Cat Breaking Free

10

The roof was so steep it was all Dulcie and Kit could do to keep from sliding down the shingles into the face of the cop below. Claws were no good at this angle. Bracing their paws as best they could, they watched Officer Brennan fasten a belly chain on a handcuffed Latino guy dressed in dark jeans, black T-shirt and black sneakers. He was maybe thirty, with a scruffy little beard and one earring, his expression a strange mix of anger, puzzlement and guilt. Brennan and his partner had chased him for blocks, as Dulcie and Kit raced along above them over the rooftops. The arrestee was small and light, and was a fast runner, zigzagging through back streets and alleys. Three times the cats had nearly lost him, as had Brennan. But then at the corner of Fifth and Dolores, where a low roof dropped nearer the sidewalk, Kit had skidded on a loose shingle, knocking it off right in the guy's face. Scared him so bad he spun back swearing in Spanish-into Brennan's hands.

Brennan was just as surprised as the perp. Nearly as surprised as the kit who, Dulcie told her later, had made her first arrest, or nearly so. "This," Dulcie said, licking the kit's ear, "should make you an honorary officer."

Kit, watching Brennan cuff the guy, had shivered with mirth and with smug triumph, though she was glad Brennan hadn't seen her. On the roof, they followed Brennan and his captive back to Brennan's squad car where he forced the belly-chained prisoner into the back seat, pushing his head down so he wouldn't crack his skull. No one wanted an inmate suing the department. Seemed like cuffs and belly chain were a lot, Dulcie thought, when the distance to the station was only a few blocks. But Brennan, with the extra weight he packed, sure wouldn't want to chase this one again. As Brennan headed for the station, Dulcie and Kit were still laughing; and as they dropped down from the roof to a little bench that stood in the shadows, they could see into the jewelry store where officers' lights flashed.

The exploding brilliance of strobes made them shutter their eyes as Detective Garza photographed the broken, empty display cases. Max Harper stood talking with two officers and with Garza, but soon he left the scene again, swinging into his pickup, driving off in the direction of the high school. Dulcie thought about the lovely chokers and bracelets the cases had held, and how often she had reared up to peer in through Marineau's windows, admiring those treasures-wondering how she would look in platinum or emeralds. Except that the idea of a confining collar gave her the shivers; even such a multimillion-dollar confection as a sapphire choker from Tiffany's would scare her if she couldn't claw it off and free herself.

Both cats felt sad looking in at the ruined shop, at the shattered glass cases, at the silk-covered walls now scarred with ugly gouges. An inner door had been torn off its hinges. The thick, creamy carpet had been ripped back as if the thieves were searching for a floor safe. Such destruction by humans sickened them.

If Dulcie had her way, the people who did this would be cooling their heels for a lifetime. And not in a cushy cell with free TV, three hot meals, laundry service, ample medical care, and unlimited phone privileges. In her view, the universal need for freedom ended when it was used to destroy the lives and livelihood of others.

"How much do you suppose they got?" Kit said.

"In value?" Dulcie said, surprised by Kit's uncharacteristically practical turn of mind. "Whatever they got, they didn't get what they deserved. Come on," she whispered, dropping down into deeper shadows beneath the bench as Detective Garza turned in their direction.

The Latino detective had finished photographing and was putting away his camera equipment. They waited, very still, until he turned away again and, with his back to them, began to dust showcase and door surfaces with black powder. As Garza lifted prints, two officers approached along the sidewalk, stopping before the window.

Wearing thin surgical gloves, the uniforms began collecting broken glass from the sidewalk and the little garden that ran along the front of the shop, sealing each piece in an individual evidence bag. And as the officers drew close, the cats backed away around the edge of the building, into a bed of begonias.

When Dulcie glanced up, Joe Grey stood on a rooftop across the street watching the scene, his white parts clearly visible, white chest, the long white triangle down his nose. His white paws were hidden in the roof gutter. He studied the scene, then leaped into an awning, dropped down onto a bench, and trotted across the street toward them, between half a dozen police units that were parked to block approaching traffic. Pushing in among the begonias, he gave Dulcie a whisker kiss. "What did I miss?"

"Tell us what happened at the high school," Dulcie said.

"I haven't the faintest, I wasn't up there. I was… watching someone."

"Watching who?"

