Paw Enforcement 02 - Paw and Order (23 page)

Ugh.
Ryan Gosling. Ryan Gosling. Ryan Gosling.
When the heartthrob no longer seemed to be enough, she added Bradley Cooper to the mix.
Ryan Gosling. Bradley Cooper. Ryan Gosling. Bradley Cooper.

She wrapped her hands around the man's waist, then slid them down over where his ass would have been if he'd had one. Another
ugh
. She expanded the entourage to include Adam Levine now.
Ryan Gosling. Bradley Cooper. Adam Levine.
While one hand slid around to the front of his pants to cup his rock-hard, though unimpressively sized bulge, two pink-tipped fingers slipped into the back pocket of the man's loose-fitting jeans, emerging with the wallet pinned between them. Her mouth still pressed firmly to her victim's, she tossed the wallet to Heather as she and Crystal walked past the truck. Lustfully moaning into her mouth, the man had no idea he'd just been taken.

Anyone that dumb and horny deserves to be robbed.

Eleven
Ryan Goslings
later, her cell phone rang in her tote bag, belting out her ringtone, “Raise Your Glass” by Pink.

She pushed the man back and reached into her tote for her phone. “I better see who it is.” She looked at the screen and faked a frown before punching the button to take the call. “Hi,” she said. “Everything okay?”

On the other end of the line, Crystal snickered loudly. “Come quick, Li'l Sis!” she cried. “Zombies from outer space are invading the planet! Blah-blah-blah!”

Stupid Crystal
. Didn't she realize the man was standing so close he might be able to hear what she said? Her sister didn't have the sense God gave a goose.

Still holding the phone to her ear, she quickly thumbed the button to turn down the volume, her sister's words now only a soft, “Blah-blah-blah! Blah-blah-blahbeddy-blah!”

“Oh, my God!” she cried into the phone. “I'll be there as soon as I can!” She shoved her phone back into her purse. “I have to go! My mother's been in a car wreck!”

She supposed she should feel guilty for putting her mother through so many fictional traumas. But what her mother didn't know couldn't hurt her. Neither could the constant onslaught of make-believe cars, buses, trains, and garbage trucks. Maybe next time she should mix it up a bit, plow her mother down with a cement mixer.

As she scurried off, the man called, “Can I at least get your number?”

No concern at all about her mother's alleged car accident?
What an ass.
She wouldn't feel at all guilty when she spent this guy's money.

“Sorry!” she called over her shoulder. “No time!”

 

TWENTY-EIGHT

POCKET CHANGE

Megan

The night passed with no reports of a purse snatching or mugging. Though I would've loved to catch the thieves, the fact that no crimes had been committed tonight was an acceptable consolation prize. Sometimes you had to take what you could get.

As the show began to shut down for the night, Clint rode up on Jack. “Hey, there.”

“Hi, Clint.”

He swung down from the horse and gave Brigit a pat on the head before turning his eyes on me. “The radios were pretty quiet tonight.”

It was true. Not only had there been no purse snatchings, there'd been only a few sporadic reports of shoving matches and lost children, with a single instance of public urination/public intoxication. All in all, a quiet night.

“Thank goodness.” I stroked a hand down Jack's neck.

“You're off duty now, too, right? What say you and I go celebrate with a drink? Gotta spend my rodeo winnings somehow.”

His dark eyes twinkled with possibilities. Possibilities that could become
probabilities.

I found myself saying “Why not?”

Why not, indeed. Other than a single text—
just thought I'd say hi
—I hadn't heard from Seth all week. I supposed he might be working tonight, but for all I knew he could be out with another woman. Frankly, I was feeling frustrated. Our relationship had no parameters. I'd thought keeping things casual, having no obligations or expectations, would simplify things. Instead, this murky, squishy thing we shared felt undefined and unfulfilling. Of course the blame lay on me. I was the one who'd suggested the arrangement. He hadn't argued about it, though. That meant he hadn't wanted anything more from me, right?

“Hop on up into the saddle,” Clint said. “No sense you walking when Jack can provide transportation.”

