Megan
On Saturday morning, in recognition of Valentine’s Day, I put a white collar with red hearts on Brigit. Just because the dog was a K-9 officer didn’t mean she couldn’t look festive, right? Besides, she had a date with Blast tonight. Might as well look like she’d made some effort, even if he wouldn’t appreciate it. Her male counterpart would probably prefer she roll in garbage prior to their meet-up.
As I dressed myself, the morning news played on the television, the forecaster mentioning that warm air flowing up from the Gulf of Mexico would create early-spring conditions, but that the Canadians were fighting back by sending a simultaneous cold front down from the north. This international weather war would be fought out over the Southern Plains region which included Arkansas, Oklahoma, and Texas. In other words, we Fort Worth residents should be prepared for the potential of rapidly changing outdoor conditions today. Thus forewarned, I grabbed my rain poncho, my FWPD windbreaker, and my heavier police-issue jacket, preparing myself for any eventuality.
Before heading off to work, I stopped by my apartment manager’s office and knocked on the door. Dale Grigsby answered the door, his pimply paunch, as usual, not quite covered by the T-shirt he wore. He held half a cherry Pop-Tart in his hand. The entire other half seemed to be in his mouth. “What?” he said, revealing a mouth full of half-chewed cherry pastry paste.
I handed him an envelope. “I’m giving my notice. I’m moving out at the end of the month.”
Frankie had already given me a set of keys for the house on Travis Avenue and I’d paid her prorated rent for the remainder of February. I planned to move my things into the house tomorrow.
Grigsby tossed the envelope onto a table next to the door. “You’ve got to give thirty days’ notice,” he said, “You’ll owe me for part of March, too. Read your lease.”
“So now you’re a stickler for rules?” I spat. “Need I point out the numerous building code violations you’ve ignored?”
Grigsby frowned and took another bite of his Pop-Tart.
“Besides,” I added, “don’t you have a waiting list for this place?”
Few apartments in town offered rent as cheap as Eastside Arms. The low rent was what led me, and every other tenant, to the place. It sure as hell wasn’t the ambiance.
Grigsby chewed the bite and swallowed. “All right, all right. You always were a pain in the ass. No skin off my nose if you go.”
I blew him a kiss. “I’ll miss you, too.”
Yeah, right. I’ll miss him when hell freezes over.
At 8:00 A.M. the day was already warm. The newscaster on the local NPR affiliate predicted near record-breaking high temperatures by the afternoon. You wouldn’t get any complaints from me. The day before had been cold and wet and dreary. As short as Texas winters were, I was already in the mood for spring. With any luck, that Canadian cold front would stall out over Oklahoma.
Brigit and I picked up our car at the station and headed out on patrol, our first destination Owen Haynes’s house. The driveway was still empty, the curtains drawn. Detective Jackson had informed me that she’d stopped by the house twice more during the week, but had no luck. Looked like Haynes and his girlfriend might have flown the coop permanently. But whether it was to flee arrest for Samuelson’s murder was unclear. I checked with the neighbors again, but still nobody claimed to have seen anyone at the house.
As I waited at the stop sign at Carlock and Hemphill, an SUV came roaring up the road, nearly running up on the curb as the driver swerved around a smaller vehicle.
Not on my watch, buddy.
I switched on my flashing lights and turned right, going after the SUV. The smaller vehicle pulled over to let me pass, and I laid on the gas, moving up behind the still-speeding car. Rather than pull over, the driver put the pedal to the medal. Moron. If he thought his SUV could outrun my cruiser, he had poop for brains. Still, we officers had been cautioned against unnecessary high-speed chases, which posed a risk of injury to innocent bystanders. The general public had become aware that officers were less likely than they used to be to engage in hot pursuit. Looked like this ass was going to put that theory to the test.
I flipped on my siren now. The guy still made no move to pull over or brake.
I grabbed my mic and pushed the button to activate the radio. “Backup needed on Hemphill heading north from Allen. Got a speeder evading arrest.”
