Upholding the Paw (4 page)

Jackson held up a finger. “Did the hijackers rob the riders first? Make them hand over their wallets and purses? Jewelry?”

The bus driver shook his head. “No. They only seemed to be interested in the bus. I expected them to force me to drive them somewhere, but they ordered me off the bus, too. Next thing I knew, they'd closed the door and driven off.”

Jackson's head bobbed slightly as she took in the information. “What did the three men look like?”

“Hard to say,” the bus driver replied. “They were all wearing sunglasses and hats that covered their ears.” He cupped his hands over his ears to demonstrate. “Roomy jackets, too.” He lifted his elbows now to simulate a loose-fitting garment. “But I could tell that two of them were white. One of the white men was average size, but the other was short and chubby. The third man, the one with the gun, was black. A little on the tall and thin side.”

“Any guess as to their ages?” the detective asked.

The man squinted again. “If I had to guess, I'd say the black man was older than the others, maybe even middle age. But I couldn't tell you for sure.”

“Hair color?”

The man shrugged. “Couldn't tell. The hats covered their hair.”

“Facial hair?”

“None to speak of. The smaller white guy might of had a little reddish-brown stubble, but it all happened so fast it's hard to remember for sure.”

Jackson jotted some quick notes on her pad before continuing. “Any distinguishing marks, such as moles or scars or tattoos? Birthmarks, maybe?”

“None that I noticed,”

I chimed in now. “You said they drove off in the bus. Did they have a hard time handling it?” My personal ride was a Smart Car. I could hardly imagine driving something as large and unwieldy as a city bus, at least not without taking out a street sign or two.

“No,” the driver replied. “I couldn't tell which one of them was at the wheel when it took off, but whoever was driving handled it like a pro.”

Interesting.
The detective's arched brow told me she'd had the same thought.

She eyed the driver closely. “Do any of the drivers you know seem like the type who might rob a bank? Any of them having financial problems?”

“Nobody gets rich driving a bus,” he said. “Most of us are just making ends meet. But I can't see any of the drivers going so far as to rob a bank. That's pretty cuckoo.”

“People snap,” Jackson said with a casual lift of her shoulder. “They do things nobody would ever expect. I've seen it happen plenty of times.”

I'd seen this kind of behavior myself. I recently responded to traffic call in which a spurned woman intentionally T-boned her ex's pickup when she spotted him out on a date. Clearly, she'd acted on impulse. Otherwise she'd have realized her lightweight Prius was no match for a Ford F-150 SuperCab. Her entire hood crumpled like an accordion, while the truck had hardly a dent.

The driver glanced down at his watch. “Can I get that ride back to the station now?”

Jackson glanced around at the officers on site. “Mackey!” she hollered, waving him over. When he stepped up, she hiked a thumb at the driver. “Give this gentleman a ride back to the city bus depot.”

“Can't.” Mackey tugged on the waistband of his pants in his typical nut-juggling maneuver. “Gotta protect the crime scene. Get Luz to do it.”

Jackson arched another brow, this one incensed. “You aren't stupid enough to disobey a direct order from a superior, are you, Officer Mackey?”

Mackey had enough sense to look sheepish. “No, ma'am. It's just…” Seemingly unable to come up with a good reason why he shouldn't have to follow orders, he simply completed his sentence with a grunt and motioned for the bus driver to go with him.

As soon as Mackey was out of earshot, Jackson said, “That man is a pain in my ass.”

He was a pain in mine, too. But we had to tread with some caution. Chief Garelik considered Mackey his golden boy. Unless we wanted to get on the chief's bad side, we had to tolerate his pet officer.

As the
whup-whup-whup
of the approaching police helicopter grew louder overhead, Detective Jackson and I headed inside to interview the bank employees.

Chapter Eight

Dollars and Scents

Brigit

As her partner led her into the bank building again, Brigit raised her nose in the air and twitched her nostrils.

Wow. This place reeks.

