Upholding the Paw Read online

  “He swung across the counter?” Jackson said. “Seems like his chances of hurting you were pretty slim.”

  “That’s not the point.” Condescension virtually dripped from his words, as if he were speaking to the stupidest people he’d ever met. He put his hands on the table and leaned forward. “The point is he took it to a physical level. He tried to assault me, for God’s sake! Serena’s the one he should’ve been mad at. Not me. I didn’t owe the guy anything.”

  The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. “Sounds like you at least owed him an apology.”

  Grant’s only reply was an eye roll.

  I kept on. “I take it this other teller wasn’t working this morning?”

  “Hell, no!” Grant cut me a look that was equal parts incredulity and derision, as though my question was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “Chris got canned.”

  “Chris?” I put my pen to my pad. “What’s his full name?”

  “Christopher Vogel.”

  “And the girlfriend?” I asked.

  “Serena Herrera.”

  Jackson and I wrote the names down before she continued. “You think Vogel could have been one of the robbers?”

  “Could be. The guy standing at the doors was about his size.”

  The detective eyed Dawson for a moment, her head tilting slightly as she appeared to be assessing him. “Who else have you had run-ins with?”

  “There was a woman who came in last week complaining about overdraft fees assessed on her account,” Grant said. “She went ballistic, screaming and hollering like a crazy person. Security had to escort her out to the parking lot.”

  “What set her off?” I asked. Could it have been your sparkling wit?

  “Hell, if I know,” Grant retorted. “All I did was suggest she brush up on her basic math skills and she lost it.”

  Jackson held her pen poised above her pad. “What was her name?”

  “Yolanda Wilkes. I remember because I made a note of the incident in her account records.”

  Both the detective and I wrote down this name also.

  “Anyone else?” Jackson asked.

  “A guy who came in two or three days ago claimed I’d shorted him a hundred dollars on a withdrawal.”

  “Did you?” I asked.

  Grant snorted derisively. “Of course not. I don’t make mistakes.”

  Jackson skewered him with a look. “We all make mistakes on occasion, Mr. Dawson.”

  “Well, I didn’t. The manager counted my till and it was perfect. Not a penny out of balance. I think the guy who said I’d shortchanged him was some kind of con artist.”

  “You remember his name?” Jackson asked.

  “Sure do. It was Arthur Scheck.”

  “Any others who might have a bone to pick with you?” the detective asked.

  “That’s all I can think of. Here at the bank anyway.”

  There were likely plenty of other people outside the bank who found Grant Dawson less than appealing. I had a feeling he was at the top of more than one shit list.

  “Is Serena here today?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Jackson jerked her head toward the door. “Go get her for us.”

  Dawson stood and walked out of the room.

  Jackson shook her head. “That boy thinks quite highly of himself.”

  “That’s for sure.” I glanced back at the names on my notepad. Christopher Vogel. Yolanda Wilkes. Arthur Scheck. “You think one of the people he named could be involved in the robbery?”

  She raised a brow. “What do you think?”

  “You’re going to make me reason it out myself, huh?”

  “Consider it detective training.”

  I mulled over the few details we’d collected so far. “The letter did seem to be directed to a male teller,” I said. “So holding up Grant c-could have been a personal, premeditated choice. Then again, the robbers may have simply cased the place earlier this morning, realized a male teller was working the window closest to the doors, and put the note together right before the robbery.”

  Jackson pushed the paper toward me. “Is the glue fresh?”

  I carefully picked the note up by the edges, held the page to my nose, and breathed in. Hey, my K-9 partner wasn’t the only one who could sniff out clues. My olfactory senses failed to detect the scent of fresh glue. I set the letter down and gave the red D and black R in “Dearest” a nudge with my pen. Neither moved, firmly affixed to the page. “The glue is dry.”

  Still, that didn’t rule out the possibility that they’d prepared the note in advance and hastily added the greeting this morning. The smooth, flat set of the cut-out letters and the lack of telltale ooze around their edges told me the thieves had used a glue stick instead of liquid glue. Glue stick adhesive dried relatively quickly.

  I continued to speculate out loud. “I suppose the bank robbers could be strangers, as Dawson claimed. But he seemed awfully calm for someone who’d just been robbed. You think maybe he’s in on the heist?”

  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.