Cat In The Dark. Cat To The Dogs. Cat Spitting Mad. Cat On The Money

But was the cougar all they might encounter? Joe wondered if the old adage was true, that a murderer would return to the scene.

Of the six ex-cons in the police reports, four were on parole and two were under house confinement. One of those on parole was Stubby Baker, who had served twelve years on seven counts of embezzlement and fraud. Garza had files on both Baker and Lee Wark. Joe was drawn to the information on Wark in the same way a rabbit is drawn to the mesmerizing form of a weasel that stands deadly still, waiting for his prey to approach.

Wark was thirty-two years old, had brown hair and light brown eyes (muddy). He was five-ten, 160 pounds, pale (make that pasty) complexion, hunched posture. (They got that right.) He had no facial scars. He had been born and raised in Wales, had become a U.S. citizen at the age of twenty-three.

In the photograph Wark wore his hair trimmed short and neat. Joe had seen it only shoulder length, always greasy. Wark’s current legal address was San Quentin State Prison.

Wark’s interests while in prison had included reading lurid space operas, girlie magazines, and Celtic history. He took no more exercise than the prison demanded. He had socialized with only two other inmates: James Clayton Osborne, Kate’s ex-husband and Wark’s partner in the murder of Samuel Beckwhite, and Kendrick Mahl, whom apparently neither man had known before they were incarcerated. Both Osborne and Mahl were serving life without parole.

Joe knew from the newspapers that the guard whose throat had been lacerated with the prison-made garrote was still hospitalized but that doctors now thought he would survive.

At the bottom of the stack of files and reports was a document Joe had not expected. It was not a police report but a three-page memo from LAPD, on a witness in a seven-year-old fraud trial.

He forgot to listen for anyone approaching the cottage. He forgot he wasinthe cottage. He did not realized he was digging his claws into the page. He read avidly, his stub tail twitching. The witness was Helen Marner.

While art dealer Kendrick Mahl, now serving time in San Quentin, was married to Janet Jeannot, whom he later murdered, he had an affair with Helen Marner, a society reporter and aspiring art critic for theLos Angeles Times.

Joe and Dulcie had helped Max Harper amass the evidence that would convict Mahl-including the decisive clue, which the police would never have discovered without the curiosity of someone small enough to crawl twenty feet through a mud-filled drainpipe.

The memo said that Mahl saw Helen Marner whenever he flew down to L.A. to conduct business with clients. During this time, Helen realized that Mahl was accepting part of the sales price for each painting under the table, thus circumventing the artist. She had blown the whistle on Mahl. In the case that ensued, she had testified against him.

Mahl had not been convicted; he had received only a reprimand and probation and had had to pay restitution. At about that time, as Joe remembered, Mahl’s marriage to Janet had started to go awry.

Later, when Mahl went to prison for killing Janet, he had not kept in touch with Helen Marner. But he had kept in contact with the woman he was then dating. Joe was so fascinated that he startled himself with his loud, intense purring. If ever he’d hit the jackpot, he’d hit it this morning.

Or, rather, Garza had hit the jackpot.

The question was, what was Garza going to do with this information? Mahl and Crystal Ryder had been hot and heavy when Mahl was sent to Quentin. Joe couldn’t wait to hear the phone tapes-if he got to hear them.

Joe was still on the desk chewing over the facts when a car pulled into the drive. Glancing through to the kitchen windows, he saw Garza heading for the back door. He was crouched to drop to the floor behind the desk, when he changed his mind-if Garza had come home to work, he wouldn’t see much from the floor. Leaping to the mantel, he settled above Garza’s desk in his classic improvisation of deep, deep sleep.

The back door opened. He listened to the detective moving around the kitchen. Sounded like he was making a sandwich. Refrigerator door, sound of knife on cutting board, sound of a jar being opened, the smell of pickles. Lying limp as a rag, Joe considered the suspects, to date.

Kendrick Mahl had to hate Helen Marner for blowing the whistle that he was ripping off his artist clients. Mahl was mean-tempered anyway, a vindictive sort who had made Janet’s life miserable.

Lee Wark and Jimmie Osborne had both been in residence at San Quentin when Mahl was convicted. Very likely the three men had been drawn together by their mutual connections in Molena Point and their mutual hatred of Max Harper.

And Mahl’s contact on the outside, Crystal Ryder, was a friend of Stubby Baker, who also had no love for Harper.

Garza came into the study carrying a plate and a cup of coffee. The smell of ham and cheese and pickles filled Joe’s nose. Setting his lunch on the desk, Garza opened the morning paper, then turned to look at Joe. Joe kept his eyes closed, didn’t flick a whisker, but he felt his heart pounding. He imagined Garza’s intense black gaze on him, a penetrating cop look. Couldn’t a little cat catch a morning nap?

Only when Garza sat down at his desk did Joe open the old peepers enough to peer over the detective’s shoulder.

He didn’t see the two miniature tapes he’d been hoping for. Were they still in Garza’s pocket? Or had he left them at the station, properly checked into the evidence vault? He was wondering if he’d ever get to hear them-how he could manage to hear them-when the phone rang.

Pressing the speaker button, Garza continued to enjoy his sandwich.

“Detective Garza, I got your number from the newspaper. I don’t understand. Why does the paper keep saying there were no witnesses to where Captain Harper was the afternoon of the murder? Except that man who said he saw Harper on his horse, following the riders?”

“He is the only witness we have,” Garza said, laying down his sandwich.

“I made a report the day after the murders. You must have a record of that.”

Garza clicked the phone’s record button. Joe could see the tape rolling. “Could you give me your name, please?”

“This is Betty Eastmore. I manage Banton’s Jewelry, across the street from where the captain was parked, the afternoon of the murder.”

“And you made a police report to that effect?”

“Yes, I gave it to Officer Wendell while he was on patrol. He had some blank report forms, I filled it out right there in my shop and signed it. He said he’d take care of it for me. Is it just that the paper didn’t want to say there was a witness? In case-”

“Would you like to meet me at the station? I can be there in five minutes.”

“I’m not at home, I’m in Sacramento. I fly back tonight.”

“How did you know about the article?”

“My daughter called me. She thought it was strange.”

“When can you come in?”

Betty Eastmore made an appointment with Garza for the following morning. He offered to meet her at the airport, at the time her plane was scheduled to land, and give her a ride back to the village.

Was that really very professional, Joe wondered, meeting her away from the station to take her report?

For the rest of the afternoon, lying on the mantel behind Garza’s head, Joe listened to the detective play back interview tapes and record his observations. He did not play Crystal’s tape. Just before dinner, Garza played his interview with Max Harper. The detective’s questions, and his dictated notes, were upsetting. By the time the tape was finished, Joe didn’t want any supper. Garza had really bored into Harper. Oh, he’d started out very friendly, all buddy-buddy cop stuff, but when he couldn’t make Harper change his story, he had come down hard, taunting Harper.

Harper had handled the interview calmly, with no change of voice, and of course no discrepancies in the facts. But later when Garza played back his own recorded memos, he had constructed a scenario where Harper could have galloped up the mountain the short way, meeting the Marners at the crest. Garza had calculated that Harper would have had time to kill them, get home again, change clothes, and get to the station by five. The tape was made before Betty Eastmore called him. The detective made it clear that there was no witness to Harper’s whereabouts between four and five, when Harper claimed to be watching Stubby Baker’s apartment.

During Harper’s interview, Garza had questioned the captain’s relationship with Crystal Ryder and with Ruthie Marner-he had asked a good many questions about Ruthie, and about how her mother viewed their friendship.

“She viewed it just fine. We were friends, riding companions, Crystal and the Marners and Dillon-I rode with them because of Dillon, because I didn’t want to be riding alone with a minor.”

“I can understand that.”

But later, in his notes, Garza discussed in some detail Harper’s leave schedule for the past two years. Harper had taken three short vacations down the coast to Cambria, where he could have met either Crystal or Ruthie or Helen, could have spent several days with any one of them.

Nonsense,Joe thought.That is totally reaching for it.But only once did the tape make Joe’s fur stand rigid.

During the time that Garza and Harper walked the Pamillon estate, while Garza taped their conversation, they had seen the cougar’s pawprints, and had discussed the possibility that the lion might have found Dillon as she hid from the Marners’ killer. The discussion sickened him. He wondered if he should go back there and search again.

But what good? He and Dulcie had been all over that property, and so had the search teams.

And what did Garza intend to do with the Eastland woman’s statement? The detective’s interview of Harper left him feeling decidedly irritable.

Dropping down from the mantel, he retired to the window seat, all claws and bad temper. He was lying on his belly, sulking, when Kate and Hanni returned. Hanni, setting her camera and purse on the dining table, stopped to stroke him. Angry and out of sorts, he hissed and slashed at her.

She jerked her hand away, her brown eyes widening.

He hung his head, ashamed. And Kate descended like a whirlwind, grabbing him by the nape of the neck.

Hanni stopped her.“Don’t, Kate. Maybe he hurts somewhere. Maybe I touched a wound from fighting.”

“I doubt it. Let me feel, Joe. Are you wounded?” Kate glared at him and poked him, pushing and prodding with a familiarity that even Clyde would hesitate to inflict. “You growl at anyone again, Joe Grey, you’re dog meat.”

He wanted to claw Kate as well.

“Can’t find anything,” she said lightly. “I’ll watch him for swelling. Probably he has a hair ball.” She gave him another scowl, her amber eyes blazing with such a catlike temper herself that he wanted to yowl with laughter.

But later at dinner, Kate and Hanni together fixed him a nice plate of lamb chops, cutting the pieces up small. Serving him on the window seat, Hanni reached again to stroke him.

He gave her a purr.

“Friends?” she said.

He rubbed his face against her hand; though, in truth, his mood hadn’t brightened much.

Why hadn’t Garza tossed Stubby Baker’s apartment? Why hadn’t he searched Crystal’s duplex? Did he not have sufficient cause? Didn’t he think the judge would issue warrants?

Or did he have no need to do those things?

Did Garza already know where Dillon was?

Watching the detective, he told himself he was letting his imagination run crazy, that he was too emotionally involved. But he felt as restless as bees on a skillet.

Well, maybe Garzadidn’thave probable cause to do those searches. But not every player in this game needed a warrant.

Giving Kate a look of urgency, as if he really needed to go out, he headed for the back door.

20 [????????: pic_21.jpg]

THE TIME was 9:30, the night sky clear, the slim moon and stars as bright as polished diamonds. On the village sidewalks, traffic was beginning to thin, late diners emerging from the restaurants, heading home or to their motels. While the tourists dawdled, looking in the shop windows, Joe Grey hurried along, brushing past their ankles, dodging across the narrow streets between slow-moving cars until soon he had left the shops behind and was among the crowding cottages. Passing Wilma’s house and moving up the north slope of the village, he paused before Crystal Ryder’s duplex.

Above the two double garages, with their closed, unwelcoming doors, Crystal’s windows were ablaze. In the far unit, only a faint light burned. Two different kinds of music came out-modern jazz from Crystal’s side, country from her neighbor, the two mixing in nerve-jangling discord.

Padding up the tall flight of wooden stairs, he leaped to Crystal’s window.

The screen was still loose, but the window itself was locked. He was peering between the curtains when the garage door rumbled open below him. Dropping to the deck, he looked over, watching Crystal’s black Mercedes back out, the top down, Crystal’s amber hair catching the light from the overhead. Behind her, as she headed down the hill, the door rumbled closed again. He watched until she was out of sight, then tried the front door, leaping up to swing on the knob.

Locked.

Galloping down the stairs, he fled around the building and up the grassy hill, to where the back windows might be accessible.

From the steep slope, he peered across a six-foot space to a lone window, very small, perhaps the bathroom window. The top half was open a few inches.

No light burned in the bathroom, but light seeped through from the studio. Springing across to the sill, he leaped for the top of the double-hung. Under his sudden weight, it crashed down so hard it nearly sent him flying. Scrambling over, he dropped down inside, narrowly missing a cold bath in the commode. He was just congratulating himself on his graceful entrance when the garage door rumbled up again and he heard the Mercedes pull in.

Had she forgotten something? If he only waited a few moments, would she drive away again?

Since he and Dulcie had followed the kit and found the tapes and escrow papers, he hadn’t been able to shake his uneasy feeling about this apartment. Call it overactive curiosity, call it senseless fear. Joe thought of it as the kind of feeling a cop got-he’d heard plenty of stories over the poker table as he lolled across the cards, getting in the way. Sometimes an officer justknewsomething was amiss. Knew that the perp had a gun stashed in the seat behind him. That the innocent-looking high school girl batting her eyes at him from the driver’s seat had a trunkful of drugs. No rhyme or reason. Just a feeling. He had it now, about this apartment.

Crouched in the bathroom where he’d landed, he heard a door open in the garage, then close again, and a lock snap or slide home. Heard Crystal come upstairs within the house, heard the door at the top open, heard her cross to the kitchen.

He peered out. The door to the stair stood ajar. The smell of garlic and tomato sauce filled the stairwell. He beat it down to the garage before she came back.

He heard her cross the room, heard the door close above him, heard her crossing back and forth, heard the water running, then in the kitchen heard her pull out a chair, then silence.

The garage was empty and neat, not like many village garages, filled with cast-off furniture, moldering storage boxes, and greasy yard equipment.

This two-car space had been swept clean. It contained only Crystal’s black Mercedes, a broom standing in the corner, a square metal furnace, a washer and dryer, and some empty metal shelves fastened to the wall. Beneath the stair was a small wooden door. He could hear, from within, a soft shuffling noise, then a tiny thump as if rats were at work on whatever was stored there.

The aroma of spaghetti clung around the door.

Sniffing beneath the door, he caught a scent that made him rear up, pawing at the bolt, then leaping and fighting, trying to slide it back.

The sounds from within ceased.

Above him, footsteps crossed the room. The door opened, spilling light. Crystal came down, opened the little door, slipped inside, and closed it behind her.

In the small space, the two female voices echoed sharply, one young and angry, the other haughty.

“I want to call my mother. I want to tell her I’m all right. If you really mean to help me, I don’t see why-”

“How many times do I have to go over this? He’s bound to have a tap on their phone. One call, and he’ll find you. And if he finds you, Dillon, he’ll kill you. You’re the only witness.”

“I’m tired of being shut in this stinking place. I’m cold. I’m tired of the dark! I’m tired of using a bucket for a bathroom.”

“It’s better than being dead.”

“Not much. Why can’t I come upstairs with you! I hear you moving around, I hear the TV and radio. I hear the water running-the shower! I want a shower! And last night I smelled steak cooking.”

“I brought you spaghetti. And here’s some Hershey bars. Eat them and shut up. You should be thankful that I got you out before he found you. Thankful I’m taking the trouble to protect you. If I hadn’t found you, you’d be rotting dead up there on that mountain.”

“You could’ve taken me to the cops. Why didn’t you take me to the cops?”

“What would they do? Question you and take you home. And the minute you’re home, he’d have you. Your parents couldn’t protect you. You told me they don’t keep a gun. He breaks in, kills you all. Kills you first, Dillon. In front of them. Then kills your mother and father.”

“I don’t want to stay here! I want out!”

The sounds of a scuffle. Dillon yelped as if Crystal had hit her.“Leave me alone! And whatdoyou get out of this? Whatdoyou get for savingme?”

No answer.

“I want to call my mother. I’ll make her promise not to tell anyone.”

“The worst thing you could do. No mother would keep a promise like that; she’d hightail it right to the cops. And he’d find you. Now shut up. It won’t be much longer.”

“Much longer untilwhat}”

“Until I can set you free. Until the coast is clear and I can let you go.”

But in the shadows, Joe Grey had a different interpretation, one that made his skin crawl.

There was only one window in the garage, a small dirty glass high in the back wall, just below the ceiling. He had noticed it from the hill, but it did not lead into the house. He thought Dillon might squeeze through, if he could get her out. But she would need a ladder. He could see no ladder, nothing to stand on but the Mercedes, and it was too far from the window. Maybe Dillon could push the dryer across. All she’d have to do was unplug it, and the dryer would be lighter than the washer.

Right. And it would be noisy as hell-and first he had to open the locked door.

Crystal came out, ducking through the low door and sliding the bolt home with a hard clunk. Hurrying up the stairs, she slammed that door and slid the bolt across. The dissonant jazz music had ended long ago. From next door, the cowboy lament was filled with misery.

Leaping at the bolt, he found it immovable, hard and ungiving. He tried for some time; then, crossing the garage, he tried the lock on the pedestrian door, thinking he could go for help.

It, too, was beyond his strength. And he realized he was as much a captive as Dillon.

Looking up at the ceiling, he studied the automatic opener, then prowled the garage until he found the button to operate it, to the left of the washing machine. That would be easy enough to spring.

Right. And bring Crystal on the double.

He fought the bolt on Dillon’s door until his paws throbbed. His thudding battle must have terrified her. “Who is it? Who’s there?” Dillon’s voice was both frightened and hopeful. “Please,” she whispered, “who’s there?”

He was sorely tempted to speak to her.

Oh, right. And blow his cover forever, him and Dulcie both. Enough people knew about them. And a kid-even a kid as great as Dillon-was too likely to spill. In one trusting moment, tell someone.

He had started to search for a vent, to see if he could tear off its grid or screen and slip through, when the upstairs door opened yet again, the light spilling down around Crystal as she descended. Swinging into the Mercedes, she raised the garage door, and backed out, the big door rolling down again like a giant guillotine.

He could have streaked out beneath it, except his passage would have made it halt. He guessed he could have leaped over the electric beam, left it unbroken. But he didn’t want to leave Dillon, he was afraid for her, he had a gut feeling he shouldn’t leave her.

He was pacing the garage trying to think what to do when he heard a police radio. Light flared under the garage door as the unit pulled up the drive.

All right! Help was on the way.

But what had alerted the patrol? Was this only a routine neighborhood check?

He had to get their attention.

The car door opened, he heard hard shoes on the concrete, heard the officer walking along the front of the duplex, then hushing through the bushes.

Joe followed the sound as the officer walked around the building, all sound lost at the far end, then came back behind the building through the tall grass of the hill. Heard him try the pedestrian door, then cross the drive again, and double-time up the front steps.

The bell rang three times, then a key turned in the lock-or maybe some kind of pick; Joe could hear the metal against metal. He followed the hard-soled footsteps above him as the officer prowled the house.

That was the way it sounded. Like prowling, not just walking around. Joe heard him open the closet door, then the shower door. What-or who-was he looking for? Did he have a warrant? Not usual, even with a warrant, to come into an empty house. When he stopped beside the door leading down to the garage, Joe slid behind the washer, his heart pounding. Who was this, which officer, prowling Crystal’s apartment?

The bolt turned. The door at the top of the stair was opening when, out in the drive, a siren began to whoop and the light beneath the garage door turned pulsing red.Whoop, whoop, whoop. Flash, flash, flash.

The officer pounded across the room and down the front stairs, jerked open the car door. The siren stopped. Joe heard him walking the front yard as if looking for whoever had entered his vehicle. He left at last, slamming the door, burning rubber as he backed down the drive.

Collapsing against the washer, Joe felt as limp as a slaughtered rabbit. He was staring at Dillon’s door, trying to figure out how to get it open, when up the stairs the door swung wide and light spilled down-silhoutting a small tabby-striped figure, her tail lashing.

He reared up, watching her.“How did you know I was here? How did you get in?”

“Through the bathroom window,” she said, galloping down. “Same as you.” She smiled and nuzzled him. “You’re not the only one who can break and enter-or follow a trail of scent.” She sniffed at the door beneath the stair. “Dillon! Oh, Joe! Is she really there?” she whispered.

“Alive and well. Who was that, tramping the house?”

“Officer Wendell. He didn’t open a drawer or cupboard, but he checked everywhere a person might be hidden, the closet, even under the sinks and in the shower. Stood on a chair and pushed up the little door into the attic, swung his torch all around. He checked the food in the kitchen and the clothes in the closet.” She narrowed her green eyes. “Looking for little-girl clothes? And why did he come so secretly? This isn’t his beat-he’s on day watch, south side of the village.”

“Didyouset off the siren?”

Dulcie smiled.“I saw Crystal at Binnie’s Italian, saw her come out with two cartons of takeout. On a hunch, I nipped on over here. Caught your scent. Went on in. Then Wendell came snooping.”

“Nice,” Joe said, nipping her ear.

Together they tried the bolt, leaping and grabbing and twisting, but they couldn’t budge it. They daren’t speak beyond the faintest whisper. They could hear Dillon just inside, softly breathing, as if she was pressed against the door.

“When we get her out,” Dulcie whispered, “where can we take her? We can’t take heranywhere.We can’ttalk to her.”

Joe didn’t have an answer. “The first order of business is to get her out.”

