1 Dog Collar Crime (20 page)

“Luce, those stun guns are dangerous.”

The sun poured over his black dress pants and grey zip-up jacket as he sat on the scooter with his feet planted on the driveway. Damn, he somehow managed to make a scooter sexy. Even when he irritated her. “Relax. It doesn’t even generate an amp. I can’t kill anyone with it.”

“How comforting.”

“Darn tootin’.” Lucie hit the throttle on the scooter and zoomed by him.

After walking the girls, they headed to Lincoln Park and Mamie, the ever-regal Labradoodle that in a truly bizarre way reminded Lucie of her mother. Mamie was one of those animals that never got flustered. The world could be collapsing around her, but she’d trot without a care.

“Buddy is next,” Lucie said. “Joey will meet us at the downtown Rizzo’s after that for lunch. Then you can head to your office and Joey will take over.”

“You’re keeping on schedule. Maybe you need to make your own how-to video. We’ll call it
Poop on Demand
.”

Again with the humor? A regular funny man today. “All the dogs—well, Otis is a challenge—but the rest know I’m serious. When I say poop, they do it. I learned that from the guy on Discovery Channel.”

Frankie snorted. Obviously, he found it amusing that she watched Discovery Channel.

The sound of scooters pulling into the driveway sent Buddy, the Wheaton Terrorist—er Terrier—into a barking frenzy. His little head bobbed up and down in the back window, and Lucie cracked up. She took a moment to breathe in and enjoy the moment of peace. The dogs were always happy to see her. That alone made this job worth doing.

She parked her scooter and held a hand to Frankie. “Let me take care of this. After your last encounter with Buddy, I don’t want him getting agitated.”

Frankie dragged his helmet off. “All that howling he’s doing is calm?”

“He’s a puppy. He’s energized.”

“These pants are Calvin Klein. I’ll kill the little bastard if he goes after them.”

Poor, poor Frankie with his designer pants. “Just stay out of his reach and you’ll be fine.”

Lucie entered the house through the back door and took the immediate right to the laundry room, where a gate kept Buddy contained. The over-anxious puppy greeted her by diving at her feet and licking her shoes. She bent low and patted his rump. “Good boy. Yes. I know you’re hungry.”

Then he peed on her foot.

Urine seeped through her canvas sneakers and soaked her socks
. Ew.
“Outside,” she said in a loud voice. The dog flopped onto his back. Clearly, the potty training hadn’t kicked in yet. “Okay, Buddy. You just tinkled on me and that’s not a good thing.”

With the urinating out of the way, she might as well feed him before his walk. She dumped his food into the bowl and, while he ate, she wiped up the errant pee, and pulled off her shoe and wet sock. Poop baggies sat on the dryer by his leash, so she grabbed one and stuck her wet sock in it before sliding her shoe back on. The wet shoe abraded the top of her foot and she curled her toes under to relieve her mind of puppy pee against her skin. Just, ew. She would have to stop somewhere and buy another pair, because the idea of walking around with pee on her all day gave her a rash. Literally.

Buddy finished his lunch, planted his butt and barked.

“I guess we’re ready.”

When Lucie bent low to secure his harness, Buddy, thinking it was playtime, shot to the corner of the oversized laundry room hoping for a chase.

Lucie sighed. “Buddy, we have work to do.”

“
Erf! Erf!
”

Time to call in the big guns. She sat on the floor, stared at the ceiling and waited. Dogs hated to be ignored. The eventual
tap-tap-tap
of nails on tile alerted her to movement and—
voila
—he was at her side. Slowly, she moved her hand over his back and rubbed. “Good boy, Buddy.” She wrapped her arm around him, while continuing to tickle his belly.
Gotcha.

“You little stinker.” She slipped the harness on and secured it. “Good boy!”

Assuming they were done, Buddy jumped on top of her and the frantic slapping of his warm tongue against her cheek made her giggle. “Off, Buddy.”

To his credit, he planted himself on the floor and let her attach the leash.

