Cat Fear No Evil (21 page)

She shivered, drawing back. The cat was insane, driven by an ego bigger than any lost world—and yet despite her fear of him, his words and his cloying voice strangely quickened her heart. And a little voice deep inside her kept asking,
Why are there no public records for McCabe, or for my grandmother or my parents? What
are
McCabe's oblique references in his journals to some other world?

She shook her head, turning away. She did not want to think about this; she did not want any of this.

But then she turned back, watching the tomcat. “Is
she
a part of this? Is Consuela part of this insanity? Does she believe in such a world?”

His laugh was cold, teeth bared with derision. “She knows nothing about my true purpose. She has taken the jewels for her lover.”

“The man who followed me?”

The cat laughed again, a snarling hiss that gave her goose bumps. “That man is not her lover. Her lover is her partner, as am I. We are three in our ventures. The
man who followed you is a pawn, a simple lackey.” He watched her appraisingly. “If you want to know about her partner, you must help me.”

The cat jerked around as footsteps sounded outside the door in the stairwell.

“Go!” she hissed.

The cat sat unmoving, his smile evil.

Kate was so enraged, so at the end of her temper, that she snatched up the beast by the nape of his bullish neck and his thick black tail and, holding him away from her, she hiked him through to the kitchen. She was sure he'd twist around and slash her—he could shred her arm in an instant.

But he did nothing. He hung limp, watching her and laughing.
Laughing.
Enraged, she shoved him through the narrow opening, forcing him through with her hand on his rump, then closing the window, wedging it again with the butcher knife. Then she went to open the front door. In her last view of Azrael, the tomcat sauntered boldly away into the black night of the rooftops.

I
n the presence of the two officers, Kate was foolishly
embarrassed by the shambles of her apartment. Shaken by her encounter with the black tomcat, she felt dull and slow, as if her normal senses were muffled.

Of the two officers, the tall, thin one was young, maybe in his late twenties, with startling blue eyes. He stood in the open door, his smile reserved, appraising her and watchful.

“Mrs. Osborne? I'm Officer Harden. This is Officer Pardue.” Harden's instant scan passed beyond her to the destroyed living room, seeming to record every small detail, every break and spill and tear, every gouge and stain.

Officer Pardue was shorter and older, perhaps in his fifties, the lines in his face sculpted into the look of someone with a perpetually sour stomach. His survey of the room seemed more wary, more attuned to watching for a hidden presence, for someone waiting out of sight. When she stepped back for them to enter, Officer
Pardue began at once to move through the apartment to clear it, his hand on his gun. Officer Harden remained standing with her, asking questions but sharply alert until Officer Pardue returned. Only then did Harden begin to fill in his report, walking through the rooms with her, then sitting with her at the dining table, avoiding the grease.

As Pardue waited by the door, Kate told Officer Harden that before she got home she had been followed, and that she had been kidnapped for perhaps an hour and then released in her own parking garage. It all sounded so hokey, so made up. She gave him the detailed circumstances and described the jewelry the woman had taken. He interrupted her once to call the station, to speak with a detective. He did not want her to clean up the apartment or to move anything at all until the detective arrived. That he was concerned enough to bring in an investigator, made her feel better. Harden wanted to know what she had touched after she got home. When she told him she had made tea and eaten a sandwich he seemed amused.

“I felt faint; I had to have something. I sat here, at the table.” She did not, of course, mention her uninvited dinner guest. If, later, the detective found paw prints on the table, so be it. When Harden went to look at her phone line, he found that it had been cut just outside her kitchen window. He reported this for her through the dispatcher.

As he filled out his report, he made her repeat many answers. She did not like that he was testing her. He asked her three times whether she knew the man, and made her repeat that she wasn't sure. Asked her twice to describe how she knew Consuela. She would have to
answer all this again, for the detective. She hoped he would not be as heavy-handed. Explaining that in Molena Point Consuela had posed as a teenager, she was most uncomfortable at how addled that sounded. She was relieved when Detective Jared Reedie arrived some ten minutes later.

His quick arrival surprised her, implying to her that this particular burglary might be important. Reedie was a shockingly good-looking young man with dark brown hair and brown eyes, dressed in cords and a suede sport coat, a young man so handsome that Kate immediately found herself mistrusting him. When the two officers had left, Reedie walked through the house with her, taking photographs, then at last he came to sit with her at the table as Harden had done. She told her story over again knowing he would compare it with what she'd told Officer Harden—as if she were the one on trial. She understood why this was necessary, but that didn't make her any more comfortable with the fact-finding process to which the law was committed.

