Текст книги "Upholding the Paw"

Автор книги: Diane Kelly

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The detective slid the note into a clear plastic evidence bag. “What I think, Officer Luz, is that anything is possible.”

Chapter Eleven

Floored

Brigit

While the humans continued their conversation, Brigit lay on the floor of the conference room, wondering if she could reach that remnant of pink frosted donut that lay forgotten under an empty chair on the other side of the table. It looked a day or two old, dry and crusty with the glaze flaking off. But dogs weren’t picky eaters. Heck, she’d once gobbled down a week-old, brick-hard slice of pepperoni pizza her first owner had left in a delivery box on his coffee table. She’d enjoyed every last bit of it, too.

She slunk toward the treat, pulling her leash taught, and stretched her neck toward the donut.

Got it.

Yum!

Chapter Twelve

In Your Parking Lot and in Your Face

Smokestack

“There!” Smokestack cried, pointing through the windshield at a building just up the road. “Pull in there!”

“The police station?” the Conductor asked. “Are you nuts?”

Nuts, no. Stoned, yes. His partners-in-crime seemed unnecessarily tense and uptight. They could benefit from a relaxing toke or two.

“Come on!” pleaded Smokestack, snickering again. “It’ll be a hoot and a half!”

The Conductor eyed the Switchman, who shrugged and said. “It’s the last place anyone would expect to find this bus.”

“I suppose you’re right. Besides, we don’t have much time. That chopper’s nearly on us.” The Conductor slowed and turned the bus into the police station parking lot, pulling to a stop at the end of the lot next to a blue Smart Car.

The Conductor opened the door with another whoosh, left the keys in the ignition, and scurried down to the asphalt. Thankfully, the large bus would block the view of any security cameras that might be on the building.

Smokestack hopped down after him, turned, and lifted his chin. “There’s a gas station with a food mart two blocks over.”

“So?” the Switchman said as they quickly headed across the street.

“So let’s get a beer.” He also wanted a hot dog and barbecue potato chips and Oreos. Thanks to the marijuana he’d ingested this morning, he had a raging case of the munchies. Hey, was that where the term “pot belly” came from?

“A beer?” The Conductor glanced at his watch. “It’s not even noon yet.”

The Switchman frowned. “It would be better if we split up as soon as possible. Like you said last night, the cops will never be able to connect us, to figure out that we know each other. Not unless they catch us together.”

Smokestack issued a derisive snort. “Weren’t you the guy who said he was sick of playing by the rules? Of being a candy ass? Besides, we took that bank for three or four grand and got away with a bus. Hell, man! That’s cause to celebrate!”

Chapter Thirteen

On Track

Megan

A young woman with latte-color skin, dark hair, and brown eyes bright with anxiety stepped into the doorway of the conference room. “I’m Serena,” she said, her voice tight and squeaky with barely controlled emotion. “Grant said you wanted to see me now?”

Detective Jackson waved her in. “Take a seat.”

Serena slid into the chair Grant had vacated.

Jackson launched right into her questions. “Did you recognize the robbers, Serena?”

“No,” the young woman replied, her lip quivering. “I didn’t recognize either of them.”

“Either?” I repeated. “So you saw only two men?”

She nodded.

“What did they look like?” Jackson asked.

“It’s hard to say. It all happened so fast and—” She paused to wipe an errant tear from her cheek. “I was so scared. I was afraid they’d shoot us all.”

Jackson nodded in understanding. “Just do your best, hon. That’s all we ask.”

“Okay.” Serena chewed her lip in concentration. “Both were white. The one who came to the counter was short. He was wearing a dark hoodie and mittens and a green hat made to look like a frog. He had his right hand in his pocket and was pointing a gun at Grant through the fabric. The one who stood at the doors was average height, I guess. He wore a plaid hat that came down over his ears. The kind that lumberjacks wear. He also wore sunglasses. He was holding some kind of rifle or shotgun. I’m not sure what kind exactly. I don’t know much about guns.”

“How was he holding the gun?” Jackson asked.

