Cat Fear No Evil (17 page)

It seemed to take hours to cover those long blocks. When at last they neared Joe's house, the kit's entire being cried out for water, food, and a nap. A pair of tourists wandered past, and they slipped deeper among the bushes where they rested a moment, panting. Peering out at the house, the kit
so
longed to be inside,
so
longed for a drink of cool water.

The Damen house looked not at all as it once had. When Kit first came there as a young cat, the house was a white cottage with only one story, what Wilma called a Cape Cod. Now with its new facade of heavy Mexican timbers and plastered walls, it was truly elegant. And the best part was Joe's tower high atop the new upstairs. Kit loved Joe's cat-size house with a view of the village rooftops—it was a cozy bit of cat heaven.

Lucinda and Pedric had planned to build a tower just like it. Atop their own new house. “You will have a tower,” Lucinda had said. “A fine tall cat tower looking out at all the world just like Joe Grey's tower.”

Now Lucinda and Pedric would never build their dream home.

The kit would give all the towers in all the world to have them back. A tear slid down, spotting the brown envelope and its papers as they hauled their unwieldy burden through Joe Grey's cat door.

Pulling the package through, the papers catching on
the door, they dropped it on the African throw rug and lay beside it.

“Heavy as a dead raccoon,” Joe said. “Thank you, Kit. I guess you saved the day.”

“What did we save? What are those papers?”

Joe Grey smiled. “With luck, this could be the claw that snags the big one. A killing bite to the slickest burglar this village has ever seen.” He glanced toward the front door, listening. But the car he'd heard went on by. You never knew when Clyde might bring company, Max Harper or Dallas Garza or Ryan Flannery. “Come on, let's get it upstairs before someone walks in.”

Dragging the envelope between them, they hauled it up the new stairway that had been built in half of the old guest room. The other half of that room was now a walk-in closet where Clyde kept all manner of oddments, from unused parts for his weight-lifting equipment to stacks of outdated automotive catalogs. At the top of the steps, in the new master bedroom, they dragged their burden across the new carpet to Clyde's study.

Hauling it up onto Clyde's desk, Joe pawed the papers out and carefully separated the various bills from the torn pages of the notebook. Fetching a rubber band from a box on the desk, he managed to secure the small bits of torn evidence. Watching him, Kit retrieved another rubber band, but he made her put it back. “Don't chew that, Kit. It could kill you.”

“That little thing? How could it?”

“Just like string, Kit. You know about string. The barbs of your tongue hold it back, you can't spit it out, it gets wrapped around the base of your tongue, you swallow the rest and you're in trouble.”

She spit out the rubber band. She'd been told more than once about string, that if she should ever swallow a string not to pull it out with her paw, that she could cut her insides doing that. Joe studied the stack of bills. Who knew which were of value? No one would know until they were compared with the dates of the burglaries. Even then, there would be a lot of play in the machinery. The Tyler family in Ventura, for instance, had opened their safe in January and not again until October when they found the antique diamond necklace missing; the burglary could have happened anytime in those nine months. The Von Cleavers, in Montecito, were in Europe for five weeks. Got back to find a glass cabinet broken into and a silver pitcher missing, a museum piece signed by a famous craftsman from the 1600s, but nothing else was gone. Each burglary was the same, the rarest and most expensive item lifted, nothing else touched. Marlin Dorriss himself had been at his Florida condo when his favorite Diebenkorn painting vanished from his Molena Point house—if it vanished, if that was not a red herring.

But what kind of thief took only one piece and left a houseful of treasures?

Joe Grey smiled. Someone out for the thrills, for the rarity or historical value of the items stolen, someone who didn't need the money. Who got all the money he wanted in other ways?

Impatient with the lack of solid answers to what he suspected, impatient for darkness so he could deliver the evidence to the law, Joe restlessly prowled the study.

But the kit had curled up in a corner of the love seat with her nose tucked under her paw, so sad and with
drawn that Joe paused, watching her. He stood worrying over her when a click from above made him stiffen.

The rooftop cat door made a slap, and Dulcie popped out of the hole in the ceiling, dropping daintily to the rafter beneath. Perched on the high, dark beam, she peered down at him—and her green eyes widened.