She touched his paw.“The minute we set her free, she’ll run straight home. And that’s the first place Crystal will look. You can bet she’s armed, Joe. If she gets there before they call the station… Dillon’s parents are such-gentle types.”

“Only her father. Her mother has spunk.”

“But-”

“We’ll think of something. I don’t want to leave her here. If we knew how long Crystal will be gone…”

“She went to meet someone. She called him but didn’t use his name. Just, ‘I need to talk with you,’ then, ‘I can’t. Meet me the same place.’ “

“Wark?”

“I’m guessing it was Wark.”

Leaping across the garage, Joe toppled the broom with one swat, where it leaned against the wall. Pushing and pulling together, they got it across the floor and upended, angling it against the bolt. They were forcing the broom with teeth and claws, pushing it against the bolt, when a furry warmth thrust between them, trying to help.

“How did you get here, Kit?” Joe snapped.

“Followed Dulcie,” she whispered, pushing with all her might.

From beyond the door, Dillon’s muffled, frightened voice cried, “Who’s there? What are you doing? Crystal, is that you?” The cats imagined her cowering in the small, dark space while a stranger-quite possibly the killer-pried at the door to get at her.

They tried again, with the kit pushing too-she was stronger than she looked-but the bolt seemed frozen in place.

“We need help,” Dulcie said, licking her bruised paws, crouching to race up the stairs-flying to the kitchen, to knock the phone from its cradle.

21 [????????: pic_22.jpg]

CHARLIEWAS so scared she was almost sick. Parking around the corner from the duplex, she left the van’s streetside door open as she’d been instructed. She didn’t fear Crystal, she feared whoever had killed the Marners and would be looking for Dillon. Dulcie said that already Officer Wendell had come prowling, in a way that was more than suspicious.

Hurrying along the dark street, she looked warily into the black interiors of the scattered cars parked against the curb, ready to run if someone stepped out to grab her. But despite her fear, she had to smile. She felt like Alice Through the Looking Glass for sure, stumbling around in the night, following orders from a cat.

Quickly up Crystal’s drive into the shadows, she moved along the side of the garage until she found the pedestrian entrance, a black rectangle where the door stood open. She could see nothing within. Clutching the hammer that she had pulled from her toolbox, she wondered if she’d be quick enough to use it if someone grabbed her.

A voice from inside made her jump.“She’s across the garage,” Dulcie said. “Under the stairs. We couldn’t slide the bolt-we finally did loosen this one. Hurry. Crystal’s gone, you can use your flashlight. Oh, hurry.”

Flipping on her flashlight, softly pulling closed the door behind her, she fled across behind Dulcie, her light sweeping across washer and dryer and furnace, pausing on the door beneath the stairs.

She slid the bolt. The door flew open in her face, knocking her backward. Dillon hit her in a tackle that sent her sprawling, the girl’s shoulder in her stomach. She couldn’t get her breath.

“Get off, Dillon. It’s me-it’s Charlie.” For a thirteen-year-old, the kid was strong. Fighting for her life, she crouched over Charlie, punching, blind with fear. When Charlie grabbed her hands, Dillon kneed her in the stomach, broke her grip, and ran, taking the stairs two at a time. She was halfway across the apartment when Charlie caught her, grabbing Dillon’s red hair, upsetting the coffee table, nearly strangling the child before she got her stopped.

“Hold still! Be still! It’s allright.I’m getting you out of here. Away from here. I’ll hide you.”

“That’s whatshesaid.”

“Stop it! I’m Clyde’s friend-Harper’s friend-you know that!”

Dillon stared at her, didn’t know her well enough to trust her. Charlie wished she’d brought Wilma. “I’ll explain when we’re out of here. Explain as much as I know. We-I think there’s more than one person wanting to kill you.” She scanned the apartment, half expecting Crystal to appear.

“Just let me go. Let me go home.”

“I can’t.” Dragging the child, Charlie stepped to the windows.

The drive below was empty. There were no new cars on the street.“Come on.”

“Where? I don’t want-”

“My place. You can hide at my place.”

“Take me to the cops or I won’t go! Captain Harper will-”

Charlie held her shoulders, looking down at her.“Harper is under suspicion for your kidnapping. And for the murder of Ruthie and Helen Marner. We know he didn’t do it. It gets complicated. You’ll have to trust me. If you want to save yourself and help Harper, we need to get out of here.”

“Just take me to the station. Is that so hard? Take me to Max Harper.” The kid was incredibly stubborn, not nearly as mild-mannered as her parents. Had Harper taught her that, to stand up for what she wanted like that?

“Harper isn’t at the station. He’s taken administrative leave.Hecan’t hide you. How would it look if you turned up at his place, when some people think he kidnapped you?”

“He didn’t! Harper didn’t kidnap me!Hedidn’t kill them!”

“I know that. That’s why you’re in danger. That’s why Crystal kidnapped you. Because you’re the only witness.”

“But Crystal rescued me from that man.”

“What man? The killer? Who is he?”

“I didn’t know him. It was nearly dark. I thought at first it was Captain Harper. It wasn’t. It happened so fast.”

A car came up the street. Crystal’s black convertible, turning up the steep drive, its lights sweeping across the windows. Charlie pulled her away from the glass.

“Dillon, Crystal’s been in touch with the man we think killed them. We think she’s using you to blackmail him. That when she’s done with you, when you’re no use to her, she means to kill you.”

“I don’t-”

As the garage door rumbled open, Charlie pulled her out the front door, dragged her running down the steps as the overhead door closed again. Charlie couldn’t remember whether she’d shut the door under the stairs. They ran, Charlie holding Dillon’s arm, racing down the street and around the corner, falling into the van.

She didn’t switch on her lights; she hit the overhead for only a second, staring into the back among the ladders and cleaning equipment.

Three pairs of eyes shone back at her. She doused the light and took off, spinning a fast U-turn as Dillon crouched on the seat, her hand on the door handle. Charlie jerked her hand away.

“If you don’t trust me, you trust Wilma. I’ll take you there.”

Something furry brushed by Charlie’s cheek and landed in Dillon’s lap, purring.

“Dulcie!” She hugged Dulcie, stroking her, nicely distracted. “Why are the cats with you?”

“I’m cat-sitting.”

“You brought themwithyou? Into…?”

“They-followed me when I left, and I couldn’t take the time to get them back inside.”

Dillon looked at Charlie hard-eyed and skeptical.“How come you’re here? What made you come here? How did you know where I was?”

“I-you won’t believe this.”

“Try.”

She glanced over at Dillon.“I had a dream. I dreamed of you and Crystal and a locked door.” Charlie looked again at the child, trying for a gaze of wide-eyed innocence.

“No. I don’t believe that.”

Crystal sighed. Did the kid have to be so tough-minded? Charlie pulled up in front of Wilma’s darkened house.

“I’ll just get out,” Dillon said. “I’ll wake her.”

“In the dark? Alone?” She reached behind the child, and punched the lock. “With Crystal and the killer looking for you? I don’t think so.” She gave Dillon a steady look. “We think he’s been watching Wilma’s house for you. She’s seen a strange car cruising.”

Dillon hesitated, her eyes questioning, holding Dulcie tight in her arms the way a smaller child would hold a teddy bear.

Charlie looked at the black yard, at the looming bushes and trees.“How about we bring Wilma with us?” Charlie handed her the cell phone. “Call her, wake her up. Tell her we’re out here. See if she’ll come.”

Dillon just looked at her.

Charlie took the phone, dialed Wilma’s number.

Dillon’s brown eyes searched Charlie’s. Her red hair was lank, needed washing.

The phone kept ringing.

Dillon said,“I want to see Harper. That man was dressed like him. And he was riding Bucky. I thought-when he first came up the trail, came over the ridge, I thought-we all thought it was the captain. I waved to him and shouted, and he…”

Dillon stared at Charlie, her eyes wide and expressionless.

“Did he hurt you?”

“I got away. He was… So much blood. And their screams… I-Redwing got me away.” Dillon bent over Dulcie, hugging her so hard Dulcie couldn’t breathe.

Charlie sat idling the engine, letting the phone ring and ring, watching Wilma’s dark windows, and watching ahead and in her rearview mirror for car lights. Or for a car without lights creeping up the street. Why didn’t Wilma answer? She never stayed out this late. Charlie wanted to get out and bang on the door, look in the garage to see if her car was gone. But she wasn’t leaving Dillon.

She hung up at last. She was redialing when a black Mercedes came around the corner, no lights, heading straight for them.

Crystal was not alone. Beside her in the open car sat a tall man that Charlie didn’t know. As the car slid against the van, Crystal’s passenger leveled a large-caliber revolver at them, first picking out Dillon, then moving a quarter inch so his sights were on Charlie.

22 [????????: pic_23.jpg]

THE GUNaimed at Charlie’s face looked as big as a cannon. Had to be a.45 caliber. The man’s hands wrapped around it were thin and long. He had a thin face, dark eyes, short dark hair. Aiming at her, he kept both eyes open in the manner of an experienced shooter. Was this Lee Wark? Stubby Baker? Or someone she’d never heard of? She couldn’t stop looking at the gun. He waved the barrel, motioning for Dillon to get out. Dillon didn’t move. Dulcie had vanished, sliding to the back of the van. Charlie couldn’t help looking at the man’s long fingers overlapped around the revolver, at his one finger curved tight to the trigger.

“I want the girl! Now! Both of you-out of the van!”

Charlie stomped on the gas and jerked the wheel hard, crashing the van into the Mercedes in a metal-screeching sideswipe that threw the shooter off-balance and dropped Dillon to the floor. She took off, burning rubber.“Dial the cops! Dial them now! Nine-one-one. Do it!”

But Dillon was already dialing.

A yowl of protest rose from the backseat.

“Shut up,” Charlie snapped. “One more sound, Joe Grey, and I’ll pitch you out the window.”

She took the corner on two wheels, her rearview mirrors blazing with lights careening behind her.

“There’s static!” Dillon shouted. “I can’t make them understand. They can’t-Was that a tire? Did we blow a tire?”

“Duck!” Charlie shoved Dillon under the dash as another shot boomed. Four more explosions. Dillon hit the redial. Charlie took a corner so fast she thought she’d topple the van. They were in the middle of the village; she prayed no one was on the streets. She was heading for the police station when a siren screamed behind them. She gave it the gas, watching in the mirror as a black-and-white wedged the Mercedes against a parked truck.

“Give me the phone. Watch behind us. Tell me what’s happening!”

Shoving the phone at her, Dillon fled between the seats to the back of the van, where she could see.“It’s Officer Wendell. Alone in the patrol car. He hasn’t made them get out. My God, he’s just standing there talking to them. Justtalking!No, he’s getting back in his unit.Letting them go.Charlie, he’s letting them go. What kind of cop…?”

Charlie turned up Ocean fast, without lights.“Is Crystal coming after us?”

“No, she… Yes. Step on it, she’s coming.”

She made a fast right.“Where’s Wendell?”

“Turned left back there.”

Was Wendell trying to cut them off? Charlie swung another right, into the narrow, unlit alley behind Beckwhite Automotive. Parking in the blackest shadows, she punched a one-digit code into the phone, listened to it ring and ring. When finally Clyde answered, she was shouting, couldn’t make herself speak softly. She didn’t think her plan would work, but she didn’t know what else to do. She glanced up at Dillon.

“Stay here. Stay down.”

Keeping low, she moved out of the van to a wide, sliding door in the back of the building. Using her flashlight long enough to punch three numbers into its digital lock, she slid the door back. Why didn’t Clyde have an automatic door?

But why would he? This wasn’t the main garage, only the paint shop. She could smell the automotive enamel, sharp and unpleasant. Running out again, she fell into the van, and they roared into the dark building.

Three cars left the big garage. The first, an old green Plymouth running with only parking lights turned toward Ocean. Clyde drove slowly, slipping around the darkest corners until he saw Crystal’s Mercedes pull away from the curb where it had been parked with the lights out-as if watching for a car, any car, to come out of the dead-end alley. As Crystal settled in to follow, he concentrated on some fancy driving, as if seriously trying to lose her.

The other two vehicles left by a different route, running dark, heading east toward the hills. The dull, primer-coated BMW, reflecting no light, might have been only the ghost of a car. It turned northeast. Behind it, the black station wagon headed south.

Crossing above the Highway 1 tunnel, the BMW sped up into the hills, its driver and four passengers enjoying the luxury of the soft leather seats. Dillon and the kit were snuggled together next to the driver, in a warm blanket, Dillon half asleep, so tired that even fear couldn’t keep her awake. Joe and Dulcie prowled from front seat to back, peering out, watching for approaching vehicles.

Neither cat saw the black station wagon double back to follow them where it would not be seen.

Moving higher along the narrow winding road, soon they had gained the long, overgrown drive into the Pamillon estate. Charlie wiggled the car in between the detritus of tumbled walls and dead oak trees, parking behind a ragged mass of broom bushes. Only when she cut the engine did she hear another car directly behind them, the sound of its motor bringing her up, ready to take off again.

Then she saw it was Harper. She had already cocked the.38 Clyde had given her, when they switched cars at the shop. Easing the hammer down, she holstered it and nudged the sleeping child.“Come on, it’s Harper. Guess he decided to come with us-guess he lost Crystal. You okay? You remember how to get down there?”

Yawning, Dillon bundled out of the van and took Harper’s hand. “We have to go through the house.” The cats streaked out of the van behind her, pressing close to Charlie’s heels. When Harper saw them, he did such a classic double take that Joe almost laughed.

Charlie looked at Harper blankly.“They were in the van, I didn’t have time to get them out.”

“They changed cars with you fast enough.”

“I couldn’t leave them in the shop, Max. Those paint fumes would have killed them; cats can’t take that stuff.”

Harper scowled at her and didn’t point out that she could have let the cats out of the shop, that they’d been only a few blocks from home.

He looked down at Dillon.“What makes you so sure Crystal won’t think you’d come here?”

“She found me here. Down where we’re going. I was so scared, nearly in hysterics. So scared I couldn’t talk.”

“Then why…?”

Dillon looked up at him.“Later when I sassed her, she threatened to bring me back here-to leave me alone down there. I got hysterical. She thinks-I hope she thinks-I’d do anything to keep from coming here.”

Harper grinned.“Good girl. And you’re not scared to hide down there again?”

“Not with you here.”

Harper made a sound halfway between a grumble and a laugh. Charlie glanced at him, wishing she could see his face.

Moving deeper in through the fallen limbs and dense growth and heaps of adobe bricks, Harper used his torch sparingly, turning it to a thin, low beam that the night seemed to swallow. Listening for any sound behind them, Charlie and Harper kept Dillon close between them. The three cats padded very close, pushing against Charlie’s ankles, Joe and Dulcie peering into the grainy shadows, expecting to see yellow eyes flame suddenly in the torchlight. They might envy the king of cats, but they had no desire to be hors d’oeuvres. The kit, though staying close, seemed more fascinated than scared.

“Talk,” Harper said as they moved in between the fallen walls. “Talk loud and bold. If the big cat’s around, he won’t bother three big, loud humans. Walk tall, Dillon.”

Dillon stood straighter, holding tightly to Harper’s arm, reaching several times to direct his light.

“Is it the old bomb shelter?” Harper said. “Is that where we’re heading?”

“I guess that’s what it is. It has bunks, scraps of blanket the mice have chewed up, old cans of food all swollen like they’ll explode. It’s down beside the root and canning cellars. Part of the roof has caved in, but you can hide back underneath.”

“I know the place.” He didn’t sound thrilled.

“You’ve been down there,” Charlie said.

“Didn’t hang around. Those crumbling walls and stairs…” He shone his light among the standing walls of the house as if looking for an alternative place to hide Dillon.

This was not, Joe thought, an orthodox way for a chief of police to be rescuing a kidnapped child.

Which only pointed up mat he, Joe Grey, was not the only one who mistrusted Wendell.

He hated that, hated the thought of corruption among Harper’s cops-corruption aimed straight at the captain.

And, like Max Harper, Joe wondered if it was smart to take refuge in a confining cellar where they might have only one route of escape.

Beside him, Dulcie was tense and watchful. But the kit padded along eagerly, listening to every tiniest sound, big-eyed with the thrill of adventure.

Charlie said,“I don’t like it that Wilma didn’t answer her phone.”

Harper didn’t seem concerned. “Maybe she unplugged it. She does that sometimes.”

Charlie glanced down at Dulcie. Dulcie blinked in agreement.

“Here,” Dillon said. “In the old kitchen, the stairs are here. They’re crumbly.”

As they started down, the cats caught the old, fading scent of puma. The stairway led down to a long, low-ceilinged cellar with thick adobe walls and heavy roof timbers, a chilly cavern that had been used for canning and root storage, in the days when families had to be self-sufficient. The human’s footsteps echoed. Joe didn’t like this descending into the earth; it made his paws sweat.

He’d never liked tight places, not since his San Francisco days of narrow, dead-end alleys where his only escape from mean-minded street kids was often down into some stinking cellar, with no idea whether the boys would follow him or not.

Dillon walked leaning against Charlie, nearly asleep on her feet, her head nodding, the blanket from the Mercedes that Charlie had wrapped around her half fallen off and slipping to the ground.

A door at the back of the long cellar led through a thick wall and down four more steps to the old World War II air raid shelter, its roof and one wall fallen in, open to the kitchen, above.

“When I hid here before,” Dillon said, “I thought maybe a cougar wouldn’t prowl so deep. That maybe he wouldn’t come down here?”

“No sensible beast would come down here,” Harper told her. “A cougar doesn’t use caves. They want to see around them.”

Right on,Joe thought, exchanging a look with Dulcie.No sensible beast, only humans. And cats stupid enough to follow humans.

But the kit padded ahead of them, all pricked ears and switching tail, looking about her bright-eyed at the mysterious and enchanting depths, her hunger for adventure and for deep, earthen places supplanting all caution.

The very tales that made Joe shiver, the old Celtic myths that spoke of wonders he didn’t care to know about, drew the kit. The old Irish tales of a land beneath the earth, and of cats who could change to humans. The kit thrived on those stories; she hungered for the kind of tales that made Joe Grey cross.

She’s young,Joe thought.Too young. Too trusting. Way too curious.Padding behind Harper’s beam into the black maw of the air raid shelter, he felt he was stepping into a gaping and hungry mouth.

The shelter had had two rooms. Where the first had caved in, they could see the ruins, above, and the clear night sky.

The door frame of the second, roofed portion still stood. The heavy plank door had been ripped off and lay on its side across the opening, barring the lower half. Behind it, someone had pulled a rusty set of shelves across, to further block the entrance. The shelves still held ancient cans of food, rusted tight to the metal surfaces.

Harper moved the shelf unit aside, glancing questioningly at Dillon.

“I pushed it there. Like a fence-it was all I had.”

He swept his light across the small concrete room.“I can’t believe these three cats have come down here with us. Sometimes they act more like dogs than cats.”

Joe and Dulcie exchanged a look. He wished he could give Harper an answer to that one.

Within the closed, damp room, they could smell the fresh scent of cougar, his trail coming down the earth slide, a track newly laid within the last few days. The kit backed away from the scent, her eyes huge, and patted at a lone pawprint in the loose earth.

Perhaps the young male had come here out of curiosity, had come down into the excavation to look and to mark, the way a cougar would investigate a new house under construction, stopping to spray the open, studded walls, to sniff at a hammer or at bent nails or at an empty beer can left behind by the building crew-leaving his pawprints for the carpenters to wonder and laugh over, and perhaps feel the cold sting of fear.

Joe, imagining the cougar padding down that insubstantial earth slide, didn’t know he was growling.

“What?” Charlie said, kneeling before him. “Has someone been here?”

Joe laid back his ears, giving her a toothy snarl.

“Cougar?” Charlie said, her eyes widening. “Has the cougar been here?”

Joe’s eyes on Charlie told her all he needed to say.

Charlie rose to face the door and the open pit beyond, her hand resting on the.38.

23 [????????: pic_24.jpg]

CHUNKS OF CONCRETE had fallen where one wall was crumbling, and rising from the debris stood a rusted, two-bunk bed with mouse-chewed mattresses. On the floor beside its iron legs were stacked more bulging cans of food, their labels presenting stained and faded pictures of tomatoes, beans, and corn-ruined cans ready to poison anyone foolish enough to sample their contents. Or, as Dillon had said, ready to explode in your face. Atop one can was a limp box of disintegrating matches and a grime-covered first-aid kit. The dozen gallon bottles of spring water against the wall ought, by this time, to be growing frogs. In the far corner lay a heap of animal bones and a strip of hide with short brown hair.“Deer,” Harper said, picking up a leg bone with hoof attached, and a jawbone that had long ago been licked clean.