“In both hands.” Serena stood so she could demonstrate. “Pointed up and to the left. Like this.” She demonstrated what was commonly known as the ready carry.

“Was his finger on the trigger?” I asked.

“No.” She slid back into her seat. “One hand was wrapped around the barrel and the other hand was gripping the wider part behind the trigger.”

“The stock,” I supplied.

“Right.”

While current Texas law prohibited the open carry of handguns, rifles and shotguns could be carried into banks. As long as the gun was legally owned, the man had violated no gun laws. He’d obviously caused the tellers and customers to drop a load of shit bricks, though.

“Was the man with the gun also wearing mittens?” the detective asked. “Or some kind of gloves?”

Serena looked down for a moment, as if trying to conjure up an image of the man. “I’m pretty sure he was wearing a pair of leather gloves. Brown ones.”

Jackson tilted her head. “How can you be sure the man at the door was with the other in the frog hat? Is it possible the man came to the bank on his own and just happened to stumble upon the robbery?”

“I don’t think so,” Serena said. “The man with the gun stood by the doors until the other guy left with the bag of money. Then he walked out right after him. That means they were together, doesn’t it?”

Jackson bobbed her head. “That’s a reasonable assumption.”

“Were the men thin or heavy?” I asked.

Serena’s brow furrowed. “It’s hard to say for sure because they were both wearing loose clothes. But the guy who came to the counter seemed to have thick legs so I’d guess he was heavy.”

Jackson gazed for a moment at the young woman. “Grant Dawson says Christopher Vogel attempted to assault him after Vogel discovered you and Dawson had been seeing each other.”

Serena’s eyes darkened, and she lowered her head to look down at her lap. Grant seem to have no regrets, but at least Serena seemed to feel remorseful about how she’d handled things. “I should’ve told Chris up front but, to be honest, I wasn’t sure how serious Grant was about me. Grant goes through a lot of girls.”

Jackson pointed out the obvious conclusion. “And you wanted to hedge your bets. See if things worked out with Grant before breaking things off with Chris.”

Serena nodded feebly. “Does that make me a horrible person?”

I was tempted to answer “yes” to that. Everything was not fair in love and war. She should’ve been honest with Vogel. But no sense upsetting a witness further. Besides, it was clear Serena already knew she’d made a mistake.

When neither the detective nor I responded to the question, Serena looked up, fresh tears welling in her eyes. “I feel horrible about what happened. It was my fault Chris lost his job. Everyone around here liked him. The manager wanted to give Chris a second chance, but Grant insisted Chris be fired. Grant said if Chris wasn’t let go immediately he’d sue the bank for every penny it was worth.”

Interesting.… Had Grant been looking for an easy way to get his hands on some cash? Maybe even planned to provoke Chris into a physical confrontation?

“Have you heard from Chris since he was terminated?” I asked.

Serena shook her head. “I’ve left a bunch of voicemails for him and just as many emails. I even tried to message him through Facebook but he’d unfriended me.”

Jackson tapped the point of her pen on her pad. “You think Chris could have been in on the holdup in some way? Could he have been the man carrying the gun?”

Her eyes grew wide and she shook her head. “No. No way. Chris is a really nice guy. He’d never do something like this. He’s the type of person who puts change in other people’s parking meters when he sees that the time is about to run out.”

The detective frowned. “Are you aware that feeding someone else’s meter to extend the time beyond the stated limit is a citable offense?”

Serena’s brows lifted. “Are you serious?”

“Mm-hm.”

The young woman’s shoulders slumped. “It’s just not possible,” she insisted. “Chris doesn’t own a gun. He’s never been the hunting type. I don’t think he’d even know how to shoot a rifle.”

I leaned forward and rested my elbows on the table. “What about Dawson?” He was quite the cocky one and didn’t seem very upset by the robbery. “You think he knew it was coming? That he could be in on the heist?”

Serena exhaled a long breath. “I’d believe Grant was a part of it way before I’d believe Chris was. Grant’s kind of materialistic. He’s got every electronic product on the market and has been talking about wanting to buy a Jet Ski before summer. But I really can’t see either one of them being in on a robbery.”

