Sneak Thief (A Dog Park Mystery) (7 page)

D
esiree was sitting
at her station when Lia arrived at the scoring center the following Monday. The swelling had gone down around her eye and the bruise had faded to a psychedelic yellow mess with green and purple blotches. She wore a skin-tight top the same virulent fuchsia as her bra from the park debacle. Lia wondered if she
wanted
people to recognize her from the YouTube video.

Desiree avoided meeting Lia's eyes and even the appearance that she was aware of Lia's presence. Ted came in after Lia. He turned around to drape his jacket over the back of his chair. “You look mighty pretty in pink, Desiree,” he said.

“Thank you, Ted. You're sweet to say so.”

Blushing, Ted busied himself with his computer.

Eric came by, handing out work folders. He caught Lia's eye, then darted a glance at Desiree in question. Lia shrugged one shoulder and rolled her eyes. Once everyone was settled in, she leaned over and whispered to Desiree, “Did you get my message Saturday?”

Desiree hissed, “I don't see what the big deal is. People video stuff all the time. I just think you're jealous.”

“Why would I be jealous?”

“That camera wasn't focussed on
your
tits. That's because he couldn't find them, even with a zoom lens. I bet a microscope and a backhoe wouldn't help.”

Lia's jaw dropped. She snapped herself face forward, catching the tail end of a smirk on Avery's face as he walked by.

W
hy did he do it
? He'd never shared any of his women before. The Watcher sat in darkness, turned away from the sightless silver faces of his tiny populace, all attention on his YouTube page. Desiree's brawl with her friend had over 11,000 hits, with new views every time he refreshed the page. And he still didn't know what the fight had been about.

He wanted to share his magnificent warrior woman with the world. Proud, beautiful, ferocious, she was an Amazon queen. It was the crass comments, hundreds of them, that upset him.

Should he delete it? Not from home, that could be traced. Rage grew as he continued clicking through the foul, lurid comments.
How dare they! Defilers!
His mind screamed to respond, flame them all.
Not good, not good. Not now. It can be traced. Maybe later?

He calmed. He could compose his response, upload elsewhere from a flash drive. He hunkered over the keys and set to work.

L
ia's shifts
at Scholastic were conducted in an arctic silence that had her wondering why she and Desiree didn't both get hypothermia. Eric shook his head frequently as each pretended the other did not exist. After two days he stopped suggesting that they confer with each other before either of them called him over for a scoring decision.

Desiree's shirts got tighter and skimpier as the week went on and the YouTube hits climbed. She stopped wearing a sweater at her station, despite the over-active air conditioning vent. Lia could see goose flesh on Desiree's arms, if she bothered to look in Desiree's direction. Which she didn't. At least, not very often.

Desiree's creepy foil menagerie grew, spilling off her tower, onto the table the women shared. She cooed over them as she set them out each day, showing them off to Ted . The rest of the team seemed oblivious to the drama, as people kept their conversation to their scoring partners. Lia wondered why Avery never said anything about the aluminum clutter. It wasn't like Scholastic encouraged people to personalize their stations.

Lia struggled to keep her focus while maintaining the Mexican standoff.
So Desiree turned out to be a little trollop without a lick of sense. So what. It's her life. If she likes having some weirdo stalk her as if he's her personal paparazzi, that's her business.

Terry was entertained by the situation, seeing it as a prime example of cultural anthropology and female psychology. He kept mental statistics on the percentage of flesh Desiree showed each day in relation to the number of YouTube hits the video received, and felt Lia should, as an artist, take some interest in the color-coordination or lack there-of, of Desiree's bruise with her clothing. He talked about writing a paper on his conclusions once the impasse was resolved.

Bailey skipped mornings at the park now that her busy season was in full-swing. Other friends now had day jobs or were away on trips. Lia would not, could not, call Peter. She saw Peter's neighbor, Alma, most days, and caught her giving Lia a puzzled look more than once.

She was lying on the sofa with Chewy on her chest, tugging his ears when Peter finally called. She put her hands around his head and waggled it back and forth, then let it go. Chewy snapped playfully at the air while she waited for the answering machine to click on.

