Cat Chase The Moon

26

“DeWayne Luther’s back,” the caller said. “Spotted him outside Juana Davis’s condo.” Max snorted with disbelief. One more damned double. But this was his regular snitch, there was no mistaking his voice, even over the sudden gusts of rain pounding against the roof.

“He was there in front of the condo, wearing a slicker open over ragged clothes. He looked like he meant to go on up the steps but then a light went on inside. He swung into the dark between two condos, stood there waiting. Maybe,” the snitch said, “our luck is changing. You do have those five bank withdrawal thieves locked up, you have the money they stole. You’ve checked out the cash in Seaver’s safe, and that should bring up plenty of prints.” The snitch was talkative tonight, Max had never heard him go on like this.

“All that stolen cash that Davis and Garza locked in the evidence room, it has to be a fortune. And with plenty of prints and photos,” the snitch said.

Max was silent. The snitch’s comments made him more than edgy. How did he know this stuff? How did he know that one of his officers had slipped into the antiques workroom? That Bean had opened the safe, photographed the money, memorized the safe’s combination and locked it up again, leaving the cash for the detectives to bag as evidence?

Max hadn’t made any arrests. He had his reasons. He’d seen the Luther boys hanging around Seaver’s alley. He didn’t want to make waves until the next big move went down, most likely the Seavers and Luthers together. He didn’t know how the two families had made a connection, but they’d both been in town for years—crook drawn to crook.

The phone had gone dead. Max was about to call the department, send a couple of men to nail DeWayne, when his phone rang again.

But this was a woman, one he’d never heard—until she identified herself, and then he knew Maurita’s whisper, shy and hesitant, still hoarse from her injuries.

“DeWayne is back. He’s just outside Juana’s living room window, in the rain. I’m standing in the shadows in the hall. I guess he woke me working on the window lock, he has some kind of tool, I can see it flash but now I can’t hear a sound, over the rain.

“Juana’s asleep. So is Jimmie. Crowley was standing guard but fell asleep in his chair. The rain’s so loud that even Rock is snoring. When I came down the hall, DeWayne was at the window. Dark slicker, hood pulled down. I don’t think he saw me. I’ve got to get out of here.”

“Wake Juana, put her on the line.”

But Juana had heard, and was up, she had pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt. She and the two officers stood by Maurita’s side, out of sight from the window as the hooded figure worked on the lock. When Maurita shivered, Juana put her arm around the frightened girl, and took the phone from her; she turned on the speaker so softly they had to press their heads together, listening to Max order his men out on the street and to the roof. He said, “Juana, get a squad car, pull up front.

“Tell Jimmie and Crowley to take Maurita up to the ruins. Kate and Scotty will hide her. Take the calico, too, where Seaver won’t find her—though I still don’t get what that’s about, stealing a cat, all the chase and fuss.”

The lock clicked. The window slid open.

“He’s in the house,” Juana whispered as DeWayne swung in over the sill—swung straight into Jimmie’s and Crowley’s fists.

But this wasn’t DeWayne.

Jimmie had the man down punching him hard, then jerked him up, swinging him around, twisting his arm behind him so hard he yelped. Crowley grabbed him, threw him to the floor facedown, and handcuffed him. And the real DeWayne was gone, speeding away across the roofs, hood blown back, a flash of white hair, heading for the far end of the condo building, dodging its tangle of patios and jutting walls—and Juana was gone, racing across the street, using the numbers lock to retrieve one of the squad cars. Wheeling it out of the lot and across, she parked in front of her steps—while inside her apartment, Crowley rolled the man over.

DeWayne’s driver, Stope, scowled up at Crowley, his cap knocked off, revealing tangled auburn hair running into liver-colored freckles; he was drenched with rain, soaking Juana’s carpet; he twisted, fighting and swearing, as the big officer flipped him again, bent him backward, and cuffed his ankles to his wrists.

Outside in the blowing rain, cops were spilling out of the station searching the streets. Three officers, catching a glimpse of white hair, headed fast for the man racing across the far roofs. Crowley saw DeWayne double back, and was out the window chasing him—but Rock leaped past him. Racing, flying, the big dog nailed DeWayne, too, and knocked him down, his teeth in the man’s throat. Fighting and twisting, DeWayne grabbed the Weimaraner’s jaws, was just able to pull them apart so he could breathe; with one hand he managed to draw his gun. McFarland was on him, kicking him in the stomach, wrenching away the automatic—while across the roof, among the far peaks and out of sight, Joe Grey raced, searching for DeWayne, missing all the real action.