“You got the bills!” She dropped to the desk beside him with a delicate thud. “Tell me! Tell me how you did it. Dorriss didn't see you? Why are you frowning?”

He glanced across to the love seat. She turned to look at the kit.

“So sad, Dulcie. She keeps falling back into sadness.”

Leaping to the love seat Dulcie nosed at the kit and washed her tortoiseshell face, washed her ears, nudged and loved her until at last the kit looked up and tried to smile. When the tattercoat had snuggled against Dulcie, Joe said, “Kit saved me from a bad trip, she warned me just in time.” He gave her a brief replay that made Dulcie shiver and laugh, then he asked, “What did you find at Consuela's?”

“The cottage was locked. I tried everything. Finally balanced on the branch of an oak tree and clawed through a roof vent, in through a filthy attic and down through the crawl space. Had to claw away the plywood cover like we did when those raccoons chased us.” She sneezed. “All dust and cobwebs. I got the plywood aside and slipped down on the closet shelf.

“Closet was empty, just some empty hangers. But the door was open. I looked out into the room, ready to hit the attic again and vanish. That cottage is just one big room, like a studio apartment. No one was there, nada. I searched the whole place. Found exactly noth
ing. Checked the dinky bath and kitchen, fought open every cupboard and drawer. Not one stolen garment. Not much of anything else except mouse droppings. It's just a crummy rental, no better than where a homeless would crash.

“I was so mad that I'd wasted my time. I could have been hunting, or could have been tossing Dorriss's place with you—
could
have been prowling the village with Kit,” she said gently, glancing down at the tattercoat. “I was about to storm out when someone opened the garage door. Shook the whole house, rumbling up. I crouched, ready to leap back to the attic. The garage door closed again, and something metal clanged in there. When the door between the garage and the house opened, I whipped around and dove under the couch.

“I could hear them giggling before I got a look, Dillon and her two schoolmates. Consuela wasn't with them. They got some soft drinks from the fridge, some chips from the cupboard that the mice hadn't been at, and they began to drag in clothes—from their car, I thought then. New clothes, Joe. Beautiful clothes. Leather. Cashmere. Silk. Piling them on the couch and daybed and chairs.

“They pushed the closet door wide open—it has a mirror on the inside—and they began trying on clothes and giggling, vamping, hamming it up. All the clothes had tags, tags hanging down from the couch in my face, every one from Alice's Mirror.

“The blond girl, Candy, said they shouldn't take anything, the cops would recognize whatever they wore. Leah, the tall one, said that was stupid, how would the cops be able to tell. It ended up, Leah and Candy each took a couple of leather jackets and some
sweaters. Dillon didn't take anything. She tried on clothes but put them down again. They talked about another job tonight, only to do it really early, just after the stores close. A different MO, Candy said, to throw the cops off. What a dim brain. She thinks the law won't expect another job so soon, won't be watching.”

“Did they say what store?”

Dulcie sighed. “The Sport Shop. But…I really don't want to…”

“Dulcie, it doesn't do Dillon any good to get away with this stuff. She's going to be in trouble sooner or later. Better she gets it over with, before it's something worse.”

“I suppose. But there's more. I saw more.” She rose and began to pace. From the love seat, the kit watched her quietly.

“I followed them into the garage and slipped under a workbench, watched them hang the clothes in metal lockers. That's the clanging I heard. They snapped padlocks on, and left. Five were already locked, Joe. They filled and locked four more. I didn't see if they had a car out front. Leah used the garage opener to get out. I saw her drop it in her pocket as the door came down behind them.

“When they'd left, I bumped against the lockers. Leaped and thumped at them. None sounded hollow, they all sounded dull, crammed full.”

Joe was quiet. Then, “Do you want to call the station? Or shall I?”

She sneezed. “The whole scene makes me sick.” Resignedly she moved to the phone, hit the speaker button, and pawed in the number of the station. And reluctantly she did the deed. When she had finished
telling the dispatcher what she knew, she stretched out on the desk blotter next to the torn papers and ragged brown envelope, looking very sad.

