Cat Fear No Evil (25 page)

But then the old man smiled and shook his head. “Joe Grey wants nothing to do with such an idea. Joe says this world is quite enough for him. Let's go have some breakfast.”

But, over breakfast, Kate could not leave such thoughts behind her. The Greenlaws had stirred anew her unease, mixed with the persistent small thread of interest. She thought about the black cat, about the old house he believed opened to that other world, thought how deftly the snarling tom had guided her unwilling thoughts. Last night after his visit to her apartment she had found herself, just at the edge of sleep, imagining such a world and falling into dreams where she wandered that exotic land—and she had awakened that morning lost and frightened.

Now, sitting comfortably at the little breakfast table between Lucinda and Pedric in the pretty café, she took Lucinda's hand, holding fast to the old woman's steadiness, holding fast to the real and solid world.

M
arlin Dorriss's condo was in the Marina District
with a fine view of the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz Island, and the cold blue waters of San Francisco Bay. The complex was prime residential property and beautifully maintained. The sky to be seen from the condo's wide, clean windows this morning was streaked with wisps of white cloud that lay so low they threaded through the tall orange towers of the great bridge. The occupants of the condo, at the moment, were not enjoying the view but were cursing the brightness of the day.

The prominent location of the sprawling third-floor apartment was not an element that pleased them. Cops cruised that street routinely; and twenty minutes ago a silver gray Cadillac had parked across the street but no one had gotten out. Under the shadows of the tree that half hid the vehicle, they couldn't tell much about the man sitting in the driver's seat, but he had to be watching their building.

“Marlin could have bought a place away from the
main drag,” Hollis growled. “There's another cop car.”

Consuela shrugged. “Maybe they're watching the tourists, getting an eyeful of those short little skirts blowing up around their crotches, and no bras under their sweaters.”

“Cops seen all that stuff. And you had to park right in plain view. Might as well put up a sign.”

“They won't spot the car; they have no make on the car.”

“She's got a make on it. How many blue Corvettes do you see? You should'a done her.”

“That's so childish. I don't do things like that; that's stupid. I'd rather spend a few years locked up with free meals, free phone, and laundry service, than to burn.”

“You don't burn in California. Get a lawyer, you're out before your clothes start to stink.”

“If you'd find the key to the garage, we could get the car out of sight.”

“
You
should know where he keeps the key, you spend enough time here. I'm surprised you stayed in that fancy hotel across town.”

“That place was perfect, a block from her apartment.” She glanced up to the top of the armoire. “Damn cat liked it fine. In and out of her window, and I didn't even have to open the door for him.”

From atop the armoire, the damn cat fixed Consuela with a look that came close to doing
her.
If looks could kill, she would be squirming like a decapitated cockroach.

Hollis, picking up a cloisonné lamp that stood on a carved end table, put it roughly on the floor, and sat down on the table, straddle-legged, looking out the window to the street below. Munching on a quarter-
pounder, he dripped an occasional slop of mustard and greasy meat juice onto the oriental rug. Consuela, sprawled in a leather chair beside the phone, munched French fries and chicken nuggets that she had dumped onto a porcelain tray and sipped a Coke, leaving rings on the burled maple. She had been dialing Marlin Dorriss's cell phone for half an hour. They had dropped their jackets and canvas duffel and the takeout bags on the brocade couch.

The condo, which had smelled subtly of furniture polish and fine leather when they first entered, now smelled of fries and mustard, rancid grease and raw onions. Atop the tall, hand-decorated Belgian armoire, the black tomcat had already slurped up his burger. Digging his claws into the hundred-year-old cabinet, he studied Consuela and her disgusting friend, wondering how long he wanted to tolerate the pair. He didn't mind working with Consuela, this randy master of shifting identities, as long as she was associated with Dorriss. Only under Dorriss's influence—or because she wanted to influence Dorriss—did the little slut put on any class. She'd far rather dress like a streetwalker than make herself up for Kate Osborne, even if her turnout had been nearly flawless.

Hollis, on the other hand, was always scum. No one could clean up Hollis Dorriss or make him into anything more acceptable. No wonder Marlin had all but disowned his useless pair of sons. No wonder he preferred that they go by the name Clarkman.

