Paw Enforcement 02 - Paw and Order (32 page)

She took a look around. The place contained the usual dark wood found in many such bars, with the standard neon beer signs gracing the walls. The wide-horned head of a black-and-white steer was mounted on the wall over the bar, the beast appearing to be keeping watch over the crowd. Cowboy hats in a variety of colors adorned the upper part of the walls and continued across the ceiling.

She had arrived early enough to snag a seat at the bar, giving her a good vantage point from which to watch both the men coming in and those stepping up to order a drink, as well as giving her a bead on the band, which had just begun to set up on stage. She ordered a frozen margarita, then turned on her barstool, facing into the room, resting a crooked elbow on the bar behind her and angling herself in a backward lean so that her breasts would appear bigger and perkier. Having practiced in the mirror at home, she knew exactly how she looked.

Unattached.

Sexy.

Inviting.

With any luck, a man with a wallet full of cash would soon accept that invitation.
Répondez s'il vous plaît.
She chuckled inwardly. Sure, she might be an uppity snob, but her two sisters were nothing but stupid white trash.

Though a few men passed by with their wives or dates, their eyes responding to her invitation with sincere and lascivious regrets, it was a mere half hour later when the subtle summons she'd sent out was accepted. A bulky, thirtyish guy who'd been eyeing her from across the way sneaked up and grabbed the seat next to her when the woman who'd been sitting there paid her tab and moseyed.

“Hello, there.” He had sandy hair, friendly blue eyes, and a sociable demeanor. No cheap beer for this guy. He held a cocktail glass filled with dark liquid. Scotch, probably. Or maybe bourbon. But, more importantly, the hand that held the glass sported a gold nugget pinky ring. A shiny, expensive-looking TAG Heuer watch encircled his thick wrist. His boots also looked expensive. Instead of the usual leather, they were made of some type of exotic hide, ostrich, if she wasn't mistaken.

This could be my luckiest night yet.
If she could somehow manage to get the jewelry off this guy, she could sell it on eBay or Craigslist, too.

Her visual inventory complete, she returned his greeting. “Hi.”

She'd left her hair natural tonight. His gaze traveled down the blond locks cascading over her shoulders, traversed her pushed-up breasts, then made its way back up, lingering for a moment on her glossy lips as if he were imagining what things those glossy lips could do.

“I'm Sam Gunderson,” he said, extending his hand.

She took her hand in his. “Robin.” She glanced down at his feet. “Nice boots.”

“They're Luccheses,” he said. “Ostrich. Set me back eleven hundred dollars.”

He was obviously trying to impress her.
And impress her he had.
For God's sake, the guy might as well have said
If you're looking for some rich fool to rob tonight, look no further!
She tossed him a coy smile and a
tsk-tsk.
“You poor thing.”

He chuckled, took a sip from his glass, then slid her an assessing glance. “You alone?”

She lifted a shoulder. “I was supposed to meet a friend, but she texted me a little while ago and said she's not feeling well.” Robin Hood was as hard on this fictional friend as she was on her mother. “I'd already driven all this way and paid my cover charge. Figured I might as well stay and listen to the band.”

Sam raised his glass in a toast. “I'm glad you did.”

Their conversation was interrupted when the band's lead singer stepped to the stationary microphone and performed a sound check. “Testing. One, two, three. Testing.” An irritating squeal of feedback followed.

“Come here a lot?” Sam asked, turning back to her.

“On occasion,” she lied. She'd been to the White Elephant only once before. She much preferred the more sophisticated, trendier nightclubs in the neighboring city of Dallas. “How about you?”

“First time,” he said. “I'm from Macon, Georgia. Came to town for the stock show.”

She took a sip of her margarita. “You a cattle rancher?”

“Pig farmer.”

Uck.
Not exactly one of those careers a woman fantasizes her Mr. Right will have. An architect would do. Or a pilot. Any kind of doctor, of course. But a
pig farmer
? Still, there must be a lot of money in swine or he wouldn't be dressed the way he was. “You must do well,” she said, casting a meaningful glance at his watch.