“No puma would drag his kill down here. The deer might have been sick, stumbled and fallen, then foxes and racoons were at him.”

Joe wanted to tell Harper that a cougarhadbeen there, that his scent was fresh, that he had come prowling long after those bones were abandoned, and that this male might have a lay-up somewhere else among the ruins, maybe even in the standing portion of the house itself. That he might, scenting their fresh trail, return to have a look.

A curious cougar, if alarmed and cornered, could turn deadly.

Dillon yawned, looking longingly at the upper bunk. Tossing her blanket on top, she was about to climb up when Harper put his arm around her.

“Give us a minute. You’re so tired-if you lie down you’ll be gone. We need to talk. Come sit down, let me ask a few questions, get it on tape. Then you can sleep.”

Dillon sat down on the floor between Harper and Charlie, her back to the concrete wall, the three of them watching the cavernous opening that yawned beyond the frail barrier-though Joe would far rather see the cougar approaching than Crystal and her friend. Light from the flashlight bounced against the wall, brightening Charlie’s carrot-colored hair and Dillon’s darker, auburn bob. The tape recorder that Harper took from his pocket was no bigger than a can of cat food.

“Do you mind the tape?”

“No. We do tapes at school.”

“You hid here after the murder?”

“Yes, he was chasing me,” she said, yawning.

“Who was?”

“The man who killed Ruthie and Mrs. Marner. The same man who shot at us tonight. Crystal said his name was Stubby Baker.”

Harper raised an eyebrow.“Did you know a Stubby Baker?”

“No. I didn’t know that man.”

“The evening of the murder, did you see the killer’s face? Could you identify him if you saw him again?”

“His hat was pulled down and his coat collar turned up, but I got one good look. When his face was close to me. Thin face. Bony. Those eyes-black eyes. The same man as tonight, with the gun. And he was riding Bucky.”

“You’re sure it was my gelding?”

“Of course I’m sure. I know Bucky. Your horse, your saddle. Bucky’s bridle-that nice silver bit. The man’s hat and clothes looked like yours, too. When he rode up to us, with the hat pulled down, I thought it was you. I thought how strange you had your hat pulled down because the sun wasn’t in your eyes, it was behind you, real low in the sky. Then I saw-saw it wasn’t you.”

“You saw his face clearly.”

“At first, just his eyes. The sun was all dazzle behind him. But he looked right at me. Whispered, ‘Help. Help me,’ and he went limp over the saddle, limp down over the horn like he’d fainted or something. He grabbed at the horn and slid down, fell on the ground. Mrs… Mrs. Marner got off to help him. He… Do I have to tell more about it now?”

“We can talk about it later. How much did you see of his face? Tell me again, the general shape of his face. Was he clean-shaven?”

“He…” She looked at Harper, frowning. “His face was thin like yours. No beard or mustache. Smooth, no black stubble.” She held her hands to her own face, indicating where his hat was pulled down and his collar turned up. “Thin, long face, like yours,” Dillon said apologetically. “But no wrinkles. And-real high cheekbones. And black eyes.Notyou, Captain Harper. Not your eyes. Cold black eyes. And his mouth-a thin, hard mouth.”

Harper glanced at Charlie.“You don’t have paper or a pencil?”

“I don’t have my purse, only my keys.”

“Later, would you try a sketch?”

She nodded, as if etching Dillon’s description into memory.

“We’ll do a lineup,” he told Dillon. “When he grabbed Helen, how did you get away?”

“He hit her and cut-I saw him cut her throat.” Her voice shook, but she looked at him steadily. “Ruthie and I were kicking and hitting him, from our horses, trying to get him off Mrs. Marner. He grabbed Ruthie’s leg and pulled her off. It was all plunging horses and blood and screaming. I couldn’t… I hit and kicked, but when he grabbed for me I kicked Redwing, slapped my reins into his face, and whipped her.” Dillon looked at him desolately. “I ran away-I hung on to the saddle. He was pulling at me, I was nearly off. I kicked Redwing and hung on hard, kicked him and hit her, and Ruthie screaming and screaming behind me. I-I left them, Captain Harper. Left them there. I ran away.” She hid her face, crying. He put his arms around her, held her tight, letting her cry, looking over her head at Charlie, his face so filled with pain that the cats wanted to hold Harper safe, the way he washolding Dillon. And Charlie reached to touch his cheek.

But when Dillon could stop crying, Harper held her away.“Then what happened?”

“I kept going, as fast as Redwing could run. He came pounding behind me. When I looked back at him, I saw the other man back there. He had Ruthie, I could see her white blouse. He was hitting and hitting her. Then I ran into a branch, it nearly knocked me off. I had to lean low, kind of dizzy. Redwing was running full out. It hurt and I felt so dizzy I was scared I’d fall-or that she’d fall, stumble and fall. It was getting dark. He was getting closer. Bucky’s so big and fast, he was coming so fast, and the Marners’ horses were running after his horse, all wild, their reins and stirrups flapping.”

She blew her nose.

“And then?” Harper didn’t let up: he was going to have it all before he let her sleep.

“Then I was around the bend-that bend in the trail, by the ruins?” she said tiredly.

“Yes?”

“I knew he couldn’t see me there, it’s all trees. You know the place. I slid off and whacked Redwing hard; sent her flying, and I hid in the bushes.

“When he’d gone past, ducking low under the branches and beating Bucky, I doubled back and ran.

“I thought if Redwing kept running it would be awhile, under those trees, before he saw I wasn’t on her. I ran through the bushes and into the old house and upstairs so I could see if he came back.

“He did,” she said, swallowing. “I saw him coming. That was the worst time, when I saw him coming back. I was so scared I didn’t think I could move.

“I hid in the nursery, in that box beside the fireplace, under all those pieces of wall piled around it. I didn’t know where else to go. I knew I could get the box open without moving all the stuff, I’d looked in it once. You don’t really notice it-just looks like part of the junk.”

Dillon shivered.“I heard him coming up the stairs, heard him moving around the room. I was so scared. The box was like a coffin, and I’d trapped myself in there.

“I had the pocketknife Dad gave me, I had it open. Thinking, what good would that little knife do? He was bigger than me, he’d take it away from me.

“But I thought if he grabbed me and didn’t see it, if he pulled me up to his face the way he did Mrs. Marner, jerked her right up to his face, I’d jab it in his throat before he ever saw. I was trying to remember where the carotid artery is, exactly. I felt sick. I knew I had to try.”

Joe looked at Dulcie. Her eyes were wide with pain and with love for the child. Dillon clung to Harper, clutching his arm. She might be thirteen and nearly grown, but at that moment she seemed only a little child, wanting to be protected. And Dillon reached to Charlie, pulling her closer, hanging on to them both.

People talked about therapy, Joe thought. Talked about crisis counseling. What a child really needed was to be held tight and loved, and helped to talk it out.

Harper said,“You heard him leave the nursery?”

“I thought he left. I wasn’t sure-maybe he was waiting. I stayed still for a long time.”

Harper nodded.“How long do you think you stayed in the box?”

“I don’t know. Maybe an hour. It seemed like forever. When I came out it was really dark. I peeked out first. It was quiet, I couldn’t hear him. But I waited some more, until I had to pee, bad.

I didn’t hear anything but the crickets. When I came out, I crawled over to the edge where the floor ends and looked down.

“It was dark but the moon was coming up. I could see the pale garden walls, so if Bucky was there, I thought I’d see him-except if the man had hidden him, and was waiting for me. He killed Helen and Ruthie-or hurt Ruthie. I knew what he looked like. He’d have to kill me.

“Captain, Ruthie was only twentysomething, like my cousin. She was still in college.”

Harper nodded.

“I knew, when he chased me, I should have ridden fast down the hill for help. That I might have saved Ruthie. Except, that other man already had her. And going down the bare hills where I couldn’t hide, he would have caught me. I was sure they were dead. I knew Mrs. Marner was dead.”

She looked up at Harper.“But I feel so… I’m alive, Captain Harper. And they’re dead.”

He said nothing, he simply held her.

“I wanted to go home, but I was afraid he’d find me. And afraid of the mountain lion, afraid it would smell blood and come prowling. I was bleeding, my hand was cut.” She showed him the scar, with the dirty mark where a piece of tape had come off. “Crystal bandaged it.

“I didn’t see Bucky, but I could see a gleam of metal off through the trees like maybe a car, and that scared me. I thought it might be the man in black, so I came down here-down the broken back stairs and down the cellar stairs. I’d lost my barrette. I kept thinking if it was up there somewhere in the nursery, and one of them found it, they’d know I was there.

“I came down here and pushed that shelf thing across, and lay down on the top bunk, way at the back where he might not see me. I was so scared, I was like frozen.”

“I don’t think you were frozen,” Harper said. “I think you did very well. How long were you down here, do you think?”

“I don’t know. Until Crystal found me. It was still dark when she came. She called out to me, from that other cellar.”

Dillon looked at Harper.“She’d ridden with us so much, and she’s so beautiful, I trusted her.

“She had a gun, I was glad she had it, to protect me. We got in her car, with the top up, and went to her place. She made me some soup and a sandwich and bandaged my hand, and then-then, she said, to hide me, keep me safe, I had to stay in the basement, that she’d lock the door so no one could get in, to hurt me.”

Harper nodded and hugged her. The cats had never seen him so tender-as if his own predicament had stripped the cop veneer away for the moment, left him vulnerable.

“The second figure, Dillon. Could you identify the second man? The man in black? Did you recognize him?”

“No, just someone in black, hitting Ruthie. I never saw his face.

“But Crystal knew there were two men. Said she was hiding me from both.” She yawned, her eyes blinking closed. “When she locked me up, I knew I’d been stupid to come with her. But then it was too late.”

Harper turned off the tape recorder.“It won’t be long, we’ll get you home. You’re safe now. Climb in the bunk and get some rest.” He grinned at her. “You did good, Dillon. I’m proud of you. And whoever comes down those stairs, Charlie and I are armed.” He grinned. “And mean-tempered.”

Charlie helped Dillon up the rusty ladder and fixed her blanket over her. And the kit crept close, snuggling her head under Dillon’s chin. Dillon was gone at once, in deep, exhausted sleep.

Dulcie crouched near, on the foot of the bunk, idly swinging her tail, watching the sleeping child and the sleeping kit. Below her on the cold floor, Harper and Charlie sat close together, their backs to the wall, watching the black, empty root cellar and the open rim of the earthslide. They looked, Dulcie thought, as if they belonged together.

When Joe leaped up to stretch out beside Dulcie, across the mouse-chewed mattress, he lay with every sense alert, every muscle tense, watching and listening; and Dulcie, too, felt safe.

She was just drifting off when Harper said,“How did you find her, Charlie? I didn’t want to question her anymore. Did she manage to get to a phone? That brief version you gave me while we were switching cars didn’t make a lot of sense.”

“She was locked in that tiny room under the stairs, Max. Pitch dark, no windows. No light, no running water. A mattress on the floor. I’m surprised she’s in as good a shape as this. She’s a tough child.”

He looked hard at Charlie.“So now we’ve had a little diversion. How did you know she was there?”

“Max, you won’t believe this.”

The captain was quiet. Above them, Joe and Dulcie watched Charlie, ready to yowl and start a fight if she said too much. Would Charlie, in a heady moment of closeness with Max Harper, be tempted to betray them? Share secrets with Harper that later, with a clearer head, she would wish she could swallow back?

She won’t, Dulcie thought. Not Charlie, not ever.

But when she glanced at Joe, he didn’t look so sure.

“Max, I had a dream. It was so real I woke up sweating, terrified.”

Harper’s profile went rigid. That hard, ungiving cop look, that I-know-you’relying look that Joe Grey knew too well.

“It was like Dillon was right there, her face in my face, shouting in my face. We were in a dark, tiny room-all concrete. She was so frightened, was beating at the door-right in my face, beating and pounding on the door, shouting, ‘Let me out! Please, Crystal, let me out of here!’

“I’ve never had a dream like that, not so real.”

Harper’s profile didn’t change. He wasn’t buying this.

“I sat up. Knew I couldn’t go back to sleep. I thought of phoning Crystal, and knew I daren’t do that. I got up, threw on some clothes, and headed for Crystal’s. I knew it was crazy, but I couldn’t help going.

“Crystal left as I was coming around the corner, I saw her car pull out. I was scared she had Dillon with her.

“I had a hammer in my hand, from my toolbox. I went to the side door, under the house. I was going to smash the glass but it was unlocked, like she forgot to lock it.”

On the top bunk, Joe grinned at Dulcie. Charlie was doing it up right, she even hadhimbelieving. He was mighty glad he had, on the second try, managed to slide that bolt.

“I found the door under the stairs, Iknewshe was there. It was the place I’d dreamed of. All I could think was, get her out of there, get her away.”

She looked at Max, lifted her hand to touch his face.“I drove the bolt back, got her out, and we ran.”

Harper looked hard at Charlie. He said nothing.

“What, Max? She’s a very tough little girl.” She rose and stepped to the bunks, stood looking at the sleeping child, raised her eyes to the cats, and winked. Then turned back to sit beside Harper.

“This Dallas Garza, Max. What is he doing? Is he helping you? Is he honest? Does he talk to you? What does he tell you?”

“He’s doing his job, Charlie. He’s not supposed to keep me informed-though as a matter of fact, we had a talk yesterday.

“I asked him if Mr. Berndt had filed a report or tendered informal information regarding the case. Garza said not to his knowledge.”

Harper eased his back against the concrete wall.“When I was in the grocery yesterday, Mr. Berndt apologized for acting like an old woman about the groceries. I asked him what he meant.”

He reached for a cigarette, forgetting he’d quit, then dropped his hand. “Seems Berndt told Wendell, couple of days ago, that he’d noticed Crystal Ryder was suddenly buying a lot more groceries-peanut butter, kid cereal, a lot of kid food. That it made him curious. From what he’d observed, Crystal lives on salads, yogurt, and an occasional steak.

“Berndt had asked one of Crystal’s neighbors, a real talkative woman, if Crystal had a child visiting. Molly-Molly Gersten. Molly hadn’t seen a child. She can see the front of Crystal’s apartment, the front door and windows, from her kitchen.

“Berndt thought it was interesting enough to call the station. Wendell was on the desk, and Berndt gave him the information. Wendell told him he’d pass it on at once, to Detective Garza.

“Garza said he never got it.”

Charlie nodded.“Tonight, Wendell stopped Crystal when they were chasing and firing at us. But then he let them go. He had to have heard the shots. But he let them go.” She turned to look at him. “What are you going to do?”

“About Wendell?” Harper looked deeply at her. “Time, Charlie. Time, patience, and a cool head.”

“I’m not long on patience or a cool head.” She studied his face. “Who do you think killed them?”

“Maybe Baker. Maybe Lee Wark. Maybe Crystal.”

“Not Wendell.”

“Wendell is a follower, not a very bold type. Easily influenced. I inherited him on the force-should have sent him packing.”

“But who do you think attacked them-and almost killed Dillon?” she said softly.

“Charlie, you know I can’t make that kind of premature call. It muddies the waters. Makes a case harder to work.”

“But that’s the problem. You’re not working this case. Your own future is at stake and your hands are tied. You’re not allowed to dig out the facts.”

“And that is as it should be.”

“I wouldn’t be worth a damn as a cop. I’d be champing at the bit all the time, wanting to hurry up an investigation, get to the bottom line.”

Harper looked at her a long time, a look so intimate that Dulcie looked away, embarrassed.“You might,” Harper said, “make a good cop’s wife.”

Charlie’s face went totally red.

“Well,” he said gently, “you can cook and clean. Repair the roof and the plumbing, feed and care for the horses, even train a dog or two. In fact, come to that, you’re not a bad shot, either.” He reached to his belt. “I’ll try the radio, see if we can get a line on Clyde-though I doubt we’ll get much, this far underground.”

Charlie leaned forward to tie her shoe, as if getting control of herself.

Harper’s hand was on his radio when, atop the bunk, Joe Grey froze, watching the short stair and the black cellar beyond. A faint brushing sound, too faint for human ears. Hissing, unable to avoid a low growl, he took off up the steps and up the stairs beyond.

Behind him, Harper extinguished the light and palmed his automatic. Charlie moved to follow Joe, but Harper pulled her back, shoved her to a crouching position at the side of the fallen door. Only Dulcie followed him, racing into the night.

The two humans waited, frozen and silent, the shooters crouched and aiming. And Dillon and the kit slept innocent and unaware.

24 [????????: pic_25.jpg]

DRIVINGthe old green Plymouth, Clyde tried every evasive tactic he’d ever learned from Harper or from watching cop flicks, ducking into driveways, doubling back to slip down an alley, making sure the black convertible was there behind him. With both of them running dark, he prayed no late-hour pedestrian or innocent animal hurried into the street. Crossing Ocean, Crystal stepped on the gas, but at the next intersection she held back as if wary of the brighter streetlight. Glancing back, he lifted a bag of cleaning rags from the seat beside him, let it be seen through the windows as if a passenger had stuck her head up. When Crystal speeded up, narrowing the distance for a better look, he dropped the bag on the seat.

In his rearview mirror, he couldn’t see her passenger. Was he lying low or had he bailed out?

Maybe he’d picked up another car, would come slipping out of a side street to cut him off, thinking he had the child.

Or had Crystal’s passenger spotted Charlie and Dillon, and was on their tail? They’d be high in the hills now, driving alone on empty, lonely roads, winding toward the Pamillon place. Harper might be following them, or he might not. Clyde was glad he’d given Charlie a gun, glad for their evenings, after hamburgers or Mexican, when he’d taken her to the police range and taught her the proper use of the weapon-glad, he supposed, for Harper’s later training, on the nights Charlie went up there to work with the pups. He didn’t know how he felt about that.

His relationship with Charlie, though they’d had their moments, seemed to have settled from hot romance into an easy and comfortable friendship.

Was that his fault or hers? He took two more corners, Crystal still on his tail. She’d bolt when she saw where he was headed. Lifting the ragbag again, he dropped it as an oncoming car swerved toward him, its lights blazing on high, moving fast. He tramped the gas, did a hard peel across the intersection on two wheels and down the side street, his rearview mirrors catching the lights as the car screamed on his tail.

It sideswiped him hard, knocking him into the oncoming lane. He managed to spin a U. It hit him again, sent him over the curb and across the sidewalk. The police station loomed half a block ahead. He hit the gas hard. He thought the car was turning away when it spun and hit him broadside-sent the Plymouth sideways into the department’s plate-glass window, exploding glass. He threw open the door as a shot rang, and dove in a flying lunge toward the swinging glass doors and through them, nearly trampled as cops came boiling out. Two guys jumped over him where he sprawled. A young corporal stepped on his hand. Three more shots rang out,bing, bing, bing.A small-caliber rifle. He saw its flame blaze from an officer’s hands, aimed to stop the driver. When it didn’t stop him, two patrol cars took off, on his tail.

And two officers grabbed Clyde, jerking his arms behind him, slapping on cuffs. Those two new rookies. He shouted, but no one paid attention. The dispatcher was busy calling the sheriff for assistance. The whole force was in action. Detective Davis spun him around, took one look, looked disgusted, and unlocked the cuffs.

At least he was inside the station, out of the line of fire-maybe.

The offending car was gone, four squad cars scorching after it. He hadn’t seen what happened to Crystal; the black convertible had vanished. He sat down on the nearest desk, watching through the shattered window as Davis joined Hendricks, assessing the damage to the building. In a few minutes, two officers came up the street, marching a tall, good-looking guy beforethem, strong-arming him into the station. Baker. Stubby Baker. Clyde looked him over and went out to look at the Plymouth, his shoes crunching shattered glass.

Shoving through a crowd of onlookers, some in pajamas and robes, and several homeless with their backpacks, who seemed to greatly enjoy the entertainment, he scanned the street for Crystal’s convertible. But she’d be long gone. The left side of the Plymouth was totaled.

Moving back inside, he watched as Baker was booked and printed. The well-made, darkhaired man was wide-eyed with surprised innocence. Clyde prayed that Charlie and Harper and Dillon were safe, and he worried about the cats. He’d learned long ago not to argue with cats. Hardheaded and stubborn, they had bulled their way into Charlie’s BMW. He guessed, after rescuing Dillon, they had a right to be in on the action-but they were so small and easily hurt. If he let himself worry about them, it tied his belly in knots.

Detective Davis sat down on the desk beside him, her dark eyes appraising.“What’s going on, Damen? Why did he ram you? Why was he chasing you?”

He laid out as much of the scenario as he could reveal, told her that Charlie had found Dillon Thurwell in Crystal Baker’s apartment, that Dillon had been locked in a cellar, that when Charlie got her out, Baker and Crystal followed and pulled a gun on them. He described his and Charlie’s ploy to get Dillon away, their vehicular shell game. He didn’t mention Harper.