Just outside the condo in the easing rain, Rock sat as he was told but was still primed to attack as Crowley fitted DeWayne with leg irons, locked his hands and feet together, then made the emergency call for the medics. Jimmie put pressure on the bleeding, but Rock had not cut a vein. Hastily Jimmie bound DeWayne’s wound and then ignored him as they examined Rock, making sure this fine dog was all right.

Maurita wished Rock had killed DeWayne, that he lay, now, deep in the grave that he had dug for her.

Buffin hopped out the window, stood looking with disgust at the two captives, then turned away to lick Rock’s face. The medics’ van arrived as Juana called Clyde then called the vet clinic. Four medics came up the front stairs and out through the window. They examined Stope first, lifted him onto a stretcher and carried him down to the van. Before they finished with DeWayne, Maurita and her two guards were out the back door racing for the squad left parked, piling in, getting Maurita and Courtney settled. Crowley driving as they sped through the back streets heading for the Pamillon ruins.

Joe Grey saw them as he returned to the condo. He was tempted to leap down into the cop car and ride along, but somehow this moment belonged to Maurita and Courtney. He paused on the condo’s window ledge, nuzzled Davis, and he was gone, heading home. Behind him, Juana closed the window watching the squad car disappear, hugging Buffin against her and holding Rock’s collar as he fussed, wanting to follow.

In the squad car, Jimmie sat in the back, Maurita hunched down on the seat beside him out of sight, cuddling Courtney. Before they left the condo she had returned to the bedroom, pulled on a warm coat, and opened the lock of Juana’s dresser drawer that she had jimmied earlier. She reached back beneath a stack of papers, removed a small revolver, checked the load and slipped it in her pocket; it must be a spare that Juana seldom used, but it was kept clean and loaded.

If she got caught, she would put Juana in big trouble. But if she swore in courtthat she’d jimmied the lock and stolen it, that she’d sniffed at the dresser and smelled gun oil . . . would that clear the detective?

But if they found DeWayne and if she could kill him, she’d be the one in trouble.

She didn’t care, she wanted him dead.

When Crowley turned sharply up a narrow street, the careening car threw her against Jimmie’s shoulder, he put his arm around her to support her. He had to smile at the way the calico cat clutched her paws around the young woman’s neck, clinging to her fellow escapee.

They came out of the village through a tangle of twisted roads and small cottages onto Highway One and turned north, in the direction of the old Pamillon estate. The rain, which had come and gone all day, now had nearly stopped again, had turned into a drizzle and soon to a mist. High up, wind must be blowing hard, driving the clouds away. Soon they could see hints of moonlight and then a glimpse of the full moon.

The moon, Courtney thought, the full moon means good fortune. She glanced up at Maurita and hoped it shone for them both.And now they could see the mansion rising higher up the hills. Even the two cops admired the sudden view as they watched, as well, for anyone following them.

The stone of the ancient mansion shone pale in the moonlight. The once-neglected dwelling was very different from when Kate first bought it and began to remodel it, dreaming of the museum she hoped it would one day become. Glass had been restored in the front windows of the jutting front wing that had stood open to the weather for so many years. The feral cats had often hung out there, watching to leap down on the small game below, enjoying the view of village and sea, sleeping on an ancient, moldering sofa. Now there was a new ceiling, new rafters, fresh white paint; but mostly glass to enhance the interior. The far wings of the compound were still in ruins; the feral cats thrived there, dining on rats and field mice. The wild little cats had made friends with Kate and Scotty, and Kate knew they would be kind to Courtney. Redheaded, red-bearded Scott Flannery was Kate’s new husband; they had been friends for years, their romance had been sudden and surprising. Scotty was Ryan Damen’s uncle and was, as well, her building foreman.

The upstairs and downstairs of the large front wing would be the main art galleries. The one-story wing on the far side had been rebuilt into an airy but cozy apartment. The remaining rooms, as they were finished, would offer more space for special exhibits—but an environment nothing like the Seavers’ too-fancy plan.

They pulled up beside the cat shelter, which now had a tall stone wall between it and the mansion, perhaps to give it privacy from the galleries. This, plus another stone wall on the land below, partially concealing a little wooden house, made the property seem drawn together into a more handsome unit, made it blend more cozily among the hills. Jimmie glanced at Maurita, imagining her living in the empty house; he wondered what she would do if she escaped DeWayne, if he were locked in prison for a long stretch, leaving her free to make a new life.

Kate came out to greet them. Levi’s, work boots, she was all carpenter today—some carpenter with that strikingly beautiful face and tousled blond hair. Scotty came to join them. They’d had a short honeymoon, then had gotten back to work on their apartment and on the cat shelter.

