He looked from me to the backup officers positioned on the bank and bridge above us, all of whom had their guns drawn and pointed at him. Finally realizing he was done for, he complied, raising his arms and stumbling forward to collapse on the bank.

In seconds, I had my cuffs around his wrists. Click-click.

“Good job, Brigit.” I ruffled her ears, retrieved three liver treats from the sack in my pocket, and fed them to her. When she was done, she gave herself a thorough shake, dousing me with dog-scented water. Not that it mattered, really, given that I was still wet from the car wash.

A voice came from the bridge. “Good job, Officer Luz!”

I looked up to see Detective Jackson standing at the railing, her right hand forming a thumb’s-up sign, the human equivalent of a liver treat.

With all of the suspects in custody, we commenced a pat-down at our cruisers. In the front pocket of number three’s jeans I found a model steam engine with a missing smokestack. Though he was being tight-lipped, Jackson and I surmised he’d used the model engine as a pretend gun in his pocket when holding up the bank. The chimney had evidently come loose and fallen out of his pocket. Looked like I’d been right about the odd piece of plastic we’d found on the bus.

Jackson opened his wallet and pulled out his driver’s license. “Ryan Benjamin Nix. Born May third, 1992.” She cut a glance his way. “A Taurus, hmm? That explains the bullshit you’ve put everyone through today.”

I whipped out my phone and ran an internet search on his name. As I’d suspected, he was also a member of the local model train group. His name popped up on a short list of people whose membership dues were delinquent. I held up my phone to show Jackson the screen. “He belongs to the model train group, too.”

Now that I had a name for the third suspect, I was able to run a criminal background check on him. For a guy who was only in his early twenties, Ryan Nix had racked up an extensive and varied rap sheet, though all of his previous charges were misdemeanors for which he’d been punished only with fines. He had two theft convictions under $1,500 each. A public intoxication and public urination charge, both on the same date. No surprise there as the two offenses often went hand in hand. You drink too much, you gotta pee and you don’t care where you do it or who might be watching. He’d been nailed for criminal mischief after setting fire to a political sign in a neighbor’s yard. He’d acquired a conviction for disturbing the peace when his parents had refused to let him use their car and he’d yelled obscenities at them from their front lawn. He also had a pending charge for possession of a small amount of marijuana.

Jackson pulled another card from his wallet, a Visa credit card in the name of Brian Hamilton. “Where’d you get this?”

Nix refused to answer.

Jackson’s gaze went from Nix to Vogel to Blakemore. “Anybody want to tell us what happened? Whose grand idea it was to rob a bank, steal a bus, and torch a convenience store?”

Though none of the men would talk, it was fairly easy to surmise that Vogel and Blakemore had lamented their job losses while at a meeting of the model train club and Nix had goaded them into an ill-conceived plan of revenge.

While we found no incriminating evidence on Vogel or Blakemore, a rifle belonging to Blakemore turned up in a gym bag inside the pickup. No doubt it was the one used in the bank holdup.

After the other officers hauled the three men off to jail, Jackson turned to me. “Want to go with me to the suspects’ homes? See what other evidence we might find that can be used in court?”

“Definitely.”

After obtaining search warrants, we were on our way.

A visit to Vogel’s apartment led us to a model train magazine from which many of the letters for the demand note, including the black R on the yellow background, had been cut. You’d think the guy would have been smart enough to destroy the evidence, or to at least toss it in the trash somewhere. Clearly he wasn’t a career criminal.

When we knocked on the door at the Nix home, Ryan’s mother answered. She looked more disappointed than surprised to see two two-legged members of law enforcement and a K-9 on her doorstep. “What did Ryan do now?”

“Started a couple of fires,” I told her. “Committed armed robberies at a bank and a convenience store. Stole a city bus and three cars. Jumped off a bridge to evade arrest.”

“When did these things happen?”

“Today.”

“Today? He did all of that today?”

“Yep.”

Mrs. Nix shook her head. “It takes him a week to get around to taking out the garbage here.” She exhaled a long, frustrated breath before returning her gaze to me and Jackson. “My husband and I took our kids to church every Sunday and encouraged them to work hard in school. Both of Ryan’s older brothers went to college and got good jobs. I don’t know where we went wrong with that boy.”

“Don’t beat yourself up,” Jackson said. “A lot of boys go wrong all on their own.”

Ryan’s mother led us down a hallway to his bedroom, which featured a musty odor, a twin bed covered in rumpled sheets, and a floor littered with dirty laundry, beer cans, and candy wrappers. Brigit nosed around for a bit—sniff-sniff-sniff—before alerting on the dresser where asizeable stash of marijuana had been taped to the back of a dresser. In a box under the bed, Jackson found an equally sizable stash of pornographic DVDs and a dozen undelivered love letters proclaiming undying devotion to someone named Ruby. Some of them even included poems, though Ryan was more Dr. Seuss than Robert Frost. Ruby, oh, Ruby, I crave you more than a doobie.

We placed the marijuana in an evidence bag and retrieved Ryan’s laptop computer, but left everything else behind. After thanking Mrs. Nix for her cooperation, we drove to Blakemore’s house in South Hemphill Heights.

Blakemore’s bewildered wife stood by as we searched their home.

“He hasn’t been himself since he got fired from his job,” she said, chewing her lip in anxiety. “But I can’t see him robbing a bank and stealing a bus. That’s madness!”

“Madness or not,” Jackson hiked a thumb at me, “she caught him fleeing in a stolen vehicle.”

While we found nothing immediate, Jackson seized Blakemore’s laptop computer to see if his email account or browser history might further implicate him. Even if the crime scene techs turned up no new evidence, we had more than enough to get convictions on all three men.

When we returned to our cars, Detective Jackson gave me an appreciative pat on the shoulder and Brigit an equally appreciative pat on the head. “You two are an asset to the Fort Worth PD.”

A proud smile claimed my lips. “Thanks.”

Our work finally done, I sent a quick text to Seth. Nabbed bank robbers. Ready for that drink now.

A few seconds later his reply came through. I knew you could do it.

A warm feeling wrapped around me. Aw, shucks.

*   *   *

We left Brigit and Blast canoodling canine style on the couch at my apartment and drove to Dos Gringos, a nearby Mexican restaurant. It was nearly nine o’clock before Seth and I were seated in a booth, a plate of chalupas and two salt-rimmed frozen margaritas in front of us.

Seth took a sip of his drink and eyed me across the table, a naughty grin playing about his lips. “I don’t know whether I’m more turned on by your ability to put the clues together or the image of you taking those guys down with your baton.”

Personally, I was more proud of my brain than my brawn. With proper weaponry, training, and a little luck, any police officer could take down a bad guy. But not everyone could distinguish a good clue from useless information or make the elusive but necessary connections between bits of data that would identify a suspect and lead to an arrest. Nonetheless, I had no plans to debate the point with Seth. Whatever about me turned him on, I certainly didn’t want to turn it off.