“It's best,” Joe said, his ears down, the white strip on his nose creased into a frown.

Dulcie studied the pile of bills and the torn pages. “It's all right for you to talk. You didn't betray a friend.”

T
he shadows of night seemed reluctant indeed to
tuck themselves down around the village. In Joe Grey's private tower the cats waited impatiently for darkness. Beneath Joe's paws lay a new brown envelope containing a gallon plastic freezer bag. They had stuffed Marlin Dorriss's bills and the torn notebook pages inside the clear container so that, when they delivered the evidence to the station, it would not cause a departmental panic. Would not trigger hasty emergency procedures to deal with a package that, at first touch, might blow the place sky high. Sealed with careful paws, and the excess air pressed out, the bag awaited only darkness to be hauled across the rooftops. Fidgeting, the messengers washed and groomed, willing night to hurry.

On the street below the Damen roof, a few tourists wandered in twos and threes and fours, and local residents hurried past heading home to hearth and supper. As the cats watched familiar cars turn up the side streets and disappear into carports or garages, Joe's thoughts were on Marlin Dorriss, on what might hap
pen when Dorriss opened his file drawer and found the bills missing, found the outdated substitutes in their place.

“So what's he going to do?” Dulcie said. “If he finds the bills missing and reports the theft, then we're staking out the wrong mouse hole. But if he's guilty,” she said, smiling, “you won't hear a word.” She gave Joe a long and appraising stare, her green eyes darkening in the slowly falling evening. “He reports it, you can write him off as a suspect. So what's the big deal?” She touched his nose with a soft paw. “Relax, Joe. Relax and roll with it.”

But she gave him a narrow look. “You're all fidgets and claws.
You
know this whole business is a gamble.” She leaned to nuzzle his whiskers. “I'll bet my best wool blanket that you've nailed him, that you've got your thief.”

Joe looked at her and tried to shake off the edginess. As he licked the last grain of sand from the Dorriss front yard off his paw, dusk began to thicken slowly around them, a gentler light to soften the rooftops. He looked at Dulcie and Kit reclining on the new pillows in his tower and he had to smile at how much they enjoyed a bit of luxury. And soon beyond the arches of the tower the dark foliage of the pines and oaks began to blur. In the east the gibbous moon began to rise, a lopsided globe far brighter than they would have chosen for this particular trek. When at last darkness deepened across the rooftop shadows, the three cats rose and stretched.

Leaving Joe's tower, Joe and Dulcie dragged the package between them. Hurrying across the roofs from concealing chimney to darkening overhang to shelter
ing branches, they skirted around second-floor windows where some apartment dweller or late office worker might be idly looking out. They remembered too well how Charlie had first glimpsed them on the rooftops and had heard Dulcie laugh, and how she began, then, to wonder.

Walking home from a later supper, Charlie had looked up to see the cats running along the peaks and had recognized against the bright night sky Joe Grey's docked tail and white markings. Hearing a young, delighted laugh, she had been puzzled. That incident combined with several others had led Charlie to guess the truth about them—but Charlie was an exception. Most humans would not make that leap, would not be willing to entertain such an amazing concept.

Now, above the rooftops, above the hurrying cats the moon lifted higher, increasing its glow and diminishing the size of the shadows. The night wind blew colder. Their hard-won package grew heavier, pulling at neck and shoulder muscles, making their jaws ache. Joe and Dulcie pushed ahead, dodging patches of light, ducking beneath branches, their teeth deep in the heavy packet. The kit trailed behind, unusually quiet, not pressing to help them. Then just across the last street lay the long expanse of the courthouse roof and the roof of Molena Point PD, the rounded clay tiles gleaming in the moonlight.

The chasm of the street was wide. One ancient oak spanned above the concrete, its branches meeting the smaller branches of its counterpart that grew close to the opposite sidewalk. Dragging their burden across the thick, leafy limb, trying not to hang it up among the twigs or to drop it, Joe and Dulcie felt as graceful as a
pair of clipped-wing pigeons flopping among the branches. The kit crossed on a branch above them, precarious and uncertain herself as she watched their unsteady progress.