Probably realizing officers would be waiting for him up ahead, the driver hooked a right turn on Magnolia. Unfortunately for him, he hooked it much too fast, the back end of his vehicle swinging around like a square dancer. Tires squealed as he braked. Screeeeee!
Dumbass. Didn’t he know to turn into a skid?
His SUV came to a stop in the middle of the road. He glanced around furtively, realizing that, though he’d somehow managed not to hit another car, he was now hopelessly boxed in by traffic.
I pushed the button to activate my patrol car’s public address system. “Step out of the car with your hands up.”
The man banged his hands on the steering wheel before doing as told. He slid out of his truck, his meaty hands raised to his shoulders.
The guy was Caucasian, with a round body and an equally round, bald head. His lips were full and protruded more than usual. He looked look like a human rubber duck.
“On your knees,” I said through the mic, fighting the urge to add quack-quack.
He put one hand down to lower himself to the asphalt, then raised it again once he was kneeling.
Brigit stood in her enclosure, breathing down my neck, her tail wagging as I shifted the gear into park. I emerged from my car, standing behind the door until I could extend my baton. Snap!
“Any more monkey business,” I called to the human duck, “and you will be sorry. Understand?”
His only response was a fat-lipped scowl.
I circled around behind him and pulled out my handcuffs. “Put your hands behind you.”
“Godammit!” he spat, though he did as he was told.
Once he was cuffed, I circled back around to his front. “Who do you think you are, driving like that? Jeff Gordon?”
“No!” he snapped. “I think I’m a stupid asshole!”
He’d get no argument from me.
His scowl disappeared, and his big lips began to bounce as he started blubbering. “I must be a stupid asshole if my wife and best friend think they can carry on right under my nose and I wouldn’t figure it out.”
I groaned. “That’s rough. Let me guess. You were on your way to set your friend straight?”
He could only nod now, engaged as he was in an all-out blubber bonanza, big tears rolling down his cheeks.
“I don’t blame you for being upset,” I said, “but I do blame you for not pulling over. You should always do what a cop tells you.”
Another squad car pulled up, Summer at the wheel. When she emerged from the car, she stared at the guy for a moment, a puzzled look on her face. “You look familiar. Have I arrested you before?”
Still blubbering, the man shook his head.
I stepped over to my coworker and whispered, “Rubber duck.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “That’s it.”
After explaining the situation to Summer, I let her take over. Because they had no backseat, K-9 cruisers could not be used to transport suspects. It was a nice benefit of being partnered with a dog. Didn’t have to listen to the cursing and threats suspects often spewed from the backseat of a patrol car. Less paperwork, too.
As Summer led the man to her cruiser, she called over to me. “We’re overdue for drinks.”
“I’m moving into a new place tomorrow,” I told her. “You’ll have to come over and see it. I’ll get a bottle of moscato. You can meet my new roommate. She has blue hair.”
“Blue hair?” Summer’s nose crinkled. “Is she an old lady or a Smurf?”
“Neither. She plays roller derby.”
“Ah. That explains it.”
While Summer loaded the man into his patrol car, I pulled my cruiser to the curb, then did the same with the man’s SUV. I radioed for dispatch to send a tow truck and Brigit and I went, once again, on our merry way.
At ten o’clock, I headed to Mistletoe Heights to meet with the first burglary victims, the married couple who’d been on a cruise when their house had been hit. I left the windows down on the cruiser and admonished Brigit to “be a good girl and wait nicely” while I spoke to the couple on their front porch.