I let out Brigit's leash a couple more feet, then grasped the saddle horn with both hands and put my left foot in the stirrup. In seconds, I was seated on Jack's back. The stirrups hung too low for my feet to reach them once I was settled, but the saddle horn gave me something to hold on to. Clint walked Jack over to a picnic table and stepped up onto the attached bench. He swung his leg over the horse's rump and took a seat behind the saddle, one hand crooked around me to hold the reins, the other resting on my hipbone in a gesture that felt simultaneously thrilling and overly intimate. But perhaps I was reading too much into it. His hand had to go somewhere, didn't it?

Clint squeezed the horse with his thighs, setting the big beast in motion. The rhythmic movement of the horse under us felt slightly erotic. Clint said nothing, though I could feel his soft breath on the back of my neck, the warmth of his body, which was separated from mine by mere inches.

We reached the exit and rode over to Clint's brown and tan pickup and horse trailer. Clint dismounted first, then held up a hand to help me down.

Just as my feet hit the ground, a skinny man in his forties came barreling up. He had beady eyes and a hooklike nose, giving him an odd, birdlike appearance. “I've just been robbed!” he cried in beer-scented syllables.

Clint and I exchanged glances. Looked like we'd planned our celebration too soon.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I'd been dancing with this girl the last hour or so, bought her a couple of beers. When the band announced the last song, she suggested we get out of there.”

I would've thought he'd look a little sheepish admitting that he'd been hoping to snag an easy lay, but he seemed to have no such qualms.

He continued his enraged diatribe. “We got out here to the parking lot and went to my truck and, well, things started getting a little…” He waved his finger around as if the digit would fill in the blank for him.

“Go on,” I said. Not that I really wanted to hear the dirty details, but those dirty details might help us nab the robber.

“Well, she backed up against the front fender and kinda pulled me to her, you know? Next thing I know, she was grabbing my ass. I just thought she was turned on…”

Standing behind the man, Clint looked him up and down and raised a dubious brow that said
No way would this man be able to turn a woman on.

“… but then she got a call on her cell phone,” the man continued. “Some kind of emergency, she said, so she had to go. It wasn't until after I got into my truck that I realized my wallet was gone.”

My eyes went to the seat of his pants. “You're certain your wallet was in your back pocket when the two of you left the dance hall?”

“I
know
it was,” the man said. “I'd checked in it to make sure I had protection.”

Behind the man, Clint grimaced in disgust. I nearly did the same.

My mind began to process the information.
Could the woman who robbed this man be the same one who snatched Catherine Quimby's purse from the hook in the bathroom stall last weekend? Or one of the two thieves who'd mugged the women last night? Had she realized the ATMs were under surveillance tonight and decided to develop a new MO?

“The girl,” I said, “how old was she?”

“Early twenties, I'd say.”

Much too young for this creep. He didn't even have the sense to be ashamed of himself for trying to pick up a woman young enough to be his daughter. “Was she a blonde?”

He shook his head. “No. She was dark headed.”

Hmm … Had the blonde maybe worn a disguise? Or is the brown-haired girl on crutches now starring in this show?

“Tall or short?” I asked.

He shrugged his skinny shoulders. “Average.”

“Heavy or thin?”

Another shrug. Another
average.

“Any distinguishing characteristics? A tattoo maybe? A scar? Maybe a mole or birthmark?”

“Can't remember noticing anything like that.”

“Eye color?”

“Not sure. I remember she was wearing a red shirt, though.”

No doubt the red shirt was cut low, exposing some cleavage and thereby explaining why the man had noticed virtually nothing about the young woman's face.

“Was anyone with her?” I asked.
Perhaps a woman with really cute boots?

He shook his head again. “No. She was alone. She told me she'd come to the stock show with a friend, but that her friend had left with some guy.”

My mind toyed again with the idea that the pickpocket could be the young woman who'd been on the crutches before. “What kind of shoes was the woman wearing?”

“Some kind of flat black ones,” the guy said.

“Not boots?”

“No.”