Was Serena right? Were Chris Vogel and Grant Dawson innocent? Or were her assessments of the men colored by her relationships with them?

Jackson launched into a series of standard questions. Had Serena noticed anyone odd in the bank lately? Someone snapping photos, perhaps, or loitering without a clear purpose? Anyone who seemed to be casing the place?

“No,” the young woman said. “I haven’t noticed anyone suspicious.”

“All right,” Jackson said. “Is there anything else you can tell us? Anything we missed?”

“I don’t know if this is important or not,” Serena said. “But I was working the window next to Grant, and when the guy in the frog hat stepped up I noticed he smelled funny.”

“Funny how?” I asked.

“Like smoke.”

“Cigarette smoke?” Jackson asked.

“No,” Serena replied. “It was different than that. Stronger. And he kind of smelled like gas, too. Like maybe he’d filled his car up on the drive to the bank.”

It took me a moment to connect the dots.

Dot 1—A suspicious fire had been set in the area.

Dot 2—A nearby bank had been robbed by someone who smelled like smoke.

Dot 3—Either the arson was unrelated to the bank robbery—which given the timing and the robber’s odor would have been an amazing coincidence—or the fire starter and the bank robbers were one and the same. They might have started the fire to distract and tie up law enforcement.

My money was on the latter. Assuming I still had any money, of course. I banked here. I wasn’t sure how much the men who’d held up the bank had gotten away with, but it was likely more than the piddly $236.57 in my checking account.

I turned to the detective. “Just before the bank robbery, someone set a fire in a Dumpster on Eighth Avenue. Think there might be a connection?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time a criminal attempted a diversionary tactic,” she said. “Call the fire department. Ask them to let us know if the sandwich shop’s security cameras picked anything up.”

I placed a quick call to Seth, knowing he’d be able to put me in touch with the investigator much faster than if I went through the normal channels. I gave him a quick rundown about the holdup at the bank. “One of the tellers smelled smoke on the guy who came to the counter. I have a hunch the men who held up the bank also started the Dumpster fire as a diversionary tactic.”

“Could be,” Seth agreed. “I’ll pass your phone number on to the investigator.”

“Thanks.”

The detective and I wrote down Serena’s contact information and dismissed her.

A moment later, the bank manager and one of the security guards came to the door. The manager held a laptop computer in his hands. “We’ve got the security camera footage for you.”

Jackson waved them in. “Let’s see what it tells us.”

We huddled around the computer to watch. On the screen, we saw a short, pudgy guy wearing sunglasses and a knit hat with eyeballs on top approach Grant at the counter. He placed the demand note on the counter, put his hand back in his pocket, and aimed a hidden gun—or something that might have been a gun—at Grant. At the doorway to the bank stood a second man. He also wore a hat and sunglasses, and he openly held a rifle. After reading the note, Grant opened his drawer, pulled out a zippered bank bag, and shoved stacks of bills from his drawer into the bag. When he’d emptied his drawer, he slid the bag across the counter to the robber, who snatched it up, stuffed it down the front of his pants, and made a beeline for the doors. The man with the rifle waited for the other man to hit the door, then he spun and exited on his cohort’s heels.

The images from the inside cameras corroborated the information Grant and Serena had provided. Unfortunately, nothing in the images seemed to give us a clue to the robbers’ identities.

Jackson pointed at the grainy image of the man standing just inside the bank’s doors with the rifle. “Could that man be Christopher Vogel?”

The manager’s face scrunched in skepticism. “He’s about the right size, but…” He ended his sentence with a disbelieving shake of the head.

The security guard looked from the manager to us and likewise shook his head. “Chris is a total Boy Scout. A choirboy. He brought donuts to work every Friday, always made sure to get my favorite maple frosted.” He pointed at the laptop screen. “If that’s Chris with that rifle, then I’m the Easter Bunny.”

The security guard might not be the Easter Bunny but, like a rabbit, he did have big ears.