Kate looked into the car, greeting Maurita gently, then studying Courtney’s amber eyes. “So you escaped, too. What could be so valuable,” she said slyly, “about an ordinary calico cat?”

Courtney looked back at her, equally sly and amused. Not everyone present knew that certain cats could speak. Kate said, “What crazy plan could Seaver have had for her, that made him and those thugs chase her all over the village? He has to be insane.”

Earlier, in the squad car, before Crowley turned onto the narrow road that led up to the mansion, Maurita had said, “Kate will hide the little calico where Seaver will never find her, she’ll take good care of her. But I’m coming back with you.”

“The hell you are,” Jimmie said. “Why do you think we brought you out here? Not to hide just the cat but to hide you! What the hell, Maurita. Max wants you away from DeWayne, not there in town with him. You want to end up in another grave, a permanent one?”

She went pale and very still—and beautiful, Jimmie thought, despite the fading bruises. The look she gave him was unreadable. “They’re getting ready to pull off the Saks job, you knew it would be soon. On our way out of the village, didn’t you see those old gray cars pulled in behind the motel, the cars they use for robberies, the ones they usually leave scattered around town? This has to be the night.”

Jimmie glanced up at Crowley, who was looking back at him in the mirror. Of course they had seen them. Crowley had already made the call so Maurita wouldn’t hear, texting skillfully with his big farmer’s hands, a talent that always amazed Jimmie. By dark tonight Max would have their units in place, far better hidden than DeWayne’s crew would be.

“That’s why he kept me around in the first place, to make sure they didn’t miss the best jewelry, the finest designs and highest quality stones. The best antiques, that he stole on the East Coast and sent to his brothers, the Luther boys passed them on to Seaver. I had to pick them out, do the shipping to a storage unit. DeWayne has no taste, no training. He always made me stay with him, there was no way I could shake them, there was always one of the drivers or DeWayne practically on top of me, even outside a restroom door. He kept me like a slave, made me do all the estimates and inventories—until the night they finished casing the village, settled on Saks, and sat around the motel drinking beer, planning their moves. Suddenly I’d had enough. I got up, I told him I was finished, and ran out. Didn’t stop to pack anything or even grab my purse, I just got out.”

“He comes after you and nearly kills you,” Jimmie snapped. “So now you want to go back and help him rob Saks. You help him pull off this heist, and then he kills you.”

“No. I thought . . . I know all their moves, their exact plans. I thought I could help you, that I could watch, maybe slip inside if you’d give me a phone . . .”

“You already told Harper every detail. What else do we need? What do you . . . ?”

She was crying. When she fished in her pocket for a tissue, holding Courtney close and drawing her jacket around them, that was when Jimmie saw the outline of the gun. She saw him looking.

He studied her for a long time. “I won’t ask any questions. If you meant to slip in among them as they loot the place, if you meant to kill DeWayne in there, you’re putting yourself in big trouble.” He reached to touch her face. Even crying, her dark eyes were beautiful. “Maurita, I want you to promise to stay up here at the mansion and do as we say. As Kate and Scotty say. Will you show it to me?”

Frowning, she removed the revolver carefully, aiming it away from Jimmie and the cat.

“Juana’s Smith and Wesson.”

“I took it from the dresser. I thought . . . I wanted . . .”

“Are you going to give it to me willingly, or do I have to take it from you and maybe get one of us shot?” He looked at her tenderly. “Maurita, I’ll have to take the gun eventually. Juana will have to know, you’ll have to give it back to her.” She could feel Courtney stiffen, ready to break from her grasp. Jimmie said, “We have to tell Max. I don’t keep secrets from the chief or from anyone in the department—except EvaJean,” he said, grinning.

He touched her face. “Before this is over, if you don’t mess it up, we’ll have DeWayne in jail and then federal prison. With his rap sheet, count the years. He might never get out, you’ll be free of him. You shoot him now, you’ll find yourself in a cell for a long time.”

She looked at him stubbornly. She wanted to kill DeWayne herself, she wanted to hurt DeWayne, hurt him bad. She started to slip the gun back in her pocket.

Jimmie had it before she could blink, her wrist bent back, her other arm twisted and helpless. Courtney had fled under the seat.

Jimmie opened the revolver’s cylinder and removed the bullets. He dropped the gun in an evidence bag, the bullets in another, and put both in his pocket. “Scotty and Kate will keep you safe, they’re both armed—legally,” he said wryly. “Keep you safe so you can testify in court. That should damage DeWayne more than shooting him.” When he gently turned her face toward him and kissed her on the forehead, Courtney crept out and sat at her feet, watching. Thinking about the ways of humans. Were they so different from the ways of cats? What would it be like to be human? What would it be like to feel the power of that tender look?