Cat Chase The Moon

3

As Joe leaped into Ryan’s red king cab she pulled her notebook from the center console and wrote down the license number he gave her: the make of the limo, the logo that said ALS.

Driving home, they caught a glimpse of Charlie’s red hair in her SUV, headed toward the gallery that handled her work, and Joe told Ryan about the man who’d been casing the library. Ryan and Charlie had already heard the rough details in Max’s office before the chief left for lunch, and she knew that Jimmie McFarland was tailing the stalker or whatever he was. She looked over at Joe, frowning. “It could be nothing. Some guy doing research for a college class or a private project, that’s the way Max seemed to take it—except,” she said, “he does have McFarland keeping an eye on him.”

“And what has Jimmie found out?”

“Not much so far,” Ryan said. “He’s checked for prints—but in a library? Fingerprints all over the place. And when the guy took the books from the shelf he was wearing pigskin gloves. That’s what set Max off. Do you know how clumsy it is to flip through books and try to write down notes while wearing gloves?”

Joe snorted. “Try that with cat paws, see what you get.”

She couldn’t help grinning. But then, looking over at him, she turned solemn. “What’s happening to the village, Joe? We always have some crime, a murder or two, a few burglaries, just like every town—a few really bad ones, that you’ve helped solve, that might never have been sorted out without our phantom snitch, without the evidence you’ve tipped to Max and the department.”

She turned a corner, stopping for a half dozen giggling young tourists, and turned to look at Joe. “That poor beaten woman, half buried alive, that gives me the sick shudders. It was you who tipped Max off?”

“Yes, and scared the killer off,” he said, “when I stepped on a dry twig. I couldn’t see much of him in the fog, just his shadow, heavyset or heavy coat; hard to tell much, except he was tall. Did anyone find the shovel? Did they find anything after I belted out of there?”

“Max didn’t say. Except there was dirt on the curb where the snitch . . .”—she grinned—“where you said her attacker had parked.”

“Did anyone report the torn screen across the street,” Joe said, “where I made the call?”

She shook her head. “Max didn’t mention it. With that old house, who would notice? In that house, all the screens could be rotted. Now, with the fog cleared, Kathleen and Davis are working the area.” She glanced at him. “You don’t think they’ll find pawprints around the phone?”

“That house has cats, I could smell them.”

As she pulled into their drive, across the street in front of Varney Luther’s rental, he and Nevin were standing in the scruffy yard close together arguing in each other’s faces—not loud, not mad, just arguing. Maybe that was natural behavior, Joe thought. Maybe they grew up that way. At least they weren’t pounding each other in the middle of the street again, where someone would call the station. Neither one wanted to go to jail, Joe knew enough about them to know that. One more loud fistfight, Max had told them, and they’d be in the lockup.

When Thelma pulled up, parking her old green Volvo in front, the two brothers scowled at her and at Mindy and went in the house. Getting out hastily, Thelma followed them, dragging Mindy by the hand—and looking back at the squad car that had been easing along some distance behind her.

The patrol unit pulled on up, Chief Harper sat a few minutes, double-parked, looking at the Luthers’ rental. The old, plastered building was set back from the street farther than the larger houses on either side. It had once been a cramped duplex. Now, with the removal of several interior walls, it afforded room for Varney, for Nevin and Thelma, and a tiny room for the child. Joe and Dulcie had prowled it months ago among timbers and Sheetrock during the reconstruction before Varney ever moved in. Ryan’s firm hadn’t done the work. The landlord had gotten someone cheap. Cheap and shoddy, Joe thought, not anywhere near Ryan’s high professional standards.

Max’s squad car sat a few more moments, the chief looking at the now-empty yard, then he moved ahead and turned into the Damens’ drive, parking beside Ryan’s king cab.

“I wish,” Joe said, “those two had been pounding each other so bad that Max would have to lock them up.”

As Max got out of the squad car, Clyde’s Jaguar came up the street and slid into the remaining space. Stepping out he raised a hand to Max, leaned in through Ryan’s window to kiss her, but looked suspiciously at Joe Grey. Why did Clyde always suspect he was up to some kind of trouble?

“Anything for lunch?” Clyde said as he and Max headed for the front door. “Max hasn’t eaten.”

“Those impromptu meetings take forever,” Max said, “and accomplish nothing.”

Ryan moved on inside to the big kitchen, where she started coffee and began to make sandwiches. “What happened at the hospital, Max? Oh, the woman isn’t dead?”

“She’s still with us, and doing better than anyone thought. Still in a lot of pain. A cracked jaw, they’ve wired that up. She can’t talk much. Amazing that there’s nothing worse broken. Two ribs, a number of small bones, a lot of deep bruises.”

Ryan opened a fresh loaf of rye, spread on cream cheese, layered on salami, buttered the outsides and laid them on the grill, two for Max, two for Clyde, and despite the fact that Joe had just eaten, one for the tomcat.

Max sat down in his usual place, pushing aside the neatly opened morning paper which, Joe noticed, did not mention the open grave and attempted murder. It featured instead the winners of the state’s high school spelling bee, a big spread above the fold. And, below the fold, a young black bear that had wandered into the village from a nearby canyon. The bear had escaped two foot-patrol officers by climbing a pine tree near the village church. Now, this morning, he was drawing quite a crowd.