Dorriss had used them whenever they came around, then paid them off and sent them packing. Now of course he had only one to deal with, and good rid
dance. That last fiasco, here in the city—Sammy teaming up with that cheap gang of third-rate jewel thieves and getting hit on the head—that had been the ultimate stupidity. Sure as hell it was Sammy's ultimate stupidity; that little caper got him dead.

But then Hollis flubbed it even worse stealing that RV and hitting that tanker. Too bad the jerk got out alive. Well, it didn't matter; Hollis was just marking time until some cop slapped the cuffs on him—jail meat waiting to happen.

You'd think, with the number of ventures the two had tried, they'd have put away some kind of stash. Instead, Hollis and Sammy had spent whatever they stole. Having done everything from residential break-and-enter to mugging old ladies, the two hadn't learned much. He'd heard it all from Dorriss; the man did not seem the kind to go on about his personal life, particularly to a cat. But a few drinks, late at night, and Dorriss's soft underbelly showed. The sophistication peeled away and he let it all out, his disappointments—and his grandiose and elaborate plans.

Well, you had to admit, those carefully thought-out burglary scenarios were not hot air. Marlin Dorriss could pull off the most bizarre operation without a flaw—thanks, in part, to yours truly. Azrael was quite aware that he had spectacularly increased the range and possibilities of Marlin Dorriss's ventures.

Fixing his gaze on the display wall that so tastefully filled the north end of the living room, on Dorriss's exhibition of rarities as he called it, Azrael studied Dorriss's acquisitions from a year's worth of inspired and masterful burglaries: a fortune in stolen treasures.

Each piece of jewelry was elegantly framed, be
hind unbreakable glass. Each larger item, the historic silver pitcher, the antique porcelain pieces, the contemporary sculpture, was appropriately set into a thick glass cubicle. A display so elegant, and of such value, that it might have graced the wall of Tiffany's. The man was insane to keep the stuff here, even if the wall was normally hidden behind locked panels. He had been insane to give Consuela the combination of the panel locks—if he had given it to her. Maybe she'd filched it.

The four panels, each four feet wide, had been slid back into their pockets allowing Consuela to view the master's work—not because she idolized Dorriss's expertise, but because she'd had a hand in the thefts. Traveling with Dorriss and Azrael, performing various supportive chores, she had played backup as Azrael himself and then Dorriss entered the chosen residence. Between the tomcat and Dorriss, no security system was invulnerable.

Once inside the house, a diamond choker in a lady's boudoir, for instance, required no more than the silent feline paw, the quick feline wit, while Dorriss kept watch. A locked safe? There Dorriss himself was the master. Consuela did the outside work, waiting with the car or SUV, keeping lookout with the cell phone, which would send a silent vibration to Dorriss's phone.

Of course, if their target was a painting or a larger piece of sculpture, Dorriss did the removal. But he could not have functioned so flawlessly without Azrael's unique talents.

The black cat yawned, licking his paw and purring with satisfaction. He liked this life of luxury. Since he had parted from drunken Greeley Urzey, and then from
the insipid blonde he'd met in Panama, he had come into his true calling. Marlin Dorriss treated him royally, and Dorriss fully respected his erudite and resourceful talents. The man was quite cognizant that Azrael's feline skills were far superior to the cleverest human thief. Trusting Azrael, Dorriss had no idea that his feline partner might harbor an agenda of his own.

Both Azrael and Dorriss had been intrigued with the photographs of Kate's antique jewelry that had been forwarded by Emerson Bristol; Dorriss was certainly considering the jewels for a future project. He had no notion, at this moment, that the matter had already been taken care of.

While Consuela's hunger to curry Dorriss's increased favor was totally juvenile, her desire had made her useful. Her stealing these jewels for Dorriss rather than for herself had worked very well into his, Azrael's, plans.

And after all, it was Consuela's jealousy of Helen Thurwell—after Consuela played matchmaker between the two—that had driven her to this theft, that had made her so wild to impress him.

Suggesting that Dorriss use information he could gather by getting friendly with Helen Thurwell, Consuela herself had helped to launch Dorriss into this new operation. But then his resulting cozy affair with Helen had enraged Consuela. Humans could be so amusing.

Well, that series of capers, which had nothing to do with the recent jewel theft, was now ripe for harvest. In fact, this very morning Dorriss should be making his first moves.

Too bad the plan for the new project did not include
feline assistance. However, the timing had worked out very well. While Dorriss was busy fleecing a flock of brand-new sheep, he, Azrael, was carrying out his own agenda. He might, a few days hence, be exercising his considerable talents in an environ far more fascinating than this poor world. Yawning again, he was considering a nap when Consuela and Hollis started bickering. So boring, so loud and childish.