Reaching the courthouse roof, the three cats together hauled their prize the long length of the courthouse, bumping on the round tiles and into the oak tree that stood beside the police department. Now they had three choices.

They could haul the envelope down to the front entry and prop it against the glass door. They could hike it around back, to the locked back door that opened on the police parking lot where Harper and the two detectives usually left their cars, where Harper himself would likely find it. But there was more traffic at the front door. The time was seven
P.M.
Watch would change at eight. Most of the officers and the dispatcher would leave by the front door, heading for their personal cars that were parked in the front lot. The first officer out would see the package and retrieve it, and go back to log it in and alert the watch commander.
Voilà,
mission accomplished.

Or, third choice, they could shove the plastic package through the high bars of the holding cell window. It would land behind the barred door, not ten feet from where the dispatcher ruled over the front of the station. Surely she would see it and take it into safe custody—if she didn't hit the panic button.

Looking through the depths of the oak leaves to the cell window, Dulcie was in favor of that route. “We drop it down there, no one outside on the street is going to see it and pick it up.”

“Right,” Joe said, padding along the branch to the
barred window and peering down inside. “Except that the cell's occupied. Can't you smell him?” He twitched his nose, flehming at the scent—but then, that cell never smelled like a flower garden.

Below them, stretched out on the bunk, lay a rumpled, sleeping body, his arms flailed out, one hand resting on the floor. A tall, thin guy maybe in his late twenties, with long dirty hair, dirty ragged clothes, and a handlebar mustache. He did not look or smell like someone they wanted to trust with the evidence. Even if he was indeed asleep, the thud of the dropping package would very likely wake him.

“Maybe he's just been arrested,” Dulcie said. “Maybe he's waiting to be booked, then they'll take him on back to the jail.”

“And maybe not,” Joe said. “Do you see anyone down there getting ready to book him?” Beyond the bars of the holding cell door, the area around the dispatcher's counter and the booking counter was empty. They saw only the dispatcher herself in her open cubicle, talking on the radio, apparently to an officer who, somewhere in the village, was just leaving the scene of a settled domestic dispute—always a touchy call.

Dulcie watched the drunk sleeping below them. “I'll
take
the package in. I can drop down there with it, a lot quieter than we can toss it. I can haul it through the barred door without waking him, without anyone seeing me.”

“And what if he isn't asleep? What a story he'd have to tell the cops, to trade for a quick release. ‘I know how that package got in here, officer. I saw a cat drop down in here carrying that thing in its mouth.'”

“He's drunk, Joe. They're going to believe him? I can be in there and down the hall to Harper's office before his boozy head clears, before he figures out what he saw.”

“And even if no one sees you, Dulcie, when Harper finds the evidence deposited neatly on his desk, what then? He won't ask how it got past the dispatcher? And past his new, state-of-the-art security system? He won't start suspecting one of his own officers?” He stared at Dulcie. “He starts suspecting Garza or Davis, who both know he wants those bills.
Then
it would hit the fan.”

“He's going to ask questions anyway.”

“He isn't going to ask questions if it isn't found inside.”

“But…”

“Wait,” Joe said. “Someone's coming.”

And, like Diana smiling on sainted lovers, good luck smiled on the cats. They watched Officer Brennan coming down the hall, his uniform tight over his protruding stomach.

Below them, metal clanged against metal as Brennan opened the barred door, hustled the drunk awake, and marched him out of the cell. The guy half fell against the dispatcher's counter, staggered against the booking counter, then stumbled away in front of Brennan, down the hall toward the back door and the jail.

The minute he was gone the cats hauled the package through the oak tree's snatching foliage and over the sill and shoved it through the bars. It fell with a hushing, sliding thump just inside the cell door—that brought the dispatcher to her feet, startled.

This particular dispatcher was a full-fledged officer.
She was armed, and she approached the cell with her hand on her holstered weapon. Above her, the gun-shy cats backed away up the tree. They could see her studying the packet then staring above her, searching the high, open window. Then she whirled away, back to her station. They heard her quick footsteps, then the building's shrill alarm.

