Chapter 4
Never make assumptions. Especially about how much dogs love you. ~ Phoebe’s rules for becoming a better person
Another day. Another stakeout. This time I’m prepared. I plugged my telephone into the car stereo and I’m listening to a podcast about self-empowerment. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life, it’s that you can’t rely on anyone but yourself. Until recently, everyone in my life was dedicated to ensuring I knew I was nothing but arm candy and a baby maker. Not anymore.
I munch on carrots as I watch the house. Like the previous times I’ve sat in the SUV a few doors down from the Brown residence, nothing is happening. This suburb is the very definition of sleepy. Of course, it’s the middle of the day and everyone is probably working or at school. No ladies who lunch are to be found here. They don’t realize how lucky they are.
Once I finish the carrots, I realize I’m thirsty, but I don’t have a drink with me. On my very first stakeout with Hailey, she warned me not to drink while on a stakeout as bathroom opportunities are extremely limited. She’s not wrong. I don’t see myself squatting behind a bush to take care of business. The very idea is abhorrent. My nose scrunches in disgust.
Stop it, Phoebe.Stop being a snob.
Lunchtime comes and goes but still no movement at the Browns. How can anyone possibly stay inside this much? As far as I can tell, they’re not even ordering much take-out. What can you do inside with all those hours to burn? They can’t possibly be playing around in the sheets all this time, can they? Doesn’t he need some recovery time? In my admittedly limited experience, men can’t go, go, go when it comes to sex.
I wait another hour. If I don’t make my move soon, the kids will be out of school and I’ll have missed my window of opportunity. I tap my fingers on the steering wheel before pressing stop on my podcast. I can’t sit here idle a moment longer. Besides, it’s not a big deal. What could go wrong? It’s not like I’m going to suddenly get amnesia and forget there’s a great big pool in the middle of their backyard.
I slip out of the car and walk around the block. Since no one called the police on the crazy lady running through their backyard yesterday, I assume it’s safe to take the same route as I did yesterday. When I reach the privacy fence, I glance around but I’m still all alone out here.
I make a run at the fence, place my hands on the top, and vault over it. What do you know? Those rusty gymnastic moves are improving after a single vault yesterday. My mother would have a heart attack if she knew I’m using my gymnastics skills to break into people’s yards. I land in the Browns yard and immediately hunch down. I waddle to a bush and hide behind it.
I study the layout of the yard, which is what I should have done yesterday. There are bushes lining the fence on three sides. In the middle of the yard, the pool is once again covered. I guess I didn’t ruin the tarp. Off the rear of the house is a cement patio, currently empty of furniture, although there is a grill under a tarp near the kitchen door.
Okay, I tell myself. I got this. The light in the living room comes on and I creep closer. I will not be the idiot who walks into the middle of the yard straight into the pool today. I stick as close to the fence as possible without having to crawl through the shrubs.
The door in front of the kitchen slides open and a man whistles. I bring up my camera and zoom in to take a picture. Is it Stan Brown? Have I found him? Is one fuzzy picture enough for payday? I creep closer as I click away.
A dog’s head appears at the door and he barks. The large black face with brown snout looks left and right and then raises his head to sniff the air. I’m not worried. Dogs don’t scare me. Not even rottweilers. They’re good-natured dogs, despite their reputation as savage dogs.
“Go get ‘em, Killer,” the man I suspect is Stan Brown says.
Killer? Who names their dog Killer? I watch as the man takes one step onto the patio. Yes! This is definitely the money shot. I take another step forward as I snap away. Suddenly, the dog barks and starts running straight toward me.
Shit! I spin around and run full out toward the fence. A man bounds over the fence right before I reach it. I come to a screeching halt.
“Come on,” he shouts. “Get moving.”
Hey, wait. I recognize him. It’s Ryker from the bar. What is he doing here?
“But dogs love me!” I shout as I run as fast as I can from the barking beast.
Ryker isn’t going to test the theory. He grabs my hand and practically throws me over the fence. I go flying! Suzie might not be able to fly but apparently, I can. Luckily, I was an ace at the vault and manage to land on my feet. I don’t nail the landing but no one’s judging me now.
I can hear the dog snarling on the other side of the fence. Ryker better hurry his ass over here. I see a hand on the top of the fence and then he’s there. At way over six-foot-tall, he makes jumping the fence look like a small hurdle.
He tags my hand and starts running. “We need to get out of here.”
“Why? The dog can’t jump the fence.”
“No, but a man with a shotgun can.”
My eyes widen and I look over to Ryker to see if he’s serious. I trip and nearly go to my knees. He releases my hand and rights me before grabbing my hand again. We run around the block to a large black pick-up truck.
I put my hands on my thighs and bend over as I take deep breaths. I didn’t realize I was out of shape. Of course, doing Pilates in front of my television or running like the hounds of hell are on my ass work two different muscle groups. Maybe I should add cardio to my workouts if being chased by rabid dogs is what I can expect when I’m a PI.
“What are you doing here?” I ask when I finally manage to gain control of my breathing.
Instead of answering, he clicks the button to unlock his truck. “Get in. I’ll drive you to your SUV.”
I narrow my eyes. How does he know where my SUV is parked? Well, it’s not my SUV. It’s a company vehicle I’m allowed to use during stakeouts, which is handy since I don’t own a car. I did own a car. It’s hard to escape halfway across the country without wheels after all. Sure, busses exist, but I don’t think Greyhound would have approved of the amount of luggage I took with me when I ran away.