Paw Enforcement 02 - Paw and Order (22 page)

“So the thieves are targeting women who might be slightly inebriated and thus less aware of their surroundings or less able to put up a fight.”

“Looks that way.”

“You should follow up on any purse or jewelry thefts involving female suspects,” she suggested, “whether or not the crime took place in a restroom. There may be something else that ties these crimes to others.”

“Like maybe thefts that took place at large public events?”

“Yes, or at places where the victims would be drinking and could be more vulnerable, easier to rob. Bars and restaurants and nightclubs and such.”

I made a few quick notes.

“Is that all you've got?” she asked.

I shrugged. “The only other clue is that the accomplice on the crutches wore cute boots. A tan and pink pair the first night and a black and turquoise pair last night. The victims seemed to pay more attention to the boots than the woman wearing them.”

“Two pairs?” Jackson raised a brow and cocked her head, a gesture clearly intended as a nudge. “Sounds like she might have a boot fetish.”

“The boots could be a key, couldn't they?” I thought aloud.

“Possibly,” she said. “Of course a lot of girls wear those colorful boots, especially to the rodeo.”

“But if I can figure out where she bought them, I might be able to identify her.”

“It's a long shot,” Detective Jackson said, “but you never know what might pan out.”

I thanked her, rousted my napping partner, and stood to go, motivated by my newfound plan of action.

*   *   *

After meeting with Detective Jackson, I returned to my apartment. The first thing I did was go to the laundry room to wash the dirty clothes I'd slid under the table earlier in the day and promptly forgotten about.

As I riffled through the basket, I noticed all of my panties and bras were missing. “What the hell?”

Had the hippie taken them?
There was probably a good chance of it. Frankly if his disgusting, slimy fingers had touched them I didn't want them back. I'd have to burn them.

I sorted the items that remained into the empty washing machines, scooped powdered detergent into the tubs, and inserted six quarters into each machine to get them started.

While my laundry churned in the machines, I returned to my apartment. I grabbed my laptop and sat down at the folding card table and single chair that served as my dinette set.

The first thing I did was search the police reports and criminal records for female purse and jewelry thieves. This time I left out the terms
drugs
and
bathroom,
which, of course, brought up even more records than last time. There were far too many to sift through.

I sat back in my chair to think. Lisa had guessed the thief to be anywhere from eighteen years old to her mid-twenties. Why not pare things down by eliminating any suspects over the age of thirty? Refining my search cut the number of reports by two-thirds.
Good.

Next, I eliminated any records that were more than three years old. This decision was based more on practicality than logic. I simply didn't have time to go through several thousand records.

I was left with 354 records. A manageable number given that it took me only ten seconds or so per record to determine whether it seemed potentially relevant.

A great number of the police reports and convictions involved thefts occurring on the job, where a woman stole a coworker's purse or jewelry from a desk or locker. I quickly tossed those suspects out. The MO felt too different. Those thieves had targeted people they knew in relatively private places, whereas the thieves I sought targeted strangers in public places.

By the time I'd skimmed through dozens of reports, I'd found a couple of interest.

The first was a felony record involving two women named Cheyenne Wembley and Mackenzie Purdue. Cheyenne had been a waitress at a local sports bar until their arrests a year ago. According to the reports, she would distract the bar's female patrons with witty banter and free nachos while Mackenzie, an old high school buddy, would slip past the tables, snatching purses off the backs of chairs while the victims were distracted. The two had been caught when another customer noticed Mackenzie stealing a purse. When Mackenzie was arrested, she'd squealed like a stuck pig, telling law enforcement that Cheyenne was in on it, too. Evidently, though she'd been literally caught holding the bag, she wasn't willing to go down alone, not when she'd shared the spoils with her friend. According to my research, though the two had received probated sentences, Mackenzie had recently been rearrested and was awaiting trial in Houston. Cheyenne, however, still lived in the area.

