Upholding the Paw (11 page)

Derek stepped up beside us with the blonde in tow. “The guys who started the fire and robbed the place stole this woman's car.”

“What kind of car is it?” I asked her.

“Fiat 500,” she said. “A 2013 model.”

“Notify dispatch,” Jackson told Derek. “Tell everyone to be on the lookout. And make sure they get the chopper back in the air. There's no telling what these fools might do next.”

It was true. The clerk could have died in the fire. The men on this crime spree were out of control. I felt tension in the center of my forehead. We needed to find these guys and put an end to their reign of terror.
Now.

While Derek obtained the license plate number for the woman's Fiat and used his radio to report the stolen car, Jackson and I stepped up to the door of the store and took a look around. There wasn't much to see except smoldering remains and a sooty, wet floor.

Jackson glanced up at the corner over the cash register. Fortunately, while most of the store was in smoldering ruins, the security camera appeared to be intact. “I hope that camera got some good footage. Somebody knows these guys. If we run a clip on the evening news, maybe someone will give them up.”

We stepped back outside.

Jackson angled her head at the fire truck. “I'm going to speak to the clerk, figure out who I need to contact for the camera footage.”

As she stepped away, I spotted a plastic lighter on the ground near the gas pumps.
Could it be the one the arsonist had used to start his fires? Had he filled the bottle right here at the pumps?

I snatched a paper towel from the dispenser mounted on the support beam, wrapped my hand in it, and retrieved the lighter from the ground, holding it up to the sun. The backlight showed that only a small amount of fluid remained in the device.
Hmm …
Though the guy had worn mittens today and would not have left fresh prints, it was possible when he'd used the lighter previously his hands had been bare.

I checked the pumps to see whether the arsonist might have filled the bottle with gasoline here in the parking lot. Sure enough, the pump facing the street showed the last transaction totaled a mere twenty-three cents and a tenth of a gallon. Just enough to fill a twelve-ounce beer bottle. The paper receipt still hung untouched from the dispenser, displaying the last four digits of a credit or debit card number.

I ripped the receipt from the printer, hurried back over to the doors of the store, and held it out to Jackson. “It looks like they filled the beer bottle at pump three.”

She took the paper tape from me and glanced down at it. “They used a credit card. More likely than not it's a stolen one, but it might give us a trail to follow.”

“Check this out, too.” I held the lighter up, careful to keep the paper towel between the plastic and my fingers. “I found it by the p-pumps. It could belong to the guy in the frog hat. The fluid is nearly used up so the lighter isn't new. Think he might have touched it without gloves when he used it before?”

“Good eye, Luz,” Jackson said. “We'll have the techs check it for prints.” She took the lighter from me. “You get back out on the streets, see if you can find these guys before your shift is over. I'm going to hang around here until the store owner comes 'round. One of the evening officers can give me a ride back to the station when I'm done. I'll see that they get up to speed on the case.”

“All right,” I conceded. “Thanks for t-taking me with you today.”

She offered me a nod. “Always good to have a smart cookie like you along as a sounding board.”

I returned to my cruiser and pulled out of the lot. As much as I was looking forward to the margarita and some Seth-time, I had to admit I felt disappointed. It had been a crazy, chaotic day, but I'd hoped it would go out with a bang, not a whimper. I'd hoped to catch the bad guys, not merely trail along helplessly behind them. And I knew that once the day was over the case would belong fully to Detective Jackson. She could justify having me tag along with her today, but tomorrow I'd have to be back out on my beat, writing traffic tickets and responding to noise complaints rather than playing her protégé.

I turned onto Vickery and headed west, cruising along, keeping an eye out for a green Fiat, my thoughts on the bank robbers.
Who are they? What's their common thread? Are they friends of Grant Dawson? Three hardened criminals who'd met in prison? Three out-of-work men who'd met in line at the unemployment office? A barbershop quartet whose fourth member needs money for an organ transplant?

