Paw Enforcement 02 - Paw and Order (3 page)

The house, owned by one of the Lockheed Martin corporate executives, nestled on a lushly landscaped yard in the exclusive River Crest neighborhood west of downtown. A far cry from the trailer park she'd grown up in on the flat, treeless prairieland north of the city.

Applying for an administrative assistant position at the company had been the smartest move she'd ever made, a big step up from her telemarketing job. No more trying to sell solar window screens to people who had no idea what they were, couldn't afford them, or just weren't interested.
A smart homeowner like you won't want to pass up this opportunity. You'll save the planet and cut your cooling bills in half. There's absolutely no downside! We're running a half-price off-season special and can send someone out to measure your windows right away. How does five o'clock look for you?

Some had politely turned her down. Some had complained that she'd interrupted their nap or their dinner and asked, with varying levels of civility, to be removed from the call list. Others considered her unworthy of a single second of their precious time and simply hung up.

Click.

Click. Click. Click.

Although she knew she shouldn't take it personally, it was hard not to, especially when these cheapskates prevented her from meeting her quota and put her out of the running for an all-expenses-paid trip to Hawaii.

Given that she'd have her own desk and a chair to sit in, she'd thought the telemarketing job would be a step up from the retail sales positions she'd held before. But the job had proved to be just as menial, the clientele just as rude and condescending. After three months, she'd had more than enough and quit.

As she'd hoped, her new position at Lockheed Martin put her in contact with some of the up-and-coming junior executives at the company. The one lying next to her had certainly been both
up
and
coming
last night.

She slipped out of Evan's bed and slunk to his bathroom, opening his medicine cabinet in search of relief. She spotted aspirin. Tylenol. Jock itch ointment.
Ew.
At the back sat a bottle of Excedrin.
Ahh. That's the one.

She popped two pills into her mouth and washed them down with a glass of water from the faucet. Then she made the mistake of looking in the mirror.
Ugh.
Her eyes were crusty with sleep and mascara, her skin was ruddy, and her platinum-blond hair stuck up in every direction like a disheveled porcupine. No time to do much about all of that, but she couldn't very well hit Evan up for a couple hundred bucks with a raging case of morning breath.

She found a bottle of mint mouthwash under the sink and swished until it no longer felt like her tongue was wearing a sweater. Returning to the bedroom, she slid back into her black lace thong panties and bra. The silky red cocktail dress lay in a wrinkled heap on the floor. She slipped it over her head and shoved her feet back into her silver heels. She'd looked like a million bucks last night. Not too shabby for a girl who didn't have two nickels to rub together. She'd snagged the dress and heels at a five-finger discount on Christmas Eve when the store clerks at Nordstrom had been too busy to keep a close eye on the dressing rooms. She was like a modern-day Robin Hood—or should she say
Robbin'
Hood
?
—providing a vital public service, taking from the rich and giving to the poor. The fact that
she
was the poor was entirely irrelevant and made her efforts no less virtuous.

Sitting on the edge of the bed next to Evan, she put on her most helpless and beguiling face before gently rubbing his shoulder.

“Evan? You awake?” If he wasn't yet, he soon would be. She rubbed harder, fighting the urge to slap his cheek. Patience might be a virtue, but she'd never claimed to be
that
virtuous. “Evan?”

One eye popped open, eventually seeming to focus on her face.

“Sorry to wake you,” she said. “But I need to get going. I promised my mother I'd stop by to see her today.”

“Okay,” he rasped, his voice gravelly with sleep.

The ass made no move to sit up in bed, let alone offer her breakfast or see her out to her car, a clear sign this relationship had run its course. Fine with her. The sex had been mediocre at best and Evan's conversations tended to focus on his career, his golf swing, or his ex-wife, whom he was clearly still hung up on. That said, the relationship hadn't been totally without benefit. Evan could always be counted on for some quick cash. At thirty-seven years old with a high-level job and no family to drain his wallet, he had far more money than he had time to spend it. Besides, after the things she did for him in bed, she knew he'd feel like a total prick if he didn't toss some spare change her way. The line between sugar daddy and john could be blurry, but she didn't much care. Women had been using their bodies as a bargaining chip since the dawn of time, and she'd always seen their relationship as a business deal anyway.

