Cat In A Diamond Dazzle

Chapter 32

Interview with the Executioner

Any first-rate crime follower nowadays knows what it takes to solve a murder that has no witnesses: hard evidence. (Actually, finding all evidence is hard.)

Since Miss Temple Barr has put herself into deeper danger with every step of her investigation into the late Cheyenne's death, I feel obligated to put my paw into the pudding. I am also well aware that my romantic complications have kept me from guarding Miss Temple with the regularity and concentration I am noted for when on the hunt.

So, since I have not been able to help her find the stunning shoes in my likeness as yet, I can at least find an article of apparel that has become famous in legal circles, the black leather hawking gauntlet that Fabrizio so conveniently mislaid before his death.

While shoes have a certain leather scent that I find compelling, I am hoping that the missing glove carries an aroma that I am particularly equipped to sniff out: the victim's blood. I admit that, because of my nature and the opportunity, I often had Miss Temple's television remote control tuned to the jurisprudence channel in 1995.1 can always use more prudence. It is obvious that, in this case, some scientific confirmation of everybody's suspicions is needed.

So off I go, on the trail of The Bloody Glove.

First, I need a witness, or the closest thing to one. So I hie to the Peacock Theater's backstage, where I find--besides dozens of humans readying for tonight's big show--one much overlooked individual.

Nobody has thought to question my secret witness. Even if anyone had, this tough customer would never talk. But Midnight Louie has his ways of communicating with the incorrigibly mute.

I leap atop a flat stored on its side, balance impeccably and warily inspect the suspect's vicinity. This is an individual so dangerous that it is kept caged. Even the cage is kept under wraps, so my first job is to drag off the cover. I accomplish it with a powerful swipe of my mitt and the assistance of my trusty built-in switchblades.

The canvas lies crumpled on the floor and I view my intimidating quarry.

This is a bird. Not the black bird of song and story, but a brown bird. A brown bird with long, curled claws that put my switchblades to shame. Those wicked talons can exert two thousand pounds of pressure when gripped around the prey's neck. My dear mama never exerted that kind of control when I was a kit and required toting from place to place.

This bird also has an awesome beak that could tear the hide off a rhinoceros. Luckily, I cannot see this biting, ripping, eating machine, for a small but sinister leather hood covers the creature's head.

This will be like interviewing an executioner.

I clear my throat with a low-throttle purr.

The hooded head jerks in my direction and eight lethal claws bite wood. I note that the perch is pitted with such marks. Better it than I.

Normally, this dude's relatives are prey for my family. But the birds we hunt are small, spry types, and this specimen is larger, and a raptor to boot. The velociraptors in Jurassic Park, the motion picture, scared the skin off many humans who saw them in action.

My interview subject is a surviving descendent. A hunting hawk.

I do not speak bird well, but I can croak out a few words in pigeon. I begin cautiously. "You alone."

"Awwk," it agrees, cocking its unseen head toward me.

"You not ride master's wrist."

"Last master buy hunter, not true hunter."

"So you not like Fabrizio?"

The feathered body sways from leg to leg, its claws tightening and loosening on the perch. Guess not.

"You would be star in show, though."

"Would rather hunt."

"He is dead."

"I hear but not see."

"You know new master?"

"No. She feeds."

"You sit on leather perch."

"Human arm."

"Where is gauntlet?"

The bird edges down the perch toward me. I cannot tell if it has grown tired of my interrogation or is just hungry.

"What are you?" it croaks.

"Investigator."

A silence. Birds do not have the keen sense of smell my kind does, but their eyes are A-one. Luckily, with their heads hooded, raptors are deprived of their most vital sense and are easy to deal with.

"Smell blood," it says.

"From the stage."

"Do not know 'stage.'"

"From a stream's width from here?"

"Yes. Two times."

"From the ... glove?"

"Do not know 'glove.'"

"Leather perch on human."

"Yes."

"When?"

"Since three hunting moons ago."

The hair rises on my back. Although our lingo is primitive and sketchy on tenses, my avian source seems to be saying that he has smelled blood ever since Cheyenne's murder, which means the gauntlet is still in the area.

"Where?" I ask.

The bird rocks from side to side again, a gesture I now realize is frustration.

"Near. Too near. Hungry."

Although he is welcome to eat the glove by my lights, I cannot allow this when it is evidence.

"How near?"

"On ground."

I examine the stage floor, which is as bare as a bodkin. I even leap down to make a methodical search. Nothing. Nil. Zero. Zilch. I hate it when a snitch steers me wrong, but I am not about to take my ire out on this big bird. Resuming my own perch, I begin again.

"Glove on ground?"

"Yes. Just below."

"I do not see it."

"I do not see also."

Of course the hawk would not see the glove when it is hooded! What an Einstein. Then I realize that the numbskull is me.

I force myself to an unpleasant task. I examine the cage that contains the bird. It is large and square, made of strong wire. Because birds are caged, their litter boxes must come built into the bottom.

I look down to see a newspaper liner on which lies a dozen impressive-sized droppings, some clearly used and others dabs of fallen ... body parts. Because this is a large cage, the bottom tray has a deeper dish than a Chicago pizza, pardon the parallel under the circumstances.

The papers are probably changed daily by the person known as "she," but the tray would be rarely removed. I reach up, snag the rim and pull. The tray is stuck. I pull with all my might. The tray moves toward me, but so does the entire cage.

Mr. Hawk and I are about to have a nasty fall. I tell him to hang onto his tailfeathers and then we hit the stage floor in a flurry of clashes, feathers and flying organic waste. As soon as I land on my feet, I dash behind a black curtain, where I am perfectly invisible.

The clatter has brought a full cast of characters to the site, including the PR woman who tended the bird for Fabrizio ... and Danny Dove.

They gawk at the mess, and the hawk flapping its clipped wings in the cage, then quickly right it. The tray remains half out, so the PR woman tries to wrench it shut. Then Danny Dove takes over and decides to pull it all the way out before reinstalling it.

Smart fellow. When the tray comes out with a screech that would irritate the nerves of a jackhammer operator, so does something else.

I watch with satisfaction as the stage crew stares down at something black and crumpled and reeking of mouse on the floor.

The Bloody Glove.

A sensation ensues, while Danny Dove insures that no one touches the glove.

Blessed are the peacemakers.

I stroll away, so satisfied with myself that I decide to investigate another little matter of wearing apparel that has been overlooked by everybody else.

No, it is not my signature shoe--not yet--but it is not far off.