Cat Seeing Double

15

Leaping at the sill, Joe snatched and clung, hanging by his claws, peering down into the empty bathroom, then dropping to the sink and to the linoleum. As Dulcie followed, faintly they heard Ryan and Dallas talking, their voices so solemn that Dulcie shivered.

She liked Ryan Flannery; the young woman was bold and bright. She liked her because Clyde did, and because she was Dallas Garza's niece. Liked her because Ryan had taken hold of her life and straightened out the kinks, exercising an almost feline degree of sensible independence: If you're not welcome, if you're badly treated, make a new start on life.

Now that Ryan was just into her new life, she didn't need this malicious attempt to ruin her.

From behind, Joe nudged her. "Get a move on." She'd been crouched as still as if frozen at a mouse hole, overwhelmed by her own droughts. Trotting into the studio, out of sight of the kitchen, they slipped beneath Ryan's daybed.

The hardwood floor was admirably clean, no sneeze-making dust, not a fuzz ball in sight. That was another plus for Ryan. There was something really depressing about finding the underside of a couch thick with stalagmites of ancient, congealed dirt, the dusty floor littered with bobby pins, lost pencils, and old gum wrappers, with tangles of debris that clung to the whiskers or was gritty to the paws.

Looking across the big room to the front windows, they could see neat piles of papers stacked on Ryan's desk but they couldn't see much of the kitchen, just the end of the table and Dallas's shoulder. They could smell, besides fresh coffee, the greasy-sugar scent of doughnuts, and could hear the occasional cup clink against a saucer. Dallas said, "I wish your dad were here."

"Please don't call him, there's no need for him to think about the murder just now, to take his mind off what he's doing. I'll tell him when he gets home, when he's done with this training. You're my dad too, you and Scotty. Except, you can't play that role just now."

"I can play any hand I like. But it would be nice to have Mike here. You sure you don't want to stay with me or with Hanni, not be alone?"

"I'm fine. If the killer had wanted me dead, he'd have come after me instead of Rupert. I need to do a ton of desk work, clean up a stack of letters, pay my bills. I did manage to do the Jakeses' billing, I have that almost ready to mail."

"I'm glad you've got this big guy." The cats heard Dallas patting the silver dog.

"What did Captain Harper say when he called, when you told him there'd been a murder? I can imagine he wasn't happy."

"He didn't say much, took it in stride. Said he and Charlie are having a great time in the city. They're taking a couple of days to drive home, through the wine country. And before they leave San Francisco he's going to make a contact for me. Something I'd rather he did in person."

"About Rupert?"

"A couple of guys on the force owe me. Good friends. You remember Tom Wills and Jessie Parker."

"Of course. They were partners. Tom's wife teaches second grade."

"I'm giving them a list of the women I know Rupert was involved with. They can do a rundown on them, and on their husbands and boyfriends. Here's the list. Anyone you'd care to add? Or any facts that would help?"

The cats heard paper rattle, then a little silence. Then, "You were very thorough, all these years. I don't know half these names. Barbara Saunders? Darlene Renthke? June Holbrook? Martie Holland? I haven't a clue, I never heard of these women. My god. How many were there? And you never told me. This makes me feel so unclean. Well here are five I know, all right. And you can add Priscilla Bloom. She drives a little red Porsche with, very likely, marks from a tow chain on the rear bumper, and a citation on record for blocking traffic on the street in front of my house."

Dallas laughed.

"So Max will spend his honeymoon getting that line of the investigation started," Ryan said. "And on the way home, they'll swing through San Andreas to check on the Fargers? I'll bet Charlie's thrilled, having to cancel a dream voyage."

"I imagine they made that decision before they left the village. Doesn't matter," Dallas said. "Those two will have a long and happy honeymoon no matter where they are."

There was longer silence, broken by doggy chuffing as if someone was feeding the weimaraner doughnuts. Ryan said, "I feel so stupid not to have heard anything that night, not to have waked up. You're going to make him sick with doughnuts."

"Why don't you call Charlie on their cellular, see if she'll let you put up a fence out back. It's not the optimum yard but it'll do."