“Lia, I don't know if you're there or not. I guess it doesn't make any difference. Shutting me out is no way for an adult to act, and it's no answer to our problems. If you want to talk, we'll talk. I'll see Asia with you, if you want. But I'm not going to chase you down this time. You know where to find me.”

Chewy continued to snap at her hands, though Lia was no longer paying attention. How was she supposed to explain herself when she didn't understand anything except that she hurt? How could she tell Peter what she wanted when she didn't know? She buried her hands in the Schnauzer's overgrown coat, blinking moisture out of her eyes.

Lia had always enjoyed solitude before. Now she felt alone.

B
ailey and Lia
finally caught up with each other for a late breakfast at the Blue Jay. A Northside staple for more than 50 years, the diner had dark brown panelling and big booths conducive to private conversation and leisurely meals. Lia was reviewing the menu when Bailey arrived, with grass-stained jeans and bramble-scratches covering her long, pianist hands, her swing of red hair tucked under a faded bandana.

Sarah, one of two waitresses who worked at the diner, came with tall glasses of water. Bailey drank half the glass before she set it down.

“Do you ladies know what you want?” Sarah asked.

“I don't know why I bother looking at the menu,” Lia said, laying down the laminated sheet. “I always get the same thing. Spinach and feta omelet with rye toast. Water is fine.”

“I'm starving. Eggs over medium, wheat toast, Jacob Special on the potatoes. Ice tea to drink.”

Sarah gone, Bailey leaned over the table. “Okay, out with it.”

“Out with what?”

“Last week you said Peter was out of the picture and you didn't elaborate. I haven't been able to catch up with you since. It's driving me crazy. What happened between you and Detective Hottie?”

Lia sighed. “I just don't know, Bailey. Peter knew Desiree from his investigation into Luthor's death. He failed to tell me about her, even after I met her at Scholastic and started hanging out with her.”

“No!”

“Yes. And it gets worse. He had my necklace made at the shop where she works and it never occurred to him that it would bother me. She said she helped make it.”

“Ouch!”

“Yeah, ouch.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don't know. So I'm taking a time out.”

“That's such a guy thing, you know? Not thinking it mattered.”

“Yeah, why should I care if she had her grubby little man-stealing hands all over his love-offering to me?”

Bailey snorted a laugh. “Well, she didn't exactly steal Luthor, she only borrowed him. And you didn't exactly want him at the time.”

“That's beside the point.”

“What's really bothering you about this?”

“Being blind-sided isn't bad enough?”

“It is, but I know there's more. Have you talked to Asia?”

Lia scoffed. “Like I have time for therapy with my schedule? I thought about it, but I just can't fit it in right now.”

“So tell me. That's what friends are for.”

Lia ran both hands through her hair and considered her words. Their food arrived and she used eating as an excuse to stay silent. Finally, she said, “Luthor died because of me. I thought I'd dealt with it, but Desiree brought it all up again. I'm feeling raw. How do you fix something like that?”

“Oh.” Bailey pondered this while she chewed her eggs. She pointed her fork in the air for emphasis.

“I have a different take on it.”

“Okay, let's hear it.”

“You met Luthor at the park, right?”

“Right.”

“If you hadn't started dating him, would he have stopped going to the park?”

“Probably not.”

“If you hadn't started dating him, would he have still been the same narcissistic, lying wastrel that he was?”

“I guess so. What are you getting at?”

“Bucky liked to target people she felt contempt for, right?”

“Right.”

“She didn't kill Luthor to get him off your back, no matter what she said. She did it because she wanted to. Were you dating any of the other people she targeted?”

“Well, no . . .”

“Luthor still would have landed on her radar, just by being who he is. She may have used you as an excuse, but it was really all about her. No other reason.”

“I don't know, Bailey . . . .”

“Look, if she had asked, would you have ever said, ‘I want Luthor dead'?”

“Of course not.”

“Exactly. It wasn't about you. It was
never
about you. But I don't think that's what's really going on.”

“Oh?”

