Paw Enforcement 02 - Paw and Order (28 page)

I looked back up at Jason. “Any chance you saw what kind of car she was driving?”

He shook his head. “No. I started cleaning up right after she left the counter.”

Looked like I'd squeezed all I could out of this kid. “Thanks for your help.” I pulled one of my business cards out of my breast pocket as I slid the notepad back in. I held it out to Jason. “If she comes in again, give me a call immediately. Okay?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

As we stood, the manager I'd spoken with when I'd stopped by the store a few days ago stepped out of a back room and spotted me. He waved me over. “I got word from legal that I can show you the video. Would you like to see it now?”

“Absolutely.”

He took me back to his office and offered me his chair. Bending forward next to me, he pulled up the video feed but paused it. “I assume you'll want a copy of this?”

“That would be great.”

He slid a thumb drive into the computer and instructed the machine to copy the feed as it ran.

I leaned in and watched closely. Jason and another employee stood behind the counter, helping customers, making drinks, wiping down the equipment, snapping towels at each other's butts. Approximately thirty seconds into the feed, a pretty young blonde woman stepped up to the counter. Though the tape had no audio, it was apparent that Jason asked for her order. The girl bit her lip in a sensual, flirtatious way and said something back to Jason, no doubt her drink order. He punched buttons on the register, told her the total, and she handed him the stolen gift card. He looked down at the card then back up at the woman, his mouth moving again. She smiled and said something back to him. He ran the gift card through the machine and returned it to her, then picked up a paper cup and a Sharpie, holding the pen aloft. His lips moved again as he asked her name.

Her mouth formed
Robin.
But surely that was a made-up name, right? Perhaps her comment about Robin Hood was a clue, a hint about her motives for committing the thefts.
Is she some type of ultra left-wing socialist? Or just a young woman with an overdeveloped sense of entitlement?

The woman stepped back from the counter to wait for her drink. When it was ready, she took it and handed the three singles to Jason. He doffed a nonexistent hat in gratitude and she left.

Everything on the video jibed with what Jason had told me. And, unfortunately, it told me nothing new.

The manager stopped the feed, pulled the thumb drive out of the USB port, and handed it to me.

“Thanks,” I told him. “You've been very helpful.”

I stepped out of his office and made my way back through the store.

As I passed the counter, I raised a hand in good-bye to Jason.

“Want a doughnut to take with you?” he called.

“Why? 'Cause I'm a cop?”

“No. Because I'm about to throw out the ones that didn't sell.”

“In that case,” I said. “I'll take two.”

 

THIRTY-EIGHT

NOT HER FIRST RODEO

Brigit

On Thursday, Megan and Brigit had lunch with Seth and Blast at a deli near the fire station. Megan ordered her partner a platter of sliced lunch meat. Not bad, but Brigit would have preferred the entire roll of salami she saw in the refrigerated deli case.

Brigit could tell that seeing Seth made Megan happy. Her partner had showed her teeth a lot on the drive to the deli, and even more on the way after. Brigit liked it when Megan was happy. Her partner tended to be more generous with food scraps and more forgiving of Brigit's bad behavior when she was in a good mood.

Friday night, she and Megan were back at the rodeo. The deputy whom Megan had brought to the apartment last weekend was at it again, riding bareback on a horse that looked damn pissed off about it. As the horse spun and bucked, Clint hung on, his legs moving up and down in his fringed chaps. Brigit felt for the horse. It was like the poor thing had an enormous flea on its back and couldn't quite reach to scratch it.
Been there, done that.

As they set back out on patrol, Brigit got back to work, putting her nose to the air to scent for anything out of the ordinary. She smelled the usual food smells, the usual smells of the livestock. She even smelled the two colognes from those three women who seemed to be here every weekend. But her nose caught something else, too … a vaguely familiar scent … an odor that triggered a suppressed recollection from deep down in her memory banks …

Beer-scented sweat.

The ramen noodles and frozen pizzas the guy seemed to subsist on.

The dope he always had in his front pocket.