Davis pushed back her short, dark hair.“So where are they now?” Her brown eyes were unreadable. He saw Officer Wendell beyond her, quietly listening.

“I don’t know where Charlie took her. Maybe up the coast. Crystal was after them. Black Mercedes convertible. She was on my tail until Baker started ramming me.”

“And where’s Harper? He’s staying with you.”

“I-we started out together. He’s in another car.”

“Is Charlie carrying?”

He nodded. The department knew he’d had Charlie on the range.

Davis sighed.“If you know anything that you’re not telling us…”

He looked evenly at the solid, sensible woman.“I want Dillon safe, we need to find Dillon.”

“Can you tell me anything more?”

He glanced toward Wendell. Davis widened her eyes.

“I don’t know anything more, Juana. I want Dillon and Charlie and Harper safe.“Iwant the cats safe,he thought.I want Joe Grey back in one piece.

Joe was so enraged by this scam against Harper, that Clyde had no idea what the tomcat would do. He looked solemnly at Davis.“You going to arrest me?”

“What for, Damen?”

Clyde shrugged, and felt easier.

He’d heard the dispatcher call Garza; the detective was on his way in. Clyde didn’t quite trust Garza, after what Joe had told him; he was wary of how Garza would handle tonight’s events.

If Garza was in on framing Harper, likely Stubby Baker would be out before midnight, free to go on searching for Dillon.

He turned when he heard Garza’s voice, watched the tall, broad-shouldered Latino out on the street, talking with portly Lieutenant Brennan, assessing the damage to the building. In a few minutes they came into the station, and Garza nodded to Davis. She glanced at Clyde, jerking her thumb toward the video in the far corner of the squad room. “We’re going to question Baker. You want to watch?”

He sat before the screen watching Garza and Davis, in the interrogation room, grilling Stubby Baker, their exchange fed to him through a camera mounted high on the interrogation room wall. Garza let Davis do most of the talking.

“You were with Crystal Ryder tonight in her apartment?”

“No. I was not.”

“When were you last in her apartment?”

“I don’t remember.”

“When were you last within a block of her apartment?”

“Tonight. I followed Harper there. I saw Captain Harper go into her apartment.”

“Did she let him in?”

“I don’t think so. Looked to me like he used some kind of lock pick. You know? Fiddling around with the lock.”

“Did he see you?”

“Don’t think so. I’d got out of my car, left it around the corner. I was-ah, in the bushes.”

“What time was this?”

“Maybe ten.”

“Why did you follow him?”

“I thought he’d be looking for the kid. To do her, you know?”

“Why would he want to do her?”

“Because she saw him kill those women.”

“What made you think the child was at Crystal’s?”

“I’d been watching.”

“Watching what?”

“Watching Crystal come and go. I thought she had someone staying there.”

“Why did you think that?”

“She was bringing home a lot of groceries.”

“What did you do when Harper went in her apartment?”

“I sat down in the bushes and watched.”

“Was Crystal there?”

“The garage door was shut. I didn’t see her at the windows.”

“Was Crystal there?”

“I guess. She came out later, drove off fast after Harper, after he took the kid.”

“How long were you there?”

“Until Harper went off with the kid. When Harper took off, I followed. Afraid he would kill her.”

“What time was this?”

“I guess about an hour ago.”

“Why did Crystal have her there?”

He looked surprised. Looked right into the camera.“To save her-keep Harper from doing her.”

“And what was your interest in the matter?”

“She’s just a little kid. I read the papers, I watch the news. A cop gone bad is a terrible thing.”

Detective Davis snorted. Garza’s expression didn’t change. Clyde was glad he wasn’t in the room; it would be hard to hold his temper.

“And so you followed Harper?” Davis said.

“I followed him, then that other car came. That old Plymouth. Harper pulled up beside it and got out, and they talked.”

“And?”

“There was a lot of moving around, doors opening and closing. I thought he put the kid in the Plymouth.”

“Go on.”

“I followed it. Driver kept dodging me. I tried to head it over here, toward the station. You know? To get help.”

Baker gave Davis that boyish smile.“Well, guess I did get some help. But then I didn’t see the kid. Plymouth rammed the station. Well, you saw. And I didn’t see the kid. Did you get the kid? Is she safe?”

Talk about chutzpah. Clyde’s fists were balled, itching to punch Baker. He waited for Baker to finish, then went back to a conference room with Garza and Davis, and gave his own statement, sipping coffee that tasted like burnt shoes.

“Harper’s staying with me, he was there all night, playing poker. We went to bed around ten. Harper snores so loud he rocks the guest room-no way he could have slipped out, even if he’d do such a thing.

“Phone rang, woke me up. It was Charlie. Said she had Dillon. That she was just south of Wilma’s house, and Crystal and Baker were shooting at them. Said to meet her at the shop, if she could give them the slip. The back door, up the alley. That maybe we could switch cars and get Dillon away. Iwoke Harper and we took off.”

Davis was recording it all. Somewhere down the line she’d type it up and expect him to sign it.

“I kept wondering, when you questioned Baker, if he and Crystal were the only ones involved. Or if there could be a second man. A man still out there, riding with Crystal, following Harper and Charlie and Dillon.”

Davis turned a dark brown, Latin stare on him.“It’s possible. Six cars are out looking. Where are they?”

“Try the Pamillon place.”

Davis dialed the dispatcher, gave the instructions, then fixed again on Clyde.“I asked you earlier where they were. You didn’t know.”

“Didn’t want to talk in front of Wendell. I don’t trust Wendell.”

Her response was noncommittal. Garza didn’t blink, sat unmoving, watching Clyde. The interview was soon terminated, Clyde none the wiser about what the officers thought. He was heading for the door when a call that stopped him came in. Harper’s voice, crackling with static. He moved toward the dispatcher’s desk to hear better.

“Code two. I have Dillon Thurwell. The old…” Harper went silent, and they heard three shots pop. Clyde didn’t wait; he ran for his car, then remembered it was wrecked. Garza was behind him, and Davis. He swung into the backseat of a black-and-white, Garza behind the wheel. The detective spun a U and headed up Ocean, the siren blasting. Clyde was cold with fear for Harper and Charlie and Dillon-but weak, thinking of the cats up there in the middle of the confusion and gunfire, three small cats soon to be surrounded by wheeling squad cars and running officers-three little cats who had saved Dillon Thurwell and now were in danger for their own lives.

And no one knew to care. No one but Charlie would think of protecting them; no one knew how special they were.

25 [????????: pic_26.jpg]

IN THE TIDES and eddies of night, among the broken walls and fallen trees, a figure dressed in dark clothes moved silently and quick, pausing to investigate the two cars parked among the rubble, then slipping toward the ruined house, seeming to know well the layout of the gardens and the abandoned mansion. The time was 5 A.M., some four and a half hours after the three cars left the back door of the automotive shop; the winter night was still black.

Beneath the estate’s sprawling trees, no faint gleam shone across the figure’s chin or hair, no glint of light fingered the gun that nestled in a furtive hand, nor could one hear the smallest hush of a footstep. The prowler was as silent as the hunter who followed behind on stealthy paws watching with curiosity every move, sniffing at the rank human smell.

As the figure moved into the derelict house through the open parlor and toward the kitchen and stairs, the feline hunter padded closer. Only the cougar was aware of a second two-leg, standing behind them out by the road at the edge of the overgrown gardens. The big cat did not feel threatened. Cocking an ear, he listened behind him, then honed his attention again on the thin figure approaching the stairwell, the black cave down into the earth.

When another hunter entered the scene, slipping up from the earthen caverns below, the cougar caught the scent without interest. The small domestic cat didn’t distract him. All his attention was on the two-leg, where it wandered with its back to him, a position that excited him and drew him ever closer-that retreating back enticed him beyond curiosity, to a desire to grab and kill.

Beside the cave-hole, the two-leg paused and seemed to be listening. The cougar paused. And from deep in the shadows, Joe Grey watched the little drama. The four players were positioned as in a game of chess, but this game was played by scent and sound, as rook and knights and king pursued their opposing objectives.

And only one among the players understood the worlds of both his four-footed and two-footed opponents. Only one had the keener senses of the big, four-footed cat, yet the sophisticated mental skills of the two-legs.

Crouched beneath a massy bush of Mexican sage, some fifty feet from the stairs that led down to the cellar, Joe Grey watched the puma slide through the ruined house, stalking the dark-dressed figure, the big cat relaxed and easy, strolling along as if he owned the Pamillon estate. And certainly in his cougar mind, he did own it.

Joe didn’t know whether the dark-clad figure the big cat followed was male or female until that player paused at the head of the stairs, and Joe caught the glint of honey-colored hair. Crystal? He couldn’t smell her over the garden scents and the stink of the puma. She stood looking around her, listening.

And out on the road, the watcher shifted position, his black clothes darker than the night. Stubby Baker? Had Baker slipped away from Clyde and followed Crystal? Joe wanted to go have a look-but daren’t leave Crystal to slip down the steps and take Harper and Charlie by surprise; none of these players had made a sound; Harper would have no reason for sudden alarm. He and Charlie would still be sitting on the floor of the cellar, alert but caught in idle conversation.

Joe didn’t know if Crystal was armed. He didn’tthinkshe would hurt Dillon, but who knew? He thought she had held Dillon as security, to blackmail the killer. He figured Crystal as the go-between, liaison between the killer and whoever at San Quentin had done the hiring.

If Crystal was the banker, the mastermind at Quentin fully trusted her.

How ironic that the money to buy Helen Marner’s duplex was money Crystal earned by having Helen murdered.

Moving closer behind the cougar through the rubble of the kitchen, Joe leaped atop a tinder heap of rotting kitchen cabinets. The cougar twitched an ear, but remained intent on Crystal. And in a moment, Joe slipped wide around the big cat, positioning himself to scorch down past Crystal and warn Harper.

But the other figure had slipped nearer, entering the parlor, looming black against the graying sky. It was a man, Joe saw clearly now.

The cougar turned, watching the intruder, the tip of his tail twitching. The black-robed figure didn’t see him; he cut through the parlor running. Grabbing Crystal, he shoved a gun in her face. The cougar wheeled, leaping away twenty feet to the top of a broken wall, crouching to watch, his tail lashing.

Unaware, the man shook Crystal and hit her.“Where is she? Where is the girl?” His voice was raspy, whining, icing Joe Grey’s blood.

“I don’t have her.” Fear sharpened Crystal’s voice. “Why would I have her?”

Wark hit Crystal again.“Where?”

She pounded him and kneed him. He stumbled, beating her. Above them the cougar crouched. Fighting, the two fell writhing to the ground. The cougar was on them in a hot surge of power, snatching Crystal by the neck, knocking Wark against the wall.

Three shots rang out.

The cougar turned, snarling. Harper fired again into the sky. The big cat dropped Crystal and crouched facing Harper, poised between springing at him and running. His paw still held Crystal. He glanced at her once, licking blood from his whiskers. In that instant, Lee Wark spun away, running. Harper shouted and fired after him-Harper knew better than to run. Nor would he leave Crystal. The gunfire and shout decided the cougar. He fled up the hill into the black forest.

And Lee Wark, too, was gone. Harper looked after him for a moment, then knelt over Crystal, his gun on her as he spoke into his radio. The air stank of gunpowder and blood. Joe could see where the puma had torn her shoulder and arm. He backed away, fading into the shadows-and found Dulcie beside him, pressing close.

And when the two cats looked up the hill above the ruins, the cougar stood watching, sleek and powerful against the silver dawn. The big cat screamed once, wheeled, and vanished toward the wild mountains. They looked after him, shivering.

“Oh,” whispered a small voice behind them. “Oh, so beautiful.” And the kit pushed between them, her dark little face and round yellow eyes filled with yearning, her furry ears sharp forward as if waiting for another wild scream.

Joe couldn’t speak for the kit, but that golden image left him feeling as small and insignificant as a fly speck.

But then Dulcie brushed her whiskers against his, purring, and pressed close to him, and he felt fine and strong again, the boldest and most elegant of tomcats.

And Max Harper turned from his cuffed prisoner, where she lay curled into a fetal position, her head on Harper’s folded jacket. Harper had managed to stop some of the bleeding, using pressure. They could hear the ambulance screaming up the hills, and soon they could see its whirling red light and the lights of two squad cars.

As the cats came out from the shadows, Max Harper knelt and, in a rare gesture, reached to stroke Joe Grey.“Thanks, tomcat. With all that hissing and taking off up the stairs, you kept Crystal from slipping down on us. Maybe you stopped the cougar, too.” Harper grinned. “Maybe Clyde’s right, maybe catsaregood for something.”

26 [????????: pic_27.jpg]

DRIVINGUP the coast with Hanni, Kate couldn’t keep her mind off Lee Wark. She leaned back in the soft leather of Hanni’s SUV, meaning to enjoy the morning, and spent the entire drive staring into every car they passed, with the paranoid notion that she would see Wark.

The sun was bright, the air just cool enough to be fresh, their windows cracked to an ocean breeze, the sea on their left thundering with sufficient wildness to both beckon and repel. And all she could think of was Lee Wark.

Stubby Baker was in jail, this morning. And that was good news. And Crystal Ryder was under arrest, in the emergency wing of Molena Point Hospital. But Lee Wark was still free, and Dallas had reason to believe that Wark had killed Ruthie Marner.

What an amazing thing, that Crystal had been attacked by the cougar. What a strange end to Crystal’s part in a bizarre crime.

Certainly nothing had changed in the threat that she, Kate, felt from Wark. She was obsessed with the idea that he was near. When Hanni turned off the freeway into the city, just before noon, she was tense with nerves.

And alone again in her apartment, before she must return to work the next morning, she felt the afternoon stretching ahead, peculiarly unsettling.

She needed to lay to rest her fears-at least those surrounding the Cat Museum. That fear, she had come to realize, was in part fear of the museum itself. Fear of what she might learn there, as well as her unease that Wark would find her there and hurt her.

She wasn’t home half an hour, glancing through her mail that had been shoved through the door onto the rug, before she grabbed her jacket, locked the door behind her, and headed for the Iron Horse. She’d have a quick lunch, then call a cab. Wark wouldn’t be in the city.

He would be too busy, with the Marner murders hanging over him, too busy running from the police to think about her. To think about her possible connection to what she believed was a whole, traceable line of individuals possessed of the spirits of both cat and human. Certainly Wark would not be interested in her search for a man who might have been her grandfather.

Hurrying into the restaurant, heading for her usual table-praying that Ramon wouldn’t start about the cat killer-she greeted him with an unusual reserve.

“Buenos dias, senora.”

“Good afternoon, Ramon.”

She felt guilty at his puzzled look, that she hadn’t spoken in their usual joking Spanish. Why had she come in here, only to be rude to him?

“It’s good to see you, Ramon.”

“You have been away. Did you enjoy your village? Molena Point,verdad?”

Kate laughed, telling herself she should be pleased that he would remember.“It was nice to be home in the village, yes.” He was such a shy, kind person. There was no need to be rude to him. He was only very curious-and so easy to hurt, easy to rebuff, backing away if he felt unwanted.

There was a reluctant, almost stray quality about Ramon. He was a loner. A shy, needy person and a loner. She gave him a smile.“It’s nice to be back in the city. Very nice to see you.”

Her friendliness eased him. When he had taken her order and brought her sandwich, he fetched his own cup of coffee and sat down opposite her, glancing at her diffidently.

“You were all right when you were in your village, senora? You had a happy time?”

“Oh, yes, Ramon. Quite happy.” What was he getting at? He couldn’t know that she had left the city frightened, had been frightened, in a painful undercurrent, the entire time she was at home, and was still scared.

She said,“There have been-no more terrible incidents?”

Why had she said that? She hadn’t meant to mention the cat killer, she didn’t want to hear about him. It came out before she thought.

“No, senora. No incidents. Maybe that man went away. Except…” He glanced out at the street, his white skin going paler, the rust-colored scar on his cheek seeming to darken.

“Except, maybe an hour ago when I took out the trash, I saw three cats running, very frightened, into the alley as if something was chasing them.”

“City cats, Ramon. They run from cars, from dogs, from small children.”

“I suppose.” Ramon finished his coffee and rose. She wanted to ask if he’d gone into the alley where the cats had run. Had he seen anyone chasing them?

But she didn’t ask. She was so foolishly obsessed. At least she could keep her fears to herself.

She ate quickly, irritated with herself, paid her bill, and left; she looked back once, to see him standing in the window watching her. He had turned theopensign around to readclosed,and had pulled the sheer white curtain across the lower half of the glass. She supposed he had an errand; he did that sometimes, left after the noon rush, returned in time to prepare for the dinner hour.

Heading up Stockton, she decided not to look for a cab. The sun felt good on her shoulders. She liked watching the clouds racing overhead trailing their shadows swift as birds across the pale hillside houses. She swung along until soon, above her at the crest of Russian Hill, the white walls and red tile roofs of the museum glowed beneath their dark, twisted oaks. Hurrying up the hill, only once did she glance behind her.

Seeing the street empty, she slowed her pace. She entered through the iron gate slowly, taking her time, enjoying the welcoming ambiance of the bright gardens.

The museum’s cats were everywhere, sunning on the walks, rolling over, smiling lazily as they watched her, cats as sleek as the marble felines that gleamed on the sculpture stands. Cats peered out at her from the geraniums, looked down from atop the stone walls and out through the gallery windows. She had such a sense of oneness with them, almost as if she could read their thoughts-of sun on their backs, of the warm sidewalk, the taste of water in a bowl.

But then suddenly the cats turned wary, slipping away into the bushes.

Afraid of her? Was her two-sided nature so apparent? And did that frighten them?

Were none of them like Joe Grey and Dulcie, so they could understand her?

Soon only one cat remained, watching her unafraid. A sleek torn as white as alabaster. He looked at her for a long time, then he, too, vanished, just where sunlight struck through the leaves. He’d had dirt on his face, or some sort of rust-colored marking.

Approaching the main door, she paused to read the quotations inscribed on clay tablets along the garden wall.

Some claim that the cat came to us from the vanished continent of Atlantis.

Our companion the cat is the warm, furry, whiskered, and purring reminder of a lost paradise.

That one made her smile. She recognized that quotation, she thought from some French artist.

But the next inscription stopped her.

Dark the cat walks, his pacing shadow small.

Dark the cat walks, his shadow explodes tall,

Fearsome wide and tall.

Ramon’s words. That was what Ramon had said, the day he brought the newspaper that had so upset her.

Backing away from the plaque, she sat down on a bench, her hands trembling.His shadow explodes tall, fearsome wide and tall.

Ramon couldn’t know what those words meant. To Ramon, they would be no more than a poetic image. She read the lines again, trying to put down her unease.

A movement at the corner of her vision made her look up. Ice filled her veins.

The man in the black overcoat stood out by the street. Dense black against the clear colors of the garden.

He stood looking at her, his face in shadow, then turned slowly away, moved casually down the hill to disappear between the houses.

She thought to run after him and get a good look-grab his shoulders and swing him around, get a look at his eyes.

But she didn’t have the nerve. She hurried inside through the mullioned glass door to the safety of the galleries.

Losing herself among the rich oils and watercolors, she found some ink drawings by Alice Kitchen, then discovered a Miro and two delightful Van Goghs. And a Picasso she didn’t care for. Too stark and impersonal. She stopped to admire the primitive portrait of a black Manx playing with a mouse, the mouse so real she could almost feel the silkiness of its fur and the prick of its little claws.

Moving slowly through the gallery to the visitors’ desk, she slipped her billfold from her pocket to pay the admission fee. The attendant was a stocky, dull-haired woman rather like a box with thick legs. She watched Kate sullenly, looking her up and down.

Why must short, meaty women bristle at her simply because she was slim and tall? She couldn’t help how she looked. It embarrassed her when people saw her only from the outside, and didn’t care to discover what she was like within.

Andthatthought almost sent her into nervous and uncontrolled laughter.

Even the attendant’s eyes were dull, her expression discontented. Maybe she had an unhappy home life. Maybe she longed for a fortune’s worth of plastic surgery and cosmetic rejuvenation.

Icanbe catty, Kate thought, amused.

She gave the woman a hesitant smile and laid her hand gently on the marble counter in a gesture of friendship.“It’s a lovely museum, the work is magnificent. And the cats look so happy, so many beautiful cats.”

“Certainly we have cats.” As if she’d heard that same remark more times than she cared to count.

“They’re lucky to live in such beautiful gardens.” Did she have to add another inanity?

The woman sighed.“They were all strays. Cats who found their way here hungry and lost. Or cats that were dumped by some uncaring person.” As she spoke of the cats, a warmth crept into her voice, and she returned Kate’s smile. “The cats are our welcoming committee. People seem to slow their pace, watching and petting them, and so take more time to enjoy the galleries.”

