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Not all shit. There was Olivia. Shit with a flower on top.
Taking off his boots at the door, in sock feet, he walked up the stairs to his bedroom, grabbed his novel, and laid back on a stack of pillows piled behind his head.
A dog would complete this scene.
His parents had always had little dogs, which weren't his style, but a bullmastiff? Now, that was a dog Nutsbe could vibe with.
A dog would make noises—gurgling tummy, panting tongue, yipping dream. The house wouldn’t sound this silent.
Nutsbe lifted his phone and tapped his app, bringing up brown noise to help him concentrate on his paperback. But what filled his ear was the sound of a motorcycle pulling to a stop behind his house. Nutsbe didn’t remember seeing a motorcycle parked in the neighborhood. And this one sounded like it was at Olivia’s.
Phone in hand, Nutsbe padded to his bedroom window and, standing to the side of the curtain, lifted it just enough to get eyes on the noise. With a final motor rev and a kick that lowered the stand, a man climbed off the black bike. Clad in jeans and a thick leather jacket, he dragged his helmet off his head, tucked it under his arm, looking around with a practiced eye.
This wasn’t a casual turn of the head. This was someone scanning the environment for anyone who might be paying attention. He hadn’t looked at the house yet. And Nutsbe remembered the sidewalk conversation where Bob thought Olivia looked tired. She had mentioned motorcycles. And yes, motorcycles were new. That one, pulling into her drive, was new.
Nutsbe tapped the phone to bring up the Iniquus switchboard.
“Iniquus communications. Identification.”
“Nutsbe, Panther Force.” It was against Iniquus' policy for employees to contact first responders. It had a bit to do with legal ramifications and reputation. It was mostly about clear communication and a web of professionals that could deploy to handle the event smoothly and efficiently. Iniquus had capabilities that local governments could only dream of having.
“I’m at my personal residence,” he said as he watched the motorcycle guy put his helmet on the back of his bike, walk knowingly to the backyard, and begin to search under the rocks, pots, and mat, assumably for a key.
“What is the nature of this call?”
“Possible breaking and entering at the neighbor’s house directly behind mine.”
“I have your GPS location on the board. I have the house behind yours as 8398 Millrace.”
“I believe that’s correct. Gray house, raspberry-colored door. I’m witnessing a man looking under pots and rocks and feeling along window ledges.” He put the call on speaker and opened the video to record. With the camera facing Olivia’s house, Nutsbe continued to narrate. “He’s lifted a rock. He just broke the kitchen door window. He’s reaching in.” Iniquus Communications recorded all calls. This data could become evidence in court. “The door is now open. The owner’s car is not in the driveway, over.” He switched from an informational call to an operational one.
“Nutsbe, be advised that Alexandria P.D. is en route to that location, over.”
“Received. Over.” Nutsbe let the curtain fall back in place. He sat on the edge of his bed, bending to pull out the tennis shoes he kept there for quick access. He tugged them on and laced the second shoe when he heard high-pitched barking.
Nutsbe wasn’t subtle when he dragged the curtain back. There was the man with Henrietta in his arms. She was squirming and fighting him, her teeth bared and lunging.
Nutsbe was moving. Out the bedroom door, grabbing at the handrails, he vaulted down the stairs, tore down the hall, through the kitchen, and out his door.
As he ran, he stuck the phone into the hidden chest pocket designed at the exact height and width to insert his smartphone and record his actions. The elasticity in the fabric anchored the phone in place despite physical action. “Are you getting this? Over,” he asked as he pulled the new fence door open.
Thank god for the new fence door.
“Video and audio, receiving clearly. Recording. Over.”
Nutsbe stepped into Olivia’s yard. “Hey, what’s going on?” he yelled, hoping that the guy would freak, drop Henrietta, and take off for his bike.
Henrietta squirmed around to see Nutsbe. Then, using the guy’s surprise, she got her back legs against his ribs and shoved. Slithering from his grasp, she bounded toward Nutsbe.
Crouching with wide arms like a goalie at a soccer match, the man cut off her line of escape. “Come here, Henny. Come to Daddy. Come on, sweet girl.” He tried to croon, but his voice was a sawblade of menace.
Henrietta was doing her best to escape. Zig-zagging this way and that, her eyes held wide, showing the whites, she stayed just out of the man’s reach while trying to work her way toward Nutsbe.
When Olivia talked about her pup, it was so obvious that Henrietta was well-loved and the kind of support for Olivia that Nutsbe had begun to want for himself. It enraged him that anyone would try to take Henrietta from Olivia.
“This is B.S.” Nutsbe took another step forward. “Stop chasing that dog.”
As the motorcycle guy turned to assess him, he stepped under the bright glow of Nutsbe’s automatic security lights. Nutsbe saw that the guy had been badly beaten. The bruising on his face was fresh enough that the contusions were just beginning to turn colors. His eyes were bloodshot from impact. Dried blood had coagulated into a black scab beneath what looked like a broken nose.