Joe ignored her, teasing; so it had to be important. He glanced casually away in the direction of the PD. "Maybe Mabel Farthy's on duty. We'll hear something there, or maybe we can cadge a look at the report."

Dulcie held her tongue; she wasn't begging for answers; he'd tell her quicker if she didn't prod him; and she followed him across the roofs to the courthouse and down the oak tree to the door of Molena Point PD. Joe's expression was so smug it was all she could do not to belt him.

While the cats were waiting for the dispatcher to open the heavy glass door, Clyde arrived home from the vet's. He arrived alone, without old Rube. He was feeling very low. He wanted to talk with Joe, he wanted Joe's company, wanted to stroke Joe and hold him-though he would never tell the tomcat how much he needed him at that moment.

Coming in the house alone, he turned on some lights and called to Joe. Called the tomcat again and again, until he was certain Joe wasn't home. Hurrying into the laundry, he looked for Snowball. She wasn't in the bunk bed. With an unaccustomed feeling of dread for her, too, he hurried upstairs.

There she was, the little white creature curled up in his study, in the big leather chair. Someone had tucked the woolen throw warm around her.

Ryan wasn't there, there was no note as she would have left on the kitchen table if she'd come in. Only Joe had been here in the house, to fold the throw gently around Snowball like that, and that touched Clyde deeply. Kneeling before the chair, he stroked Snowball and put his face down against her. She looked up at him pitifully. As if she knew very well what had happened. Just ordinary cats, Clyde thought, know a lot more than we suspect of them.

Snowball sniffed his hands for a long time, smelling each finger, then she dropped her head into Clyde's hand. He remained very still, holding her.

It was a long time later that he rose, picking Snowball up, cuddling her in his arms. Carrying her to the desk, he sat down, making the little cat comfortable in the crook of his arm; and he called Ryan.

He told her about Rube. They talked for a long time. Her gentle voice, and her own tears, eased him. When at last he hung up, he felt better.

But he was still lonely, so lonely that he did something he'd never done before. He dialed the dispatcher on the nonemergency number, asking innocently if his cat was there. He told Mabel he'd heard a terrible cat fight, off in that direction, and he just wondered…

Mabel Farthy had cats, she was a sucker for cats. She wouldn't think his call was odd. Everyone knew that Joe often hung out at the station. Harper complained bitterly about cats wandering so casually in and out, but Clyde thought Max was secretly growing fond of Joe. He tried not to think how mad Joe was going to be. The tomcat would give him hell for making this call. Right now he didn't care, he just wanted Joe to come home.

Mabel's raspy voice was amused. "All three cats are here, Clyde. Sitting on the counter eating pastrami on rye."

"With mustard?"

"Of course not. I know cats don't like mustard."

Clyde repeated how much the catfight had alarmed him, and said he hoped Mabel got some of her dinner and didn't go hungry. "You could throw the little beggars out. You don't have to feed them."

Mabel laughed. "You know I'd go hungry to see the satisfied smirks on their furry faces and hear the little freeloaders purr."

On Mabel's counter, lolling between two stacks of reports, Joe heard Clyde's voice on the phone, and went rigid. They were talking about cats, about him, and he was wild with anger. Clyde had called about him. But the next minute his anger vanished, and he knew.

Rube. This was about Rube.

Clyde wouldn't have called if this were good news. Joe's stomach felt like it had dropped to the cellar, he was cold all over and lost, felt sick all the way to his paws.

He was about to take off for home when Officer Blake came in. The tall, thin officer tossed a handful of Polaroids on the desk, color shots of the fire at the high school. Slipping closer again, between Dulcie and Kit, Joe stared at candid studies of smoke and flame licking up a building, and of the burned interior of a classroom. It was the kind of mess you'd see in some L.A. street riot, not in Molena Point. What was coming down here?

There had been no trouble at the school, no student unrest or complaints building up to this, and no hot issue that might draw outside agitators. Keen with predatory curiosity, longing to paw the photos out across the desk to see every detail, Joe turned away instead. He was too torn by Clyde's need, too conscious of Clyde's pain to attend even to this perplexing crime.

Glancing at Dulcie with a look he hoped she would understand, he leaped from Mabel's counter to the front door and reared up against the glass, pawing impatiently until Mabel came around the counter and let him out. And he headed fast for home, a wild gray streak racing over the rooftops and across the highest oak branches above the narrow streets, heading home. Going home, where Clyde needed him.