"I told you, I don't plan to keep him."

"Of course you'll keep him. I wouldn't want to try to take him away. When I touch him, you're jealous as a hen with chicks."

"Why does everyone in the family always know what I'm thinking! And what I intend to do!"

"He's a stray, Ryan. He's been abandoned. You going to take him to the pound, like you told Curtis? If he'd been lost, the owner would have been looking all over San Andreas for him."

She sighed. "You look tired. Have you eaten anything this morning besides doughnuts? Did you have breakfast?"

"Eggs and bacon. I'm fine. Davis took the evidence up to the county lab herself, the casts of footprints, the dried mud she bagged, the garbage. She wasn't happy with Bonner walking through the mud behind the garage. Between the gun and bloody rags in the trash, of course the footprints were important."

The cats had heard that before, that police officers were too often the biggest contaminators of a crime scene. Cops walking through the evidence, maybe in a hurry to apprehend a prowler. It just went to show, life wasn't perfect. What was a cop supposed to do, fly around on little angel wings?

"Davis did a good job photographing the prints," Dallas added. "She stayed out of the mud."

"You're stalling. Was it my gun that killed him?"

"It's Sunday, Ryan. I had to get a ballistics man off his fishing boat. He wasn't happy. The only reason I did was to keep from having to arrest you and set up an arraignment."

"If it wasn't my gun, you'd have told me right away."

"I'll have the full report tomorrow. But ballistics turned up enough to keep from booking you."

"What! It wasn't my gun? Why didn't you tell me!"

"The two bullets in your garage wall were fired from your gun, but ballistics doesn't think they killed Rupert. There was no blood or flesh on them."

"But how…? Those holes in the wall were so small. They couldn't be my loads, mine would have done more damage. The holes in the back of his head…" she said sickly. "What am I missing here?"

"Forensics says Rupert was shot at about six feet by a hard case thirty-eight bullet or maybe a thirty-two."

"But I load hollow points. You know that."

There was a long silence.

"What?" she said. "You know I load with hollow points."

Another silence. They heard the dog's toenails on the linoleum. Dallas said, "Are you sure of your load? Are you certain what you loaded?"

"Of course I'm sure."

Another heavy pause as if each word took great effort. "Your thirty-eight, registered to you, with your prints on it, was loaded with hard case. Four rounds and two empty cylinders."

"No. I loaded hollow point, that's all I use except on the range."

"Maybe you forgot to reload out there? Left the…"

"You know I use wad-cutters for practice. You know I wouldn't leave those loads in."

"Anyone can make a-"

"Didn't," Ryan said. "I remember reloading-with hollow point."

The cats well understood about hollow-point ammo and why Ryan used it. If she ever had to shoot in self-defense, a hard shell could travel an incredible distance, the bullet might go right through the intended and hit someone beyond. They'd read about such cases. But a hollow point would stop in the object or person hit, and would be more certain to halt an attacker-and that was what defensive shooting was about. The only reason Ryan would shoot someone was if her life were threatened and she had no choice.

"Someone not only took my gun from the locked glove compartment," she said in a shaky voice, "they reloaded it."

"You want the last doughnut?"

"Eat it. Don't give Rock any more, you know better."

"We searched every inch of the garage again, came back while you were with Hanni, went through every piece of that damned stuff you have stored down there. Did you ever think of taking that clutter to the dump?"

"That stuff's valuable, sooner or later I'll use every piece of those wonderful old details. I'll use it if I… if I'm still in the free world to use it."

"Come on, Ryan. Your prints weren't on the trigger of the Airweight, though it had been fired."

"Whose prints…?" she began excitedly.

"None. No prints on the trigger. Your prints were on the smooth parts of the grip and on the holster we took from the glove compartment."

"I cleaned the Airweight last week. Scotty and I spent the afternoon at the San Andreas range, while we were waiting for the plumber. Cleaned it, loaded it with hollow point and holstered it. I did not," she said as if Dallas was staring at her, "reload with practice ammo."

"And what did you do with the gun?"