If Brigit had been capable of laughter, she would've broken down in guffaws.
Watch out, asshole. You're about to get some long overdue payback.

She tugged on her leash, pulling Megan into the crowd and after the scrawny guy and his friends. At first, Megan tried to hold her back. But when her partner realized that Brigit had scented drugs and was following the trail, she let Brigit take the lead, trotting after the dog as she weaved in and out of the crowd.

The stench grew suddenly stronger as she broke out of the horde.

There he is. Stepping into line at the corn dog stand.

Brigit bolted forward, ran around to the front of the guy, and sat, giving her passive alert signal. Her thoughts then were uniquely canine, but if translated to English would read:
Jig's up, numb-nuts!

“Holy fuck!” the guy said, bending down to get a good look at Brigit. “Is that you, Shithead?”

Megan stepped up next to Brigit and held up a palm. “Sir, my dog has alerted to drugs on your person. I'm going to need you to stand still and raise your arms while I pat you down.”

His eyes flashed in alarm and his mouth fell open. “Uhhh…”

It was the most intelligent thing Brigit had ever heard him say.

“Raise your arms,” Megan repeated, her voice more stern this time.

But the numb-nuts didn't raise his arms. Instead, he turned and took off running, as numb-nuts are wont to do.

Megan unclipped Brigit's leash and gave her the signal to take the guy down.

Gladly.

Six seconds later, the guy fell face-first onto the ground with Brigit on top of him. He squirmed under her, trying his best to throw her, just like the horses and bulls in the rodeo tried to throw their riders. But he had far less luck than the rough stock. Brigit was enjoying some sweet revenge and wasn't about to be thrown.
It's not fun to have something heavy on your back, is it?

Megan stepped up beside them. “Stop resisting my dog!”

Again, the shithead didn't listen.

“I told you to stop resisting my dog!” Brigit heard the snap of Megan extending her baton, the
swish-whap
as it came down on the guy's thigh.

The guy hurled a string of obscenities that had mothers covering their children's ears. “Fucking cunt cop! Get your dumbass dog off me! This is fucking police brutality!”

Another
swish.
Another
whap.
Cell phones were pulled from purses and pockets and record buttons were pressed.

Brigit sensed Megan stiffen, her resolve to give this ass the beating he deserved lost in the face of a potential brutality charge. But Brigit had no such qualms. She knew how she could cool this guy down really quick.

Her teeth still firmly clenching his collar, Brigit copped a squat on the guy's back and released her urinary sphincter.

“Aaaagh!” the guy shrieked. “Your dog's pissing on me!”

Though Brigit's former handler would have likely put a stop to the dog's bad behavior, Megan made no effort to pull Brigit off the guy's back, letting her completely empty her bladder.

Partnering with another bitch definitely had its benefits.

 

THIRTY-NINE

SHOCKING

Robin Hood

The balding man at the pawnshop held the gold diamond ring up to the light and scrutinized it through one of those little eyepiece things.
What are they called again?
Oh, yeah. A loupe.

He set the loupe on the counter. “This is a nice ring. High-quality diamond.”

“I know,” she said. “So I'll expect a good price.”

He chuckled before leaning in and giving her a scrutinizing look. “Is it hot?”

Robin Hood felt her face blaze.
How dare he accuse me of trying to pawn stolen property! What do I look like, a common thief?

Of course she
had
stolen the ring. But that was beside the point. She'd only taken it because fate had been unfair to her and someone had to even the score, right? Once fate got off her lazy ass and started giving Robin Hood what she was entitled to, there'd be no more of these petty crimes. Really, that kind of thing was beneath her.

“Of course it's not hot,” she spat. “I got divorced and I don't want the rings anymore, that's all.”

His brows quirked in skepticism. “You look awfully young to be getting divorced already. Didn't give your marriage much of a shot, did you?”

She glared at the man. “My private life is none of your business. Now how much will you give me?”

He stood up straight. “Two hundred for the set.”

She sputtered. “That's nothing!”