The images from the two outside cameras showed a third, dark-skinned man standing just outside the entrance of the bank, as if guarding the door. He appeared to be taller than the two men inside. Neither the manager nor the security guard recognized him.

“What about Grant Dawson?” Jackson asked. “Either of you think he might have been in on the robbery?”

The two men exchanged unsure glances.

The manager spoke first. “He’s not good at managing his money. He came in not long ago and asked me for an advance on his paycheck.”

“Did you give it to him?” I asked.

“No,” the manager said. “It’s against policy.”

“Since Dawson works here,” the security guard added, “he’d know the security team is primarily window dressing. We don’t carry weapons. We’re trained only to observe and report.”

Not arming the guards was a wise decision. As I’d learned in the police academy, statistics showed that the presence of armed security guards actually increases the chances of injuries and deaths. Robbers tended to panic when facing down a weapon, and guards were often not adequately trained to deal with confrontations involving the threat of lethal force.

Jackson reached into her pocket and pulled out a brand-new thumb drive. “Can you download the video files to this? I’d like to have a copy for my records.”

“Of course.” The guard took the drive from her. “It’ll just take a minute or two.”

While the guard copied the video files, the detective and I questioned the remaining bank employees. The one who’d been hysterical earlier was still in tears and sobbed throughout our entire interview. The manager let her go on home afterward.

None had anything new to add. No one had seen anyone who looked suspicious, no one recognized either of the men who’d come into the bank, and no one had noticed the third man waiting outside.

After the last witness left the room, I turned to the detective. “Where do we go from here?”

Jackson pulled out her laptop and booted it up. “Let’s run a little search on Dawson and his fan club.”

She typed each of their names into the criminal records database. According to the system, none had any convictions, though Arthur Scheck had been arrested a year ago on fraud charges related to refunds of merchandise at a local department store. The store manager suspected the returned items had been stolen. Scheck had been unable to provide receipts and claimed that there were no bank or credit card records of the purchases because he’d paid cash for the items. The charges were later dropped due to lack of evidence. Unless a thief was caught in the act, such cases were hard to prove.

Next, Jackson checked the driver’s license records. Curiously, while Grant Dawson, Chris Vogel, and Yolanda Wilkes held only the standard operator’s license, Arthur Scheck held a current Class B commercial driver’s license that would allow him to conduct vehicles capable of transporting twenty-four or more passengers. His height and weight—5' 11" and 170 pounds—nearly mirrored those of Chris Vogel who, according to his driver’s license, was 5' 10" and 165.

“You think Scheck might have been the one standing inside the doors?” I asked. “The one who drove the bus after it was hijacked?”

“I think we should pay him a visit,” Jackson said, making note of his address, “and find out.”

As she slid her computer into her bag, her cell phone rang. She checked the screen. “It’s Melinda.” She thumbed the screen to accept the call and put the phone to her ear. “Whatcha got for me?” She paused a moment. “They got a lock on the cell? Great. Have dispatch send three cars to the scene. We’re on our way, too.”

I rousted the sleeping dog at my feet, and the detective, Brigit, and I rushed back through the bank lobby. . We burst out the front doors and ran to my cruiser. While Jackson climbed into the passenger seat, I loaded Brigit into her pen in the back. My butt had barely hit the seat before I was speeding out of the bank’s parking lot, lights flashing and siren blaring. Woo-woo-woo!

We sped down Rosedale, took the I-35 frontage road north to Lancaster, and hooked a right, entering an old industrial area with some buildings dating back more than a hundred years. I braked to a quick stop at an ancient warehouse across the street from the former meat-packing plant that now served as the Cutting Edge Haunted House, a seasonal venue open each Halloween. The enormous, club-wielding demon who lorded over the site every October ready to bludgeon passersby now rested on his back atop the building, in some type of off-season, unholy hibernation.

Officers Spalding and Hinojosa had already responded, positioning their cars at either end of the block and waiting for backup. As I pulled to a stop behind Spalding, Mackey pulled up behind Hinojosa at the other end of the street. Following my lead, the officers exited their vehicles, guns drawn. Spalding and Hinojosa headed down the sides of the building to cover the back doors, while Mackey and I approached from the front. Brigit crept along quietly behind me.

