Hosed (Happy Cat #1)(60)
“I can’t believe you sleep with that,” Blake mutters.
“He washes up before he gets in bed.”
Something moves inside, behind one of the windows, and I drop flat against the ground.
“What’s he doing home?” Blake whispers. “I thought he always spent Sundays at his parents’ house?”
“Destroying evidence?” I suggest.
The back door opens, and Steve steps out onto the wooden deck. He’s in a white button-up and khakis and wearing a ridiculous pair of aviator glasses that do not make him look like a young Tom Cruise, I don’t care what his latest booty call told him. The sight of his stupid face makes rage boil through my veins. He made a serious mistake in judgment today, one that could’ve killed Cassie.
Being behind bars might be too good for him.
I’m so busy fighting the urge to charge and toss him in the trash can that I almost miss the sack of garbage swinging from his hand.
“Oh, shit,” I mutter.
Now I’m the asshole who both didn’t believe Cassie and put my raccoon on a collision course with douchebag danger.
Blake grabs my shoulder before I can move. “Wait. George has this.”
Steve flips open the trash can lid. He swings the bag inside without looking down and slams it closed again. Then he grabs the handle on both the recycling and the larger can—inside which my raccoon is probably freaking the hell out—and drags them down his driveway.
He drags and drags, while my heart slams against my ribs like a wrecking ball because any second I expect George to leap from the can and blow our cover, and our chances of getting the evidence to put Steve away, all to hell.
But miraculously, the bin stays closed. All the way down the driveway until Steve arranges them neatly on the street. The dickweed waits another breath-stealing moment, stretching his arms over his head like he’s just finished moving something a hell of a lot heavier than bins on wheels, and then ambles back into the house, using the front door this time.
“Damn, that was close,” I hiss as Blake exhales audibly beside me.
Not four seconds after the front door closes with an audible whump, George bursts from the can bearing loot slung around his neck. It looks like some sort of bag, or maybe…
“Is that a fanny pack?” Blake asks as George hustles back our way, looking pleased with himself.
I’m proud of him for obediently playing fetch for one of the first times in his life, but I can’t help but be disappointed in his find. Of all the incriminating things he could have potentially grabbed, Steve’s fanny pack isn’t high on the list.
Embarrassing as hell, but not a criminal offense.
“We’ll have to send him back,” I whisper to Blake, even as I pinwheel an arm and smile at George, coaxing him back to the tree line. “Later. After Steve hopefully gets his ass to his parents’ house.”
“No we don’t,” Blake says, nudging my arm. “Not according to the Supreme Court ruling on California vs. Greenwood.”
I frown his way. “When did you get a law degree?”
“I watch Law and Order reruns when I can’t sleep,” he says. “And according to California vs. Greenwood, law enforcement can search trash left at the curb without a warrant. It’s outside the curtilage, you see.”
“I have no idea what that is, but if you’re sure…”
“I’m sure.” Blake tugs his phone out of his back pocket as George reaches our hideout. “I’ll call the sheriff, tell him to get his ass out here right now.”
“He won’t come.” I scoop George up, scratching his neck in silent praise. “Not without probable cause, and he’s determined not to find any. He and Steve are tight as ticks.” I glance down, grimacing at the S.B. monogrammed on the outside of the leather fanny pack. “How douche-y can this asshole get? His initials on a fanny pack? Jesus…”
George clacks in agreement, slapping my hand away as soon as I get the zipper open, and diving a paw into the bowels of his new treasure. The sound of delight he makes as he pulls out a flip phone is echoed by Blake’s soft, “Oh, hell yes. A burner phone! Now we’re talkin’.”
“Let me see that, buddy,” I say, tugging a little harder when George resists. “I promise I’ll give it back.” With a cranky gurgle and a narrow-eyed glare that makes it clear he intends to keep an eye on me, George releases the cell. I hand it over to Blake, the man without an armful of raccoon.
“It’s still charged enough to turn on,” he says, excitement simmering in his voice. “Come on, baby, let’s see what you’ve got. Okay, we’ve got the home screen, and now to see who Steve was secretly calling on his burner…” He taps two buttons before his hand goes still and a giant smile spreads across his face.
“Something suspicious?” I ask.
Blake turns the screen to face me, revealing a familiar number. “Only if you’d call ringing Cassie at five o’clock this morning, right when she got that creepy call from the guy trying to frame her suspicious.”
It’s all I can do not to let out a victory whoop. I do, however, high-five Blake twice and give George a gratitude-fueled belly scratch that leaves him humming blissfully in my arms.
“I’ll call the sheriff’s office and wait here to make sure he actually does a thorough search of whatever else is in those bins,” Blake says, clapping me on the shoulder before guiding the fanny pack off George’s neck. “You head back into town. You need to see a girl about an apology.”