Max said, “We managed to dodge the press on the open grave. The woman was already tucked away in the emergency room with guards. Reporters were up front asking questions. They got no answers. Still no match for her prints, and no ID. But I want her out of there, too many civilians nosing up and down the halls.” He looked at Clyde. “I still can’t believe what you said about the cat.”

Joe nearly choked on his sandwich. He looked at Clyde, shocked, his yellow eyes narrowed. What are you doing? What the hell did you tell Max?

Clyde dealt out a handful of napkins and poured fresh coffee. “That sort of talent isn’t as unusual as you think, cats and dogs scenting to find the start of cancer, find a whole list of diseases. And, some of those animals have already been proven to help heal their patients.”

Joe relaxed, or nearly so. Except, they had to be talking about Joe’s young son, Buffin, who had found his healing talents while nursing a little dog at Dr. Firetti’s clinic. Max didn’t need to know any more, he was already too often puzzled by Joe and his family. What had Clyde told him, what had he suggested?

“I’ve been looking at cats on the Internet,” Clyde said. “A cat up in Oregon who knew when someone was going to die. He wouldn’t leave their bed, cuddling against them trying to soothe them as long as they were alive. Maybe it’s the same thing with the healing.”

Max shrugged. “I suppose,” he said doubtfully. “Like the scent detection of a good drug dog. Except drug dogs are trained to the skill. These sensing animals, if there is such a thing, would have to be born with the ability. And as to healing . . .”

Clyde picked up half his sandwich. “Same with healing. Ask John Firetti. He said the first time the kitten was in the clinic he hopped right up into that pup’s cage, snuggled up to the sick dog, and at once the dog wagged his tail and rested against Buffin. In a little while the dog was smiling and wanting to get up, wanting to walk around, acting as if the pain was gone.” Though Clyde himself was still puzzled over the event.

Ryan said, “John Firetti will tell you, he’ll tell you what Buffin can do. Besides, what harm to try? You said if the woman doesn’t get better in Recovery the hospital wants her in a nursing home, that she needs more quiet and rest.” She looked at Max quietly. “She needs to get well enough to give you some information. And maybe Buffin can help heal her. She’ll have good care, good nurses, she’ll be just five minutes from Emergency. Why not try it?”

The chief said nothing.

“Having a pet,” Ryan said, “a little cat to cuddle, could calm her, might cheer her where nothing else would.” But Ryan knew that Joe’s buff kitten could do more than just calm a patient.

Max said, “No nursing home would bother with an animal. And the cost . . . My budget won’t handle guards twenty-four/seven.”

“That new little nursing home over near the foreign car sales,” Ryan said, “near Clyde’s shop. They’re small. Ten patients, and they’re nice people, I know the manager and one of the nurses. I could talk with them. It isn’t far from the vet clinic, John Firetti could check on Buffin, check on them both,” she said, grinning. “It has no business sign, it looks like an ordinary house. Mirrored windows so when the lights are off you can’t see in, alarms on all the windows. The owner and two of the nurses carry, and are well trained. Is she well enough to go there?”

“And,” Max said, “if her attacker sees us move her? Sees the ambulance and follows it, knows she’s there? Is waiting for another chance at her before she talks? We have guards on her room, but if he catches us moving her out . . .”

“You’re a cop, you can figure that out. Dress her as a medic, switch with a woman medic bringing in a patient? Send her away in the supposedly empty ambulance . . . Is she well enough to walk? Drive the ‘empty’ ambulance into the fire station like they always do, and switch her into an old car?”

Max sighed. Arguing with Ryan was as bad as arguing with Charlie. Except that Ryan didn’t give him the hug-and-kiss routine that his redheaded wife would, to soften him up. He got up, frowning. “No more arguments, we’ll talk about it later.”

“Wilma’s coming to dinner,” she said, waiting for the next round, letting him think about it. “And the Greenlaws. Potluck. Charlie said she’d drop by from the gallery if they finish early enough. What about you?”

“Not tonight. I think I’ll head back to the hospital. At least she speaks English, Dallas found out that much—as garbled as it was with her wired jaw and her bruised throat.”

This grisly attempted burial would hold Max and the detectives twenty-four/seven until they nailed the near-murderer; the chief had no notion that the case pulled at Joe Grey in the same intense manner. Max thanked Ryan for the sandwich, gave her an unexpected kiss on the forehead, and left them, swinging out the front door and into his squad car. Joe watched him from the living room window as he cruised slowly by the Luther house, giving the place another look-over.

What so interested him about their bickering neighbors? Well, domestic cases could turn into big trouble, could explode in a flash. A good cop was always watchful; such conflict, even from a distance, always put an officer on alert.

Joe Grey dug his claws into the back of the couch, wondering if Max knew something that he didn’t. Was there a connection between the Luthers and some other crime? The library prowler? The beaten woman?

Maybe he’d hit the station later, stretch out on Harper’s bookcase, try to put the pieces together.