She smelled the mentholated shaving cream, the adhesive, and the gasoline, bananas, and marijuana her nose had followed to the bus stop. Those odors were stronger here inside, where the building had trapped the smells.

Her sensitive nose also picked up the pine-scented cleaner the custodians had used to clean the floor, the sausage someone in the crowd had eaten for breakfast, a woman's vanilla body spray, and, of course, the smell of paper money and coins.

But by far, the most prevalent scents were human fear pheromones and adrenaline. Something had taken place here recently. Brigit didn't know what exactly, but whatever happened had been
big
.

Chapter Nine

Ring Toss

The Conductor

It might not be as sexy as the Batmobile or as technologically advanced as David Hasselhoff's KITT from that old
Knight Rider
TV show, but the Conductor felt like king of the world driving this stolen bus. No one was bossing him around now, telling him what he could or couldn't do. As he felt his dignity begin to return, his back instinctively straightened and his chin lifted.
He owned this damned road.

As he rounded a corner, a cell phone slid out from under his seat and across the floor of the vehicle.

Uh-oh. Who the hell does that belong to?

“Grab that phone!” he hollered.
Damn! Could the police track them through the phone? If so, he'd lose more than his recently regained dignity. He'd lose his freedom, too. Bank robbery and grand theft auto were probably good for eight to ten in the state pen.

The Switchman snatched the device from the floor. Without slowing, the Conductor pulled back on the lever to open the bus's door.
Whoosh.
A gust of wind blew in as he grabbed the phone from the Switchman's hand and hurled it out of the bus and into the bushes flanking the road.

Another
uh-oh
played in his mind. He stiffened and eyed the others in the mirror. “You hear that?”

Not only had the open door let fresh spring air into the bus, it had also let in the distant sound of a helicopter, a soft
whup-whup-whup
growing louder by the second.

The other robbers grew rigid, too.

Whup-whup-whup.

“The bus number is painted on the roof!” The Conductor's heart pumped a hundred miles an hour as he glanced furtively around, looking for somewhere he could pull in. He'd hoped to put a little more distance between themselves and the bank before leaving the bus, but he hadn't anticipated a helicopter. “We've got to ditch this thing! Now!”

Chapter Ten

Interrogation Room

Megan

Detective Jackson and I stopped in the center of the bank's lobby.

The detective scanned the faces in the room. “Who's in charge here?”

A fiftyish man in gray suit pants, a white button-down, and a striped tie lifted his hand. “That's me. I'm the manager.”

I followed Jackson as she walked over to him.

“Got a room where we can speak in private?” she asked.

The man lifted a palm, indicating a room at the end of a short hallway. “We can use the conference room.”

“Great.” Jackson turned back to the employees. “Don't discuss the incident any further until I get a statement from everyone.”

The bank employees murmured in assent.

The manager led us to the conference room. Jackson and I took seats on one side of the large oval conference table, while the manager sat down on the other. Brigit flopped down at my feet. I reached down and gave the back of her neck a nice scratch. It was a small gesture, less than she deserved and not nearly enough to show her how much I appreciated her. Having her by my side when I'd rushed into the bank earlier had made me less fearful and, without her leading me directly from the bank to the bus stop, it might've taken longer for us to figure out that the men who'd hijacked the bus were the same ones who'd robbed the bank. Dogs could put clues together that humans couldn't. They were amazing, actually. Superheroes who wore fur instead of capes.

Jackson placed her laptop bag and notepad on the table and swiveled her seat slightly to better face the bank manager. “Tell me what happened.”

The man raised his palms. “All I know is that I was sitting in my office reviewing last month's budget data when I heard a shriek from the lobby. By the time I stepped out of my office, the robbers were running out the door. I barely got a look at them.”

The detective twirled her pen in her fingers. “So everything you might be able to tell us would be secondhand information.”

“Right.”

“Do you know if the robbers went to three different tellers?”

“No. Just one. Grant Dawson. He was working the last window on the right, the one closest to the doors.”

“Got it.” The detective made a note. “Retrieve the security camera footage for me. And while you're getting that together, send Dawson in, would you please?”