The second report that caught my eye involved a young woman named Mia Clarke who'd been arrested for stealing jewelry at a nail salon. The victim had taken off her wedding ring, engagement ring, and diamond tennis bracelet to get a hand massage and manicure. Mia had stepped over, feigning interest in the nail color the woman had chosen, and had scooped the woman's jewelry into her hand. The woman had immediately noticed that the jewelry was missing, chased the young woman onto the sidewalk, and tackled her. An unknown accomplice waiting at the curb in a getaway car had sped off. Unlike Mackenzie, Mia didn't squeal on her friend. Mia had served a month in jail and paid a $500 fine.

A glance at Cheyenne's and Mia's mug shots told me they were both blond, though Cheyenne's color appeared natural and Mia's appeared processed. Their driver's license data put Cheyenne at five five and 125 pounds, and Mia at five six and 130 pounds. Fairly average sizes. I printed out their mug shots and driver's license photos, and entered home addresses for them into my phone. I'd soon be paying each of them a visit.

When I finished reviewing the criminal records, I searched for boot and western-wear stores in the Fort Worth area. Of course there were dozens of places to buy boots in Fort Worth. The city was Cowtown, after all. But while most stores sold only a limited selection of basic styles, there were several that carried more extensive lines. Luskey's. Maverick Fine Western Wear. M. L. Leddy's. The Justin Boots outlet store. Cavender's Boot City. Shepler's in the nearby city of Arlington.

Luckily, many of the stores showed photos of their inventory online. I used up an entire ream of paper and every ink cartridge I had on hand, but I was able to print out the pages depicting the boots. With any luck, these printouts would lead me to the thieves.

 

TWENTY-SIX

YOU STINK

Brigit

As Megan patrolled the stock show grounds, Brigit took advantage of the fact that her partner was distracted to snuffle around on the ground, grabbing up the occasional errant food scrap that someone at the event had dropped or tossed away. A small piece of beef gristle. The rounded end of a hot dog bun. A greasy, sugary bit of funnel cake. After making sure that neither her partner nor the child's parents were watching, she'd tugged a soggy salted pretzel out of the hands of a toddler who was sitting in a stroller, gumming it. Fortunately, the kid was too surprised to cry until after Brigit had eaten the evidence of her crime and moved on.

As they continued around the grounds, Brigit's nose detected a cacophony of competing scents. Her superior olfactory senses and advanced brain were able to distinguish them all. Her nose told her that Clint had ridden by on Jack not too long ago. She could scent both Clint's shaving cream and Jack's horsey smell. Near the midway, the smell of lemon-scented disinfectant attempted, unsuccessfully, to mask the stench of vomit expelled by someone who'd had no business getting on the Tilt-A-Whirl after eating a full platter of barbecue and potato salad. Her nostrils also discerned the faint notes of women's cologne, the same two scents she'd detected around the stock show's bathrooms last weekend and last night.

Whoever wore those scents had returned.

 

TWENTY-SEVEN

POTTY THEFT

Robin Hood

The evening news was on in her tiny apartment as she boiled some linguini noodles and sautéed the shrimp she'd bought at the grocery store last night. She wasn't much of a cook, but she figured if she tossed in some crushed garlic and lemon juice she could improvise a shrimp scampi. Besides, she needed to eat something other than chocolates. She'd opened the heart-shaped box at breakfast and made her way through a dozen pieces, including a milk-chocolate-covered caramel, a coconut crème, and a cherry cordial. If she wasn't careful, she'd end up with thick thighs and a fat ass and her chances of becoming a trophy wife would be over.

The small TV screen filled with an image of the big-busted reporter with Creamsicle-colored hair. What was her name again? Trish something-or-other? She was dressed in a stupid pink-banded cowboy hat, pink scarf, and pink fringed jacket, looking like a life-sized Barbie doll. Robin Hood didn't like this woman. She seemed pushy and full of herself. Then again, Robin Hood was nothing if not tenacious, herself. Perhaps she had more in common with the reporter than she'd like to admit. She'd never be caught dead in such a tacky outfit, though.

She had just picked up the remote to change the channel when the camera panned back, showing the reporter standing next to the two women whose purses and rings she and Heather had taken last night.

Uh-oh
 …

“It was a busy night at the rodeo,” Trish said to the camera. “And not just for cowboys and cowgirls. Thieves were at work, too, catching unsuspecting victims with their pants down.”