"Dropped it in my purse, kept it with me in the trailer, put it in my glove compartment when I started home. Locked the compartment when I left the truck to load the windows, and again when I stopped to eat."

"It was there when you left the restaurant and hit the road again? Did you look?"

"No, I didn't look. The truck was locked. I could see it from the restaurant. No one bothered it. But I… I left the gun in the truck that night and the next-in the locked truck in the locked glove compartment. When I got home I was so tired, I just unloaded the windows and came up and fell into bed. And the next night, after the wedding, you were all over the truck. No one had bothered it."

"I wasn't into the glove compartment, wasn't in the cab."

"Someone," Ryan said softly, "someone unlocked my truck the night I got home, or the next night. Down there in the drive. Unlocked the glove compartment, took my gun, reloaded it, and either carried it away and killed Rupert, or killed him here, after you left-while I was right here asleep. Not ten feet from him.

"And where," she said, "was Rock, that night? Where were you, big boy, while all this was happening? Out running the neighborhood chasing the ladies?"

"The better question," Dallas said, "is what would he do if it happened again? He has a strong feeling for you, now.

"Except, you don't know his background or training. You don't know what he's trained to do. I'd feel better if you'd move in with me for a while."

"You can't baby-sit me twenty-four hours a day. Whoever killed Rupert could break into your downstairs in the middle of the night, just as easily as into my truck and garage-even if Scotty's back, staying with you. He sleeps like… he wouldn't hear anything. Rock," Ryan said softly, "Rock and I will do just fine."

Joe glanced at Dulcie. Had Rupert's killer also prowled around the Landeau cottage that night? Was that what Rock had smelled this morning that sent him snarling and ready to attack?

Maybe the killer had been after Marianna too? Did he have some vendetta against Marianna Landeau as well as against Rupert and Ryan?

But what vendetta? What was the connection? Did the killer plan to murder Marianna, as well, and incriminate Ryan for that crime?

More puzzling still, Ryan had seen how the dog behaved at the Landeau cottage, but she hadn't told Dallas. Did she think the dog's wariness wasn't important, that he had simply been startled by Eby Coldiron, by the sound of someone unseen approaching up the drive?

And that was only one crime, one set of players. What about the bombing? The cats needed urgently to pass on to Detective Garza the information about Curtis's uncle Hurlie who had perhaps sheltered the boy when he ran away to San Andreas, who had perhaps been involved in the bomb-making. They needed to call Dallas, or call Harper himself on his cell phone before he arrived in San Andreas, let him know about Hurlie, and that the address Curtis gave Dallas was probably as fake as a rubber rodent stuffed in a mouse hole.

The cats could see, from beneath Ryan's daybed, Ryan's phone sitting on the desk, its summons so strong that Joe was tempted beyond reason to creep across the room and try phoning Harper. With his voice drowned by Ryan and Dallas, could he make a quick call?

Oh, right. And see his entire life and Dulcie's irrefutably hit the fan.

Dallas said, "You're starting Clyde's job tomorrow, you'll be too busy to worry while we get on with the investigation."

"I'm thinking of putting Clyde off. I don't want to start ripping into the roof, then have to leave him with the house torn apart."

"Have you told him that?"

"No. We're having dinner. I'll tell him then."

"Is your crew ready?"

"Two good men. But I don't like to…"

"Can you call Scotty? Does he have to stay up there?"

"He's just doing some landscaping, putting in some sprinklers and walks. I guess he could-"

"Call him," Dallas said. "Get him down here and get on with the Damen job. I wish your dad was here. Call Scotty. You need to stay on schedule. Clyde's easy," he said, his voice lighter, "he'll understand if we throw you in jail, if he has to live for a few weeks with the roof off his house."

"'Specially if it rains." Ryan returned his laugh shakily, sounding close to tears.

Chair legs scraped as if he had risen. "Hang in there, honey. We'll get it sorted out. We'll do our work, and you do yours, and it'll come out all right."

The cats heard him leave, and watched Ryan at the window following the detective's progress as his car headed down the hill. Beyond the windows the setting sun hung like a third-degree spotlight blazing in at her, and forcing the cats' pupils to the size of pinpricks. The sun would be gone soon, pressed into the sea by the dark clouds that hung heavy above it.