The few windows on the warehouse were boarded up, providing no view into the interior, but the tall sliding doors on the front of the warehouse could easily accommodate a city bus. I stopped next to the oversize door, crouching behind a stand of scraggly boxwood shrubs in desperate need of pruning. The foliage wouldn’t provide much, if any, protection, but if the bank robbers decided to come out shooting, the bushes might shield me from view long enough to take them out. Mackey bent down behind the bushes on the other side of the door.

After visually verifying that we street officers had the building surrounded, Detective Jackson grabbed the mic for my squad car’s P.A. system. “This is Fort Worth PD,” her voice blared through the speakers. “The building is surrounded. We know you have the city bus inside. Put your weapons down and come out with your hands in the air.”

Gun at the ready, I waited, my thigh muscles burning with the crouched stance. On high alert, I was aware of every blink of my eyes, every beat of my heart, every breath of air entering and leaving my lungs. Come out, I willed the men. Now!

Ten seconds passed with no response, no sound from within the warehouse.

Jackson put the mic to her mouth and repeated the order. “Come out with your hands up. Now!”

Still no response.

Dammit! The last thing I wanted to do was rush into the building, into the unknown. It was like heading down an unmapped river in a canoe, not knowing whether a deadly waterfall lay just around the bend.

When thirty seconds had passed, Jackson motioned with her hand. My eyes met Mackey’s across the span. Unlike me, he wasn’t quaking in his loafers trying not to wet himself. Rather, he looked like he was having the time of his life, like he couldn’t wait to kick some bank robber/bus-jacker ass. Blurgh. What I wouldn’t have given for some extra testosterone right then. Too bad you couldn’t rent testicles on an hourly basis. Nuts-R-Us. There’s an untapped market.

Mackey and I bolted out from behind our respective bushes at the same time, though his longer legs got him to the warehouse door two steps ahead of me. He grabbed the handle and slid the large door open, the sunshine now forming a bright square on the floor of the dim warehouse. Gun raised in both hands, Derek darted inside. Brigit and I followed immediately behind him.

It took a second or two for my eyes to adjust fully to the relatively dark interior, which was lit only by what meager light could stream through the dusty windows situated high on the walls and the open door. When my eyes finally adjusted, they took in an ancient, dilapidated forklift missing at least two tires, a series of rusty pulleys hanging from the ceiling, and row after row of rolled-up carpet stacked ten to twelve feet high. There was no bus in sight, but with the piles of carpeting impeding our view we couldn’t see more than a few feet in any direction. The bus could easily be hidden among the towering rolls.

At first, the dimly lit warehouse appeared empty, but then we heard the soft sound of footsteps. Mackey gestured to get my attention then cocked his head, indicating he’d approach from the far end of the warehouse and that Brigit and I should proceed along the narrow pathway flanking the front wall.

After nodding in acknowledgment, I gave my four-legged partner the signal to follow me and crept as quietly as I could down the space, stopping at the edge of each stack of carpet to peek around it. I only hoped I wouldn’t peer around a pile to find myself staring down the barrel of a rifle.

Nobody was between the first and second stacks. Nobody between the second and third ones, either. But when I peeked around the third stack, my eyes spotted a large black man in jeans, sweater, and pocketed canvas work apron wrestling with a roll of carpet.

I was about to yell “Hands up!” but Mackey beat me to the punch. He angled his gun around the end of the row and yelled, “Fort Worth Police! Put your hands up!”

The man didn’t put his hands up, though. He didn’t look Derek’s way, either. Instead, he continued to look up at the roll he’d been wrangling and slid a hand into a large pocket on the front of his apron.

Oh, Lord! Was he going for a gun?

My eyes met Derek’s across the space. What should we do now?