Kate nodded.“I understand you have a library in the museum? I’m doing research for a magazine article,” she lied. “On the history of the smaller museums in northern California. But this museum-this one is special. I just moved to San Francisco. I’d like to learn more about the museum, I’d like verymuch to join.” She opened her checkbook.

The woman handed her a membership form.“I will hold your dues until your application is approved. Are you looking for something in particular?”

“Some diaries. A man who lived in San Francisco in the fifties, a building contractor. I understand Mr. McCabe was a close friend of Alice Kitchen. I’m interested in her drawings, I’m planning a rather long article about Kitchen’s work. I understand that Mr. McCabe knew her as a little girl, that he encouraged her talent-and that he designed and built the museum? I’ve never heard his first name.”

“We do not know his first name. He called himself simply McCabe. That was the way he signed his articles for theChronicle.”

“And his diaries?”

“They are locked in the vault, very valuable, very special to us. Once your application has been accepted, we can share them with you.” The woman bent, reaching beneath the counter as if to retrieve an application form. As she did, Kate saw beyond her, out the window, the black-coated man slipping through the shadows into a pergola of wisteria.

The sight of him there in the gardens made her blood run cold. She looked and looked. She was nearly sure it was Wark. As he moved away behind the wisteria vines, the white cat stepped out of the bushes, warily following him.

“We will process the application quickly,” the woman was saying. “Meanwhile, the museum publishes two books, one on the collection, and the other a short biography of McCabe. Both are for sale.”

Frightened and edgy, she bought the biography and dropped it in her shoulder bag. She would not run. This time she would not run from him. She would sensibly use the phone, call the police.

Butwasit Wark? How embarrassing, to summon the police if that man was not Lee Wark.

She needed to see for herself.

There was no one around, no one to stop him if he attacked her, only this little woman.

She thought how brave Charlie had been, getting Dillon out of Crystal’s garage, getting her away while Stubby Baker was shooting at them. Charlie, too, had been afraid.

Well, she could just go out there into the gardens, get a look at him. If it was Wark, she could dodge him, run back inside, and grab the phone. She had to do this, or she would never be free of him-and he would be free to hurt others.

Slipping out the side door, warily she approached the pergola.

Nothing moved around her. She could see no cats; not a cat was visible.

Had they all gone? Or were they hiding?

Heart pounding, she moved into the pergola, staring into the shadows. The wisteria vines brushed her cheek, startling her.

Wark stood under the vines, his cold eyes full on her. She backed away. He lunged, grabbed her, twisting her arm. What had made her think she could escape him?

“Jimmie still wants you dead, missy. That divorce made Jimmie real mad. Jimmie still means to pay for you dead. And I plan to collect.”

He began to whisper; she didn’t want to hear him. As he spoke, she had a sense of being watched. When she felt his hands on her throat she fought him, biting and hitting him. He twisted her arm; hot pain shot through her.

But suddenly the cats were there, springing at him, leaping down from the trellis, appearing out of the vines, launching themselves at him, so many cats, dozens of cats. The white cat exploded out, flying at his face, biting and raking him; cats swarmed over him, snarling and clawing. Kate felt nothing for Wark. She stood frozen, watching him cower and cover his face, and she could think only of the poor animals he had hurt.

But then suddenly she’d had enough, she didn’t want to see this, didn’t want this to be happening.

“Stop,” she whispered. “Stop. Let him go.”

The cats stopped and looked at her. In that instant, Wark ran, cats dropping off, leaping away.

She watched him disappear down Russian Hill. She had started inside to call the police, when she knew she couldn’t do that.

Covered with bleeding scratches, Wark must not be reported from the phone in the museum. Let Wark get as far away as his running feet could take him.

She fled the garden in a cab, got out at Stockton Street to use a pay phone. Then she hurried home, running past the Iron Horse with theclosedsign in its window and up her own steps, into her apartment to bolt the door.

She spent the rest of the afternoon huddled on her couch, wrapped in a blanket, sipping hot tea, mindlessly watching her locked windows and bolted front door. Wondering if the police had found Wark. She had not given the dispatcher her name. She was heating a can of soup, watching the little TV in the kitchen, when the local news came on.

Wark’s picture filled the screen.

“The first of the three escapees from San Quentin was apprehended this afternoon at Fisherman’s Wharf.” The anchorwoman was darkhaired, her black-lashed blue eyes looking as if every item she ever broadcast touched her deeply. “Lee Wark, serving a life sentence for murder, was found in themen’s room of a Fisherman’s Wharf restaurant by a restaurant patron who called the police. Wark had fainted, apparently from loss of blood, from what police describe as hundreds of scratch wounds. Neither police nor hospital authorities have offered an opinion as to what caused his injuries.”

The picture on the screen did not show the scratches; the station had used the same mug shot they had been broadcasting since the three men escaped.

“Lee Wark was serving a multiple sentence in San Quentin for murder and attempted murder and for car theft and counterfeiting. He escaped from prison over four weeks ago, along with James Hartner and Ronnie Cush, who are still at large, wanted by state police. During their escape, the three men seriously wounded a guard. Anyone having information about the two escapees, or about Wark’s present injuries, is asked to contact San Francisco police or prison authorities at San Quentin. They will have full assurance of anonymity.”

The relief that flooded Kate was more than she would have dreamed. Wark’s capture swept away an unimaginable weight. She felt, for the first time since she’d learned of her dual nature, no unease, no fear. If she harbored the nature of a cat within herself, she was what she was. Now, with Wark locked up again, there would be no one to hate her and want to harm her-her private nature would be her own secret.

But she had to smile. She bet the museum’s feline population had vanished. She bet no cat would be seen in those gardens until this news was old and stale. Certainly the white cat would have vanished.

She was eating her soup when the phone rang.

“Kate, are you okay? Have you seen the news? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Clyde. Yes, I saw the news.” She put her hand over the phone, feeling giddy. “I’m fine. Where are you?”

“At home. Drinking a beer and watching the San Francisco channel. Joe and Dulcie are doing flips, they’re so happy. Were you… How did Wark…?”

“Leave it alone, Clyde.”

“All right, Kate. If you say so. I’ve ordered in fillets to celebrate. Wish you were here. When are you coming back? We miss you.”

“I just left.”

“Imiss you.”

She didn’t answer.

“Kate?”

“I thought you were dating Charlie.”

“Charlie and Max are up at his place, celebrating his return to the department. I think the chief needs her, Elate. And I think Max is what she needs, not a bumbling auto mechanic.”

“And you, Clyde?”

“You make me laugh, Kate. You always have. When are you coming home?”

27 [????????: pic_28.jpg]

PACING HIS CELL, Stubby Baker looked mad enough to chomp the metal bars, with the sort of rage that made men trash hotel rooms and beat their wives. Baker might be a handsome, boyish-looking fellow, Dulcie thought, with a smile to charm the ladies, but none of that was apparent at the moment. The two cats, looking down at Baker from the high open window, watched Baker’s attorney leave the cell and the guard slam and lock the door.

Bars and wire mesh covered the window. The wire-reinforced glass had been cranked open to the warm afternoon. On the sill, Joe and Dulcie crouched beneath the higher branches of the oak tree that sheltered the dead-end alley, the back door of the police station, and the jail. The tree was their highway, their path to all manner of case-related information. It was huge, with rough bark, sprawling twisted limbs bigger around than a cat, and dark prickly leaves. One had only to leap from its sturdy branches to the broad sill to observe the daily lives of the duly incarcerated. A cat could eavesdrop on any conversation that might occur among the residents or between an offender and his jailer or lawyer. The discussion that had just terminated between Baker and his portly attorney had been strictly confidential. The cats grinned at each other, amply rewarded for their three-hour wait atop the hard concrete sill.

Baker was enraged that he’d been picked out of the lineup. Was furious that Crystal had double-crossed him, that she had been hiding Dillon all along. He was mad that Kendrick Mahl and Jimmie Osborne had instructed Crystal to pay him only half the agreed amount, claiming that Wark, not he, had done Ruthie Marner. He saidWark had not been part of the deal, that Wark’s escape from Quentin didn’t mean he had a right to horn in on a private business arrangement. The attorney, scratching his pale, stubbled cheek, couldn’t have agreed more; but he reminded Baker that hehadbeen picked out of the lineup, that morning. When the potbellied, bearded lawyer said he was considering how to deal with that little setback, Joe glanced at Dulcie and nearly yowled out a bawdy cat laugh.

The lineup, in which Dillon fingered Baker as Helen’s killer, had, in the cats’ opinion, been a highly entertaining occasion.

Garza had gathered seven tall, thin people into one of the station’s conference rooms, all dressed alike in worn Levi’s, western shirts, and boots, their identical western hats pulled low over their faces, and the collars of their jeans jackets pulled up. The subjects had included Stubby Baker, Max Harper, Crystal Ryder sans makeup and with her hair pulled upunder her hat, and four strangers whom Dillon wasn’t likely to know. Dillon’s parents had wanted to be with the child, but Dillon had opted to view the group alone, with only Detective Garza and two attending officers present.

She had not deliberated for more than a moment.

The cats, sneaking into the station during the change of watch, slipping under officers’ desks and back through the squad room, had managed to stay out of sight until they were safely concealed beneath the last row of chairs in the appointed conference room. They had peered out at the lineup fascinated. The tall figures, all dressed like the killer, were alarmingly alike, their arms hidden by the long sleeves of their jackets, only small portions of their lean faces visible beneath the broad-brimmed hats. It was hard to tell which was Max Harper-until they looked at the eyes.

The killer’s eyes spoke to Dillon, too, the dark, mesmerizing eyes of Stubby Baker. Dillon rose from her chair and drew close, looking up at Baker, then stepped back quickly, swallowing.

“That man. It was that man who killed Helen Marner.”

“Are you sure?” Garza asked her.

“Yes. That man, riding the captain’s horse.” She had gone pale, looking at Baker. Baker’s eyes on Dillon burned with such rage that Joe Grey feared for the child. And as he was led away, he cut a look at Harper, standing in the lineup, a fierce and promising stare that chilled Joe.

But Baker would be locked up now, where he couldn’t reach Harper or Dillon. And before anyone left the room, the cats had slipped out and raced down the hall, and out to the courthouse lawn, to roll over, purring.

They had contributed in a major way to Max Harper’s exoneration. They had discovered Crystal’s purchase of Helen’s duplex and had found Crystal’s phone tapes and gotten them to Garza. The kit had found the barrette, by which Officer Wendell helped to incriminate himself when he didn’t report it. They had, most important of all, found Dillon and called in the troops, who had gotten her to safety.

“And,” Dulcie whispered, “you very likely prevented Crystal from sneaking down into the Pamillon cellar-from surprising Harper and Charlie.

“You were wonderful,” she said. “I was so worried when you left the cellar. But if Crystal had come down there, who knows what might have happened?” She rubbed her whiskers against his. “If Harper hadn’t seen you streaking up the steps, he wouldn’t have been there to fire those shots and scare away the cougar.”

Joe Grey smiled. He felt pretty good about life. And he would far rather see Crystal stand trial than see the puma kill her, if only for the sake of her testimony.

But also, because a cougar who kills a human is in deep trouble. And while he feared the big cat, Joe respected him.

The cats had visited Crystal, over in the women’s wing, before settling down to spy on Baker. She’d been in a worse mood than Baker. And she looked like hell, Dulcie had observed with satisfaction.

The bandages on her shoulder and arm were clearly visible now under her loose prison smock, her honey-colored hair was limp and oily, her dimpled smile replaced by a scowl. Her orange prison jumpsuit made her skin sallow. While they watched her, she spoke to none of her neighbors in the adjoining cells, and no one came to see her. They had grown bored at last and headed for Baker’s cell, but they were not the only eavesdroppers.

Attached to the cell window, in a position where it could not be spotted by the inmate, was a tiny tape recorder, the smallest model Joe had ever seen. Property of Molena Point PD, it had been in position when they arrived on the windowsill. It appeared to be the kind of machine activated by sound, that would stop recording during periods of silence. The grid for its microphone was directed downward toward the cell. The recorder smelled of hand lotion, the brand worn by Detective Kathleen Ray. Joe was shocked at Kathleen, and highly amused.

There was nothing illegal about a police department installing such a recorder on its own premises. Once a citizen was arrested, the privilege of privacy ceased to exist. The cops had every right-except for the present meeting.

Conversations between a client and his attorney were privileged information-could not legally be recorded.

Kathleen had to know that, Joe had thought, studying the small machine.

But he needn’t have worried about Detective Ray’s intentions. The conversation between Baker and his attorney was not recorded; the machine didn’t activate. Joe thought Kathleen Ray must have been watching for the attorney, and must have a remote control in the station. When the lawyer left, Joe hissed into the machine, and the tape started rolling. It stopped when he stopped. He wondered what Kathleenhadtaped, what would be added to Dallas Garza’s report.

Baker had been formally charged with murder, and Crystal Ryder with three counts of conspiracy to commit murder, and with kidnapping.

Lee Wark was languishing once again in San Quentin, nursing his wounds-about which Joe and Dulcie had done considerable speculation. Wark was facing, as well as the state’s charge of escape, a charge of murder in the first degree. Wark’s blood had been found on Ruthie Marner, and fibers from his sweater on her clothes.

And Joe Grey felt warm and smug. Three no-goods were about to receive the benefits of the American legal system, the system they had tried to manipulate.

The cats had come to the jail directly from the courthouse, from a gathering in Lowell Gedding’s office in which they had again assumed the roles of unseen observers, behind the curtain of the bay window.

The city attorney had called the small group together to ease tension among those involved, to clear the air and set matters to rights before the trial began. Those present had included Molena Point Chief of Police Max Harper, duly reinstated; his officers and detectives; San Francisco detective Dallas Garza; Dillon Thurwell and her parents and a few of their close friends; four members of the Marner family; the mayor and five members of the city council; and Clyde Damen, Charlie Getz, and Wilma Getz, who had sat with their backs to the bay window, effectively blocking any chance glimpse of its occupants.

Gedding had made no accusations as to possible collusion among the city council and the offenders. No innuendos slipped into his statement, yet the cats observed a coolness on Gedding’s part, as if perhaps in the next election he might do some heavy campaigning against certain council members. Joe Grey had watched the proceedings with a morethan-relieved air.

The night before, he’d had a nightmare that left him mewling like a terrified kitten. He’d dreamed he was in Judge Wesley’s courtroom, that Max Harper stood before the bench facing the judge not as a police officer called to testify, but to be sentenced himself for first-degree murder. The nightmare had been so real that Joe had waked fighting the blanket, growling and hissing with rage.

“Stop it, Joe! What’s wrong?” Clyde had poked him hard. “What’s the matter with you!”

He’d awakened fully, to find himself lashing out at Clyde. Shocked, he’d stared confused at Clyde’s lacerated hand.

“Wake up, you idiot cat!Areyou awake? Are you having a fit? You clawed me! What’s wrong with you!”

From the angle of the moonlight seeping in under the window shade, he’d guessed the time at about 2:30. Rising up among the rumpled blankets, he was still seeing the Molena Point courtroom, watching Max Harper sentenced to life in prison.

A dream.

It had been only a dream.

He’d tried to explain to Clyde how real the vision had been. His distress must have gotten to Clyde, because Clyde got up, went down the hall to the kitchen, and fixed him a bowl of warm milk. Carrying it back to the bedroom, Clyde let him drink it on the Persian throw rug, one of the few really nice furnishings in their rough-hewn bachelor pad.

“That was very nice,” Joe had said, licking his whiskers and yawning.

“You didn’t spill on the rug?”

“I didn’t spill on the rug,” he snapped. “Why can’t you ever do anything nice without hassling me?”

“Because you spill, Joe. You slop your food, and I have to clean it up. Shut up and come back to bed. Go to sleep. And don’t dream anymore-you don’t need bad dreams. Harper’s been cleared. He’s back home, back at work, and all is well with the world. Go to sleep.”

“The trial hasn’t started yet. How do you know-”

“Go to sleep. With the amount of evidence the department has, what’s to worry? Much of that evidence,” Clyde said, reaching to lightly cuff him, “thanks to you and Dulcie and the kit.”

That compliment had so pleased and surprised him that he’d curled up, purring, and drifted right off to sleep.

But then, all through the meeting in Gedding’s office, which amounted mostly to friendly handshakes and smiles, and then later hearing practically a confession from Stubby Baker, he still found it hard to shake off the fear-hard to shake the feeling that this was not a good world with some bad people in it, but a world where any decency was temporal. Where any goodness was as ephemeral and short-lived as cat spit on the wind.

In the cell below them, the lawyer had left, and Joe was prodding Dulcie to do the same when Officer Wendell came along the hall, pausing at Baker’s bars.

Wendell looked like he’d slept in his uniform. He spoke so softly that the cats had to strain to hear. Joe glanced at the tape. It was running.

“Mahl called,” Wendell said.

“So?” Baker snarled.

“So if you involve him in this, you’re dead meat. Said he has people out and around. If you make a slip, you’re history.”

“Oh, right. And what about you?”

“There’s nothing to pin on me.”

Baker smiled.

“What?”

Baker lay back on his bunk looking patently pleased with himself. Wendell turned a shade paler-making Joe and Dulcie smile.

Dallas Garza had plenty of evidence to tie Wendell to the murders and to the attempt to frame Harper: Wendell did not file Betty Eastman’s report that she had seen Captain Harper the afternoon of the murder. Wendell did not file Mr. Berndt’s report about Crystal’s grocery-buying habits, and he did not put Dillon’s barrette into evidence until Garza asked him about it. And no one even knew, yet, that Wendell had been in Crystal’s apartment looking for Dillon the night that she escaped.

If there was anything Joe Grey hated, it was a cop gone bad.

But now, he thought, glancing at Kathleen’s little tape recorder, now the department had additional evidence against Officer Wendell.

“Very nice,” he whispered, winking at Dulcie. And they leaped into the tree and down, and went to hunt rabbits.

28 [????????: pic_29.jpg]

IT WASLATE that afternoon that the cougar returned to the Pamillon mansion, prowling among the broken furniture and rampant vines, flehmening at the smell of dried human blood. Investigating where he had downed and bitten the two-legs and where the loud noises had chased him away, he watched down the hill, too, where a small cat crouched, looking up at him, thinking she was hidden among the bushes. It was not magnanimity that kept him from dropping down the hill in one long leap and snatching the kit and crunching her. He was sated with deer meat; he had killed and gorged, and buried the carcass under the moldering sofa. At the moment, his thoughts were on a light nap on the sun-warmed tiles of the patio.

Earlier, before he hunted, prowling farther down the hills, he had sat for some time watching the gathering of two-legs around the fences and buildings of the ranch yard, fascinated by their strange behavior. The sounds they made were different than he had heard before from the two-legs, noises that hurt his ears. He had watched the gathering until he grew hungry. He had studied the horses in the pasture, but they would give him a hard battle, and the two-legs were too close. Trotting away higher into the hills where the deer were easy takings, he had killed and fed.

Now, leaving the carcass buried in the parlor, and glancing a last time where the small cat thought itself invisible, he strolled onto the Pamillon patio and stretched out in the sun.

The kit watched the cougar as he arrogantly put his head down and closed his eyes. She watched until he seemed to sleep deeply. When she was certain his breathing had slowed, she crept up the hill, closer.

Peering out from the tall grass, she wondered.

Could she touch the golden beast? Could she reach out a paw and touch him, and reach out her nose to sniff his sleek fur?

But no, she wouldn’t be so foolish. No sensible cat would approach a sleeping cougar.

And yet she was drawn closer, and closer still, was drawn right up the hill to the boulders that edged the patio.

From behind a boulder she looked at him for a long time.

And she stepped out on the tiles.

She lifted her paw. The cougar seemed deeply asleep. Dare she approach closer? Hunching down as if stalking a bird, making herself small and invisible, she crept forward step by silent step.

Claws grabbed her from behind and jerked her around, deep and painful in her tender skin. A pair of blazing amber eyes met her eyes-and a terrible fear filled the kit.

“Go down, Kit! Go down now, away from here! Away from the lion! Down the hills at once!” Joe hissed. He belted her hard, boxed her little ears. “Go away through the bushes. Stay in the bushes.Don’t run-sneak away slowly.”

The kit slipped away without a word, Joe Grey behind her, the cats keeping to the heavy growth, listening for the lion-and knowing he would make no sound. Sensible fear drove Joe Grey. Terror and guilt drove the kit.

When they were far away, they ran. Down and down the hills they flew, and under the pasture fence, which the cougar could leap like a twig. And across the pasture into the hay shed, two streaks flying up the piled bales.