“I hate to ask.” She ducked her head and looked down at her lap as if ashamed to be making the request. “But could you spare a couple hundred dollars? The electric company's threatening to turn off my mother's service unless she pays her past-due bill in full.”

“No problem.”

He sat up, reached for the pants on the floor next to the bed, and pulled his wallet from the back pocket. Opening it, he fished out ten twenties. She noticed that several bills remained. There'd been a time when he would have offered her everything in his wallet. Looked like that time had passed.

She took the money from him and bent over to place a soft kiss on his cheek. “Thanks. You're so good to me.” And good to her mother, who'd been confined to a wheelchair for years, ever since that car wreck. Or had she been hit by a bus? Train? Garbage truck? Oh, well. It didn't much matter anymore.

She stood, folded the bills, and slid them into the inside pocket of her purse. “Bye, Evan.”

His only reply was a soft snore.

 

FOUR

A COUPLE OF STALLIONS

Megan

On a cold but sunny Friday morning in mid-January, Brigit and I were cruising the streets of the Western 1 Division, or W1 for short, when my shoulder-mounted radio crackled to life.

“Officer Luz,” came the voice of the dispatcher. “Report to the chief's office at HQ ASAP.”

Uh-oh.

Getting called into the police chief's office was rarely a good thing. Last time Chief Garelik had summoned me was after I'd Tasered my former partner in the nards. My Irish temper had gotten the best of me but, hey, it wasn't like the ass hadn't deserved it. That lapse of judgment led the chief to team me up with Brigit. I'd been none too pleased at the time, but the alternative had been to turn in my badge. No way. I'd never make detective if I quit. I'd accepted my fate, partnered with the furry beast, and, well, here we were.

“On my way,” I told dispatch, hooking a
U
-turn in the specially equipped K-9 cruiser to head downtown. I glanced at my partner in the rearview mirror, our gazes meeting through the built-in metal mesh dog enclosure. “I hope we're not in trouble.”

She cast a look in my direction before turning back to the window to scout for squirrels. What did she care? Even if the chief canned me she'd still have a job.

I racked my brain, thinking over my actions the last few days.

Had I made a mistake?

Deviated from protocol?

I'd tossed a bag of Brigit's crap into a yard, but I didn't think anyone had seen me. The yard belonged to Richard Cuthbert, a jackass who'd hassled me when I'd issued him a citation for repeated water-rationing violations. The poop was a little street justice. I'd also caught a couple of thirteen-year-old girls egging a house, but let them go with only a stern warning when one of them began to cry. Four of the confiscated eggs ended up in spinach frittata. I'd scrambled the other two for Brigit. No sense in letting them go to waste, right? Still, using seized property for personal use was against department policy. Would the chief can me for skimming half a dozen eggs? What the cluck?

Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting outside the chief's office in an uncomfortable plastic chair, my K-9 partner lying at my feet.

The chief's administrative assistant, a middle-aged woman with brown hair and a pill-covered pink cardigan, sat at her desk typing on her keyboard. She pushed her intercom button to inform the chief of my arrival, then glanced my way. “You're quite the celebrity, Officer Luz. I've been fielding calls from reporters for days.”

After I'd taken down the bomber on New Year's Eve, the chief had contacted me, reminding me not to speak to the press. His admonishment was unnecessary. I knew the drill. The department employed an official public spokesperson who'd been extensively trained on handling the media. Besides, with my unpredictable stutter, I wouldn't take a chance on opening my mouth in front of a television camera. I didn't really want to be in the limelight anyway. I hadn't become a cop for attention. I'd become a cop to make the world a safer, more just, more fair place. Also for the ability to violate traffic laws with impunity.

I pulled my telescoping baton from my belt and flicked it open.
Snap!
Rotating my wrist, I twirled the baton in a basic flat spin.
Swish-swish-swish.
The motion and sound soothed me, leaching nervous tension from my body. Back in high school, I'd twirled with the marching band. Surprisingly, my baton skills came in handy on the beat, too. Who would've thought?

