Cat Fear No Evil

19

The shadows of night seemed reluctant indeed to tuck themselves down around the village. In Joe Grey's private tower the cats waited impatiently for darkness. Beneath Joe's paws lay a new brown envelope containing a gallon plastic freezer bag. They had stuffed Marlin Dorriss's bills and the torn notebook pages inside the clear container so that, when they delivered the evidence to the station, it would not cause a departmental panic. Would not trigger hasty emergency procedures to deal with a package that, at first touch, might blow the place sky high. Sealed with careful paws, and the excess air pressed out, the bag awaited only darkness to be hauled across the rooftops. Fidgeting, the messengers washed and groomed, willing night to hurry.

On the street below the Damen roof, a few tourists wandered in twos and threes and fours, and local residents hurried past heading home to hearth and supper. As the cats watched familiar cars turn up the side streets and disappear into carports or garages, Joe's thoughts were on Marlin Dorriss, on what might happen when Dorriss opened his file drawer and found the bills missing, found the outdated substitutes in their place.

"So what's he going to do?" Dulcie said. "If he finds the bills missing and reports the theft, then we're staking out the wrong mouse hole. But if he's guilty," she said, smiling, "you won't hear a word." She gave Joe a long and appraising stare, her green eyes darkening in the slowly falling evening. "He reports it, you can write him off as a suspect. So what's the big deal?" She touched his nose with a soft paw. "Relax, Joe. Relax and roll with it."

But she gave him a narrow look. "You're all fidgets and claws. You know this whole business is a gamble." She leaned to nuzzle his whiskers. "I'll bet my best wool blanket that you've nailed him, that you've got your thief."

Joe looked at her and tried to shake off the edginess. As he licked the last grain of sand from the Dorriss front yard off his paw, dusk began to thicken slowly around them, a gentler light to soften the rooftops. He looked at Dulcie and Kit reclining on the new pillows in his tower and he had to smile at how much they enjoyed a bit of luxury. And soon beyond the arches of the tower the dark foliage of the pines and oaks began to blur. In the east the gibbous moon began to rise, a lopsided globe far brighter than they would have chosen for this particular trek. When at last darkness deepened across the rooftop shadows, the three cats rose and stretched.

Leaving Joe's tower, Joe and Dulcie dragged the package between them. Hurrying across the roofs from concealing chimney to darkening overhang to sheltering branches, they skirted around second-floor windows where some apartment dweller or late office worker might be idly looking out. They remembered too well how Charlie had first glimpsed them on the rooftops and had heard Dulcie laugh, and how she began, then, to wonder.

Walking home from a later supper, Charlie had looked up to see the cats running along the peaks and had recognized against the bright night sky Joe Grey's docked tail and white markings. Hearing a young, delighted laugh, she had been puzzled. That incident combined with several others had led Charlie to guess the truth about them-but Charlie was an exception. Most humans would not make that leap, would not be willing to entertain such an amazing concept.

Now, above the rooftops, above the hurrying cats the moon lifted higher, increasing its glow and diminishing the size of the shadows. The night wind blew colder. Their hard-won package grew heavier, pulling at neck and shoulder muscles, making their jaws ache. Joe and Dulcie pushed ahead, dodging patches of light, ducking beneath branches, their teeth deep in the heavy packet. The kit trailed behind, unusually quiet, not pressing to help them. Then just across the last street lay the long expanse of the courthouse roof and the roof of Molena Point PD, the rounded clay tiles gleaming in the moonlight.

The chasm of the street was wide. One ancient oak spanned above the concrete, its branches meeting the smaller branches of its counterpart that grew close to the opposite sidewalk. Dragging their burden across the thick, leafy limb, trying not to hang it up among the twigs or to drop it, Joe and Dulcie felt as graceful as a pair of clipped-wing pigeons flopping among the branches. The kit crossed on a branch above them, precarious and uncertain herself as she watched their unsteady progress.

Reaching the courthouse roof, the three cats together hauled their prize the long length of the courthouse, bumping on the round tiles and into the oak tree that stood beside the police department. Now they had three choices.

They could haul the envelope down to the front entry and prop it against the glass door. They could hike it around back, to the locked back door that opened on the police parking lot where Harper and the two detectives usually left their cars, where Harper himself would more likely find it. The time was seven P.M. Watch would change at eight. Most of the officers and the dispatcher would leave by the front door, heading for their personal cars that were parked in the front lot. The first officer out would see the package and retrieve it, and go back to log it in and alert the watch commander. Voila, mission accomplished.

