.

The dispatcher came over the radio. “We've got a report of gunshots in Park Hill.” She rattled off an address on Winton Terrace West. “Who can respond?”

Before I could get to my mic, Mackey's voice came over the line. “Officer Mackey responding.”

It was no surprise he'd jumped on the call. Mackey thrived on risk, volunteering for the most dangerous calls, always trying to prove how macho and manly he could be. Of course chances were good that the reported noise wasn't actually gunfire. More often than not, such reports turned out to be fireworks or merely a car backfiring. I'd once taken a call regarding an alleged machine gun and found only a ten-year-old practicing a tap dance routine in a garage. I'd suggested she close the door next time so as not to alarm the neighbors.

A few minutes later, as I was heading south on Henderson, a northbound SUV passed me, its headlights off despite the late hour. I hooked a U-turn and trailed after him as he merged onto Interstate 30. I followed the car for three miles with my lights and siren on. The driver drove at a speed of only twenty miles an hour, probably thinking he was being very careful. In reality, a car moving at such a sluggish rate on a freeway could be dangerous, too. Other drivers wouldn't expect someone to be going so slow and could easily crash into him before they realized how slowly he was going. Hence, the posted minimum speeds.

Finally, the guy seemed to notice me behind him, his brake lights illuminating. He pulled his SUV over as he went under an overpass, the right side of his car scraping against the concrete wall as he rolled to a stop.

I turned off my siren and spoke to the man on my public address system. “Turn your car off.”

There was a
craaaaagh
sound as the car's engine protested the man's attempt to start the already running motor.

I sighed and spoke through my mic again. “Turn the key
toward
you.”

He had better luck this time.

I requested backup from dispatch, knowing this guy would be going to jail. The only question now was whether he'd be one of those goofy drunks or a belligerent one.

I checked my side mirror for oncoming traffic before getting out of the cruiser. When the road was clear, I stepped out and walked up to the car.

A thirtyish man looked out at me from the driver's seat, his expression dopey, his movements slow. “Why'd you pull me over?” he asked through the glass.

“It would be easier to have this conversation,” I rapped a knuckle on the closed window, “if you rolled this down.”

With unintentionally exaggerated movements, he raised his index finger, placed it on the control, and pushed the button. The window slid down.

“Why'd you…” He trailed off, as if he'd lost his train of thought for a moment, but then he found it again. “Why'd you pull me over?”

“I'll give you three guesses.” Hey, if I had to work the crappy night shift, I might as well have some fun at it, right?

His brows lifted. “If I guess right do I get to make a wish?”

Goofy it is.

“I'm a cop, not a genie. Where are you headed?”

“Home.” He circled his arms in an outdated dance move. “I've been at a par-tay!”

This guy was much too old to talk like a frat boy. “Must've been some ‘
par-tay
'.”

“You know it!”

“I need to see your driver's license and registration, please.”

He reached behind him, nearly giving himself an atomic wedgie before managing to get his fingers around his wallet and pulling it out of his pocket. He held the entire thing out to me.

“I only want to see your license.”

“Oh. Okay.” He opened his wallet and began to thumb through it. “Hey, here's a picture of my girlfriend.” He held up a photo of a busty brown-haired woman wearing approximately two inches of clothing and ten pounds of makeup. He ran his eyes over my face and down my chest. “She's prettier than you.” He made a pinching motion with his index finger and thumb. “But only by a little bit. 'bout this much.”

“Gee,” I said. “Thanks.” The woman might be prettier than me, but if she was dating this idiot she was certainly not smarter.

He pulled a condom from his wallet next. “This is in case I … in case I meet a girl and get lucky.”

“I thought you had a girlfriend.”

He waved a floppy hand. “Only sometimes.” The condom slipped out of his hand and fell to the floorboard. He bent down to pick it up and banged his head on the steering wheel. “Ow!”

“Leave the condom on the floor,” I ordered. I wanted this guy's hands where I could see them. For all I knew, he could have a gun under his seat.

“Okay, okay!” he cried. “No need to … no need to yell. Jeez, you sound just like … just like my mother.”

“Do I now?”

“She was a great mom,” he said. “She used to … used to cut the crusts off my sandwiches.”

“When she wasn't yelling, you mean.”

“Right.”

He continued to riffle through his wallet, pulled out a white plastic card, and held it out to me. “Here you go.”

I took a look. “That's your health insurance card. See?” I pointed. “It says ‘Blue Cross Blue Shield' right there.”

“Oh.” He looked down at the card. “Yeah. I had a kidney stone once, you know. Hurt like a motherfu—.”

“Wonderful.” I made a circular motion with my hand, signaling him to speed things up here. “Your license?”

After showing me his library card, his Visa credit card, and his business card—
MARTINDALE'S MOLD REMEDIATION
—he finally managed to find his license. I took it from him and motioned to his glove box. “I need to see your registration, too.”

He opened his glove box and pulled out his owner's manual, an ice scraper, and a tire gauge before finding his registration. He held it out the window as my backup pulled to a stop in front of his vehicle. “Here ya' go. Hey, did I ever … ever get my three wishes?”

“If your wish was for Officer Hinojosa to haul you off to the drunk tank, it's about to come true.”