As much as I didn’t want to give Brigit the order to take the man down, I knew this situation was precisely what we’d trained for. I issued the order and said a quick prayer for her safety as she bolted down the row, leapt into the air, and latched onto the back of the man’s sweater. She took him to the ground before he could even turn his head. Unfortunately, he’d still had one forearm wrapped around the roll of carpet. The roll fell to the ground with him, instigating an instant avalanche. Thomp-thomp-thomp! Roll after roll cascaded over the man and my partner. Berbers. Friezes. Saxony. My shaggy dog narrowly missed being buried by shag carpeting.

The man writhed on the floor under his weighty load. “What the hell!?!”

Mackey ran up from his end while I ran up from mine. We reached the man simultaneously and pointed our guns at him. I rounded up Brigit while Mackey used his foot to force the rolls aside. When the man was unearthed, he lay on his back and raised his hands over his head, eyes wide and mouth gaping in surprise. It was then I noticed the black wire coming from his ear buds and heard the faint sounds of Maxwell’s Grammy Award–winning R&B song Pretty Wings. No wonder the guy hadn’t heard us tell him to put his hands up. He had his music turned up to full volume.

Mackey reached down and yanked the main wire, the buds springing from the man’s ears. “What are you doing here?”

“I work here!” the man cried looking from Derek to me. “I’m pulling out carpet for the installers. They’re on their way to pick it up.”

“Don’t move,” Mackey ordered. He bent down and patted the man’s pockets, pulling out a retractable blade. He held it up. “What’s this for?”

“Cutting the carpet!” the guy cried. “It’s my job.”

“Where’s the bus?” Mackey demanded.

“Bus?” The man’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know anything about a bus.”

Clearly we’d gotten the wrong man here. I reached a hand down and helped him to his feet. “So sorry, sir. We owe you a big apology.”

I explained the situation and the man was gracious enough to cut us some slack.

“I haven’t seen or heard a bus,” he said, brushing carpet lint off his sleeves. “Of course I didn’t hear y’all, either. My boss always texts me when he needs something. I keep my phone on vibrate.”

I supposed it was possible one of the bank robbers had pocketed the cell phone we’d traced. If so, he could be hiding in the warehouse without this man’s knowledge. I suggested as much to Mackey.

He gestured to Brigit. “Send the dog out. If someone’s here, she’ll find ’em.”

Mackey and I decided to wait with the man. If the bank robbers were in the building, his life could be in danger, too. I sent Brigit on a hunting expedition, ordering her to search the building for anyone who might be hiding among the rows.

Fear wrapped its cold fingers around my throat while my furry partner scuttled around the space, sniffing here and there for criminals playing hide-and-seek. Though building searches were Brigit’s job, it made me sick to send her out on such missions, knowing a person desperate to escape apprehension could be capable of hurting her … or worse. Her padding footsteps could be heard as she made her way around the space, but other than that the warehouse was silent.

Relief buoyed me when she returned to my side without alerting.

But what does this mean? Had the bus been here at the warehouse momentarily and then moved on? Could the bus be in one of the other nearby warehouses?

The triangulation technology was good but not perfect. Signals could bounce off objects nearby and create what was known as multipath error. Still, we had to be close.

Mackey let out a long, loud breath. “This was damn disappointing.”

Both of us stepped to the open doorway. While Mackey continued out onto the street, I pulled my notepad from my breast pocket and flipped to the page on which I’d jotted the bus driver’s cell number. Using my own phone, I dialed the number. Maybe we’d hear it ring and could track it to another building.

“Gah!” I nearly jumped out of my skin when Willie Nelson singing On the Road Again blared from the bushes I’d been hiding in only minutes before.

Mackey darted over and Jackson jogged up as I carefully fished the cell phone out of the foliage. We’d expected to find a forty-foot bus and instead found a 4.7-inch phone with a cracked screen. Looked like the men who’d held up the bank and hijacked the bus had spotted the phone and tossed it out.

Jackson angled her head. “Bag the phone and give it to Mackey.” She turned to Derek. “Run the phone to the crime scene techs at the bank. Have them check it for prints.”

He didn’t bother arguing with her this time.

She turned back to me. “Let’s pay Chris Vogel and Arthur Scheck a visit.”