Or, third choice, they could shove the plastic package through the high bars of the holding cell window. It would land behind the barred door, not ten feet from where the dispatcher ruled over the front of the station. Surely she would see it and take it into safe custody-if she didn't hit the panic button.

Looking through the depths of the oak leaves to the cell window, Dulcie was in favor of that route. "We drop it down there, no one outside on the street is going to see it and pick it up."

"Right," Joe said, padding along the branch to the barred window and peering down inside. "Except that the cell's occupied. Can't you smell him?" He twitched his nose, flehming at the scent-but then, that cell never smelled like a flower garden.

Below them, stretched out on the bunk lay a rumpled, sleeping body, his arms flailed out, one hand resting on the floor. A tall, thin guy maybe in his late twenties, with long dirty hair, dirty ragged clothes, and a handlebar mustache. He did not look or smell like someone they wanted to trust with the evidence. Even if he was indeed asleep, the thud of the dropping package would very likely wake him.

"Maybe he's just been arrested," Dulcie said. "Maybe he's waiting to be booked, then they'll take him on back to the jail."

"And maybe not," Joe said. "Do you see anyone down there getting ready to book him?" Beyond the bars of the holding cell door, the area around the dispatcher's counter and the booking counter was empty. They saw only the dispatcher herself in her open cubicle, talking on the radio, apparently to an officer who, somewhere in the village, was just leaving the scene of a settled domestic dispute-always a touchy call.

Dulcie watched the drunk sleeping below them. "I'll take the package in. I can drop down there with it, a lot quieter than we can toss it. I can haul it through the barred door without waking him, without anyone seeing me."

"And what if he isn't asleep? What a story he'd have to tell the cops, to trade for a quick release. 'I know how that package got in here, officer. I saw a cat drop down in here carrying that thing in its mouth.'"

"He's drunk, Joe. They're going to believe him? I can be in there and down the hall to Harper's office before his boozy head clears, before he figures out what he saw."

"And even if no one sees you, Dulcie, when Harper finds the evidence deposited neatly on his desk, what then? He won't ask how it got past the dispatcher? And past his new, state-of-the-art security system? He won't start suspecting one of his own officers?" He stared at Dulcie. "He starts suspecting Garza or Davis, who both know he wants those bills. Then it would hit the fan."

"He's going to ask questions anyway."

"He isn't going to ask questions if it isn't found inside."

"But…"

"Wait," Joe said. "Someone's coming."

And, like Diana smiling on sainted lovers, good luck smiled on the two cats. They watched Officer Brennan coming down the hall, his uniform tight over his protruding stomach.

Below them, metal clanged against metal as Brennan opened the barred door, hustled the drunk awake, and marched him out of the cell. The guy half fell against the dispatcher's counter, staggered against the booking counter, then stumbled away in front of Brennan, down the hall toward the back door and the jail.

The minute he was gone the cats hauled the package through the oak tree's snatching foliage and over the sill and shoved it through the bars. It fell with a hushing, sliding thump just inside the cell door that brought the dispatcher to her feet, startled.

This particular dispatcher was a full-fledged officer. She was armed, and she approached the cell with her hand on her holstered weapon. Above her, the gun-shy cats backed away up the tree. They could just see her studying the packet then staring above her, searching the high, open window. Then she whirled away, back to her station. They heard her quick footsteps, then the building's shrill alarm.

Officers came running from the back offices, and out the front door. Before the cats could leap across the moonlit roofs to freedom, cops were swarming out wielding handheld searchlights, shining them toward the roof and into the tree. They hunched down deep among the deepest leaves, their reflective eyes tight shut.

Beside Dulcie, the kit was not secretly smiling at the commotion, as she usually would be. Her tail was not twitching and dancing with excitement. She was deeply quiet. The kit's grieving worried Dulcie.

When the torches swung away at last, to sweep on across the parking lot and gardens, within the prickly leaves the three cats peered out. Below them, patrol cars had swung around from the back of the building to angle across the driveways and along the street, blocking the escape of all other vehicles. And officers on foot surrounded the gardens, their searchlights leaping from bush to bush and into the parked cars. The lights shone across the moon-bright roofs behind the cats. They were trapped like three treed possums.

But while the cats crouched within the heavy oak leaves wishing the moonlight and searchlights would vanish, wishing mightily for absolute darkness, Kate Osborne was doing her best to avoid the dark.

She had left work a bit late, finishing up some ordering and some computer sketches. It was just six thirty, but she was so tired and so ravenously hungry that she hardly cared if tonight a whole battalion of strangers followed her. Going down the elevator from her office to the parking garage, slipping quickly into her car and pulling out into the lighted street, half of her wanted to go straight home, wolf down a sandwich, and fall into bed. The other half wanted a nice, warming dinner that she didn't have to lift a hand over, wanted to sit at a cozy table and be waited on-wanted not to be alone for a while longer, but to remain safely among people.