Trish turned to the women next to her. “Can you tell the viewers what happened here tonight?”

The tall, auburn-haired woman went first. “I'd just come out of the bathroom stall when one of the thieves attacked me. She pulled a pillowcase over my head, shoved me up against the wall, and stuck a gun in my back. I was scared to death! She grabbed my purse out of my hand and then wiggled my wedding band and engagement ring off my finger.”

The other woman, the curly-haired one with the impossible-to-pronounce last name, spoke next, telling virtually the same story. “I couldn't see out of the pillowcase. It was like one of those thriller movies. I thought they might shoot us and leave us for dead on the bathroom floor!”

Robin Hood rolled her eyes. The worst she and Heather could have done with the lipstick tubes was give the women a forced makeover.

Trish went on to say that one of the thieves appeared to be a young woman with short blond hair. Apparently the women must have gotten a glimpse of her before the pillowcases were secured. “We can only hope that Fort Worth PD will catch this ‘potty' thief.” Trish grinned at the camera is if proud of her crappy pun.

Well, if the cops were looking for a short-haired blonde, they wouldn't find her tonight. Robin Hood dug through her closet until she found the Jessica Simpson brand clip-on hair extensions she'd bought a few weeks ago at the Sam Moon accessory store. The extensions were a color called chocolate copper. The dark color brought out the blue in her eyes. Not bad, even if the extensions were synthetic. She'd worn them on Halloween along with a belly dancer costume. She'd leave the costume and finger castanets at home tonight, though.

There had been no mention of the ATMs in the news report. Looked like the victims were not aware how she'd chosen them, that she'd followed them from the cash machine.
Good.

Two hours later, pulling her peacoat tighter to combat the evening chill, she stepped up beside a tree where she could keep an eye on one of the outdoor ATMs. Her sisters, who had been trailing behind her, stopped at a nearby food stand and purchased churros and lemonade.

As Robin Hood eyed the cash machine, she spotted that dark-haired female cop and her furry dog. She'd seen them around the stock show grounds several times. Hard to miss a dog of that size. The damn thing was ginormous.

Tonight the cop and dog seemed on high alert. The officer scanned the surroundings as if looking for someone.
Is she looking for the thieves? Did she know that Robin Hood had followed her victims last night after they'd withdrawn money from one of the ATMs?

Though she wore the dark hair extensions, she nonetheless felt her heart flutter in fear. If the cop came close enough, she might be able to tell the cheap things weren't real and realize the hair was a disguise.

Better get the hell away from the ATM.

She texted her sisters as she stepped away from the tree.
Nosy cop. Abort mission.

She continued around the grounds, noting other police officers hanging around near the other money machines.
Damn!
A couple of them glanced her way as she passed, but none showed any signs of recognizing her.

As concerned as she was about the police presence, she hadn't come to the stock show tonight and paid the entry fee to go home empty-handed. She ducked down the alley between two of the cattle barns and placed a call to Crystal's phone. “The ATMs are all being watched,” she said. “Change of plans.”

*   *   *

A half hour before closing time, she tilted her head and smiled up at the scrawny, beady-eyed, hook-nosed guy she'd been dancing with for the past hour. “How about the two of us get out of here?” She punctuated her words with a teasing quirk of her brows.

She didn't have to ask him twice. He grabbed her hand and pulled her out the door, releasing his grip only to take a quick peek into his wallet, apparently checking to see if he had a condom.
Dumbass.
If this sleazeball thought she would sleep with him he needed to have his head examined. The only thing in his wallet that she was interested in were those bills she'd spotted when she'd been behind him in line at the bar earlier in the night.

They continued on, heading out to his pickup in the parking lot, her sisters coming along a hundred feet or so behind them.
Think Ryan Gosling,
she told herself as she backed up against the fender of the man's truck and reached out to pull him up tight against her. She put her mouth to his, fighting the urge to retch as the tip of the man's beer-coated tongue seemed to be taking an inventory of her teeth.
Upper molar. Lower molar. Two bicuspids
 …