Reedie said, “There was a report tonight of a woman being followed into a restaurant on Columbus.”

She nodded. “I think the waitress, Annette, might have called. She helped me leave—helped that woman and me go out the back.”

“You saw the car that followed you.”

“A gray hatchback. I don't know what make. Fairly new, though.”

“And you got a look at the man?”

When, for the fourth time, she described the man, she caught a gleam of interest from Reedie. He spent
quite some time going over her description of him, and of the waiter in Molena Point. He seemed equally interested in her two very different descriptions of Consuela.

“You think they were the same person, this sophisticated Nancy Westervelt, and the teenager you described from Molena Point?”

“Yes, I'm sure it's the same woman.” This was such a tangle. She had to tell him about the theft of her safe deposit key. She was nervous not to, because she had reported it to the bank. The detective seemed to sense that she was leaving things out, though he did not accuse her of that. When he kept questioning her about Consuela she said, “Maybe it would help if you talked with Captain Harper in Molena Point, or spoke with one of his detectives, with Dallas Garza or Juana Davis. All three know Consuela, and maybe they could shed some light. They should know if she's left the village.”

“What is your connection to Molena Point PD?”

“I worked for Dallas Garza's niece, here in the city. While Dallas was still with your department. If I return to Molena Point to live, his niece wants me to join her again. She now has her own design studio there.” She studied his handsome face, his expressionless brown eyes. “Captain Harper is a personal friend, as well. He was very helpful and supportive when my husband…”

She faltered, then, “Do you remember a money-laundering and car-theft scheme in Molena Point three years ago? They killed the owner of the car dealership when he found out what they were doing.”

Reedie nodded. “I remember.”

“My husband, James Osborne, was part of it. When I found out, he arranged with his partner to kill me. It was Captain Harper who broke the case. The two are now in San Quentin.”

Her explanation seemed to put Detective Reedie somewhat at ease, and the remainder of his interview was less rigid. She described for him in as much detail as she could each piece of jewelry that Consuela had taken. She told him where she had had them appraised. By the time the detective rose to leave, he had a detailed account of her evening, had taken three rolls of photographs, and had a description of the man who had followed her. The detective seemed, in fact, so intent on the man that she wanted to mention the newspaper article she had read about the jewel robbery in the city and the escape of one of the thieves.

But he would know that; maybe that was why he was interested. When Reedie asked if she wanted to press charges against Consuela, she hesitated.

“If I press charges, and she's caught and the jewelry is recovered—if she actually goes to trial, I won't get the jewelry back until the trial's finished. Is that right?”

“Yes. And then only if you can identify it.”

“I don't have photographs. Would my fingerprints on the jewelry count for anything?”

Detective Reedie smiled. “I can see that it counts for something—if she doesn't wipe them clean. Your description of the pieces will be taken into consideration. You might want to get a written description from the appraiser and a letter from the attorney who gave them to you.”

“Yes,” she said doubtfully. “If the attorney ever looked at them, if he ever opened that sealed box. But…” She
looked up at Reedie. “I think I could draw them with some accuracy.”

“That might be helpful. It couldn't hurt.”

“If I don't press charges of theft, but report the jewelry taken, could I expect to get the jewelry back?” She didn't want to wait months or maybe years for the overcrowded San Francisco court system to release the evidence. “If I did that, what could you hold her on? Would you have enough to hold her?”

Reedie smiled. “You can press charges for kidnapping, for breaking and entering, and for malicious damage. But the case would be stronger if you charge her with taking the jewelry as well.

“It's not as if the jewelry went missing during the break-in,” he said. “You were forced to give her the box. It would make a far stronger case if you laid it all out as it happened.” He studied her. “But we have to keep that kind of evidence for the trial. It's not like, say, stolen merchandise where you can check the price tag, know the exact value, and return it to a store that has been robbed. The court would insist on holding it for actual consideration during the trial.”

“Do I need to come into the station to file charges?”

He removed a sheaf of forms from the back of his clipboard and handed her two, offering her a pen. Kate gave him a grateful look and began to fill in the required information. She did not take time to run her phone messages until half an hour after Detective Reedie left.

When the police had gone, she took a long hot shower, made herself a bourbon and water, and tucked up in bed, locking her bedroom door. With her cell phone she called the message service for her home
phone. Detective Reedie had reported her phone line cut, but she could access the service from anywhere. She supposed the land line would be repaired in the morning.