Officers came running from the back offices, and out the front door. Before the cats could leap across the moonlit roofs to freedom, cops were swarming out wielding handheld searchlights, shining them toward the roof and into the tree, and they hunched down deep among the deepest leaves, their reflective eyes tight shut.

Beside Dulcie, the kit was not secretly smiling at the commotion, as she usually would be. Her tail was not twitching and dancing with excitement. She was deeply quiet. The kit's grieving worried Dulcie.

When the torches swung away at last, to sweep on across the parking lot and gardens, within the prickly leaves the three cats peered out. Below them, patrol cars had swung around from the back of the building to angle across the driveways and along the street, blocking the escape of all other vehicles. And officers on foot surrounded the gardens, their searchlights leaping from bush to bush and into the parked cars. The lights shone across the moon-bright roofs behind the cats. They were trapped like treed possums.

 

But while the cats crouched within the heavy oak leaves wishing the moonlight and searchlights would
vanish, wishing mightily for absolute darkness, Kate Osborne was doing her best to avoid the dark.

She had left work a bit late, finishing up some ordering and some computer sketches. It was just six thirty, but she was so tired and so ravenously hungry that she hardly cared if tonight a whole battalion of strangers followed her. Going down the elevator from her office to the parking garage, slipping quickly into her car and pulling out into the lighted street, half of her wanted to go straight home, wolf down a sandwich, and fall into bed. The other half wanted a nice, warming dinner that she didn't have to lift a hand over, wanted to sit at a cozy table and be waited on—wanted not to be alone for a while longer, but to remain safely among people.

For days after the Greenlaws' deaths she didn't think she was followed. She kept watch around her but didn't see anyone; but then on Thursday when she looked out her apartment window she had seen the same man standing in a doorway across the street. She did not simply imagine it was the same man. His sloped shoulders and stance were the same. And this time she had gotten a good look at his pale muddy hair, his sloping forehead and large nose.

If he meant to harm her, why did he just stand there? She almost wished, with a perverse cold fear, that instead of following, he
would
approach her, that he would come upstairs and knock on her door because she had grown more angry than afraid. Angry at this harassment, at this invasion of her privacy, at this hampering of her free, easy movement around the city.

Besides the pepper spray, she had begun to carry a
pair of scissors in her purse, a decision that was probably incredibly stupid. She wished she weren't such a wuss, that she'd learned karate or knew how to handle a gun, that she had some skill that would make her feel less vulnerable.

Both Hanni and Hanni's sister, Ryan, were comfortable and competent with firearms. Having grown up in a police family they had been trained early and well. And Charlie, too, since she married Max, had learned the same careful, responsible skills. Such expertise and confidence would be comforting now.

She decided to stop for dinner, and to hell with being followed. Driving through the crowded, narrow streets, she turned north up Columbus toward a favorite small seafood café. Dolphin's would be well lighted, and the sidewalk would be busy with pedestrians this time of evening. Just two blocks from the restaurant she was lucky to spot a car pulling out, and she swerved in.

Locking her car and hurrying up the street, she was half a block from Dolphin's when she glanced back and saw the same man following her. She was so angry she almost approached him, pepper spray in hand.

But then fear filled her, and she hurried on toward Dolphin's, trying to stay among people. She did not like living this way. She thought, not for the first time, of how it would be when she chucked city life and moved home to Molena Point. Where she could indeed feel safe again. Crossing the street away from him as he followed, she hurried on—but when she glanced in the shop windows where she could see behind her, he had crossed, too. He was pacing her, his thin reflection moving jaggedly from one square of dark glass to the
next. When she slowed, he slowed. When she quickened her step, so did he. When she reached Dolphin's she slipped quickly inside and pulled the door closed hard behind her. She'd have liked to lock it.

Her favorite waitress, Annette, looked up from clearing a table and smiled, and nodded toward her usual table. Annette was rotund, in her thirties, with a slender, fine-boned face that seemed to belong to a much thinner woman. She had lovely dark eyes and a beautiful complexion. As Kate crossed the restaurant between the crowded tables she kept her back to the window. But when she glanced around, the man stood outside looking in through the glass.