“Shoot.” He snorted. “There's no money in pigs. I made my money in real estate.”

Real estate, huh?
If this guy owned valuable realty, maybe she would forgo trying to get that gold nugget ring off
his
finger and see if he'd put a ring on
her
finger instead. She hadn't yet given up on becoming a trophy wife and, pigs aside, this guy was reasonably attractive and age appropriate. Perhaps she should expand her range of acceptable candidates. And, hell, it's not like she'd have to stay married to him forever. A year or two should be enough to give her a sizable divorce settlement, right? If she decided to pursue this avenue, she could easily explain that she'd given him a fake name for protection. “You own property?”

“Some. When my father passed away, he left me fifteen acres in Rabun County, up near Dick's Knob.”

She choked on her margarita. “Did you just say
Dick's Knob
?” What kind of ridiculous, hillbilly name was that?

Sam chuckled. “It's a mountain.”

She blinked twice. “Good to know.”

Sam went on. “Dad used to take me hunting up there when I was little. We'd stay in this little shack he'd built himself. No electricity, no running water. Boy, we'd smell ripe when we got back home after those weekends.”

How charming.

He shook his head but smiled at the memory. “A developer approached me a few months back and offered me a shitload for six of the acres. They're going to build a resort and spa up there.”

The remaining adjacent property would only go up in value. This pig farmer could be sitting on a gold mine.

She raised her glass in a toast. “Congratulations on your windfall.”

He tapped his glass to hers and took another drink. “What do you do?” He leaned toward her, offering a flirtatious smile and a look that fell just short of a leer. “I'll bet you're a supermodel, aren't you?”

Could he be any more obvious?
“How'd you guess?”

What she did was none of his business. Besides, what she did was what she had to do to get by until her ship came in. She was beginning to wonder if the guy on the stool next to her just might be that ship. She could almost hear the foghorn.

Wee-ohh.

 

FORTY-SIX

A NEW MENTOR

Megan

I began my shift and strolled about the stock show grounds, twirling my baton as Brigit and I patrolled.
Swish-swish-swish.

Today, a local
ballet folklorico
group was performing on the outdoor stage. I stopped to watch them, enjoying the festive music, the colorful dresses of the performers, their graceful dance maneuvers.

When they finished, I joined in the applause and set back out to patrol.
Swish-swish-swish.
As I walked I tossed the baton into the air and caught it behind my back.

A woman wearing one of the stock show staff shirts rode up on her golf cart. “You sure are good with that baton.”

“Thanks. I twirled in high school.”

“We could use someone to fill in time on closing night,” she said, “while the judges are adding up the scores at the rodeo. Would you be interested? Or willing?”

It had been a long time since I'd performed in front of a crowd, and back then I'd been surrounded by a couple hundred members of the marching band. Still, it could be fun.

“So long as my supervisor okays it, I'd be happy to,” I told her. “I've got fire batons. You think the crowd would like to see me twirl those?”

“Heck, yeah! These rodeo crowds love anything that smacks of danger.”

Fire certainly was dangerous. Nobody knew that better than Seth and Savannah.

The woman told me where to check in and at what time. She raised a hand before setting off. “Thanks again! You'll be a big hit!”

I hoped so. I wasn't sure my performance could compare with bull- and bronc-riders who had an apparent death wish, but I'd do my best. Give that 110 percent. Maybe I'd even go for 111 percent this time.

It was straight up nine
P.M.
when I took a seat across the desk from Detective Bustamente in the temporary police station in the Will Rogers Tower. Bustamente was a portly man with thick lips, round cheeks, and dark, crazy brows in dire need of a trim. His argyle sweater and slacks were just ill-fitting and wrinkled enough to make him seem ignorant and unimpressive. But given Jackson's warning, I knew better than to underestimate this guy.

