Everybody loves the underdog, and then they take an underdog and make him a hero and they hate him.
—FREDDURST
I’m not watching for Gemma—I’m watchingoutfor Gemma. Though she can’t possibly cause as much trouble as she did last week.
I glance at the clock on the wall in the back of the briefing room. We’ve got a couple more minutes before we’re scheduled to begin, but I subscribe to the belief that if any person is not five minutes early, that person is late. I should just lock the front doors right now.
Our K-9 unit is already here and ready to give demonstrations. Unfortunately for me, Harris is on that unit, which means I’ll have to handle the class by myself until we go outside.
“Where’s Drew?” the biker dude asks. He’s dressed in slacks and a button-down today, but he still looks the part with his Grizzly Adams beard. We learned in his background check that he’s a defense attorney, which I naturally consider to be worse than a biker.
“Hi, Larry,” I say because, first, that’s his name, and second, he prefers to be called by his club moniker “Wolfman.” “We’ll see Harris when we go outside for the K-9 demonstrations. He’ll be introducing you to the partner who replaced me.”
Larry bobs his head in appreciation. “Dope.”
Dope is either a drug taken illegally for recreation or a synonym for dunce. I get tired of dealing with both, so I’m not sure how the word ever became slang for something positive.
“It’s quiet in here without Drew.” This comes from the wife of the middle-aged couple who sits in the front row. Aaron and Erin.
I kind of wish all couples shared the same first name. That would make remembering who they are so much easier, though I can see how it could also cause confusion. I already had enough confusion with Gemma and Jewel.
Gemma’s roommates tromp through the door, creating a ruckus loud enough to satisfy Erin.
I wait for Gemma to follow so we can get started. The doorway remains empty, and I give a sigh of relief that comes out sounding like a disappointed harrumph. Weird.
“Sorry we’re late,” Gemma’s roommate Charlie announces to the whole class. He’s not technically late, but he must share my definition of the five-minute rule. “We were waiting for Gemma to get home, but she let us know at the last minute that she’s going to meet us here.” He looks around. “Did we beat her?”
So she is coming. “Yes.” I cross my arms, choosing not to let her current absence distract me one way or the other. “We have our animal handlers here today, meaning we can’t wait for her before getting started.”
Kai pulls out his phone and holds it up. “I’ll video so she can watch later.”
I stare at the screen, unsure if he’s actually filming or not. The last thing I want is for Gemma to have video footage of me. I’m not the hero she’s looking for. “No recording.”
Kai lowers his phone and shrugs. “Didn’t realize this was so top secret.”
I level my gaze on him. “We use special hand signals for our dogs that we wouldn’t want shared with anyone who might have nefarious intent.”
Charlie snorts. “Don’t be nefarious, Kai.”
Kai lifts a hand, fingers curled in so that only his thumb and pinky stick out. He wiggles his wrist in a way I’ve seen surfers do. “Is this a special hand signal? Sometimes I make it without thinking, and I wouldn’t want to accidentally call a dog to attack or anything.”
Is he for real? Because he reminds me of a cartoon character. “No.”
“See?” Kai grins at Charlie. “I’m not nefarious.”
I glance at the clock. This could take all night, and we are supposed to be outside for the demonstrations in ten minutes. “Can we begin now?”
“Yeah.” Charlie taps his phone screen. “I’ll just take notes for Gemma.”
“Fine.” I huff. “Besides the no-filming rule, I have one other rule for the demonstration. If you have any food in your purse or pockets, make sure you leave that inside. Dogs’ noses are very sensitive, and if you smell like mints or a granola bar, it will throw them off the scent we purposely planted for them to follow.”
Everyone nods.
Erin hoists her giant handbag the size of a picnic basket onto the table. “Is my purse safe if I leave it here?”
I always err on the side of caution when it comes to safety in order to prevent crimes of opportunity. Lock car doors. Leave porch lights on. Install security cameras. But unless Robin Hood mistakenly assumes the Sheriff of Nottingham works in my precinct, nobody is going to touch Erin’s purse. “Yes.”
A couple of other women adjust their purses on the table as if preparing to leave them behind, and I instinctively give them a once-over to see if either of them might be trying to hide something other than food. I’m thinking of drugs, or, as Larry would say, dope. Myrna, a younger woman with short hair and a nose piercing, simply seems to be putting away her nail file. The small older woman with white hair, Barbara, is married to one of the new fire chiefs, so I’m not worried about her. In fact, I like to call her by her nickname, “Boots,” simply to irk Larry.