When the woman's intercom buzzed, she picked up her phone. As she listened, her eyes cut to me again. “Yes, sir.” She hung up the phone. “The chief's ready for you.”

I stood. “Thanks.”

Brigit padded along beside me as I stepped to the chief's door. Although he'd summoned me, I rapped twice nonetheless.

“Get in here, Luz!” boomed a voice from the other side.

I slipped inside, closing the door behind me. “Good morning, sir.”

The man wasted no time on niceties. “Sit,” he barked.

Both Brigit and I sat, Brigit on the floor, me on an imitation-leather wing chair. Brigit lifted her twitching nose, evidently scenting the various animal heads mounted around the room. A mountain lion. A sixteen-point buck. An openmouthed trout that appeared to be either gasping for breath or singing a silent opera.
Rigoletto,
perhaps? Chief Garelik must have spent a small fortune on taxidermy.

As for the man himself, he was bulky and broad, with hair the color of stainless steel. The visible veins at his temple and the purplish cast to his skin evidenced a severe case of high blood pressure and the threat of impending aneurysm. The bulge under his lower lip evidenced a generous pinch of chewing tobacco.

Two Diet Coke cans sat on the chief's desk. He took a sip from one, returned it to the desktop, and retrieved the other, spitting a gooey blob of chewing tobacco into it.
Puh-ting.

I fought a disgusted grimace.
Yick.

“I'm reassigning you,” the chief said without fanfare.

“What?” Panic rose in me and instinctively I stood from my seat. “What do you mean?”

“Good God A'mighty, Officer Luz.” He frowned and motioned for me to sit back down. “Relax.”

Easy for him to say. He knew what was coming. I didn't.

Was he planning on taking Brigit from me? He wouldn't do that, would he? I hadn't wanted a K-9 partner at first, but now I couldn't imagine working without her. She was smart and brave, with skills that gave me an edge over criminals. She was my special tool. Taking her from me would be like taking X-ray vision from Superman, the hammer from Thor, or the lasso from Wonder Woman. I would also lose my best friend. It would be like Betty losing Wilma, Thelma losing Louise, or Lucy losing Ethel.

“You and the dog,” the chief said, wagging a finger in Brigit's direction. “I'm sending you over to work the rodeo.”

I felt a momentary flood of relief, followed by irritation. The Fort Worth Stock Show and Rodeo, which went on for three weeks, was always crowded, loud, and rowdy. The hordes of people would make Brigit nervous, and I wasn't sure I had the patience to deal with a bunch of drunken rednecks. Still, arguing with the chief wouldn't score me any points. But even if I couldn't argue with him, I could still ask for an explanation, right?

I leaned forward in my seat. “May I ask why?”

“You two are famous,” he said. “It'll be good PR for the department.”

“PR?” What did the chief think we were, some type of police mascots expected to offer the rodeo attendees a cheerful smile, an autograph, and a photo op?

“Exactly. I need you two to make the department look good. The media's been slinging shit at us over that domestic violence issue.”

The “domestic violence issue” the chief had referenced involved an officer who'd recently shot his wife in the shoulder with his service revolver. The woman had survived, but only because the officer had been drunk at the time and fallen backward down a flight of stairs before he could get off another shot. Obviously, the screening process for police officers couldn't weed out every violence-prone wacko, but that wouldn't keep the newscasters from placing blame on the department for arming the man.

The chief took another sip of his drink before continuing. “The mayor's been up my ass about the stock show, too. It's a big event, brings lots of money into the city. It needs to go off without a hitch. That's more likely to happen if we have a solid police presence.”

I sighed inwardly. The last thing I wanted to do was work the rodeo. But I wanted to make detective in a few years and I'd only get there by doing my job to the best of my ability and keeping my complaints to a minimum. I tried to look on the bright side. At least I'd get a three-week break from the Big Dick, who also worked the W1 Division and was a constant thorn in my ass. “Yes, sir. When do we start?”