A Justified Bitch. H.G. McKinnis
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stepped into the yard, being careful to close and latch the gate behind them, then moved forward, concentrating on the Schapendoes. Extending the noose, the woman motioned for the man to move in from the side—a scissors move—but Fuzzball ducked under the net and scampered away.
Bobby flashed Helen a wicked grin. Who knew the mutt had a brain?
The officers, their faces stiff with determination, converged on the dog a second time. Fuzzball’s normal expression of vacuous amiability had vanished, her ears back, her hindquarters down. Moving carefully, the woman slowly extended the pole as the dog backed away, her furry head moving from side to side, trying to decide which direction offered the best avenue of escape. She suddenly darted toward the man, and was almost by him when the noose slipped over her head. The woman crouched and turned, pulling the noose taut, bringing the animal to a flying stop, all four feet flailing in the air. Dazed, but still determined, Fuzzball shook herself and lunged for the gate, only to have the noose tighten, cutting off her wind. The officers pulled the dog out of the yard—her paws scrabbling on the concrete, her tail tucked beneath her body—they shoved her into one of the van’s compartments, then returned for Lupe.
With the fur standing up over her neck and shoulders, Lupe suddenly appeared as wild and dangerous as her ancestors. As the officers closed in, she sprang for the top of the fence, caught a paw on the wire and fell back, yelping in pain. Normally she had no trouble clearing the chain-link for her morning stroll around the neighborhood but not today, not after all her exertions to save Bebe. Her muzzle twisted into a sinister snarl as she lowered her head and started toward the officers. The woman stuck out her pole to catch her by the neck, but the man panicked and threw his net. Too early. As soon as she saw the opening, Lupe dodged past, slammed through the gate, and was gone, leaving a trail of bloody paw prints on the sidewalk.
Helen and Bobby whistled and rattled their cage, encouraging Lupe with their cheers.
The detective climbed into the front passenger seat and twisted around. “Helen, right?” A slight cough was the only indication that he might have noticed her forceful persona. “Do you mind answering a few questions?”
“I don’t mind,” she replied cautiously, thinking it might be better not to get his hopes up, “but I might not be able to.”
Who does this guy think he is? Bobby asked, examining the man’s expensive boots and faded blue jeans. Clint Eastwood? Go ahead, Helen, make his day.
Officer Stone pulled open the driver’s door. “Excuse me, Detective?”
“Yes?”
“Well … uh.” He hesitated, seemingly at a loss for words.
Stage fright, Bobby diagnosed.
Helen recognized the signs. Too often in her career she had seen young men lose their confidence and articulation in the presence of women and superiors. “Take a deep breath,” she advised. “Think about what you want to say, then say it.”
Officer Stone shot her a look that was far from grateful.
Bobby gave a little chuckle. Now you’ve embarrassed him.
The detective rolled his hand, encouraging Officer Stone to continue.
The man took a deep breath. “I’m studying to take the detective’s promotions test, and I was wondering if I could do the interview. I believe I’ve established a rapport.”
“I’m sure you have,” the detective answered. “I should have suggested it myself.” He swiveled around to face Helen. “Young Stone would like to practice his interviewing technique.” He winked. “Any objection?”
Hey, Bobby growled, he’s putting the moves on you!
“He is not!” she snapped back. “I’m too old for him.”
The detective leaned over, peering into the backseat. “Excuse me, who are you talking to?”
Helen heaved a sigh. She had hoped to keep Bobby’s presence a secret, but now she would have to introduce him. “This is my husband, Bobby.” She motioned toward the seat beside her. “He goes where I go. Bobby, this is …?”
“Detective Madison.”
“Bobby, this is Detective Madison.”
Madison hesitated, then gave a polite nod. “Nice to meet you, Bobby. If you’re both agreeable, Officer Stone would like to ask you a few questions.”
Stone slid into the driver’s seat, then pulled a notebook and a gel rollerball pen from his pocket. Helen bought the same brand by the carton, but only displayed a dozen or so at her booth, giving the impression of rarity and value. Stone cleared his throat. “About your neighbor. When did you—”
“Around noon,” Helen answered. “I didn’t see anyone go in. And yes, I was here all morning.”
Bobby shook his head. It might be a good idea to let him actually ask the questions before you answer.
The man’s sunburned neck glowed fluorescent red, his words suddenly clipped and harsh. “When was the last time you saw the vic— . . . your neighbor, Bebe Small?”
Bobby rolled his eyes. Didn’t he ask this stuff earlier?
“Just now,” Helen answered, trying to be helpful. “When they put her finger in the van.” She noticed Officer Stone hadn’t written anything. “The one you stepped on.”
He frowned, speaking slowly and distinctly, as if trying to communicate with someone who barely understood English. “I mean … when … did … you … last … see … Ms. Small … alive?”
“About a year ago, I guess. Before she got into drugs. She’s just been going through the motions for quite a while now.”
Stone jammed his pen back into his pocket. “Detective, we’re obviously not going to get anything from this witness.” He dropped his notebook on the dashboard. “I think we should take her in.”
The detective expelled a deep breath, then reached out and pulled his seat belt into place. “Okay, I’ll question her at the station. Wine and dine her on pizza and Pepsi”—he caught Helen’s eye in the mirror and winked again—“and she’ll crack like an egg.”
Watch this guy, Bobby warned. He’s definitely putting the moves on you. He leaned back and propped his legs on the back of the driver’s seat. At least we get to take a road trip.
“Better roll down your window,” Stone suggested. “God knows what she’s got living in her hair.”
The detective gave the man a frown, then glanced over his shoulder. “How you doin’ back there? Remember anything you might want to tell me?”
“I’m not stupid,” Helen answered. “I remember things, but sometimes I don’t remember what I remember.”
Chapter Two
By the time the patrol car pulled into the parking lot of the Clark County Detention Center, Helen was almost crazy from itches hopping around her body. She rubbed her cheek across the headrest as Stone turned into the sally port and stopped next to a gray door. “I’m gonna have to sanitize this whole goddamned car.” He still sounded cranky. Perhaps, Helen thought, he needed to sit quietly and think about his day.
Detective Madison came around to unbuckle Helen’s seat belt and remove the cuffs, before guiding her into a room marked PROCESSING, a government-gray cave tiled with industrial-grade linoleum. The room reverberated with noise: phones beeping, footsteps rushing, and doors crashing. People hurried past, men explaining, women whining, and an unhappy child wailing. The detective took Helen’s hand, placed it on his arm, and escorted her to a gray Formica table, its surface scratched and inked with names and graffiti. Helen examined the scrawls. No message there.
A woman wearing a khaki uniform and Rockport shoes stepped forward. “Oh boy.” She scrutinized Helen for a moment, then her voice softened