“Certainly.” The man left the room, leaving the door ajar.

A moment later, a twentyish young man with chiseled features, perfect teeth, and amber waves of hair stepped into the room. He looked like a modern-day Prince Charming. All that was missing was the white steed and tight breeches. He smelled good, too. Some type of spicy, woody men's cologne. He wore the bank's standard teller uniform, rust-color pants with an ivory dress shirt embroidered with the Cowtown National Bank's longhorn steer logo.

“I'm Grant Dawson,” he said. “You wanted to see me?”

Jackson gestured across the table. “Please take a seat, Mr. Dawson. We have some questions for you.”

Grant slid into a chair and leaned back in a cool, comfortable pose, arms crossed loosely over his abdomen. The robbery didn't seem to have shaken him up much.
Hmm …

The detective launched into her questions. “The manager informed me that you interacted directly with the robbers. Tell me exactly what happened.”

“I'd just finished cashing a check for the geezer on the scooter when some moron stepped up to my counter. He was short and dumpy and wearing cheap plastic sunglasses and a goofy snow hat with eyeballs on top.”

“Did you recognize him?” Jackson asked. “Has he been in the bank before?”

“I don't know him,” Grant said. “Whether he's been in the bank before I can't say. I probably would've remembered someone wearing a stupid hat like that, but if he came in regular clothes he wouldn't have made an impression.”

“Okay. So he stepped up to your counter. Then what?”

“He handed me this note.” Grant reached into the breast pocket of his dress shirt, pulled out a folded slip of paper, and tossed it onto the table.

Jackson reached out, pulled the paper toward her, and used the tip of her pen to carefully unfold it. I scooted my chair closer to her to read the note. The words were spelled out in letters cut from magazines. The note read:

DEAREST DICKLESS,

GIVE ME ALL THE $ IN YOUR DRAWER.

P.S. PUT A DYE PACK IN THE BAG & I'LL SHOVE IT

SO FAR UP YOUR ASS YOU'LL SPIT BLUE.

Some of the letters used to make the note were printed on thick, glossy paper, the kind used for magazine covers. Others had been cut from thinner newsprint paper, the type often used for grocery store circulars. The letters also varied in size, color, and shape. A red uppercase D on a circular white background. A lowercase green G on a square gray background. A black upper-case R on a triangular yellow background with the point to the right. Thin black trim appeared along the edge of the triangle's upper and lower spans, as if the R sat in the center of a greater-than symbol.

“Dickless?”
The detective looked at Grant and raised a questioning brow.

He rolled his eyes and waved a hand. “That wasn't directed at me,” he said, as if the mere suggestion would be preposterous. “The guy probably came to my window because I had the shortest line.”

Jackson and I exchanged looks again before she returned her focus to Grant. “How many tellers were on duty this morning?”

“Three in the lobby,” he replied. “Two in the drive-thru.”

“How many were male?”

“Just me.”

“Yet you think the term ‘dickless' wasn't directed at you.” Jackson's words were more of a comment than a question.

Grant raised a nonchalant shoulder. “If it was, it doesn't fit.”

I made a note on my pad now.
Confirmed—Grant has a penis. Unconfirmed but suspected—it's tiny and overly manscaped.

Jackson tapped the end of her pen against her chin. “Was the guy wearing gloves when he handed you the note?”

“Mittens,” Grant said. “Mismatched ones. One was red and one was gray.”

Jackson made a note and continued her questions. “Did the robber who came to your window display a weapon?”

“Yeah,” Grant said. “He had a gun in the pocket of his jacket and he aimed it at me.”

“Did you actually see the gun?” she asked. “Did he remove it from his pocket?”

“No,” Grant spat. “But I wasn't about to risk my life for a few thousand dollars, especially when it's not even my money.”

Smart decision. Wannabe heroes often ended up hurt …
or dead.

“Tell me, Grant,” the detective said. “Who doesn't like you?”

He issued a snide snort. “Every other man on the planet. They know they can't compete with guys like me.”