Upholding the Paw Page 5

  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 in
terior, 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.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dust Bunnies

  Brigit

  Searching that old, dusty building had been fun. Anytime she was allowed to roam around free was a good time to Brigit. Leashes were for troublesome toddlers and dogs who didn’t know how to behave. Not well-trained canines like her.

  According to Brigit’s nose, the man she’d tackled had been the only human inside the place today. A rat had recently wandered through but moved on, probably because there was no food to be found on site.

  And speaking of food, it was lunchtime. Better give her partner a reminder.

  Woof-woof!

  Chapter Fifteen

  Thank You, Come Again

  The Switchman

  This was not the plan they’d agreed to over beers after last night’s club meeting. They were supposed to make a quick hit at the bank, jack a bus, go for a short joyride, and call it a day before law enforcement had time to get on their trail. It had sounded so simple. He should’ve known there’d be a hitch. Nothing had gone his way lately.

  The Switchman wasn’t big on the idea of continuing on together, but Smokestack had the bank bag full of money shoved down tight inside his boxer briefs. The Switchman didn’t want to leave without getting his share, but no way was he sticking his hands down another man’s pants. Besides, if there was any truth to Smokestack’s stories of his seedy sexual exploits, any manner of sexually transmitted vermin
could be living in the guy’s underpants.

  How the Switchman and the Conductor had let the dumbass talk them into this crime spree was beyond him now. The two had been simply commiserating over their terminations, complaining about the injustice and unfairness of losing their jobs. All it had taken was Smokestack calling them a couple of pussies to agree to this misguided plan of vengeance.

  In hindsight, the Switchman now felt he’d been a wimp for going along with this stupid plan. But it was too late for second thoughts now. What was done was done.

  A telltale ding sounded as Smokestack pulled open the door of the convenience store. The Conductor followed him in, his rifle now hidden in a duffel bag. The Switchman was the last one through the door, lagging behind so he’d appear to be unassociated with the other two.

  Surely the police had put out an all-points bulletin on the three of them. Being seen together could be dangerous. Of course they’d left their telltale hats and jackets on the bus. He doubted anyone had gotten a good enough look to identify any of them individually, but the combination of two young white guys with a middle-age black man could make them recognizable. Luckily, their sunglasses would not appear out of place given today’s cloudless sky. But he and the Conductor were still wearing gloves, and Smokestack still had on his pair of mismatched mittens. While covering their hands wouldn’t have raised suspicions in the recent cold weather, today was too warm for anyone to need gloves or mittens.

  The Switchman knew he better go his separate way ASAP. He planned to humor Smokestack by buying a beer, downing the thing as quickly as possible, and splitting with his share of the bank’s funds. Frankly, the guy was getting on his nerves. He didn’t seem to have many brain cells to begin with, and smoking dope nonstop for the last decade hadn’t helped.

  The Switchman cast a glance toward the checkout counter. The register was manned by a short, thin Asian man who appeared to weigh all of a hundred pounds. Not only was he small, he was old, too, his hair faded to a pewter shade. His face scrunched as he peered through his bifocals and fingered through the handful of change, counting out the coins he’d been handed by the blonde buying a pack of Camels. Thankfully, the clerk hadn’t looked up yet.