If only I could figure out what their connection was, maybe I could figure out who they were and solve the case.

I continued on, my nose detecting the scents of meat cooking at the Railhead Smokehouse a block over. The place capitalized on its proximity to the train lines, its name a nod to the nearby rail yard. Its logo featured a cowcatcher, like the one on the front of the steam engine of the Grapevine Vintage Railroad, a tourist attraction that made runs between the Fort Worth Stockyards and the neighboring city of Grapevine. I'd ridden the train a time or two with my family. You got three younger brothers, you end up on trains.

Brigit must have smelled the meat, too. She lifted her nose in the air and sniffed.

“Sorry, girl,” I told her. “No time for barbecue right now. But I'll give you big spoonful of peanut butter when we get home. How's that sound?”

She wagged her tail, letting me know a spoonful of peanut butter sounded just great.

As I approached the rail yard that ran alongside and beneath parts of Vickery, I spotted a round yellow sign, the standard warning sign with the oversize X separating two R's.

But wait …

If the sign were split horizontally down the middle, each side would contain a black capital R, one inside something that looked like a less-than symbol, the other inside a greater-than symbol.

Holy crap!

The R on the bank robbers' demand note had been cut from a printed picture of a railroad sign! And that plastic tube we'd found on the bus—it could be the smoke pipe from a model steam engine!

Chapter Twenty

A Howling Good Time

Brigit

Her partner made a fast left turn into the Vickery rail yard, and Brigit slid across her platform.
Weeeee!

“Hang on, girl!” Megan called back as she braked the cruiser to a quick stop in the gravel-strewn lot.

Brigit could tell Megan was excited. She was breathing rapidly and pecking away at her laptop like her fingers were on fire.
Click-click-click-click-click.

Brigit had no idea what her partner was doing, though she'd heard her mention the word
Facebook
several times today, so it was possible she was looking at that site again. If there were such a social media platform for dogs, it would be called
Buttbook
and dogs would post pics of their hindquarters, tails raised. Gender options would include
male
,
female
, and
neutered/spayed
. Relationship statuses would include
stray
and
part of a pack
. Dogs, of course, would be interested in men or women. Gender was irrelevant. They'd have a relationship with any human who would give them good food and a warm bed. Canines would post about dead squirrels they'd manage to catch, a new toy they'd been given, other dogs they'd humped, holes they'd dug.

Brigit's ears pricked as she detected the
clackety-clack
of a train approaching the station. The conductor laid on the horn.
Toot-tooooot!

Why not join in?
She raised her head, opened her mouth, and let loose with a howl.
Awoooooooo!

Megan shushed her when a dispatcher came over the radio. “Stolen Fiat spotted on Henderson heading northbound from Myrtle Street.”

Her partner grabbed her mic. “Officer Luz and Brigit responding!”

As Megan floored the gas pedal, Brigit dug her claws into the carpeted floor of her enclosure to try to maintain her balance. She looked through the windshield.
Where were they going? Would there be a foot chase?

She wagged her tail hopefully.

Brigit was ready to take a bite out of crime.

Chapter Twenty-One

Round and Round

Smokestack

As he sped away from the convenience store, Smokestack shoved a hand down his pants, tugged the bank bag from his underwear, and tossed it to the Switchman in the passenger seat. “Split that up. Then we'll bail and go our separate ways.”

The Switchman unzipped the bag, dumped the bills onto his lap, and hurriedly began to separate them into stacks, fumbling with his gloves on.

The Conductor stuck his head between the seats. “Hurry up!”

“I'm going as fast as I can!” The Switchman barked. “It's not easy with these damn gloves.”

When the Switchman finished counting out the bills into three equal piles, Smokestack reached over, grabbed his share off the Switchman's lap, and tucked it into the pocket of his jeans with his Zig-Zag rolling papers and the steam train engine. Or what was left of the engine, anyway. The chimney had come off at some point and fallen out of his pocket.