For days after the Greenlaws' deaths she didn't think she was followed. She kept watch around her but didn't see anyone; but then on Thursday when she looked out her apartment window she had seen the same man standing in a doorway across the street. She did not simply imagine it was the same man. His sloped shoulders and stance were the same. And this time she had gotten a good look at his pale muddy hair, his sloping forehead and large nose.

If he meant to harm her, why did he just stand there? She almost wished, with a perverse cold fear, that instead of following, he would approach her, that he would come upstairs and knock on her door because she had grown more angry than afraid. Angry at this harassment, at this invasion of her privacy, at this hampering of her free, easy movement around the city.

Besides the pepper spray, she had begun to carry a pair of scissors in her purse, a decision that was probably incredibly stupid. She wished she weren't such a wuss, that she'd learned karate or knew how to handle a gun, that she had some skill that would make her feel less vulnerable.

Both Hanni and Hanni's sister, Ryan, were comfortable and competent with firearms. Having grown up in a police family they had been trained early and well. And Charlie, too, since she married Max, had learned the same careful, responsible skills. Such expertise and confidence would be comforting now.

She decided to stop for dinner, and to hell with being followed. Driving through the crowded, narrow streets, she turned north up Columbus toward a favorite small seafood cafe. Dolphin's would be well lighted, and the sidewalk would be busy with pedestrians this time of evening. Just two blocks from the restaurant she was lucky to spot a car pulling out, and she swerved in.

Locking her car and hurrying up the street, she was half a block from Dolphin's when she glanced back and saw the same man following her. She was so angry she almost approached him, pepper spray in hand

But then fear filled her, and she hurried on toward Dolphin's, trying to stay among people, she did not like living this way. She thought, not for the first time, of how it would be when she chucked city life and moved home to Molena Point. Where she could indeed feel safe again. Crossing the street away from him as he followed, she hurried on-but when she glanced in the shop windows where she could see behind her, he had crossed, too. He was pacing her, his thin reflection moving jaggedly from one square of dark glass to the next. When she slowed, he slowed.

When she quickened her step, so did he. When she reached Dolphin's she slipped quickly inside and pulled the door closed hard behind her. She'd have liked to lock it.

Her favorite waitress, Annette, looked up from clearing a table and smiled, and nodded toward her usual table. Annette was rotund, in her thirties, with a slender, fine-boned face that seemed to belong to a much thinner woman. She had lovely dark eyes and a beautiful complexion. As Kate crossed the restaurant between the crowded tables she kept her back to the window. But when she glanced around, the man stood outside looking in through the glass.

When she stared hard at him, he moved on. When he'd passed beyond her view she sat down at the table with her back to the wall, where she could see the street. Annette brought her usual pot of tea and paused, a question in her eyes. Kate said nothing. She ordered a bourbon and soda as well, and a shrimp melt on French and a salad. Annette stood a few minutes making small talk, as Kate continued to watch the window.

Annette and her husband, an army sergeant, had moved to San Francisco when he was transferred to the Presidio. She liked to tell Kate of the new places she had discovered in the city, and Kate loved to make suggestions. The absence of the man outside the glass did not ease Kate's anxiety, he could be just down the street waiting for her, maybe standing against the next building just beyond the window. The early evening street did not, tonight, hold its usual charm. The cozy shops along this block presented, tonight, a more threatening aspect of North Beach. She felt safe only within the restaurant, she did not like to think about going out again. She thought, when she was ready to leave, she might call the police.

But what kind of complaint would she make? The man hadn't confronted her, he hadn't touched or spoken to her. She could only say she'd been followed. Very likely they would think she was a nut case, imagining things. She supposed she could go out through the kitchen, to the alley, slip around the block to her car. She closed her eyes, trying to slow her pounding heart.

When she opened her eyes she saw him directly across the street walking among a crowd of tourists. Same man, looking directly across to Dolphin's windows, his slumped shoulders and rocking walk making him easy to recognize. When he'd passed beyond her view she rose and moved to the front window, standing to the side where she wouldn't be seen.

He had crossed to her side of the street but was heading away; soon he disappeared. Had he followed her from her office? Followed her clear across town and somehow found a parking spot near where she parked? Or had he already known her favorite small restaurants? Had he simply swung by each, looking for her? Why hadn't she gone somewhere different, someplace she seldom frequented? She was still at the window when a young woman burst in through the front door, turning to look back at the street.