Beyond them out the window he could see another cop car cruising. Didn't the law have anything else to do? Bastards made him nervous. He was just curling up, despite the annoying argument, when the doorbell rang.

Alarmed, he dropped off the armoire and leaped to the windowsill where Consuela stood looking down, trying to conceal herself behind the shutter. A second cop car stood just below, in the red zone. The bell rang again. Consuela glanced at her purse where she'd stashed the jewels.

“The panels!” Azrael hissed at her. “Shut the panels.”

Hastily she and Hollis slid the wall panels in place and locked them, then she stood with her hand on the intercom, undecided.

“You better let them in and play dumb,” Azrael said. “Stash the jewels first.”

“What are they doing here?”

“Maybe they have a warrant,” Hollis said stupidly. “Maybe that woman made you, figured out who you are, linked you up with Dorriss—and that led them right here.”

“Linked
you
up with Dorriss,” Consuela snapped. “
You're
his son.”

The bell rang again. Consuela snatched up her purse, pulled out the small blue evening bag that held the jewels, and looked at Azrael. The tomcat looked back at her, jolted by a rush of adrenaline. This gig was working out just fine.

 

In the silver Cadillac, on the front seat beside Clyde, Joe Grey stood up on his hind paws peering through the windshield. The condo building was of Mediterranean design and was fairly new, with well-maintained gardens and fresh cream-toned paint. It was lent an air of hominess by the many roses blooming in raised planters against the building's walls and in the entry foyer. He watched the two officers from San Francisco PD enter. The taller one, who was in uniform, reached to ring the bell. The other guy was in plainclothes, but he had cop written all over him. Detective, Joe thought, smiling. A moment after they rang, at a third-floor window, a black cat appeared beside the dark-haired woman who stood half concealed behind the shutters. The cat was huge, as black as cinders; the woman's hair was curled in a cloud around her pale face. The way the morning light struck the window and shone down through a skylight, Joe could see clearly a portion of the high-ceilinged room behind them.

As the woman turned away, Joe watched her sliding some sort of wide panels across an elaborately decorated wall. He saw light hit the decorations glancing from them in a flash of brilliance, then they were hidden as the panels closed.

In the window, the cat moved as if trying to see better down into the street. When he pressed his face against the glass as if watching their car, Joe slid out of sight beneath the dash.

Beside him, Clyde had the phone to his ear, leaving another message for Kate. Hanging up, he studied the black cat in the window, then looked down at Joe. “You're afraid of that clown?”

“Not at all,” Joe said testily. “I don't want him to know I'm here. Whatever they're up to, I'd rather not be made before I go snooping. Did Consuela let the cops in? What's the cat doing, can you still see him?”

“You're not going out there. You're staying in the car.” But Clyde dug the binoculars from the glove compartment. “I came over here to look for my Packard, not to chauffeur some self-designated feline busybody bent on making trouble.”

Joe slid up on the seat again. The two cops had disappeared, presumably buzzed through to the stairs or elevator. The black cat had vanished, too. Stepping onto Clyde's legs, Joe was prepared to leap out the open window, when Clyde grabbed the nape of his neck.

“Let go! I'm just listening!” With his head out the window, he tried to catch a word or two when Consuela opened the upstairs door to the officers, but he could hear nothing over the sound of a passing car. Glancing back at Clyde, he lifted a paw, claws out, until Clyde sensibly loosened his grip.

 

Having closed and locked the panels, Consuela shoved the blue suede evening bag at Azrael. “Get in the bed
room. If they start to search, take it up the trellis. Hide it on the roof.”

“You better unlock the French doors.” Azrael lifted the bagful of jewelry, bowing his neck. Damn thing weighed a ton. She fled past him for the bedroom; he heard the French doors open. As he dragged the bag up the hall, she hurried out again.

“Get a move on,” she snapped over her shoulder. “If I don't let them in, and if the bastards have a warrant, they'll call the manager to unlock the damn door.”

Taking the bag in his teeth, he dragged it across the bedroom and onto the balcony. The weight of all that gold nearly dislocated his spine. How did she think he was going to get that thing up the trellis? Damn humans. As much as he wanted a few select pieces, he didn't need to take it all, not for his purposes.