“The price reflects the risk I'm taking here. You don't have a receipt for these. How do I know they're not stolen?”

She grabbed the rings back out of his hand. “You just lost a good deal here, buddy!”

She'd sell the damn things on eBay or Craigslist. She'd probably get more for them anyway and at least she wouldn't have to put up with some asshole treating her like a derelict.

*   *   *

She'd chosen her quarry well tonight. A middle-aged cattle rancher who reeked of both prosperity and the spicy classic Calvin Klein Obsession for Men cologne. She'd caught his eye from across the room in the dance hall and gave him that practiced come-hither smile. A minute later, he'd successfully ditched his rancher friends and their wives and taken a seat at the table next to hers, close enough that he could chat her up, see if she might be interested, but not so close as to appear lecherous.

Her eyes cut to his left hand. No band on his ring finger, no telltale ring of pasty skin where a ring had recently been removed, and thus presumably no worries that someone would snitch to a wife back home. He probably just had the sense to realize his friends' wives would call him a dirty old man for hitting on a girl half his age. Of course his friends would placate their wives by agreeing with them, all the while thinking how they'd love to trade places with their rancher friend and bang a sweet young thing like her until their eyes crossed and their balls fell off.

Ha.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked as he took a sip of his beer.

“I was until my friend ditched me,” she said. “She hooked up with some cowboy.”

“Rodeo groupie?”

“The worst kind.” She rolled her eyes dramatically. “All it takes is a pair of chaps and spurs and her panties come off.”

The man offered a soft chuckle and cut an intent glance her way, a glance that said he was wondering what it would take to make Robin Hood's panties come off.

Shame he'd never find out.
He was attractive enough, and appeared to be successful enough, too, but the gold Robin was digging for would preferably come with a more sophisticated type of man. A younger one, too. She knew that riding a man's coattails would also mean riding his cock, and she'd prefer that cock to be perky and spry.

A waitress with a round tray came by their tables. “Can I get y'all anything?”

The man raised his bottle and looked in Robin's direction, lifting his chin in question.

“Coors Light for me,” she told the waitress. She didn't normally drink beer, of course, especially not the everyday brands sold at convenience stores and gas stations. But she needed to do her best to blend into this crowd and drinking beer seemed to be a good way to do it.

The woman scurried off to round up their drinks.

The man turned back to her. “May I ask your name?”

You may. But you're not going to get it.
“Robin,” she said without hesitation. She might not have a red breast, but the name worked just as well for a spunky redhead, which she was tonight thanks to another Jessica Simpson hairpiece.

“Robin,” the man repeated, as if committing her name to memory. “I'm Sloane.”

She fought a laugh. She'd pegged him as a Bill or a Bob or maybe even an Earl. Sloane sounded like a character from a soap opera or an action movie. “It's nice to meet you, Sloane.”

His lip twitched. “The pleasure is all mine.”

Yeah,
she thought.
It is.

They made small talk for a few minutes, and she learned he was a widower from the small town of Kermit out in west Texas. Oil country.

“What about you?” he asked.

“My friend and I drove down from Norman,” she said, referencing the city that was home to the University of Oklahoma.

“You a Sooner?”

“Sure am.”

“What are you studying up there?”

“Business.”

The part about attending college was a lie, of course, but Robin did consider herself a business student of sorts. To her life was a business, the ultimate goal to acquire more income and assets while investing the least amount of time and effort. Why give a hundred percent when you could find a sugar daddy to do it for you? Of course Sloane would
not
be that sugar daddy. She had no intention of playing grandma to a bunch of sticky-fingered children, and no way in hell would she move out to the sticks, especially not to west Texas where the air reeked of petrochemicals and dust storms were common. There was also no way would she live in a town that shared its name with what was assuredly a homosexual frog puppet. Why Miss Piggy kept chasing Kermit she would never know. Didn't that “Rainbow Connection” song he loved to sing give the pig a clue? If Robin lived on Sesame Street, she'd set her sights on the Count. He might talk with a goofy accent, but he did have a castle.