She looked familiar, and Kate watched her with curiosity. She was looking around for someone. When she spotted Kate she nearly lunged at her.

"Kate? Yes, you are Kate Osborne?"

Kate had started to back away-but she did know this woman. Nancy something, the design client who had approached her at the office, whom she had turned over to another designer. She was a delicate, elegant person, maybe in her early thirties. Beautifully groomed with a flawless creamy complexion, her face scrubbed clean, her blue-black hair smoothed into a simple chignon. She had wanted to do her apartment with South American furnishings; Kate had been sorry to turn down the project. The woman was simply dressed in a cream skirt and creamy sweater and carried a pale silk raincoat. Her dark eyes were huge. "You are Kate Osborne?" she repeated. "We met…"

"Yes," Kate said. "I remember. You- What's wrong? You look distressed."

"Could we step away from the window? There's… I think… I know it sounds wild, but I think a man has been following you."

Kate led her to the small corner table. The young woman sat down so that she, too, could see the street. "I'm Nancy Westervelt."

"Yes. I hope you found a designer you will enjoy working with."

"I have an appointment next week. Thank you." The woman chafed her hands together lightly, as if she were cold. "Tonight when I saw you on the street I thought I recognized you. When I turned to look, my attention was caught by a man who seemed to be following you. I watched him. When you came in the restaurant he drew back out of sight but then in a minute he slipped forward and looked in the window. Then he went on past, crossed the street, came back along the other side, and kept watching. He so bothered me that I knew I must tell you."

"I appreciate that. When did you first notice him?"

"I saw you get out of your car. He was in a cab right behind you, he got out as you were parking. He started right off following you, though I didn't realize at first what he was doing.

"Maybe it's nothing, but it frightened me." Nancy's voice was soft and well modulated. They sat a few minutes discussing her design project, waiting to see if he would return, both watching the window. Then, in the shadowed door of a T-shirt shop across the street the man appeared, as if perhaps he had been there for a while but had just stepped forward. Nervously Kate glanced toward the kitchen, where the back door opened to the alley.

The young woman's eyes widened. "Can you go out the back? If you could slip out that way, and around to your car… you could take my raincoat, there's a hat in the pocket, you could pull that down over your hair."

Kate almost laughed, the idea of a disguise was so bizarre. And what if he caught her in the back alley? She would like to call the police, she was really tired of this. She wished she knew the names of the two detectives that Dallas Garza had worked with here in the city. If they knew that she was a friend of Garza's, would they be more likely to help her? More likely to believe that she'd been followed, and to listen to her?

But she didn't know their names, and anyway she would be embarrassed to call the busy San Francisco PD and ask them to send out a patrol car for something so… something that, when she repeated it back to herself, seemed so without substance. He has been following me for weeks, I see him standing in doorways…

If her car or her apartment had been broken into, the police would take her seriously. But this… Well, she had to do something. Glancing toward the kitchen, she rose.

Nancy rose with her, handing her the raincoat. "I'll go out with you. He won't expect to see two women."

Sliding some money onto the table, Kate followed her toward the back. Watching Nancy, she tried not to warm to the woman's gentle manner-but why did she have to be so suspicious? Nancy Westervelt was only trying to help her, was only concerned for her. As they paused by the door to the kitchen, Kate pulled on the raincoat, then the hat, tucking her blond hair up inside. She felt better doing something positive, even if this was melodramatic. Nancy looked hard at her. "I was followed once." She was quiet a moment. "It wasn't nice. It wasn't something I'll forget."

A faint nausea touched Kate, a shaky sickness.

As they moved through the kitchen among the busy chefs, among hot, delicious dinners being prepared along the big stainless-steel tables, the workers frowned at them, puzzled. A round, dark-eyed chef appraised Kate so critically that she thought he would tell them to leave. But then Annette caught up with them, handing Kate a foil-wrapped package, Kate could smell the warm shrimp melt. And quickly Annette led them through the kitchen, shepherding them with authority. Between a stack of cans and boxes, and storage lockers, they approached the back screen door covered by a dark security grid.

"Wait here." Annette's thin, oval face was quietly serious. "Let me look out the back window." She disappeared into a storeroom, but was gone only a moment. Returning, she didn't ask questions. "There's no one there that I can see, the alley looks empty."

They slipped out through the screen door fast, Nancy going first, Kate staying close behind her shrouded in the cream raincoat, the slouch hat pulled down nearly to her eyebrows. She felt like Groucho Marx in drag; she wondered if the lame disguise would fool anyone. Hurrying beside Nancy along the faintly lit alley she headed for the side street that would take them to Columbus again and her car.