“Don't get your back up. I've just noticed that you take every little excuse to push Peter away.”

Lia gaped, speechless, her mug halfway to her mouth.

“Lia, he's not your father. He's not Luthor, He's not anyone else you've ever been with in a relationship. Why are you hanging their baggage on him?”

“I'm not—“

“Sure you are. Stop sputtering. If Luthor had pulled a stunt like that you would have rolled your eyes and moved on. So why are you so hard on Peter when he doesn't measure up?”

Lia set down her coffee mug. She stared at the fake walnut paneling, seeing nothing, blinking as her eyes watered up and threatened to spill over.

“It never mattered with Luthor. I never loved him.”

Bailey leaned back in the booth, took a sip of coffee, let Lia process what she'd just said, waiting until her friend had her emotions under control.

“He's not your father.”

“You already said that.” Lia spoke to the remains of her omelet. Her voice was small.

“Scares you, doesn't it?”

Lia choked out a whisper. “It freaking terrifies me.”

“So, are you going to forgive Peter?”

“I don't know, Bailey. I hate it when he doesn't tell me stuff. Every time we have a problem, it's because he decided, in his infinite male wisdom, to keep something from me. How can this ever work if he's going to let me be blind-sided like that?”

“Promise me you'll talk to Peter about it.”

“I will, I just have to get my head straight first.”

Bailey squeezed Lia's hand and gave it a shake.

“There's hope for you yet, Anderson. Anyway, I had something else I wanted to talk about.”

“Oh?” Lia latched onto the change of topic gratefully.

“I had Trees trace the video,” Bailey said, referring to the hacker who was her long-distance boyfriend.

“Really? What did he say?”

“Inconclusive. The video was uploaded at the Westwood Branch Library. Chances are Desiree's stalker logged onto their wi-fi. Trees says he may have done it from his car. Did you know he posted a rant a few days ago? That came from the library, too.”

“I've been avoiding YouTube and Terry just checks the number of hits it gets. Do I want to know what he said?”

“It was bizarre and kind of poetic. He called Desiree his green-haired Aphrodite and said the Philistines making crude comments about her weren't fit to lick the dung off the bottom of her sandals.”

“Wow.”

“You get to be a goddess, too. He wasn't specific about which one. Just something about how viewers should ‘tremble in awe,' being privileged to witness a ‘war between goddesses.' Or something like that.”

“Sounds like a non-starter.”

“Mostly. But he probably lives near the library.”

“That's Terry's neighborhood. Maybe we should ask him to walk around looking for empty Reynolds Wrap boxes on garbage day.”

“I know it's not much,” Bailey apologized.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't be cranky with you, you did what you could and I didn't even ask you to get involved. It's going to be a moot issue after tonight.”

“How so?”

“The current project is ending. The next one won't start for a couple weeks, and I may not even be in the same room with Desiree. As far as I'm concerned, it's her issue, and she doesn't want my help.”

P
eter stared
at the phone like a terrier waiting for a rat to emerge from it's hole.

“You should practice that look, brother, and use it during interrogation. It would kill all our suspects and we'd never have to take another case to court,” his partner, Brent said, sitting his sharply suited hip on the far edge of Peter's desk, the edge away from vintage coffee rings and assorted mystery stains. A southern transplant, Brent's voice whispered of mint juleps and magnolia trees. “What did that phone ever do to you?”

Peter shook his head and exhaled audibly in self-disgust. “Every time Lia's upset, she runs away and won't talk to me.”

“You drew the line in the sand, brother. You need to stand behind it.”

“Some creep secretly videotaped her, and I have no idea who it is. He's still out there.”

“You did what you could. Cynth traced the file upload to the Westwood Library. That's miles from Northside. We know he's not likely to live in her neighborhood.”

“That's something.”

“Lia's a big girl, she knows how to dial 911. And from that bruise on your elbow, it looks like she's not shy with her kubotan. Then there's that punch I saw her give Desiree. Damn, I sure wish she would have held off decking Desiree a little longer. That video is too brief.”

”You mean Desiree's shirt is too brief. I catch you drooling over Lia on YouTube, and I'll have to hurt you.”