I pulled out my notepad and jotted down the man's name and contact information, a description of the thief, and a list of the contents of the man's wallet, including one Trojan-brand Ecstasy condom.
Ew. Ew. Ew.
This guy carried a rubber with him, as if he expected to get lucky? Who did he think he was, Ryan Gosling? Bradley Cooper? Not even close. This guy looked more like Steve Buscemi, who was a wonderfully talented actor but not exactly a sex symbol.

As the man stalked off, I turned to Clint. “I'm going to need a very large, very potent margarita to erase the image of that man naked from my b-brain.”

“No shit,” Clint said. “I might have to put a bullet in my head.”

An hour later, the two of us had returned our cruisers to our respective divisions, changed into civilian clothes, and met up at the Fox and Hound. I'd dropped Brigit off at my apartment. I prayed she wasn't chewing up my shoes by now.

One of the pub's Perfect Patrón margaritas sat on the table in front of me. Normally I went for the 3-Citrus Skinny Margarita, but tonight called for something that didn't hold back. Clint had ordered a Corona with lime.

After taking a sip of my drink, I asked, “What do you think? Could the purse snatching and the mugging and the pickpocketing be related?”

Clint mulled things over for a moment. “Hard to say. It's unusual that all of these crimes were committed by women. Usually the bad guys are, well,
guys.
”

“I had the same thought.” I took another sip, the alcohol beginning to free up my brain for creative thinking. “Maybe we've got some k-kind of female gang activity on our hands. You know, like those cheerleaders who robbed the banks.”

Clint held his beer bottle poised at his lips. “Wasn't that just in a movie?”

I raised my palms. “Fact or fiction, it could happen.”

“True.” He tipped his bottle for a long drink.

I, too, took another long sip of my drink, freeing my mind even further. “What kind of young women would do this kind of thing?”

“Ones looking for some quick cash to buy drugs.”

Could be. Then again, people wanted cash for all kinds of reasons. To pay their bills. To cover an unexpected expense. To treat themselves to fancy jewelry or high-end electronics or cute boots.

“I talked to one of the detectives today,” I said. “We think the accomplice's boots may be the key to solving this. The victims were able to describe them to me in good detail. They might be able to identify the boots if they saw them again.”

He shook his head. “You women and your shoes. I've got black boots, brown boots, and a pair of tennis shoes. Three pairs of footwear. That does me.”

It was
my
turn to shake
my
head. “You men and your lack of fashion sense.”

Clint's mouth spread in a grin. “What exactly are you proposing? Putting a bunch of boots in a lineup and seeing if the victims can pick them out from the crowd?”

“Essentially.” I realized it sounded a little silly, but it could work. I explained about the printouts. “I'm going to visit the victims and see if they might recognize the boots from the Web site photos. I've also found a couple of suspects that look promising. Young women who have records for stealing purses and jewelry.”

“You're an exceptionally dedicated cop.” He raised his beer in salute. “I'll give you that.”

I raised my margarita glass and tapped it against his bottle.
Clink!

Clint sat back in his chair. “That's enough shop talk. I know Megan Luz, the police officer. Now I want to know about Megan Luz, the woman. Your turn-ons. Turnoffs. Most sexy secret fantasy.”

“Hmm … turn-ons. I'd have to say men who read. Who are kind to animals and kids and little old ladies. Who buy me top-shelf margaritas.”
Whoa.
The drink hadn't just loosened my brain, it had loosened my mouth, as well.

Clint sent a fresh smile my way. “Go on.”

“Turnoffs. Let's see.” Another sip. “Guys with excessive egos. No goals or sense of direction. Men who pretend to be something they're not.”

“Got it,” Clint said. “Now for your most sexy secret fantasy. Does
that
involve a guy pretending to be something he's not? Some role-play, maybe? I've got a Lone Ranger outfit. I'd be willing to wear an Indian headdress and a loincloth, too. Or were you thinking more along the lines of a gorilla costume?”

I waved a finger. “Nuh-uh-uh. I'm not going to give it up that easily.”