Derek hovered in the office, pretending to be checking work-related e-mail on his phone, but it was more likely he simply wanted to listen in on my conversation with the detective, butt his way into the case.

Bustamente must've had the same suspicions, or so I thought.

“Officer Mackey,” he said, “please close the door behind you as you leave.”

The Big Dick's ears flamed red, but he left the room without argument. He did slam the door behind him, though.
Bam!

“Don't want him listening in?” I asked.

“Don't want him on my planet.”

Detective Bustamente and I are going to get along great.

Though he had read through my reports, as well as the urgent memo ignored by my fellow patrol officers, the detective asked me to go through everything again. “Sometimes when I'm talking to an officer, a detail will come out that's not in the reports. Some itsy-bitsy teenie-weenie factoid that can make all the difference.”

I gave him a rundown of everything that had happened at the stock show and rodeo, beginning with Catherine Quimby's snatched purse and ending with Sloane Gallatin's punctured neck and bruised balls. He took only a note or two while I spoke.

“I pulled up the criminal records for women with similar robbery and theft convictions who live in the area. I visited a couple that looked promising, but both had alibis for the nights in question. I also talked this over with Detective Audrey Jackson a few days ago. She helped me realize the boots could be a lead.” I pushed the criminal record reports and Internet printout across the desk. “I printed out images of the women's boot inventory at local stores online and showed it to the victims to see if they could identify the boots worn by the accomplice, Crystal. Given what they told me, I think it's most likely that Crystal bought her boots at the Justin outlet here in town.”

Bustamente took a quick look at the document, noting the pairs of boots the victims had identified, and nodded. “Got anything else?”

I handed him the thumb drive that contained the video feed from Starbucks and explained what it was. “Unfortunately, I couldn't glean anything new from the footage.”

“That's a bummer.” He slid the thumb drive into his pocket.

I pulled my notepad from my pocket and ripped off the page on which I'd written the name and phone number of the head of security at the Kroger store where Dominique's credit card had been used, as well as the store's address. “I made an appointment with store security for Monday morning at nine. They've arranged for the cashier who handled the transaction to be there, too.”

The detective eyed me intently for a moment. “You've put quite a bit of thought and time into this.”

I shrugged. “Just doing my job.”

“No,” he said. “You've been doing
my
job. Gunning for a detective position, aren't you?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“To a detective it is.” He chuckled. “Actually, Detective Jackson called me earlier to put in a good word for you. She said you're a dedicated cop and a hard worker with good instincts. Lord knows we can always use more of those.”

“If there's any way I can help in your investigation,” I told him, “I'd be happy to.”

“Let's do this,” he said. “I'll meet you at the grocery store Monday morning, then we'll scoot from there over to the boot place. That work for you?”

That worked just fine. “Yes, sir!”

Brigit and I set back out on patrol. Seemed every minute or two we'd pass another cop. With so much law enforcement on duty, the thieves would have to be fools to pull anything here tonight.

Evidently, the thieves were no fools.

The event closed down with no purses having been snatched, no pockets having been picked, and no cattle ranchers having been kneed in the groin or prodded.

Frankly, it was a damn boring night.

 

FORTY-SEVEN

DULL PATROL

Brigit

She and Megan walked around the stock show grounds yet again. Brigit saw the same sights. Heard the same sounds. Sniffed the same odors. Well, the same odors minus the two colognes she'd smelled so often recently. Whoever wore those scents wasn't here tonight.

Nobody accidentally dropped their hot dog and let Brigit eat it. None of the pigs or goats ventured close enough to the bars of their enclosures for Brigit to take a nip at them. They didn't even see Jack the horse or the guy who rode him.

Frankly, it was a damn boring night.

 

FORTY-EIGHT

PILLOW TALK

Robin Hood

When her glass emptied, Sam signaled the bartender for another round, tossing his triple bourbon back in six seconds flat when it arrived.