Alone and safe in her bedroom, jotting down messages, punching erase or save, she was torn by the thoughts that the black tomcat had stirred.

Yet, when she faced her decision to abandon the search into her family, to forget the past and settle down to real life, an emptiness yawned, making her feel very alone. To cut those nebulous ties to her heritage, no matter how strange that past was, made her feel totally cut off from the world.

Huddled up in bed, frightened again and lonely, she felt a deep need for her friends, for Wilma and Charlie, for Clyde, for Hanni and Ryan. Unexpected tears started flowing, and before she finished listening to her messages she hung up and dialed Molena Point.

Clyde answered. His voice was muzzy with sleep. She glanced at her bedside clock. It was nearly ten.

“I was reading,” he lied.

“You were asleep.”

“In my study, reading. Foggy out, really socked. Guess I drifted off.”

“In your study with a fire burning,” she said longingly.

“A fire burning, a glass of bourbon. All I need is you, it couldn't get any better.”

She laughed. “You're such a philanderer. What about Ryan?”

“She's at home working on blueprints.”

“And Joe is sprawled on your feet?” Kate wanted to keep him talking, keep hearing his voice so familiar
and comforting. She wished she were there; she needed Clyde, needed a strong shoulder to lean on.

“Joe's out hunting, waylaying innocent rabbits. Damn cat. I hate when he hunts in the fog; it's the most dangerous time. But you can't tell him one damn thing; might as well talk to the wall. How are you, Kate? You sound…what's wrong?”

“I'm too tired to repeat it all again. The police have been here, and a detective. I had a break-in. I just…needed to hear your voice. I'll explain it all later. Trashed my apartment. I'm fine now, apartment's secure.”

“Tell me the rest.”

“Could I tell you tomorrow? I just…wanted to hear your voice. I felt so lonely.”

“Don't leave me hanging. Talk to me.”

“I'm just so tired.”

“Try,” he said unsympathetically.

“That girl from the village, that cheap girl running with Dillon? Consuela something?”

“Yes?”

She told him, starting with the theft of her safe deposit key. Joe Grey, in his typical tomcat secrecy, had told Clyde none of that. She left the phone once to refill her drink, and they talked for nearly an hour. Clyde's questions were endless. He said, “I'm coming up, Kate. First thing in the morning.”

“That isn't necessary, I don't want you to do that. I just wanted to hear your voice. I'm fine, Clyde. The police have it in hand.”

When she hung up, having convinced him at last not to come, she went to the kitchen and managed to find another tea bag. Taking a cup back to bed, she contin
ued running her messages. That was when she got Lucinda.

She had erased the ninth message, from a client, having made the necessary notes. She had begun to play the next one when she sat straight up in bed. Holding the phone away from her, staring at it, she missed vital words.

She replayed it, unbelieving. At first, for an instant, she thought it was an old message that had somehow gotten saved.

“Kate, it's Lucinda. We weren't in that wreck, we're all right. We wanted, for a while, to not tell anyone at all, not even the sheriff. We'll explain it all when we see you, we're heading for San Francisco…”

Alive? They were alive?
She felt cold with shock, then delirious with relief. She wanted to jump up and down on the bed, to turn cartwheels. Punching save, she ran the message four more times.

“If you're out late,” Lucinda said, “if you try to call me back and we're asleep, leave a message. We're at the Redwood, in Fort Bragg. We don't want to come barging in tomorrow, if it's not convenient. We just…It will take a while to tell you all that's happened. But we're fine. We got out of the RV long before the wreck; we weren't anywhere near when it burned.” Lucinda's voice sounded strong and happy.

“We'll be in the city in the morning, I made reservations at that little hotel just down from you. Maybe, if you're free, we can have breakfast?”

She listened. Played it again. Again.
Alive! They were alive!
Three days since the wreck and no word,
and now they were alive!

This could not be a joke, she knew Lucinda's voice.
What had happened? Where had they been? Why
hadn't
they been in touch?
Why hadn't they called her, or called Wilma? Why hadn't they contacted the police?
She sat holding the phone, staring at it, her hands trembling; she was grinning like an idiot.

When at last she called their hotel, she got the message service. Well, it was after eleven, likely they were asleep. She didn't try their cell phone. She left a message, then tried to call Wilma but got a busy signal. Did Wilma know? Had Lucinda already called her? Were they talking right now? When she had talked with Clyde, he didn't know.