High up, beneath the tin roof, they looked back across the pasture.

Just beyond the fence, the cougar stood on a boulder looking across the green expanse straight up into the hay shed, staring straight at them.

The kit began to shiver.

The cougar started down along the fence, watching and watching them.

But the cats and cougar were not alone. Jazz music started up again, from the party in the ranch yard. The lion stopped, watching the crowd. The cats saw him flehmen, tasting the strange smells. He laid back his ears at the smells and the loud talk and laughing and the jazz music; he stood only a moment, puzzled and uneasy. Then he wheeled and was gone again, up the hills into the forest.

He left behind a strange emptiness. One moment he had glowed against the hill huge and golden. The next moment, nothing was there.

The kit looked and looked, unblinking.

Joe Grey nudged her.“Did you want to be eaten?”

“I didn’t. He is the king, he wouldn’t eat me.”

“He would eat you in one bite. Crunch and swallow you whole. First course in a nice supper.”

“The first course,” Dulcie said, leaping up the hay bales. “And all your roaming ways and yearning for another world would end. You and your dreams would be gone, Kit. Swallowed up the way you swallow a butterfly.”

The kit sat down on the hay, looking at the two older cats. She was indeed very quiet. She looked at Joe’s sleek, pewter-colored face, at the white strip down his face, wrinkled now into an angry frown. She looked into Dulcie’s blazing green eyes, and she lifted a paw to pat Dulcie’s striped face and peach-tinted nose.

The bigger cats were silent.

She turned away to look down at the stableyard, at the tables and chairs all set about, at the long table covered with food and wonderful smells rising up, at all the people gathered talking and laughing and at the banners whipping in the breeze.

WELCOME HOME, MAX

HAIL TO THE CHIEF, MAY HE REIGN FOREVER

THE FORCE IS WITH YOU

Everyone looked so happy and sounded happy. Someone shouted,“Open another keg,” and the kit watched it all, forgetting her fear and shame, and filling up with delight. What a fine thing was this human world, what a fine thing to be part of human life. She wanted to be a part of everything. She wanted to be down there. She wanted to try all the exciting food. She wanted to be petted and admired. She licked Dulcie’s ear, forgetting that she was in trouble, and leaped away down the hay and into the middle of the celebration.

Joe and Dulcie looked at each other and shook their heads, and followed her, launching themselves into the party, begging handouts as shamelessly as the kit and the two big hounds. The kit moved among the crowd like a little dancer, galloping, leaping, accepting a morsel here, cadging a bite there until she spotted Dillon.

She went to the child at once, leaped to the bench beside her, patted at Dillon’s red hair, then settled down in her lap, purring. Dillon stroked and cuddled her, sharing a closeness that thrilled the child. Dillon had never had a pet. She loved the kit; she had no notion that the kit was far more than anyone’s pet.

These two, child and kit, had slept through all the excitement at the Pamillon house, slept curled together on the musty bunk in the cellar, so exhausted that even Harper’s three shots to scare away the cougar had hardly waked them-only enough to sigh and roll over. Now Joe and Dulcie watched them tenderly.

But it was not until hours later, as evening fell and Harper’s officers and most of his friends drifted away, that there was a truly quiet time again, for the cats and those they held dear.

As the line of cars wound away down the hills, Harper and Clyde and Charlie and Wilma moved inside to Harper’s big kitchen table, to drink leftover coffee and to unwind. In the kitchen’s bay window, the three cats snuggled together among the cushions, purring so loudly that Harper glanced at them, amused.

“Never heard them purr like that. They sound like a 747.”

“Full of shrimp,” Clyde said, “and crab salad and cold cuts.”

To emphasize the truth of Clyde’s remark, Joe belched loudly.

Harper stared at him and burst out laughing-the captain laughed until he had tears. Charlie began to laugh. Clyde and Wilma doubled over, convulsed with merriment. Joe had had no idea he was such a comedian.

“Nerves,” Dulcie whispered, pretending to lick his ear. “Crazy with nerves, all four of them.”

“Nerves? Or too much beer?”

The kit looked from one cat to the other, her eyes huge. Sometimes she didn’t know what to make of humans.

“So,” Charlie said to her aunt when they’d calmed, “are you going to tell me why you didn’t answer your phone? Where were you the night Dillon and I sat out there in the van, with the phone ringing and ringing, and that thug firing at us?”

“I’m truly sorry. I wonder how it would have turned out if I’d been there?”

“Where were you?”

Wilma smoothed her gray hair, which she had wound into a chignon for the occasion of Harper’s party. She was wearing a long flowered dress and sandals, one of the few times the cats had ever seen her in a dress. “That night-would you believe I’d unplugged the phone to get a good night’s sleep?”

“No,” Charlie said. “You only do that when Dulcie is safe in the house, when she’s not out running the streets.”

Dulcie gawked, but Joe nudged her.

Wilma shrugged.“I had dinner with Susan Brittain, at The Patio. During dessert, she felt faint. We thought I’d better drive her home. She refused to go to the hospital, said it was her medication, that she got like that sometimes. I spent the night on her couch, checking on her every little while-her daughter’s out of town.”

Joe and Dulcie looked at each other.

Charlie raised an eyebrow.

“It’s the truth. You think, at my age, I’m off on some hot affair?”

“Why not? I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“Speaking of affairs…” Clyde said, looking at Charlie and Harper.

The cats came to sharp attention. Charlie blushed pink beneath her freckles. Harper looked embarrassed.

Clyde grinned.“Could I use your phone?”

Harper nodded uncomfortably.“You know where they are, take your choice.”

Clyde moved down the hall and into Harper’s study, unaware of Joe trotting along behind him; didn’t see the tomcat slip under the desk, he was too busy dialing.

In the kitchen, Wilma rose to clean up the paper plates and rinse the silverware, leaving Harper and Charlie alone at the table. They hardly knew she’d left, there might be no one else in the room; they were completely engrossed in each other, their conversation ordinary but their looks so intimate that Dulcie turned her gaze away.

“What about this William Green?” Charlie was saying, looking deeply at Harper. “This witness who said-who lied that he saw you following the Marners?”

“He’s in custody.” Harper’s hand on the table eased against hers. “He’ll have to testify for the prosecution.” His words were totally removed from the way he was looking at her.

“Green’s testimony will be another nail in Crystal’s coffin,” Harper said, leaning closer. “If he cooperates with Gedding, he might get off with a fine for perjury and no time served.”

Dulcie lay pretending sleep as Charlie and Harper discussed Baker’s land scam, accomplished with Baker’s carefully forged documents-and discussed Baker’s victims, who were hot to prosecute and to get their money back. Soon Harper and Charlie moved out to the yard to pick up the last few paper plates, and fold up the tables and chairs. Clyde began to help Wilma, drying the silver and platters. He didn’t mention his phone call. The cats moved to the back porch to wash their paws and enjoy the cool evening.

“Clyde spotted me under the desk,” Joe said. “Told me to get lost. He can be so touchy. He and Kate seem to be an item.”

“And Harper and Charlie, too.” Dulcie glanced up as Wilma came out to sit on the steps beside them.

“I think both couples are cozy,” Wilma said softly. “This might be promising, all around.”

“Maybe,” said Joe Grey, knowing how fickle Clyde could be.

“Maybe,” said Dulcie uncertainly. Things had moved a bit fast, for her taste.

The kit, waking alone in the kitchen, leaped from the window seat and pushed out through the screen door, her yellow eyes so dreamy that Dulcie fixed on her uneasily. That faraway look meant trouble.“What are you thinking, now, Kit? Not of dark far places?”

“And not,” Joe Grey said, “of petting lions!”

“Maybe not,” said the kit, still half asleep. “Maybe I’m thinking of justbeing.“She looked up innocently at them. “Don’t humans know that? That no matter how ugly things get, it’s lovely just tobe?”

Wilma grinned and took the kit into her lap.“Sometimes humans don’t remember that, Kit. Sometimes it takes a little cat to tell them.”

6.5. CAT ON THE MONEY

Chapter One

The village of Molena Point lay cupped between sea and hills and blessed by sunshine, its cottages and shops shaded beneath ancient oaks. A perfect place for a cat-feline hunter or couch potato. Or for a cat of added, and more unusual, talents.

It was dawn, 6:02, when sirens screamed through the village. Above on the grassy hills, the gray tomcat pricked his ears and reared up. Watching the squad car far below, small as an ant, careen through the empty streets, immediately he left his kill, heading down as eagerly as any ambulance chaser. Village crime, to Joe Grey, was far more interesting than the remains of a dead rat.

6:20 a.m. Police Captain Max Harper stood among the ruffled curtains and potted ferns of Otter Pine Inn?s tearoom preparing to photograph the corpse. The tearoom, with its wicker furniture, flowered wallpaper and fine crystal and china, was among the most charming settings in the village, a chamber used exclusively for formal afternoon tea, no other meal served there.

The body lay as if sleeping, a lovely, blond woman dressed in black leotards. She had no apparent wound. There was no sign of violence. She appeared to have died from a sudden massive heart attack but she was young for that, maybe thirty. Harper had smelled nothing on her breath to suggest certain drugs or poison. Her face was not flushed and there was no sign that she had struggled, as with some violent seizure. The coroner was on his way. Harper hadn?t sent a detective on the case; the village was small, the inn?s owner a close friend. Beyond the leaded windows, the morning was foggy and chill. The body had been discovered at 6:00, when janitors entered the tearoom to clean.

Harper was a tall man, thin, his lined face leathery from the sun, his brown eyes tired. He was not in uniform but dressed in faded jeans and sweat shirt. Among the chintz and delicate furniture, he felt awkward-as out of place as the big gray tomcat who appeared suddenly, shouldering in through the open door, his yellow eyes wide with interest. Harper wasn?t pleased. ?Get out of here, Joe Grey. We don?t need cats contaminating the evidence.?

Joe looked at Harper, amused. Licking the taste of rat from his whiskers, he considered the corpse, observing the body as intently as the captain had done. At first he thought the dead woman was Patty Rose herself, the inn?s famous owner-big Hollywood name in the forties. But though she looked like Patty, she was far younger-a slim lady, her hair falling into short, honey colored waves, her pretty hands well cared for. He could smell the scent of brine, and her black shoes were wet as if from the sea, water puddling around her, into the carpet. Something black lay tangled under her tawny hair. A mask?

Yes, a black mask. He could make out its pointed ears and cat?s face-a costume for the coming festival.

February was the only month when Molena Point?s hotels had to work to keep their rooms full. The rest of the year, the village attracted wall-to-wall tourists. Early this year, some wag had thought to have a cat festival. Really a bit much, the tomcat thought, coupled with the usual jazz festival, art exhibits, wine tastings and little theater and with Otter Pine Inn?s own competition.

Joe Grey sauntered closer, studying the young woman?s face.

?Simms, get that cat out of here. That?s Clyde Damen?s cat. Why does he always turn up at a crime scene!?

The officer hurried in, reaching for Joe. Joe raised an armored paw. You touch me, Simms, you?ll be wanting the emergency ward -but the tomcat said no word aloud.

Only four people knew Joe Grey?s command of the English language, knew that he could out-argue any politician and out-shout an Irish cop, knew that the gray tomcat read the Molena Point Gazette over breakfast, and followed local channel news; only four people were privileged to converse with Joe Grey. Max Harper wasn?t among them.

When Simms tried to throw his jacket over him, Joe ripped the sleeve, then lay down beneath the yellow police tape. Harper looked at the two of them.?I?ll deal with him. Go find the Mannings-or Jim Manning. The third floor penthouse. If this is his wife, he?ll need to ID her.?

The Mannings had been enjoying a luxurious two-week vacation, in the inn?s bridal suite, first prize for Alice Manning in the Patty Rose look-alike contest. A week of pampering, gourmet meals, and daily sessions with photographers and PR people, the event affording maximum publicity for the inn, handled as only Patty Rose knew how to orchestrate. How shocking for their exciting holiday to end in this manner.

Slipping closer to the body, Joe Grey sniffed deeply, thinking to detect, with his superior feline nose, some substance that might have killed quickly, without violent reaction. Perhaps a trace of bitter almond?

But he could smell only sea brine and the waxy sweet scent of the dead woman?s lipstick. When he looked around for a glass or cup that might have held a lethal drink, he saw Harper doing the same, checking behind flower pots and decorative cookie tins as he photographed the surround, the captain so intent on the evidence that he soon forgot the tomcat.

The lattice-fronted cupboards at one end of the tearoom were filled with fine crystal. If the woman had died from poison, each glass would have to be checked, as would the glasses in the far pantry. Joe wondered about those in the kitchen, where he could hear the clatter of breakfast preparations. Thinking of the tedious police work ahead, he was glad he wasn?t human, glad he could run an investigation in his own way, without all the bells and whistles.

Certainly his methods worked-Joe Grey and his tabby lady had a nice string of successes, over a dozen murders and robberies solved; and they?d been responsible for just as many convictions, passing vital information to the law anonymously-evidence that, in many cases, no cop could have found.

Trotting beneath the wicker tables, he entered the tearoom?s pantry where the fancy sandwiches and cakes were brought from the main kitchen. Sniffing along the cabinets, he started when, beyond the open window, a black shape leaped into an oak tree then out of sight. The scent of the huge black tomcat was unmistakable, stirring in Joe a rumbling growl-hehadn?t expected to see that cat again, Azrael who could open any skylight or window, his paws as clever as those of a monkey; Azrael who could gain access to any shop then open the door from within for his human partner, the old man to strip the cash register and break open the safe before the pair vanished. And it wasn?t only the tom?s thieving ways that enraged Joe. The thought of that cat near his true love, beautiful tabby Dulcie, brought him to full alert.

Following Azrael?s scent across the pantry and into the restaurant office, he smelled brine as well, around a carved screen that stood behind the desk. Leaping to the blotter, Joe pawed at the screen until he?d levered a panel back-revealing a wall safe.

It was closed and apparently locked. How like Patty Rose, he thought, amused, the image-conscious movie star, hiding her valuables behind a rosewood and ivory screen.

Nothing else in the room seemed amiss, the papers on the desk and books on the shelf neatly arranged. Pushing the screen back, he returned to the tearoom behind Harper?s back and onto the window seat, slipping under its fancy cushions. Looking out from beneath a velvet pillow, warm and purring, he wondered why he hadn?t smelled the tomcat?s human partner, that thieving, wrinkled old man. Where was Greeley?

Across the room, the medical examiner, a thin, gray suited man, stood conferring with Captain Harper. He had pulled a sheet over the body. Beyond the tearoom door in the patio and garden, a crowd had gathered, held in check by yellow police tape and two officers. The onlookers were forced apart suddenly as a man came running, a handsome, tanned guy in denim shorts and T-shirt, shouting and pushing through.? Alice! Alice!?

Shouldering past Harper, he knelt beside the dead woman pulling the sheet away from her face, pulling her into his arms, shaking her, trying to wake her.? Alice!?

He froze, staring at her, staring up at Harper.?This isn?t Alice!? He cradled the woman?s face in his hands. ?My God, she looks like Alice.? Then he saw the black leotards. ?Not Alice. Not her clothes!? He rose, grabbing Harper. ?Where?s my wife? Where?s Alice??

So, Joe thought, their vacation wasn?t such a disaster after all. But what was going on, here? The death of movie star Patty Rose?s look-alike wearing a cat costume, her feet briny from the sea. The inn?s safe burglarized. And the untimely return of Azrael, a cat with the same unique talents as Joe himself, but those skills irreparably corrupted-disparate matters indeed pricking Joe Grey?s curiosity, alerting every sly, sleuthing instinct.

Chapter Two

Joe Grey sat hidden among the cushions of the window seat, his sleek fur blending with the velvet, his yellow eyes slitted in speculation as he peered out at the crowd that had gathered around the door of the tearoom. Locals and tourists, held back by yellow crime tape and by two uniformed officers, observed the pretty young victim and speculated on the cause of her death. She lay across the tiles, covered by a sheet that had been pulled back to reveal her familiar face and bright blond hair and the top of her black leotard. A man stood over her shouting at Police Captain Harper and ineffectually trying to shake Harper; a handsome young man, tanned, dressed in T-shirt and denim shorts.

?That woman isn?t Alice. Where?s Alice? That officer came to get me, said Alice was dead. Where is she? What?s happened to my wife! Where is Alice??

Harper held him at arms length.?If this isn?t your wife, Manning, cool down. Get hold of yourself.?

Manning stared at Harper, anger and fear twisting his face.

?When did you last see your wife, Manning??

?I was asleep when she left the room this morning. She likes to walk the beach early. She?? The young man straightened, staring past Harper as a blond woman dressed in khaki shirt and shorts entered the tearoom-short golden hair, a turned up nose and blue eyes-an exact double for the corpse.

She stared down at the dead woman, her eyes widening, and she went very pale. Her husband grabbed her, pulling her close.?They told me you were dead. I thought? Where were you??

?Walking the beach, you knew that. Who? What happened??

?We don?t know yet,? Harper said. ?Mrs. Manning, would you join me in the pantry where we can talk? I?ll need to ask you some questions. Alone, please.?

She took Harper?s arm, leaning on him, looking back at the corpse and at her husband.

Joe Grey followed them, trotting swiftly beneath the tables, his short, docked tail straight out behind him like a pointer tracking its prey.

Joe hadn?t had much of a tail since he was a kitten, when a drunk stepped on his tail and broke it. He was rescued from the gutter by Clyde Damen, who had the hurt part removed. He?d hardly missed his tail, he was so glad to find a caring human. They?d been together ever since. Now, following CaptainHarper, he paused only when he sensed another cat behind him.

He looked back at his tabby lady, her green eyes filled with questions.

?I heard the sirens,? Dulcie said softly.

?Don?t know what killed her,? Joe said. ?No mark on her. They don?t know who she is, yet.?

Otter Pine Inn, three days before, had hosted a bevy of look-alikes of the inn?s owner, Patty Rose. Lovely ladies who could double for Patty as she had appeared in her old movies, made in the thirties and forties. The winner, Alice Manning, had received two luxurious weeks in the bridal suite, with her husband. An elegant second honeymoon, Alice had told the press.

After the contest, four of the finalists had remained in the village for vacations. And why not? They had paid for gas or plane tickets, so why not take advantage? The most vocal of the four was Gail Gantry, who had gotten the other three women to join her in a simple dance routine for the village cat festival. Two of them were wouldbe entertainers, and Gail had done some little theater. Joe and Dulcie thought that must be the kind of person who entered these contests, someone who wanted the exposure, wanted to further their career. The four ladies had sold their act to the cat festival committee, not for money, but for sponsorship by local shops in exchange for using their photographs in newspaper ads: four Patty Rose look-alikes, dressed in black leotards for their number as dancing cats.

And now one of them is dead, Dulcie thought. It must have been terrifying for Alice Manning, to see the body of her double lying there.

Slipping into the pantry, behind a serving cart, the cats listened to Harper question Alice Manning then question her husband, each separately.

The couple?s answers matched-responses so bland and untutored that surely they were telling the truth. They did not know which young woman this was, who had been killed. They had not socialized with any of the finalists, or seen much of them after Alice won the contest, except for some photograph sessions.?We assumed,? Alice told Harper, ?that they all went home.?

Harper did not point out that a person could hardly walk through the village without falling over one or the other of the look-alikes, whose faces appeared daily in the Molena Point Gazette. The Mannings seemed hardly aware of this, as if the young couple had spent the last days in a little world totally their own.

When they?d gone, Harper sent an officer for the restaurant manager, a thin, darkhaired man with a high forehead and a neatly clipped goatee.

Harper examined the smaller man.?I?d like to see the restaurant safe, Mr. Demmons.?

?The safe? Oh, my?? Demmons swallowed. ?You think there was a burglary, too? Come this way, then. First, let me call Ms. Rose?s secretary.? He smiled up at Harper. ?No one?s notified Patty Rose yet. She likes to sleep late.? Demmons picked up the pantry phone.

As he made his call, the cats slipped through the shadows to the manager?s office. Leaping atop a carved armoire, they peered over, Dulcie studying the handsome room, the intricately carved desk and book shelves, the rich and fragile antique rug. ?Lovely,? she whispered. As the two men entered, they crouched lower.

Watching Demmons move the rosewood and ivory screen and spin the dial of the safe, Joe could feel Dulcie?s heart pounding against him and her tail twitching. Her green eyes burned with interest, as predatory as any cop.

There had been nine burglaries in the seaside village in the past week, all in bars or exclusive shops, their safes or cash registers opened and emptied, and small, expensive items taken. The money stolen was some sixteen thousand dollars, but the merchandise was valued at far more. There were no marks on the safes, and no prints. The only sign of entry would be a second story window or a skylight, left undamaged but unlocked.