A minute later, he took one look at Frankie through the open door and charged. Unfortunately, he ran out of running room on the nylon leash and it snapped him to a halt.

Wussie boy Frankie stepped back. “What took so long?”

“He peed on my foot. I cleaned it up while he ate.”

Frankie made an ick face.
Yeah, with you on that one, pal.
Just part of the job, Lucie mused as Buddy fired down the steps snarling at Frankie. He backed up another inch.

She laughed. “You’re afraid of a three-month-old puppy?”

“His teeth are ice picks.”

Screeching tires from the street lurched Lucie’s heart and she spun to peer down the alley. Nothing. Too jumpy. Buddy, sensing the tension, barked and she bent low to pet him.

“Let’s hit it,” Frankie said.

He took two steps into the alley and a man the size of Cleveland flew from behind a tree. What the—“Watch out,” Lucie yelled, but the man landed on Frankie’s back and Buddy went insane tugging the leash to join the mêlée.

In one fluid move, Frankie flipped the guy off him and the dog leaped and barked and growled.

The assailant scrambled to his feet, rammed his shoulder into Frankie’s belly and tackled him. Frankie’s body moved through the air, crashed to the ground and his head—
no
—bounced off the pavement, the cracking sound carrying like a splitting coconut.

Panic flicked at Lucie. She opened her mouth, but her chest froze and she stood there, gagging on trapped air. She loved this man and someone dared—
dared
—to put their hands on him.
Bastard
. She had to fight. Had to help Frankie.

The redheaded attacker looked no older than thirty years old. He was big, not fat big, but his frame carried extra weight in every available spot.

He could crush her.

A howling inside her head hammered. The bad guy stepped toward her just as Buddy lunged for the leg of his pants. Oh, no. Not the dog.

“No, Buddy.” The puppy clamped onto the guy’s calf.

“Argh! Get this dog off me.” He reached down and sent his beefy hand across the dog’s back. Buddy yelped. An immediate spewing of hate consumed Lucie. How could he hurt a defenseless puppy?

Buddy came surging back. The idiot attacker didn’t realize Buddy thought this was some sort of twisted game.

Frankie rolled to his side and levered himself up. Still on all fours, he kept his head low.

Stun gun.

Lucie reached into her bag for the device and flipped the juice switch.

The attacker hollered when Buddy clamped onto his hand.

That had to hurt. The feisty puppy wasn’t giving up. She only had a few seconds before the attacker struck Buddy again. But if she shot from this distance, the probes from the gun might hit the dog. She moved closer.
God, please don’t let me miss
.

She glanced at Frankie, about to stand tall. The attacker could have killed him. Anger swelled inside her and a guttural roar flew from her throat.

She jammed the device into the attacker’s back and pressed the trigger. The probes flew, but her hand stayed still. No recoil or kick. Amazing. A
rat-a-tat-tat
clacking noise filled the air and she flinched from the shock of it, but held tight to the gun.

The attacker arched back, his face a mass of agony. “AGGGHHHHHH!”

The shattering wail resembled a bad Chewbacca audition and he collapsed to the ground. Buddy, clearly wanting to join the fun, clamped onto his leg again.

Lucie slammed her eyes shut as the screaming inside her head raged on. No. She couldn’t waste time. The probe only lasted thirty seconds. She needed to move.

She opened her eyes. “Off, Buddy.” The dog backed away, tilting his adorable little head at her and she scooped him up. She swiveled to Frankie, now moving toward her with the steel-edged look of a warrior on the hunt. “In the house,” she yelled.

But Frankie beelined for the Chewie wannabe.

Lucie jumped between Frankie and Chewie. “Forget him. You’re hurt. Get in the house.”

Chewie grabbed her ankle, and Frankie gave him a solid kick to the ribs. “Hit him with the stun gun again.”

She still had the gun in hand, but she hadn’t reloaded the cartridge and didn’t want to take the time. “No. In the house.”

