afford it,” she snapped, and before he could object she added, “and don’t tell me to use your money. You know I won’t.”
Officer Stone leaned against the fender. “You really don’t think she did it?” He indicated Helen with a jerk of his head. “Have to be a real wack job to cut somebody up like that. Jesus, there are pieces all over the place.”
Bebe? Helen felt her breathing quicken as the possibilities swirled and rattled through her mind like abandoned paper cups. She wished she could remember what happened, but as usual when she absolutely needed to recall something, it hid away inside the cracks and fissures of her brain.
Bobby chuckled. Don’t these idiots realize the cruiser’s window is open?
The detective shook his leg, trying to dislodge an affectionate plastic bag that had attached itself to his jeans. “Hard to say at this point.” He leaned in through the open window and pulled a printout off a small fax machine attached to the dashboard. Parking his butt against the fender, he scanned the paper. “Might have been a dissatisfied customer. Our victim has been quite a busy girl. Prostitution, drugs, did some time for fraud, and has a whole bunch of unpaid parking tickets. My guess, it was Parking Enforcement. Those people are relentless.”
The uniforms started stringing yellow tape around Bebe’s property while the detective and Officer Stone took pictures of the finger. They measured its position from the fence, then from the stoop to the sidewalk, and from the sidewalk back to the fence. They measured its length and its width. Finally they picked it up with a pair of tongs and placed it in a small Ziploc, which they put into a brown paper bag and sent off in a van with dozens of larger bags. Helen wanted to wave good-bye, but with her hands cuffed, couldn’t. Bobby stood in the middle of the street and watched Bebe’s departure.
A few minutes later an Animal Control van pulled to the curb and two AC officers, a man and a woman dressed in light-blue uniforms, climbed from the cab. They walked around to Bebe’s back gate—the woman with a long-handled noose, the man with a throw net—and stopped, staring at the smears of blood on the sliding-glass doors where the wolf had tried to claw her way in, and Bebe had tried to claw her way out.
The officers 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?”
