Murphy_Shirley_Rousseau_Cat_Coming_Home_BookFi

24

BEFORE LEAVING NANNETTE Garver’s house, Max had gone through her personal phone list and called her daughter in Sacramento and her son, who lived in Orange County. They both said they’d be there by the next morning, the son arriving as soon as he could get on a plane. Max had called the hospital shortly after Nannette was checked into the ICU. She was suffering severe contusions to her throat and face, but no bones were broken. Her hands and arms were scraped raw; she was shaken, and descended easily into tears. Max had left Kathleen Ray photographing and lifting prints, and taking casts of several shoeprints in the garden beside the front door. An inventory of items missing would have to wait until Nannette was released from the hospital, but he doubted it would amount to much. Neither of the two televisions had been taken, but both were smashed beyond repair. It enraged Max that innocent people were suffering because someone wanted him removed from office. The MO of these attacks, coupled with the newspaper’s pressure, could lead to no other conclusion.

He never doubted he’d done a good job over his twenty-five years of service. Molena Point’s crime rate was down by thirty percent just in the last four years, while in the surrounding towns, as in much of the country, crime rates had risen as the breakdown in moral restraints increased. Appointed by the mayor, with a two-thirds vote approval by the city council, Max could be removed by the same process. If that was to be the result of this concerted attempt, he would be laying the village open to a new chief he couldn’t trust, no doubt backed by the same element that wanted Max out. This was a power grab, and if he could help it, it wasn’t going to happen.

He and Dallas had discussed bringing in an FBI profiler. So far, their own take was that the vandals were young, but were working under more experienced direction. The mastermind was very possibly someone their department had arrested with enough evidence to see him prosecuted. Officer Ray had set up a computer program listing all the convictions in their district for the past ten years, with release dates for those who were now out of prison. With access to personal information and fingerprints, they had nine possible suspects so far who had lived in the area or had friends or family here. Two were on probation, four on parole, three out without any restrictions. None was now living close enough to be operating conveniently in the village, but with county probation caseloads so high and its officers spread so thin, cases could slip through the cracks. The man they were looking for might easily be driving down from San Francisco, where three of the parolees were living, or from San Jose, where a fourth resided. Between a parole officer’s visits, a parolee would have plenty of time for short and unauthorized forays outside the jurisdiction. This, Max thought, was one situation where he really appreciated the belated help from one of the phantom snitches; the 911 call this evening was the first unidentified tip they’d had. Dispatcher said it was the lady, this time. Despite how edgy the anonymous phone calls left him, he felt remarkably encouraged. This call tonight had put them on the scene hours before Ms. Garver could have summoned help; in fact it might have saved her life. The older woman, weakened from shock and loss of blood, might never have been heard by her neighbors, she might have died in that house alone. How the snitch had found her, had heard her, was a matter he didn’t want to pursue.

As for the two restaurant break-ins, they followed the same pattern of extensive vandalism as the others. Dallas had left the Blue Bistro to work the Flying Galleon call, and it was the same MO over there. Lots of damage, nothing much missing, cash still in the cash box at the Galleon. Shoe prints that matched none of the others. What did these guys do, change shoes for every job? He’d had a man checking the Dumpsters for weeks, thinking they might be tossing the shoes after each use. And again no fingerprints. But thanks to the snitch they now had a description of a car and a truck that had fled the invasion scene shortly before the 911 call was made—but no license numbers. Snitch said the plates were smeared with mud. They had Be On the Lookout alerts out on both vehicles. A black four-door Cadillac had been spotted, but it belonged to a new bartender up on Fifth, had been parked in front of the bar, and there was a whole restaurant full of witnesses to vouch for his presence.

Swinging by the Flying Galleon, he found Dallas had finished photographing and dusting for prints, and was trying to rouse a carpenter to board up the windows. He still had to go over the area for trace evidence, but it would take a carpenter a while to show up. “Joe Wood’s out of town,” Dallas said. “Ditto, Jim Herndon. He and his wife are in Tahoe. I got the restaurant’s head chef on the phone, he’s over there talking to Brennan. I’ve called three other carpenters, with no answer. I’m just going to try Ryan, see if she has any plywood. What about the Blue Bistro?”

“Jimmie Chu is on his way,” Max said. “He’s sending his sons over with plywood, said he didn’t need our help. He’s mad as hell, says we’re not doing our job. I’ll swing back by there and talk to them.”

He had stepped into his truck and started the engine when a white BMW convertible pulled up, double-parking beside a patrol car. Reporter Nancyanne Prewitt got out carrying a camcorder, which was all the small village paper could supply, no in-your-face camera crew to back her up. Maybe no one had called the local TV station up the coast. Or maybe they were on their way. She was dressed as if for a party in a tight, low-cut black T-shirt, voluminous gold pants, and spike-heeled gold sandals. Talk about professional. Her shoulder-length, square-cut brown hair swung in time with her dangling, gold hoop earrings. Her high heels tap-tapped across the sidewalk, and a little gold purse swung from her shoulder on a long chain as she hurried up to his truck. “Captain Harper, can I have a word?” Her smile was as fake as that of a two-bit public defender sucking up to the judge. When Max didn’t respond, she said, “Can you tell me why you had no patrol cars on the streets when these two restaurants were broken into and vandalized?”

Max just looked at her.

“I’ll want to photograph both restaurants,” she said. “Why weren’t there patrols on the street?”

There had in fact been patrols, three of them, the closest five blocks away. They had hit the Flying Galleon moments after the alarm went off, had called in four more cars to cover the area, but the vandals had vanished. No sign of a fleeing car, and no one on the street but a couple of tourists whose IDs had checked out all right. Both said there had been no moving car in the area, that they’d glimpsed two men running away, no description except that they wore black clothes, black caps. Four officers were, at present, canvassing the hotel and motels.

“This is the middle of town, Captain Harper. Why didn’t your officers see and arrest these people? They couldn’t have missed them. It seems strange that there is never a patrol when one of these shocking—”

Max opened the truck door, gently forcing her hand off the window, and obliging her to step back. “You have my permission to take pictures, Ms. Prewitt. You are not to enter either crime scene. You’ll be able to identify the area that’s off limits by the yellow police tape that is strung to cordon it off. Now if you’ll excuse me …” He revved the engine so that she stepped farther back, bristling at his sarcasm. At the intersection he glanced back. She was mincing along the sidewalk with her camcorder, busily recording the broken windows and broken door. Not only would stills be used for the newspaper, the camcorder footage would be on local TV—maybe for the late news tonight and probably prime-time news tomorrow. So far the TV station, which was short-staffed, had been far more eager to enjoy contributions from the Gazette than to cover the crimes themselves. Or to see that they gave the department fair coverage. Heading for the Blue Bistro, Max didn’t see, above him, the three snitches watching from the rooftops, nor did he see another small shadow slip stiffly away—didn’t see the three snitches turn, catching sight of the yellow tomcat, and hurry to follow him as he left the scene.