He scanned the street ahead, looking for a place where they could ditch the car.

WHUP-WHUP-WHUP-WHUP-WHUP.

Shit!
He looked out the window. The police helicopter swooped into place to hover in the air above them.

The Switchman put his hands on either side of his head. “We're screwed!”

Smokestack mashed the gas pedal to the floor and careened out of the lot. The helicopter had a bead on them, following as they raced north up Henderson
.

“Stop!” hollered the Conductor from the tiny back seat. “We need to make a run for it!”

Smokestack began to slow down. Though the chopper was on them, street patrols had yet to reach them. If they bailed out and ran in different directions, the chopper would be able to trail only one of them. There was a chance two of them could escape. He only hoped one of the two would be him. He realized, however, that the odds weren't in his favor. Too much dope and too many donuts had made him pudgy and slow. The others were in far better shape.

Woo-woo-woo!

He eyed the rearview mirror to see a FWPD cruiser gaining on them from behind. “Aw, hell!”

He punched the gas, only to find himself speeding toward another cruiser heading down Henderson from the north. He braked and banged two furious fists on the steering wheel. “Dammit!”

With Trimble Tech High School blocking them on the right and Harris Hospital on the left, there was no way out.

Or was there?

Chapter Twenty-Two

Ramp It Up!

Megan

Woo-woo-woo!

There it was! The little green Fiat! Just a block away and headed right toward me, the police helicopter hovering in the air above it. There was no way they could escape now.

I threw a victorious fist in the air. “We got 'em, Brig!”

My partner barked in excitement.
Woof-woof!

Flashing lights came up Henderson from the south, the sound of the second cruiser's siren blending with my own.

I quickly gained on a sedan whose driver had yet to yield.
Blurgh!
What part of
woo-woo-woo
did he not understand?

The Fiat veered over the yellow center line and the sedan's brake lights ignited. The threat of a head-on collision finally got the driver's attention.

I jammed on my brakes, my cruiser stopping mere inches from the other car's back bumper. Tires squealing, the Fiat turned in front of the car and entered the Harris Hospital parking garage. Looked like these guys had no plans to give themselves up without a fight, something they had in common with Phillip Gunderbaugh.
Is he one of them?

Looking over my shoulder, I threw my cruiser into reverse and backed up a dozen feet. I turned to face the front, shoved the gearshift into drive, and began to pull around the sedan only to find its driver starting to move forward.
Oh, for the love of God!
I grabbed the microphone for my public address system. “Pull to the curb!” I yelled.

The driver finally obeyed, easing over to the right to get out of my way.

Derek's cruiser barreled down on the entrance from the other direction, but I wasn't about to let him get in before me. The two of us nearly collided in our haste to enter the garage. Luckily, my front bumper had a few inches on his. I pulled into the lane, stopped to grab a ticket, and sped through the instant the gate lifted. Derek drove through on my tail.

I drove as fast as I dared up the first three levels, keeping a sharp lookout for the Fiat. Derek trailed behind me, our sirens echoing off the concrete walls of the structure. Lest I cause permanent hearing loss to people in the garage, I cut off my siren. Mackey took my lead and did the same, though we both left our lights flashing.

When we reached the fourth floor, I grabbed my radio mic. “Mackey!” I called. “Go down and cover the exit!”

For once, the guy didn't argue with me.

“I'm on it.” He broke off at the next ramp, heading down instead of following me up.

I continued round and round, circling all the way up to the uncovered parking on the roof but finding no evidence of the Fiat. I grabbed my radio mic again to contact the chopper. “Has the Fiat left the garage?”

“No,” they replied, the
whup-whup-whup
sounding in the background. “Haven't seen anyone leave on foot either.”

Good. The bank robbers were still inside the garage.

Having reached the pinnacle, I began to circle down. I was on the third level when Derek's voice came over the radio. “Found the car! Second floor.”