Brent nodded at a musclebound officer entering the bullpen. “Lookie here. If it isn't Captain America. Wonder what he wants with Heckle and Jeckle.”

“Captain America. That's good,” Peter eyed the ex-marine chatting up a pair of detectives across the bullpen. He stood a head taller than his companions, and his build could only be the result of strenuous workouts.

“Think we should tell the new guy that his muscles are certain to squeeze out his brain if he doesn't stop eating factory farm chicken? I hear those birds are pumped
full
of steroids.”

“Nah,” Peter said. “If he's dumb enough to prefer big muscles and shriveled nuts, his brain isn't worth saving.”

“Well, it's nice that H and J have adopted a pet,” Brent offered. “I bet our large friend thinks H and J are slumming with a street cop because they recognize his potential and want to benefit his career.”

“I'm sure they recognize potential when they see it. Potential to benefit themselves.”

“Maybe it's for his willingness to confront a dangerous situation.”

“How so?”

“Rumor has it, he was following a car with a burned out bulb over the license plate the other night.”

“And?”

“It was near midnight, and he figures the guy is up to no good, maybe has body parts in the trunk or something.”

“Driving while black?”

“Nah, an Italian guy. Like Mafia. So he follows this car, trying to figure out what the guy's up to that he doesn't want anyone to know his plate number, and the car keeps heading north. After five miles, they're up past the 275 loop, and the road is turning into one of those two lanes where the there are no lights and the semis blow past at 60 miles per hour.”

“Great place to dump a body,” Peter said.

“Now he's afraid the car is driving beyond his jurisdiction, so he puts on his lights and blasts his siren, but the car keeps going. Not speeding or anything, just not pulling over. So Brainard sits on his ass and in a couple hundred yards, the car pulls into a parking lot for one of those huge corporate offices, one of the banks. He pulls right up under a light, one of those towering parking lot lights like at the stadium? It must have been thirty feet tall. ”

Brent paused, took a sip of Peter's coffee. Peter suspected it was a matter of drama more than a dry throat.

“Okay, I'll bite. What did Captain America do?”

“Our intrepid officer parks twenty feet away, gets out of his patrol car and draws down on the guy.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope. He takes a firing stance, and yells for the mobbed-up Italian hit man to get out of his car. The guy in the car starts screaming at him, to put the gun away. About that time, Heckle and Jeckle show up. Apparently, Brainard called for back up and they were coming back from an ‘adult venue,' one of those places out in the sticks with pole dancers.”

“Better and better.”

“No joke. So they drive up and see that he's holding a gun on this guy, who still won't get out of his car. So Jeckle calls to the guy and asks him why he won't get out, and he say's it's because Brainard drew down on him. And so he asks Brainard why he drew down on him, and he says it's because the guy wouldn't pull over. And then the guy says there wasn't a safe place to pull over on that stretch of road and he was coming here anyway. Now all this time Brainard is shaking like a blue-tick hound treeing his first coon.

“Finally, the guy agrees to get out of his car because he figures that he won't get shot with witnesses around, even though Brainard is still acting like a one man SWAT team. Heckle and Jeckle have removed themselves from the line of fire and are just shaking their heads. Of course the Italian guy is livid and is screaming right back at Brainard.

“Brainard tells him to assume the position, and it's no longer about checking the guy's license and giving him a ticket for the bulb, he's going to arrest him and take him in for interfering with a police officer. And the guy tells him it ain't gonna happen, and Brainard is still doing his macho thing, and he's got the driver up against the car, arm twisted up behind his back and cheek jammed into the side window. The guy says, ‘No, you aren't taking me in. Look up at the light.' Brainard says ‘I'm not taking my eyes off you, asshole. What the hell does a light have to do with anything?' and the guy says . . .” here Brent started snorting so hard he almost choked. “Just take a quick peek. See that little box? That's a security camera and I've got you on tape drawing down on me just because I drove in to work the midnight shift with a burned out bulb. What with the lights and sirens, I bet there's seventy people inside that building, lining up at the windows right now.”