Peering into the safe, the manager looked sadly at Captain Harper. The interior loomed black and empty. Not so much as a dust speck.

Wiping at his goatee, Demmons opened the top drawer of the desk, retrieved a slip of paper, and handed it to Harper.?Four thousand, four hundred and nineteen dollars. That?s the amount we locked up with last night, from the bar and restaurant. I??

Voices rose from the tearoom, a woman?s angry voice-and Patty Rose swept into the office, pulling an embroidered dressing gown around her, making the grand entrance. She stared at the safe. ?One of the look-alikes stole? Came here for the contest, then stole from me??

She looked at Harper.?But who killed her? And how did they get in??

But as Harper tried to console her, Dulcie stiffened, staring beyond them to the window.

Behind Harper, a cat peered in. A big cat, black as soot.

?Azrael,? Dulcie breathed, so softly no human could hear. ?It can?t be, he?s three thousand miles away, playing at voodoo in Central America.?

?Afraid not,? Joe said. ?His scent is all over the safe.?

Dulcie?s ears went back, and her voice was a hiss. ?That explains the thefts, the high windows left unlocked. Where?s his light-fingered partner??

Last summer, the cats had watched Azrael and his human pal at their midnight work, Azrael opening a vulnerable window and slipping inside to unlock the shop door. They had watched the old man clean out cash registers, watched him drill a safe. It distressed them that one of their own kind, with their own special talents, had fallen to the level of a human thief.

For Joe Grey and Dulcie, their dual natures were a source of wonder. Their command of human speech, their human perceptions and understanding, coupled with their keen hearing and noses and night vision, and with their ability to get into small places, provided superior crime solving skills. They had the best of both worlds, and they put it to the best use they knew.

But those same talents, in ebony coated Azrael, added up to an underhanded feline crime spree.

And there he was outside the window, eyeing the empty safe with smug satisfaction.

?And I not only smelled Azrael around the safe,? Joe said, ?I smelled brine. Same as on the corpse.?

?You?re saying Azrael killed that woman. Oh, I don?t think??

?No. I?m saying she was in here. Or someone with the scent of the sea on them. The carpet wasn?t damp, and no smell there. Just around the safe. I don?t understand yet what happened.? He looked at Dulcie, his yellow eyes burning with challenge. ?But we?ll find out.?

Chapter Three

The evening paper lay on the front porch of the white Cape Cod cottage, blocking Joe Grey?s cat door. Trotting up the steps, he glanced around to see if any neighbors were looking, then pawed the Gazette open to the front page, leaving damp paw marks across the newsprint.

ACTRESS DEAD IN TEAROOM, MONEY MISSING.

Pretending to pat at a bug, Joe read quickly:

Little theater actress Frances Farrow, a resident of Phoenix, was found dead this morning in the tearoom of Otter Pine Inn, possibly from a heart attack. When officers searched the premises, they found over four thousand dollars missing from the safe. A connection has not been established. Miss Farrow did not work at Otter Pine Inn nor was she a guest. She was one of four women who remained in the village after competing as finalists in the Patty Rose look-alike contest. The only wound she sustained was a shallow abrasion and cut on the left side of the chest, where Miss Farrow apparently received a blow.

In rare cases, Coroner John Bern told reporters, a blow in that area can jolt the electrical circuit of nerves in the heart that control contractions, and the heart stops. In such an occurrence, called commotio cordis, there is no evidence of damage to the heart. Police?

Joe hadn?t finished reading when Clyde ?s yellow antique roadster pulled into the carport. Joe?s housemate swung out, took one look at his cat reading the paper on the front porch, and double-timed across the lawn, snatching the offending newsprint from under Joe in a blatant show of rudeness. ?What are you doing reading in front of the neighbors!?

Hissing, Joe lightly clawed Clyde?s hand.

?Stop it! Now look! Blood all over the cuff of my lab coat.?

?One drop of blood. You already have grease on your sleeve.?

There was no argument that Clyde, mentor to the village?s most expensive imported cars, was a fine master mechanic, but in Joe?s opinion, that lab coat was a gross affectation.

?To say nothing,? Clyde continued, ?of muddy pawprints trashing the front page!? He stared at the headline, then at Joe.

?I see.? He read quickly. ?Some woman has a heart attack, and in your insane feline mind, you decide it?s murder.?

?She was thirty-some years old.?

?It happens.?

?Coroner doesn?t think that?s what happened,? Joe said. ?Thinks it could have been a blow to the chest. Finish reading. The coroner??

Clyde read a few lines, then fixed Joe with a hard look.?The coroner says that kind of freak accident?s possible, and the newspaper blows it all out of proportion. Why can?t you???

?And what about the empty safe? You have a handy explanation for that? What was she doing in there? She had to have broken in.? Glaring at Clyde, Joe pushed in through his cat door and leaped into his own tattered, overstuffed chair that no human wanted to touch. Curling up and closing his eyes, he ignored Clyde until he smelled dinner cooking. Then he beat it into the kitchen to sit on the table, watching Clyde make clam pasta.

?Put in plenty of clams, I need my protein.?

?Why? So you can track down some supposed killer??

?One of the contest finalists is dead. Four thousand dollars is missing from the inn?s safe, and the winner of the contest and her husband were scared out of their wits by the event. And you think I?m paranoid? And all of it mixed up with this stupid cat festival.?

?The festival has no connection to the look-alike contest or to??

?It doesn?t? The four losers got involved in the cat festival-for the publicity and the perks. That?s a connection.? Joe Grey twitched a whisker. ?Apparently all wanting to hit it big in show biz-and maybe one of them wants to hit it big at the bank, without bothering with show biz.?

The back door rattled, the dog door swung in, and old Rube, the black Lab, shouldered through followed by the three family cats, wanting their suppers. As Clyde set the clam sauce on the back of the stove and began to open cans, Rube looked up at Joe wagging and grinning. Joe patted his nose with a soft paw. The cats smiled at Joe but kept their distance. Ever since he?d discovered he could speak, they hadn?t really trusted him.

Neither Joe nor Dulcie knew why they were different. There were cats like them mentioned in obscure passages of Irish history, and in Celtic myth. And they were not alone. Azrael had likely sprung from the same ancestry-a fact that did not please Joe Grey.

?He?s back,? he told Clyde. ?The black tomcat. Lurking around the inn this morning before they took the body away.?

?Azrael? Come on. Greeley and that cat are in Panama. Some black cat wanders by, and you??

?Dulcie saw him. And I smelled his stinking scent around the safe.?

Clyde stopped dishing dog food, to look at Joe.

?Ten safes emptied in the past week,? Joe reminded him.

?You think Azrael and Greeley did those?? Clyde set the animal?s food on the floor. Washing his hands, he drained the spaghetti and dished up their dinners. Joe leaped onto the table. But they ate not speaking, Clyde reading the front page, Joe slurping up pasta as he went over the facts, tryingout possible scenarios.

All five finalists had spent a weekend at Otter Pine Inn for the judging. Say the ladies were in and out of the dining room and tearoom, and passing the office. One of them figures there?s a safe there, maybe moves the screen and spots it. Or maybe sees the manager come out with a money tray for the restaurant.

She stays in the village after Alice wins the contest, gets involved in the cat festival gig-and hears about the other burglaries. Decides to ride on someone?s coat tails, use the festival as cover. Who knows what hidden talents those young women have besides song and dance? A little skill with the tumblers? She slips back into Otter Pine Inn to empty the safe.

But Greeley and Azrael are already there, the old man dumping the cash into a paper bag. What happens after that, Joe thought, is up for grabs. No one knows for sure, yet, how that woman died.

Wrong, Joe thought. Likely, by this time, the coroner has made a diagnosis, and Max Harper knows. And the tomcat smiled. Tonight was poker night. Even if Harper was on a case, he usually managed a short break. Harper said a few hands of poker helped him sort things out.

And Joe was right. An hour later, Max Harper sat down at the table, looking tired.?If I never see another hotel employee, I?ll be happy.?

Clyde cut the cards. Joe Grey hopped onto the table and lay down out of the way.

Harper gave him a look, but said nothing.?Interviewing all day. Every one of them afraid they might say something to get crosswise with Patty Rose, or get her in trouble. Hard to ease them into talking. And the cause of death is still vague.?

?Medical examiner came up with nothing??

?She was wearing a flat silver pendant, under her leotard. It was dented, and marked with her blood. Apparently this caused the abrasion-a hard blow to the chest. A few internal blood vessels broken. You saw the paper-maybe commotio cordis, maybe not.?

Harper cut the cards and shoved them toward Clyde.?One of the gardeners, Larry Cruz, says he saw Alice Manning run out of the tearoom just before six this morning, before the janitors opened up. Says she hurried out, ran out of the inn into the street.?

?Strange behavior for the contest winner. You believe him??

Harper shrugged.?I?ll take two cards. Cruz didn?t tell me he?s been dating one of the finalists, Gail Gantry, since she arrived. Patty Rose told me that.?

?Gail?s the one who organized that song and dance routine? Got them connected with the festival committee??

?Right. Free publicity, free room at the Wanderer in return for using their photograph in the motel ads. She came around the station, asking for police support, which of course we wouldn?t give her.

?She?s hyper,? Harper said, tossing in a chip. ?Very wound up. Doesn?t seem to be on drugs, just a go-getter. Pushy.?

Listening, Joe Grey wanted to be moving, checking out these ladies-and checking out the gardener. He lay raggedly purring, playing with a poker chip. Who knew what he might overhear from this Larry Cruz? People would say anything, in front of a simple cat.

Chapter Four

The evening was cool as Joe Grey crossed the village, trotting though the shops? little front gardens and beneath the twisted oaks that shaded Molena Point?s cottages. Heading for the Wanderer Motel where the three women were staying, he saw Police Captain Max Harper parked at the curb in one of the department?s battered surveillance cars, dressed in civilian clothes, his western hat pulled down as if napping.

Keeping to the shadows, Joe slipped into the motel patio, rolling on the warm brick paving as casually as any village tomcat out for an evening?s ramble. Then, padding into the bushes, he leaped to one windowsill and then the next, concealed by the flowering foliage, looking in beneath blinds and around curtains.

Where female voices came from a lighted room, he peered through a crack beside the drapes and through the open window, to see one of the look-alikes pulling on a sweater. All three pretty, blond contestants were there, in various stages of dress, all such striking doubles for movie star Patty Rose that he might have been watching three vintage movies running on adjacent screens.

The room was a mess, clothes dropped and flung on every surface, open suitcases on the floor. Of the three women, Gail Gantry was the most animated, flushed and outgoing-she looked, as Harper had said, like a go-getter. Dressed in jeans and a bra, she sat barefoot on one of the three beds, painting her toenails.?You?re wrong, Dorothy.? She glanced over at her virtual twin with the dark nail polish and thinner eyebrows. ?I say, with Frances dead, Patty Rose won?t be part of the parade. Won?t have anything to do with us; we?re bad PR.?

Dorothy picked up a wadded towel and began to wipe her sandals. She wore gray tights and a gray sweatshirt. Her voice was harsher than Gail?s. ?Oh, she?ll be there. She?ll make the publicity work for her.?

The third look-alike, Beverly Barker, watched them from where she sat at the desk putting on makeup. She seemed the only one who wasn?t a natural blonde-Joe could see the dark roots. She was dressed in a pale pink pants suit. ?I don?t see how you two can act so offhand, with Frances dead. She was one of us-and she might have been murdered. I don?t see how you can go on with this cat festival, or even stay here.?

?We have to stay,? Gail said coldly. ?Last thing the cops said-stay in the village. Anyway, it?s all good exposure.?

Beverly looked at Gail.?That?s so cold. And what if she was murdered??

?That?s silly. How could she have been? You read the paper. Anyway, if you?re serious about being an entertainer??

?We are entertainers,? Dorothy interrupted. ?But this gig is a drag. And I don?t see it getting any better.?

?It isn?t a gig, yet,? Gail said. ?And it won?t be, Dorothy, if you take that attitude.?

Dorothy tossed her towel into the corner, then rummaged in a suitcase balanced on the night stand just beneath the window where Joe Grey was crouched. He could see, beneath a silk slip among a clutter of what appeared to be bottles, the shape of a handgun. No other object he could think of would have that same configuration.

Well, but Frances Farrow hadn?t been shot. The police weren?t looking for a gun. And there was no law that prevented Dorothy from having one, if she wasn?t a felon-there was only a law against how she was storing it. After all, she had driven down alone from Seattle. Maybe the gun made her feel safer.

Or was Dorothy, too, involved in the thefts? Were there two sets of thieves at work, stealing from Molena Point?s small businesses, each hoping the other would be blamed for all the crimes?

Or maybe Greeley and the black tomcat had set up these women to look guilty? Azrael and that old man would stoop to any low deed.

Beverly smoothed the crease of her pants suit.?I think the cat festival is a sweet idea, with all the toy cats and cat-printed Tshirts in the windows, and the animal shelter bringing kitties to adopt. Just think of the cats that will find homes.?

?Right,? Dorothy said sourly. ?Patty Rose isn?t going to turn down a cause like that, she?ll be right up there on the lead float, handing out kitty treats.?

The phone rang, and Gail picked up.?Yes?? Then her voice went soft. Turning away from her roommates, she laughed, and glanced at her watch. ?Yes, that?s perfect. See you then. Me, too, honey.?

She hung up, looking smug, tested her toenail polish and slipped on her sandals. Snatching a blue sweatshirt from the open suitcase on the floor of the closet, she pulled it on.?You ladies ready for dinner? I?m having a nice, buttery lobster.?

?Why doesn?t your date buy you dinner?? Dorothy snapped. ?That beach-bum too cheap to spring for a meal??

?For your information, I don?t have a date.?

?Oh. I thought, the way you looked at your watch??

?Tomorrow night,? Gail said. ?If it?s any of your business. I?m hungry. You coming??

And the three headed out the door like the best of friends, leaving Joe Grey alone on the windowsill, considering their empty room.

He was sorely tempted. Who knew what he?d find in there, besides possibly a handgun?

But who knew what he?d miss of the ladies? various evening activities?

Abandoning his urge to claw the screen open, he galloped out through the garden and along the sidewalk, dodging the feet of wandering tourists, shying away from reaching hands and from little cries of, Ooh, look at the beautiful cat. His coat is just like gray satin. Where do you suppose he?s going in such a hurry?

When the three women turned in to the Shrimp Bowl, Joe swarmed up the trunk of an oak tree by the front window and settled among its branches, his color blending into the oak?s bark, only his white paws and nose visible. He?d barely gotten settled among the leaves when, across the street, Captain Harper?s surveillance car pulled up, out of sight of the cafe. Interesting, Joe thought, that Harper hadn?t turned this kind of duty over to one of his two detectives.

Watching the women order, he considered slipping inside. The restaurant tables were close together, the room crowded. Who would notice a swift shadow among a room full of feet? He was about to drop out of the tree when he saw, half a block away, a black cat leap across the rooftops and vanish among the peaks. Azrael?

Scanning the street, he did not see Azrael?s human partner. Maybe the tomcat was staking out a mark, meaning to return later with the old man. Joe was still looking for Greeley when he realized that the three women were having a heated argument.

They argued all through dinner. What a shame, when they should be enjoying the fine lobster and broiled salmon. They were barely finished eating when Gail and Dorothy rose, both tossing some money on the table.

They parted at the door, not speaking, swinging away in opposite directions, abandoning Beverly with the remains of her salmon and a hurt look. For roommates rehearsing a song and dance number together, these three didn?t get along too well.

Dropping from the tree, Joe followed Gail, gliding smoothly among the tourists? hard shoes, a twitch of excitement biting at his belly-the adrenaline rush of the hunter. Glancing back, he watched Dorothy, too, wishing Dulcie were on her trail. But no, Dulcie had been stubbornly set on hanging around Otter Pine Inn to spy on Alice Manning, a project about as productive, in Joe?s opinion, as staking out an abandoned mouse hole.

Crossing the street behind Gail, he went up a pine tree to the roofs, his claws scrabbling bark down onto tourists? heads. He didn?t see Harper?s car. He was trotting along the metal gutter above Gail, watching her saunter casually along below him when, from the corner of his eye, he saw a black tail and black haunches disappear through the window of a second floor office. Joe paused for only a moment.

There was only one reason for the black tomcat to enter a building at night from the rooftops. He pictured old Greeley waiting somewhere on the street, out of sight, hunched up in his wrinkled leather jacket, his lock picks and drill ready to rip off another Molena Point shop. Abandoning Gail, Joe Grey headed for the open window, his ears back, his claws ready to rout the two thieves.

Chapter Five

Racing across a maze of village rooftops toward the window where the black tail had disappeared, Joe Grey slipped under the screen and paused, crouching on the sill. He was in the upstairs office of Charles, Ltd., Men?s Clothier. Their logo shone at him from a stack of the store?s printed boxes. Dropping to the desk, he scanned the cluttered room. He did not see Azrael.

Most of these second floor offices led down by a narrow stair to a back stockroom that opened to the shop. In some, in locked fire files or safes, the owner kept cash on hand.

Strange that he did not smell Azrael, smelled only the aroma of an elderly female cat. She sat on a shelf in the far corner watching him belligerently, her black tail switching-the fat black shop cat, sour-natured and reclusive, seldom venturing out of doors.

Was that the black tail he had followed, and not Azrael?

The old female hissed at him, leaped to the nearest desk and sprayed the wall, defiantly marking her territory. Now he could smell nothing else.

Jumping to the floor, Joe sniffed around the stairs. He could not detect the tomcat and he heard nothing from the store below, although when Azrael and old Greeley broke into a shop they weren?t quiet-they argued in loud whispers, the old man as hardheaded as the black tomcat.

Padding down the stairs, he circled the shop, brushing against expensive wool suits and nosing behind counters. He could detect no scent of the pair; the stink of the old lady upstairs still filled his nostrils. He found nothing disturbed around the cash register, nothing out of place, no one in the storeroom. Angry at his mistake, he fled upstairs again and out the window to pad along the edge of the roofs, looking over them, wishing he hadn?t lost Gail.

He searched for the look-alikes for some time, then headed again for their motel-passing Alice Manning, who stood below him in the shadows near the Shrimp Bowl. He guessed this was Alice, dressed in khaki shirt and skirt. Gail and Dorothy had been wearing jeans, Beverly a pants suit. Trying to sort out the four look-alikes was enough give any cat fits. He could see, through the restaurant window, that Beverly Barker had left. A waiter was clearing the table.

Making his way over tarpaper and shingles to the Wanderer, he dropped down into its patio just as the courthouse clock struck nine. The women?s motel room was still dark, the window still open, and there was no sound-but someone had opened the drapery.

Quietly working the screen free with his claws, he took a good look around, then slipped inside.

The soft lights from the patio bathed the room, picking out the open, half-empty suitcases and scattered clothes. Still no sound, no movement. He could not sort one woman?s scent from the other. Their mix of perfumes and lotions filled every space, making his nose burn.

In Gail?s open suitcase, under her robe, lay a black cat mask, a black leotard, black, soft boots and a pair of black suede gloves, thin and pliable-and smelling of brine.

Digging deeper, he found only jeans and underwear. The bottom of the suitcase was fitted with a zippered pocket, locked with one of those little combination locks designed to secure luggage that could be easily slit open with any sharp instrument-but not with a cat?s claws. It would take a lot of raking to tear that dense nylon. Dragging a paw across the pocket, he thought it might contain a few papers, certainly nothing thicker. He returned the clothes as neatly as he could, pawing everything back, and stood a moment looking at a jacket that hung over a chair by the door, studying its primitive, multi-colored designs. Latin American. How interesting.

But then, leaping to the dresser, nosing through a pile of papers, he unearthed a motel note pad where someone had written, Festival rehearsal Wednesday, 7 p.m.

This was Friday. Frances Farrow had died Thursday morning, the day after the rehearsal.

That night, after the three women rehearsed their number, had they gone somewhere for a late supper, maybe a few drinks? In the small hours, had Frances Farrow gone off alone, perhaps walked along the sea, getting her feet wet? Before dawn, alone, had she wandered into the patio of Otter Pine Inn? Maybe saw the tearoom door ajar and went inside-blundering into the burglary in progress?

And ended up dead.

Maybe she had grabbed for the thief, meaning to stop him or her, and the thief hit her-accidentally killed her?

Conjecture. All conjecture. Too many possibilities-as frustrating as hunting invisible mice in a glass house.

Returning to Gail?s suitcase, he sniffed at the gloves again, at the scent of brine, then retrieved a plastic bag from the wastebasket. Lifting each glove by its edge, he dropped them in.

He tossed the rest of the room as methodically as he could, going through suitcases and makeup bags. Standing beside Dorothy?s suitcase, he pawed her silk slip aside to reveal a small automatic, with the clip in. Maybe a.22 or.25 caliber, a little, ladies? gun that would fit nicely into pocket or purse.