Frankie, being Frankie, gave the guy another kick. “Stay away from her. Got it?”

Grabbing his shirtsleeve, Lucie pulled him toward the house before Chewie got his second wind. Buddy yelped with glee over the excitement and nipped at her chin. “Stop, Buddy. No biting.”

With her heart banging around inside her, Lucie slammed the door behind them, threw the bolt and sent Frankie through the laundry room so she could barricade the dog.

Frankie rubbed the back of his head. “Call 9-1-1.”

She glanced out the door and saw the man get to his feet and take off down the alley. “Forget it. He’s already down the street.”

“Dammit.”

Lucie held up two fingers. “How many?”

He focused on her fingers, but said nothing.

“Wrong answer. You’re going to the hospital.”

“I’ll be fine. It’ll be another concussion.”

“Yeah, and what about all those people that don’t go to the hospital and wind up dead from one of those hematoma things?”

“It’s an epidural hematoma. Bleeding between the brain and the inside of the skull. Trust me. I know.”

“Yeah, well. You’re going to the hospital.”

* * *

“She blasted him?” Joey stood next to Frankie’s hospital bed doing his damndest to hide a smile. But when he looked over at her, Lucie saw the mischief in his eyes. Maybe, Lucie thought, she wasn’t a goodie-two-shoes after all.

Frankie nodded. Very slowly. “Fried him good.”

Despite her best efforts, she grinned. Why not? She’d done well today. Gave that dognapper something to think about. “I zapped him once. Knocked him on his butt.”

Anticipating the ER doc’s return with Frankie’s CAT scan results, Lucie checked her watch. “You sure the dogs had a long enough walk?” she asked Joey.

“Everyone took a dump. Even Otis.”

“Really?”

“I’ve got the touch with him.”

Frankie scoffed.

“It’s true,” Lucie said. “I can spend an hour trying to get him to poop and Joey steps up and—
boom
—he just goes. It’s crazy. Even Mrs. Lutz is surprised.”

Joey shrugged. “It’s a dominance thing.”

Frankie laughed, but immediately brought his hand to his head. She kissed his forehead. “Just rest.”

The neckline of his hospital gown slipped and she gave it a light tug into place. She flattened her palm against his chest, felt the heat of his body through the gown and suddenly wanted to curl into bed with him, nurse him to health in her own way.

What was wrong with her? The poor man was injured and her mind was sliding into the gutter. But having him back in her life affected her, made her realize how much she’d missed him during their break-up and how much she didn’t want to lose him again. Somehow, they had to make it work.

She cleared her throat.

“Was Buddy wearing one of your collars?” Frankie asked.

He just wouldn’t give up. “Don’t worry about it now. You need rest.”

“I’m fine.”

Dug in. She knew it. Might as well not aggravate him. “No. He has one, but he didn’t have it on.”

“And yet, they still tried to boost him.”

Joey shrugged. “Seems to me these guys know who your accessory clients are. They’re picking them off one by one.”

How very comforting. “I think the dognappers took that spreadsheet that’s missing. That’s how they know my clients. They’re four for four with picking the right targets.”

She turned to Joey, her movements halted.

Equipped with excellent instincts, her brother drew his eyebrows together. “What?”

God, how to do this. He might tear the place apart, but she had to ask. “Remember I asked you about the spreadsheet?”

“So?”

“Did you have any friends over that would have taken it?”

Frankie blew out a breath and eased his head against the bed. He knew what was coming. He just didn’t have the strength to get into the middle of a Lucie-Joey smackdown.

“No.”

Joey’s big body filled the room with an energy that became cold and hateful and made her feel small, so small.

Frankie lifted his head. “She’s only asking.”

“Yeah, because
my
friends are the losers who would steal a dog to get a collar.”

“Knock it off,” Frankie said, getting a little loud.

“Why don’t you ask your boyfriend if he took the spreadsheet? He’s my friend. You trust him, but not your own brother? After I’ve busted my butt to help you? Well, find someone else to clean up your messes.”