“Jail?” The man scowled. “But I only had one drink!”

“It must've been a big one.”

He used both hands to measure now. “It was yay big. 'Course my girlfriend kept refilling it.”

Hinojosa stepped up. My eye roll told him all he needed to know. He pulled out a penlight and shined it in the man's eyes. Sure enough, his pupils reacted slowly.

My coworker opened the man's door. “Step on out here, sir.”

The man attempted to slide out, only to find himself held back by his seatbelt. He unclipped it and emerged, wobbling on his feet.

Hinojosa snorted and gave the man a
can-you-really-be-this-stupid?
look. “I'll take it from here, Luz.”

“Thanks.”

While Hinojosa led the drunk to his cruiser and took him off to jail, I waited for the tow truck. Once the SUV was on its way to impound, I returned to my car and glanced back at Brigit. Her head was still down but her eyes were open now. “You're lucky you don't have to try to reason with these idiots.”

She merely took Duckie in her mouth, rolled over, and went back to sleep. Obviously she was already aware how lucky she was.

The Big Dick was back on the radio a moment later. “I need backup and an ambulance for two gunshot victims.”

Whoa.

Looked like the reported gunfire wasn't firecrackers or a tap dancer after all. Probably it was a robbery, or maybe an attempted murder-suicide that had somehow been botched. Whatever it was, it wouldn't involve me. By the time I'd grabbed my mic to respond, two other officers had already indicated they were on their way to the scene. Any more would just get in the way and leave the rest of W1 without coverage. Saying a quick and silent prayer for any innocent victims, I returned my mic to its holder and set back out on patrol.

The next few hours were typical. I issued two speeding tickets and one warning for a broken taillight. Took a report at a twenty-four-hour eatery involving a dine and dash. Pulled a busted mattress out of the intersection of Main and Rosedale.
For goodness' sake. Tie these things down, people!

After three o'clock, when most of the bars had shut down and the patrons had made their way home, I cruised through several of the apartment complexes near TCU to keep an eye on the after-party action. Couldn't hurt to let the college kids know the police were around to either keep them in line or provide assistance, depending on the circumstances.

As I was about to pull out of a complex, my eyes spotted a black van parked in the visitors' area. Although the inspection sticker was current, the registration was out of date. I pulled up in front of the van, turned on my flashing lights, and stepped out of the cruiser to take a look, taking my flashlight with me.

I turned the flashlight on and ran it over the side of the van. A local phone number and the words
ODD JOBS, YARD WORK, & HAULING
—
CHEAP RATES
were spelled out on the side in silver lettering, along with a phone number. Stepping up to the passenger window, I shined my flashlight into the van. The beam picked up a jar of peanut butter, a half loaf of wheat bread, and something shiny, black, and rumpled spread on the floor. Looked like a garbage bag.

Returning to my cruiser, I retrieved my roll of orange warning stickers. Brigit was standing on her platform now, her tail whipping side to side in excitement. There were a number of trees and bushes around the place. She probably smelled a squirrel out here, or maybe a possum taking a late-night stroll.

Woof! Woof-woof!

“Quiet, girl!” At this late hour, she better shut up or someone would be calling the police on
us
.

I peeled off one of the stickers, used a fine point black marker to fill in the date, and slapped it on the windshield of the van.
Smack.

Brigit was still standing when I returned to the cruiser again. There was little traffic at the complex this time of night, only an occasional resident pulling in, so it seemed safe to let her out of the car without leashing her. She probably needed to pee.

I opened the back door and let her out of her enclosure. With a jingle of her tags, she hopped down to the pavement and trotted over to the van. Her tail continued to wag as she sniffed around the side doors and circled around to the back. She barked again—
woof-woof!
—as if ordering the doors to magically open.

“That's it!” I hissed, swinging a pointed finger. “Back in the car!”

Only half obeying, she trotted back to the car, but took a detour into the bushes first for a quick tinkle.

“Loudmouth,” I muttered.

She gave me a look that was the canine version of
So? Sue me.

When my shift was finally over at 8
A.M.
, I returned my cruiser to the lot at the W1 station and loaded Brigit into my Smart Car. As I slid into my seat, Seth texted me.
Swimming at the Y. Meet me for breakfast?

I texted him back.
Keep swimming. I'll meet you there.

More exercise would be good for Seth. My plan to meet him at the YMCA had nothing at all to do with the fact that Seth had incredible shoulders, a nice chest, and tight abs, and that meeting him at the pool would give me a chance to ogle them.

Okay, even I didn't believe myself on that one.

But after a long night of dealing with drunks and diner dashes and disabled vehicles, didn't a girl deserve to ogle a little?

 

FORTY-SEVEN

GOOD BOY!

Brigit

Her partner could really be stupid sometimes. Didn't Megan realize the boy with the beef jerky was inside the van? Well, he didn't have beef jerky anymore, but he did have peanut butter. She could smell it. That stuff was almost as good as meat. It stuck to the roof of her mouth, but she didn't mind.

If Megan wasn't going to let her visit with the boy, Brigit supposed she might as well go back to sleep. These night patrols were sooooo dull. She spun around three times and flopped to the floor of her enclosure. Resting her head on Duckie, she exhaled a long, bored breath and closed her eyes.