The brine-scented gloves were Gail?s, the gun was Dorothy?s. And then, standing in the sink pawing through a flowered cosmetic kit on the bathroom shelf, he found a small, zippered makeup bag that felt like it contained bullets. Attempting to slide the zipper, he got it on the fifth pull, nearly tearing out a claw.

Bullets. Soft nosed. Maybe.38s. Certainly a larger caliber than the automatic. He?d watched often enough when Max Harper and Clyde Damen cleaned their guns after going to the firing range to know the difference.

Well, there was no law against having bullets or a gun, even in California, if one followed the state?s intricate rules. But two armed women? What did that add up to?

Or did Dorothy have two guns? He had, with the reek of perfume and hair spray numbing his nose, no notion whose cosmetic bag this was-he felt helpless. He had temporarily lost his most valuable skill.

Well, he hadn?t really expected to find the stolen money from the inn-but he was disappointed that he didn?t. Out of sorts, growling softly, he was fighting to open a drawer of the night stand when a click at the door sent him across the room and out the window, dragging the gloves in their plastic bag.

Crouching under the bushes, he could see nothing. He heard someone step inside, heard the door close. The windows remained dark. He could hear them moving around, pulling out drawers, apparently searching just as he had himself searched, by the soft light from the patio.

Leaving the plastic bag among the leaves and dirt, he eased up onto the sill again, trying to remain within the rhododendron bush, out of sight-looking in at Alice Manning. Same khaki skirt and shirt, same rope sandals. Where had she gotten a key?

But that would be easy enough. Stop in the motel office, say she?d lost hers. She looked exactly like the three occupants; who would know?

She knelt beside the open suitcase from which he had taken the gloves, her back to him, her tight khaki skirt hiked above her knees. Lifting out the leotard and boots and the cat mask, she removed the clothes beneath. He couldn?t see what she was doing, with her back to him, but she worked at something for a few moments then he heard the click of the lock and the zipper sliding. He couldn?t tell whether she was putting something into the bag or taking something out. He heard a faint rustling, like paper. He was so interested he nearly pushed on inside to have a look. And why not? Just a little friendly session of pet the kitty.

Except, with Azrael mixed up in this gig, he wasn?t sure who knew about the talents of certain cats. He could walk right into trouble.

And, was this really Alice Manning? He could detect no human scent at all, over the m?lange of lotions and perfumes. Before he could move, she zipped up the compartment again. As the lock clicked, four blocks away the courthouse clock struck 9:30. Patiently, Joe waited for her to leave.

She didn?t leave. She moved idly around the room as if preoccupied, glancing at the strewn clothes and into the open suitcases, but touching nothing else. When she turned toward the window Joe lost his nerve and dropped down again into the bushes, crouching beside the gloves, puzzled. She stood just abovehim, looking out, then slid the window closed. As she pulled the curtains, Joe took the evidence bag in his teeth-he hoped the gloves turned out to be evidence-and headed across the village for the back door of the Molena Point PD, looking, he supposed, like he was hauling a pair of dead rats all done up in plastic for the home freezer.

Chapter Six

Joe Grey, carrying the plastic bag in his teeth, trotted through the patio?s flower beds, heading for the Molena Point PD. If the police lab found fibers from the dead woman?s leotard clinging to the gloves, Captain Harper would have his killer-accidental death, maybe. Or a clever murder? And even if murder couldn?t be proved, Harper would likely have his thief.

The night was dark, the moon thin. Climbing a jasmine vine beside the Chinese restaurant, Joe made his way across the roofs hauling the bag like a mother cat dragging a large and unwieldy kitten. Crossing the streets on the branches of the twisted oaks, trying not to trip on his slick plastic burden, he was soon on the roof of the jail.

He backed down a tree, his claws in the bark, the bag dangling over his shoulder as if he were a homeless wanderer with a see-through pack. The police parking lot was well lighted, with the area walled on one side by the police station, on the other two sides by the jail and the courthouse; the fourth perimeter was open to the street. He crossed beneath the squad cars?

He was nearly to the steps, looking up at the heavy metal door of the station, when a car turned in-Captain Harper?s surveillance car. Joe scutched into the shadows beside the steps, crouching over his burden. He didn?t need Harper to find him here with vital evidence. Harper already had too many suspicions about the ?phantom snitch.?

The car door opened and the tap of Harper?s boots approached across the concrete; Joe?s heart was quivering like a cornered rat. Harper climbed the steps inches from his nose and unlocked the metal door. Before it could slam, Joe was through behind his heels, hauling the plastic bag, flinching when the door banged shut. As Harper moved quickly up the hall into the squad room, Joe fled for the nearest conference room dragging the bag-a demented retriever unwilling to let go.

He collapsed beneath a chair, panting. Sometimes the stress of such moments got to him. He could use a quick pick-me-up, just now. A ham sandwich or a nice fresh rat. Or some of George Jolly?s imported gourmet treats. He was dreaming of Jolly?s Deli, of smoked salmon and fine cheeses, when Harper came running down the hall again, his boots thundering and three officers pounding behind him. Joe peered out as the back door banged open; they disappeared through it, and he heard threecars roar away.

Dragging the bag, he fled for the squad room where he could hear the police radio. Crouching under Harper?s desk, he heard the dispatcher repeat her call. Commercial burglary at Charles, Ltd.

Had they been robbed before he, himself, entered? Or after he left? Or had Greeley and the black tomcat been in there after all, maybe hiding in one of the dressing rooms? That made him feel really stupid.

Harper and his men had left without sirens. Joe knew they?d patrol quietly for anyone fleeing the scene, then would enter the shop in silence.

Slipping up onto Harper?s desk chair, he dropped the bagged gloves on the blotter, meaning to take off after the law. The big squad room was nearly empty, a couple of guys at their desks writing reports, the dispatcher behind her counter. He was about to make a dash for the front door, see if he could leap up unseen, push the release button on the wall and ease the door open, when he felt a draft coming from the back of the building.

There were no windows in the back, and he hadn?t heard that door open. The only other door was to the courthouse, and it was kept locked at night. Dropping down to take a look, he heard a brushing sound in the hall. Crouched for fight or flight, he peered around the corner-and was face to face with Dulcie.

His tabby lady looked back at him, her green eyes wide with amusement.?I followed you. Come on, Joe, get out of the hall. The janitor will close the door in a minute, he?ll see us.?

They slipped back into the squad room, under Harper?s desk. ?Janitor?s cleaning the courthouse,? Dulcie said. ?He propped the hall door open, into the station. He?s not supposed to do that-if Harper knew, he?d get him fired. I got into the courthouse when he went out to put some buckets on the steps.?

?Great security. So how did you find me??

?I saw you from the tower; I was following Larry Cruz. He and Gail-I think it was Gail-went in that bar on the next street.?

?I thought you were watching Alice Manning.?

?I was on the roof beside their window. She and her husband had a cozy dinner for two, in their room, in front of the fire, then snuggled up watching an old movie. It was nice,? she said, purring. ?She wears pink satin pajamas.?

?What time was that??

?I got there about 8:30, left an hour later.?

?I saw Alice outside the Shrimp Bowl, about then-or did I? I thought it was Alice. Khaki skirt and blouse. Could you see her the whole time? Could she have gone out later??

?She pulled the curtains about nine. I left at 9:30; the tower clock had just struck the half hour. I couldn?t see in any more, but the movie was still playing, I could hear it and could see the lights moving across the curtains. I guess she could have gone out.

?After she pulled the curtains, I was ready to give it up and drop off the roof, when I saw Larry Cruz standing across the street looking up, watching the Mannings? windows. Dark clothes, standing in the shadows. I don?t know how long he?d been there. I guess he could see right in, before they pulled the drapes, it?s only the third floor, and they were right by the window. When he turned away, I followed him over the roofs.

?He stopped in the deli, got a sandwich, ate it walking around. He was all over the village. He met Gail near the courthouse, she was waiting for him-I guess it was Gail,? Dulcie said, her green eyes widening. ?She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. She gave him a package, he tucked it in his shirt, under his jacket, and they went in the bar.?

Joe said,?Charles, Ltd. was robbed tonight. I was in there, I thought I followed Azrael in, but I couldn?t smell him. It might have been the shop cat. Found no one downstairs, and nothing looked disturbed. No sign of Greeley.?

?Don?t you think it?s strange that we haven?t seen him??

He sat looking at her.?You saw Alice in her room from 8:30 to 9:00. After that, you thought she was there. At 9:30 you left, and followed Larry. He meets Gail-you think it was Gail-about 10:00. They go in the bar.? Joe frowned, his ears back, his yellow eyes narrowing. ?Say Larry has partnered up with Greeley, planning to lay the blame on Alice. Say he was watching Alice ?s room to be sure there were no witnesses to where she was, when the burglary came down.?

?But??

?I wonder if room service saw her when they delivered their dinner. They could testify she was there, not ripping off the men?s store.?

?Dinner was in paper bags,? Dulcie said. ?Takeout Chinese. Smelled good.? She licked her whiskers. ?Maybe they got tired of fancy hotel food. So there was no room service. Manning picked up their order himself, was coming in when I got there.?

Dulcie rolled over, her tabby stripes blending with the shadows.?And there?s something else. This afternoon, on the inn?s patio, I was waiting for Larry. I thought I might learn something, the way you said. He came in from his car, that red Acura, carrying a black duffel bag, like divers use for their wet suits and equipment, and he smelled of the sea. His shoes were sandy, and when I sniffed around his tires they smelled of little dead sea creatures and tar, and there was sand in the treads.?

?So, the guy?s a diver.?

?And the corpse?s feet were wet from the sea.?

?What are you saying? We should take up diving, slip on a couple of wet suits and??

Dulcie pressed against him, warm and sleek and purring.?I think we should follow him next time he goes to dive. Who knows what we?ll find??

Chapter Seven

In Moreno?s Grill, beneath the table in a shadowed corner booth, the two cats pressed as far away from the shoes of Joe Grey?s human housemate, and of police chief Max Harper, as they could squeeze. The carpet smelled of stale French fries. It was the afternoon after the burglary at Charles, Ltd.

Harper and Clyde Damen liked to wind down at Moreno?s after work, isolated in the far corner of the quiet bar where they could speak privately, no nosy idlers to overhear. Clyde was the only civilian with whom the police chief talked freely. The two men, having grown up together, were as close as brothers.

?Burglar alarm was disconnected,? Harper said. ?No one knew about the breakin until Chuck Connover went back to the store that night, some time before 10, to pick up some papers he?d meant to work on. He started to turn off the alarm, then saw that it was off. Found the cash register open and empty. Went on into the back room, which was foolish. Said he was relieved when he found the safe locked. He didn?t open it until we got there, didn?t know until then that it had been cleaned out. The burglary could have happened anywhere between 8, when he left the store, and 10. We found no prints.?

?You pick up any fibers or hairs, or anything dropped??

?The usual dust and lint, sent off to the lab. Found some hairs on the desk beside the safe-black animal hairs. Likely from Chuck?s old cat, she?s all over the shop.?

Under the table, Joe and Dulcie looked at each other. Chuck Connover?s old cat? Or Azrael? But bigger puzzles than the identity of a black cat filled their thoughts.

They had spent the early dawn on the rocky cliffs south of the village, watching Larry Cruz suit up beside the tailgate of his red Acura. Larry had met no one, and had hardly spoken to the other divers. Watching him pull on his flippers and back into the water, they could see him for a while through the clear blue swells before he vanished, where the sea went black along the cliffs. He came out an hour later, and did not have any fish or shellfish. But he seemed to have done nothing different than any of the other divers.

Above their heads, Harper said,?I don?t like to lay this stuff on you, Clyde. You?re the only one I?d tell how uneasy it makes me. I laugh about it, in the squad room.?

?What stuff??

?The phantom snitch is back. The messenger who leaves evidence in my car and at the back door of the station. Same guy who tipped us where the weapon was hidden that killed Samuel Beckwhite, and has been phoning me ever since. Same voice, same turns of speech.?

Beneath the table, Clyde shifted his feet with unease.?You told me it was a man and a woman. And that their information is reliable,? he said testily.

?A hundred percent,? Harper said. ?But still they make me nervous. Last night, someone left a plastic bag on my desk, at about the time the commercial burglary report came in. Bag contained a pair of woman?s gloves. Black suede. Sent them to the lab this morning.?

The men were silent. Someone set down his glass.?I can?t discount these tips,? Harper said. ?They?ve helped us in past cases. But they?re mighty hard to explain to the court-I?ve never seen these two, I have no information about them. Usually, I know my snitches.?

?The gloves had something to do with the burglary?? Clyde asked innocently. ?Or maybe with the death of Frances Farrow? But you keep the station doors locked at night, keep that back door locked all the time. It would have to be one of your own people, to leave evidence there on your desk.?

?Don?t you think I asked!?

In the shadows, Dulcie?s green eyes shone with amusement. Clyde said nothing more, and soon, when Harper turned the conversation to his horses, Joe nudged Dulcie and they moved swiftly through the shadows beneath the tables, streaked past the bar and through the kitchen and out the screen door, into the narrow alley.

?There?s something I didn?t tell you,? Joe said, crouching beside the garbage cans. ?Something that might explain why we haven?t seen old Greeley with the black tomcat. Come on.? And, ignoring the heady scent of raw fish and meat wrappers, he headed fast up Ocean Avenue, dodging around the feet of tourists.

?What? Where are we going?? Dulcie hissed, galloping beside him.

He didn?t answer, but lowered his head and ran, swerving down a side street-stopping suddenly when a black cat loomed out of the shadows, blocking their path.

Azrael, black as sin, his tail lashing, his amber eyes narrowed and cold. He drew himself taller, bowing his neck, looking down at Joe.?So, little gray kitty. You are still following me? Still playing detective? What, you poor creature, do you imagine I?ve done now??

Joe Grey smiled, his yellow eyes assessing Azrael, his sleek gray coat rippling over hard muscle.?I had no thought of following you, you pitiful mouser. Though I see you are still playing at your mindless games, stealing money that only your whiskey-sodden partner can make use of.?

Azrael laughed.?Not any more. That old fake is long gone-this tomcat works alone.?

?And where did you leave him??

?Walking the streets of Panama, if it?s any of your business. Rolling drunk. Maybe dead by now, mugged in some alley.?

?And you stowed away on your own, back to the states,? Joe said indulgently.

Azrael laughed.?I have my contacts. That was a nice take, by the way, from Charles, Ltd.?

?No cat on this earth, you poor, worm-ridden beast, can manipulate the dial of a safe. No cat can turn that little wheel with the required precision.?

But Joe wondered. If a cat could turn a doorknob, as Joe and Dulcie and Azrael all could do, what might Azrael have taught himself, with sufficient practice? Was the dial of a safe beyond a clever cat?s talents? With a cat?s keen hearing, could not the tumblers tell him all he needed to know?

Joe looked the tomcat over.?Who brought you back from Panama? What gullible human did you con into a plane ride?? Though if Joe?s suspicion was right, the idea that had sent him hurrying from Moreno ?s Grill, Azrael?s arrival was easily enough explained. ?Who did you con into taking you aboard in a little wire cage? Ordid you spend 12 hours in the luggage hold, freezing your sorry tail??

The black tom leaped on Joe, all teeth and claws, the two raking each other in a whirlwind of hard, furry bodies, thumping against concrete and against the brick wall, a war of pent-up rage that ceased only when the third party threw her weight into the battle, slashing both toms and screaming at them until they broke apart to stare at her.

She stood between them, holding Azrael?s gaze until the two toms moved far enough apart to formally end the battle. But she was shivering with fear. What she wanted to do was bolt. She?d always been afraid of Azrael, even when once, long ago, he had charmed her. His look at her now was deadly-an evil smile, the smile of a black sharkheaving up from the darkest seas.

And then he turned and sauntered away, lashing his long black tail.

?Why did you do that?? Joe growled. ?Why didn?t you let me finish him? You made me look a fool.?

?Not at all. You would have killed each other. Look at you. Your ear?s torn, blood running down your face-your shoulder torn. Although you sent him away with as much blood,? she said softly, licking his ravaged ear. She watched Azrael, a black speck far in the distance, disappearing down an alley.

?I think I know how he got here,? Joe said, ?and who our burglar is.? He led Dulcie beneath the oak trees, in the gathering dusk, to her favorite shop.

Standing close together, rearing up on their hind paws, they looked into the show window at the feast of bright colors and intricate patterns.?Here?s the link,? Joe said, ?between Azrael and one of the look-alikes-maybe the best connection we have yet to the death of Frances Farrow.?

Chapter Eight

Dulcie reared up, looking into the brightly lighted display window, her tabby paws against the glass, her green eyes glowing; she never tired of the shop?s imports, the brilliantly colored Guatemalan jackets and weavings, the San Blas appliqu?s, the painted Mexican figures. Close beside her, Joe Grey watched her tenderly, always moved by his lady?s passion for the beautiful and exotic.

They had met the shop?s owner, Ms. Sue Marble, at about the same time they met Azrael and old Greeley. The cats had been greatly amused when the lonely, white-haired lady and Greeley became an item and took off to Central America together, Sue on another buying trip, Greeley returning to his home-with Azrael in his carrier, of course. Sue knew nothing about the black cat?s hidden talents.

Now the couple had been gone for nearly a year, and Azrael was back in the village with no sign of either Greeley or Sue-and the mysterious burglaries had resumed.

?That jacket in the window,? Joe said, pawing at the glass. ?The red one, woven with birds and animals. Where does that come from??

? Ecuador, I think. Or maybe Peru. Why??

?I saw one like it last night, when I tossed the motel room of the look-alikes.?

?Maybe one of them bought, it here. They could??

?It was worn, Dulcie. Faded, not new.?

Dulcie sat down on the sidewalk, the concrete still warm from the vanished sun.?So what are you saying??

?I?m wondering if one of those three women has been in South America.?

She smiled, her whiskers twitching.?You?re thinking one of them has been in Panama, and that?s how Azrael got back?? She licked her paw. ?That?s reaching for it. What ever???

?There were cat hairs on the jacket. Black cat hairs.?

?You are maddening. Why didn?t you say so!?

Joe smiled.

?Could you smell his scent??

?Not in that motel room. Enough perfume and lotions in there to deaden the nose of an elephant.?

?In Sue?s last letter to Wilma, she said she and Greeley were getting married. She said nothing about coming back. She seems very happy, making her buying trips out of Panama to Peru and Guatemala and shipping the purchases back here, to her shop manager.?

Dulcie frowned, her ears going flat.?She did say she wasn?t happy about Greeley ?s cat, that he?d turned out to be a problem. Remember how, in the beginning, she called him a dear, handsome fellow! She thought he was so regal. Maybe Greeley and the tomcat were burglarizing shops in Panama, maybe she found out. Maybe she threwAzrael out of the house.?

?That wouldn?t explain how he got here. Greeley has no friends in the village to send Azrael to, only his sister. And Mavity hates that cat.?

?But maybe Greeley is here,? Dulcie said. ?He?d be staying with Mavity. Let?s have a look.? And beneath the darkening evening sky, the cats headed for the marsh and Mavity?s little fishing shack. East three blocks through the village, and over seven to the marshy shore of the bay, then alongthrough the cattails and sea grass, the mud cold beneath their paws and smelling of dead fish, to a long row of houses standing on mud-blackened stilts.

Scenting around the pilings and around the tires of Mavity?s old VW bug, they found no hint of Greeley. But the tomcat had definitely been there. His day-old aroma was on the steps, and on a rusty porch chair as if he might have slept there.

The kitchen window that Azrael had once used as a private door was tightly closed. A light burned within. Leaping to the sill, Joe could not smell Azrael along the edge of the window, could smell only the ham and beans that must have been Mavity?s supper. A single clean bowl stood in the drain basket, with one knife, fork and spoon. He could see Mavity, beyond the open kitchen; the small, elderly woman curled up on the couch with a book, a blanket over her feet and a stack of romances on the table beside her. He watched her for a moment,purring, then dropped down again to where Dulcie sat on the cold, damp ground among the tarred posts.

?No sign of Greeley,? Joe said. ?If Azrael?s alone, maybe he sleeps here for a few hours-Mavity would never know.?

?Do you suppose he?s lonely? Comes here to feel at home??

Joe Grey snorted.?More likely cold, after the heat of Panama. And looking to see if he can rip off Mavity in some way.?

As they headed back to the village, the first star gleamed above them. Trotting through the darkening gardens, brushing among geraniums whose scent they would carry on their fur for hours, they were headed for Joe?s house when they saw Larry Cruz?s red car turning the corner toward Otter Pine Inn.