Though the officer who’d responded to the burglary call and completed the report had noted that the two had been on vacation when their house was hit and had listed the items that had been stolen, his report was sorely lacking in details. Truth be told, very few burglaries are ever solved. For one, the people who commit them know to hit quick and get the hell out of Dodge. Even if they’re spotted, the person who reports them is advised not to confront them. By the time police arrive the thieves are usually long gone. Secondly, burglaries are a lower priority than drug or violent crimes. Relative to a murder or rape, a stolen laptop seems insignificant. Staff, funds, and time were limited, and the police department simply didn’t have the resources to devote to tracking down every burglar. But I saw these break-ins as a challenge, a chance to see if I could put the clues together, figure out who the bad guy or guys were, and bring them to justice. The crimes would give me a chance to practice, to hone my skills so that once I became an official detective three years from now, I’d be the best detective the Fort Worth Police Department had ever seen.
The couple, John Bayer and his wife Elena, were both ginger-haired, both lean and trim, and both dressed in trendy exercise gear.
“I’ve read over the report,” I told them, “but I’m hoping you can give me more detailed information today. Maybe something that will give me a lead to pursue. Let’s start with the trip you were on. Can you tell me more about that?”
Elena nodded, resting her hand on the doorjamb. “When the house was robbed we were on a five-day eastern Caribbean cruise. It left from San Juan, Puerto Rico.”
“What cruise line?”
“Carnival. The ship was called the Valor.”
I jotted down the name of the ship and the dates of travel. “What airline did you take to San Juan?”
“American,” Elena said. “We flew out of DFW.”
The Dallas/Fort Worth Airport was a hub for American Airlines, with untold numbers of flights departing every day. The airline was also among the area’s major employers, and operated both a museum and a training facility/conference center in the area.
“How did you book your travel?” I asked. “By phone? Online? Through a travel agency?” I didn’t ask whether they’d booked their flights in person. Nobody did anything in person anymore.
“We weren’t sure where we wanted to go on vacation,” Elena said, “so we used an agency to help us come up with some options. It’s called Go-Go Getaways.” She gave me the name of her contact at the agency, as well as the agent’s phone number.
“Did you have anyone watching your house while you were gone?”
“Not specifically,” she said, “but I did tell both of our adjoining neighbors that we’d be gone for several days. They have our cell numbers for emergencies.”
“Do either of these neighbors have teenaged children?”
“No. The ones over here—” she pointed to the house on the right, “have two kids in elementary school. The others—” she gestured left now, “have a grown son in college down in San Antonio.”
I explained my theory that, given the late afternoon time frame during which the burglaries were committed, teenagers could be the culprits.
Elena shrugged. “All I know is that our neighbor said the window wasn’t broken when she left to take her daughter to soccer practice at three thirty, and that it was broken when she returned at five.”
“Are there any teens in the neighborhood that seem suspicious?”
Her husband harrumphed. “Don’t all teenagers seem suspicious?”
This line of inquiry seemed to be going nowhere. Moving on. “Did you have someone watering your plants or picking up your mail while you were on the cruise?”
“No,” Elena said. “Since we were going to be gone less than a week I just gave all the plants a thorough watering before we left. We had the post office hold our mail.”
I jotted a note on my pad. Mail hold.
“Do you have a lawn service?” I asked. “Or a housekeeper?”
“No,” she said. “We tend to be do-it-yourself types.”
That didn’t surprise me. The way they were both jogging in place while we talked told me they were high-energy people.
“Have you had any workers at your house lately? Maybe an appliance repairman or plumber or electrician?”
Both of the Bayers shook their heads.
John followed up with, “I think the last time we had a repairman at our house was last June or July, for the garbage disposal. Remember?”
“How could I forget?” Elena replied before turning back to me. “Something went wrong and the darn thing wouldn’t turn off.” She put her hands up on either side of her face and wiggled her fingers. “It was so loud you couldn’t hear yourself think. I thought my head was going to explode.”
I could think of no more questions to ask, so I thanked them for their time and told them I’d let them know if anything panned out.
As I walked back to the cruiser, I wondered. Had anything they told me been useful? Was there some clue in there to cling to? Had the Bayer’s home been a random hit? Had the burglar or burglars simply cased houses in the neighborhood, looking for one that appeared to be unoccupied? Or was there some other reason the thief or thieves had chosen their home to rob?