TWENTY-EIGHT

“We were talking about this on the way over to breakfast. What if the threes and sixes connection doesn’t exist? The burglars used the pattern to throw the police off the scent.” Mildred swirled a piece of her French toast through a pool of strawberry syrup.

Janie pondered the idea. “For what reason?”

Babs took a sip of orange juice. “Who knows. I think we should look for other patterns. They might have chosen a new one for each neighborhood. Kinda of like a calling card.”

All four who volunteered to glean information from the other towns in the area’s weekly newspapers responded in agreement. Janie sat back and grinned. Her underlings were getting the hang of this investigative stuff. She could tell by the gleam of adventure in their eyes. All of these women had seen their men off to war in the jungles of Vietnam, raised families, and held down jobs. Now they had little or no responsibilities other than to care for a pet. Boredom was probably the most common ailment of folks over sixty-five.

She gazed upon each of her friends with warmth. She prayed they would all stay healthy and independent for many years to come. Betsy Ann, George, and Ethel as well. Which reminded her, she needed to go visit a few of her friends in the assisted living section who weren’t as spry. She rose from the table.

“Ladies, I appreciate your enthusiasm and your efforts. Sorry none of you came up with anything solid, but I’m sure the Alamoville police appreciate any effort we offer, even if it rules out a theory. Call me if you find anything, no matter how vague. Be sure to write down the paper’s name, volume, and date.” She grabbed her bagel. “I have to run. Toodles.”

Back at her house, she wrapped up the roses Jonathan brought her in pairs, swaddling the stems in a wet paper towel and then aluminum foil. Six small bouquets of love for her six friends. She tied each with a red curly ribbon, made a bow, and slid her scissor blades through each end to spiral them. With a satisfied smile, she slipped the flowers in a plastic sack and headed out on her errand of mercy. Better than tossing the blooms in the trash, which had been her first instinct last night.

She’d really have to tell Jonathan she wasn’t ready for anything more than a friendship. If only the chief of police hadn’t been so dapper, attentive, and engaging over dinner.

Well, maybe she wouldn’t tell him. After all, she could be mistaken. It’s not like he’d made a pass at her or anything. Perhaps he only wanted to make up for the faux pas at that long-ago barbeque to ensure they had a good working relationship.

She nodded to herself. Nothing wrong with going to church or eating a meal together. Truth be known, she’d missed the simple company of a man. Was it wrong of her to want to revel in it? Besides, how else would she keep her finger in this pie while Blake sat on the beach with his family?

~*~

Mike Martin pulled the police cruiser over to the side of the road. “What the heck?”

Two Grayson cops stood on the riverbank, rifles aimed at the far bank. He strolled over to them. “Fellas? Need assistance?”

The sandy haired one lowered his aim. “Nah. Just shooting nutria. Jake Smithers at the Bar C Ranch is paying one hundred bucks per hide.”

Martin whistled. “How many have you two bagged?”

The darker-haired one spit. “Fifteen over the past three days. Darn varmints have taken over the rivers in Central Texas. They breed faster than rabbits.”

“Not a bad way to spend a lunch break, eh?” The blond police officer winked.

“Nope. Say, weren’t you two in on the manhunt?”

The darker haired cop raised his hand to shade his eyes, “Yeah. Everyone was. You’re from Alamoville, right? How’s your man? Aaron, wasn’t it? He gonna be OK?”

“Doctors think he’ll pull through.” Martin shifted his stance. “Say, did you two bring Wellington down? If so, I’d like to shake your hand. Aaron Jenkins and I patrolled together.”

The blond shook his head. “Nah. And that is the weird thing. None of us can figure out who did. Rumor is two from our force made the arrest, but no one is ’fessing up. Think they would, right?”

“Definitely.” Martin laughed. “You two the only team with blond and dark hair?”

They looked at each other and shrugged. “As far as we know, Andy here is the only blond on the force. Bill’s a redhead. The rest of us have dark hair.”

“I’ll leave y’all to it, then. Good luck.” He sauntered back to his vehicle and radioed in. “Sir. Found those two Grayson cops on the banks of Brushy Creek. They’re helping to thin out the nutria population and making a buck or two on the side. Whatever Janie’s friend’s cousin overheard, it wasn’t anything to raise concern.”

Hornsby’s chair hinges squeaking blasted through the phone. He spoke through a stretching yawn. “Good to know. Any money to be made?”

“A c-note per critter. Want in on it?”

“Sure. I was off for almost three months, remember? Meet you after your shift is over. Bet we can bag a few before dark.”

“That would be excellent, sir. My truck needs new tires. But, sir? Here’s the weird thing. They say nobody on the Grayson force admits to having collared Wellington. And Andy, one of the nutria hunters, is the only blond on the force.”

“Hmmm. I’ll inform Gates. He’s finally meeting with their chief for a late lunch. The man was down with a summer cold for four days.”

“I hope we find out who they were. I, for one, would like to buy them a brew or two.”

“Roger, Mike. My thoughts as well. Later.” He hung up.

Mike Martin started his engine and continued on his patrol. Why would any policeman catch a cop shooter and not want to crow about it? Much less two of them? Something didn’t sit right. He hoped the detectives figured it all out soon.

~*~

Arnie crouched in the corner. He fingered the matchbook case. Another bum snatched it from him. “Thanks. Need a light.” The tall, black man headed for the back entrance to the mission shelter.

“Hey, come back here with that.” Arnie followed him.

The lanky dude entered the alleyway and struck a match, which briefly illuminated his scraggly old beard. He took a long drag of the cigarette stub he’d retrieved out of his pocket. “Ease up, man. What’s so valuable about this anyway?”

Arnie’s fingers grabbed for it. The man blew smoke in his face and flipped open the cover. “What’s this? A message.” He held it up to the light. “1239 FM 371. 8:30 pm. Well, well. Got a hot date?”

“None of your business.” He yanked it back and shoved it into his jean’s pocket.

“Whoa. Or a connection for some good stuff?”

“I said, none of your business.” He grabbed the hobo by the shirt and shoved him against the wall. “Keep your grimy hands off my stuff. Got it?”

The derelict raised his hands, the tobacco smoke swirling off the butt. “OK. Chill.” He took one last puff, stubbed it out under his heel and strolled back inside. He shot Arnie a disgusted glare and then slammed the door shut.

Arnie realized he’d just been locked out and the mission wouldn’t open again until the morning. Overhead the sky rumbled and raindrops began to splatter the concrete.

He jabbed the brick wall with his fist as he hissed a curse. He retrieved his throw-away phone from his trousers and texted the writer of the matchbook message. Thought we broke it off. Will meet one last time. Better be worth it.

His collar turned against the rain, Arnie walked four blocks to the river and strolled down the bank under the highway bridge. As the cars swished through the puddles above him, he scrunched down to sit on his heels and chucked the phone into the current. He watched it sink below the murky waters that would eventually end up in the Gulf of Mexico. Tomorrow night after the meeting, he’d catch the 2:00 AM bus to L.A. Time to leave Texas for good.