Ryan worked at her desk for some time. The cats napped lightly. So did the weimaraner, who must be very full indeed, of sugar doughnuts. As the sky dimmed, only the desk lamp and the light of the computer brightened the darkening room. Ryan didn't pull the curtains. When her phone rang she answered abruptly, as if irritated at being disturbed.

"R. Flannery."

As she listened, a smile touched her face. "Yes, I'm about ready, I just want to finish up some billing. We need to go over the time schedule too and rethink a few details."

The call had waked Rock. Sniffing the scent of cat, and not preoccupied with sugar doughnuts, the big weimaraner trotted across the studio to where Joe and Dulcie were hidden, and poked his nose under the daybed.

"Get back!" Joe hissed in the faintest voice. "Get back!"

The silver dog, having no experience with obedience commands from a cat, flashed him a look of disbelief and hastily backed away.

"Sit," Joe breathed.

Rock, his yellow eyes wide with amazement, sat down on the hand-woven rug.

Ryan, still talking to Clyde, was punching in a program. "They're open on Sunday? Mexican food sounds like heaven. See you in a few minutes."

As she hung up the phone, behind her the big dog was trying, from a sitting position, to scoot closer to the daybed for a better look at the amazing talking cats.

"Stay," Joe told Rock. "Stay!"

Frowning and perplexed, Rock settled back on his haunches. Ryan did some final addition, hit the print button, and headed for the bathroom. The cats could hear her brushing her teeth, then the little crackling sounds, barely audible, as she brushed her hair. She appeared again when the phone rang, smelling of dusting powder and mouthwash. She was wearing lipstick.

Standing by the desk she lifted the papers from the printer and picked up the phone. "Flannery," she said shortly. "Oh… Hi, Larn." She didn't sound pleased. As she listened, she glanced over the printed sheets, then laid them on top of what was probably a stack of bills. "You did? No, I haven't run my messages. I left San Andreas very late. Did your remodel client get in touch?"

Balancing the phone between shoulder and cheek, she tamped the papers to align them. "Looks like I'm booked for a few months, picked up another couple of jobs. And as for tonight, I'm sorry but I have a date. I was just going out the door."

She hung up and turned, looking relieved that she had a ready excuse. She looked at Rock, frowning. He was still in the sitting position, hunched down staring fixedly under her daybed. As she started forward, the cats tensed to run.

"What are you staring at?"

The big dog turned to look at her.

"What?" she said softly. She looked at him and at the daybed which had only five inches of space underneath, not enough to accommodate any prowler. She glanced toward the closet and bath, and toward the door that led to the inside stairs, and silently she moved to try its bolt.

"What is it?" she asked Rock. "What's the matter? Come, Rock," she whispered. Again she glanced toward the closet and bath. But she had just come from there. She turned, looking into the empty kitchen. "Come, Rock."

Rock seemed torn between the two commands. When Ryan knelt, the cats backed out from beneath the daybed on the far side.

But she wasn't looking underneath. She reached out to Rock from his level as if she thought he needed that face-to-face reassurance. Rock went to her at once.

"You want to go for a romp with Rube, in Clyde's yard?" At the word go, Rock began to dance. Ryan endured several minutes of wagging, leaping delight before she got him settled down.

Turning on the copier, she made a second set of bills, addressed a large brown envelope and tucked the copies inside with her printout. Weighing the envelope, she slapped on some stamps, picked up her purse, spoke to Rock again and they headed out, Ryan carrying the envelope and key-locking the door behind her.

The minute they heard her descend the stairs, the cats leaped to her desk. In the darkening evening, they watched her truck lights come on. Waiting to be sure she wouldn't forget something and come rushing back, Joe nosed at the San Andreas bills for lumber, electrical and plumbing supplies, and miscellaneous hardware. Dulcie sat admiring Ryan's business cards. "R. Flannery, Construction. Very nice. Home phone and cell phone." Quickly she memorized the numbers.

But Joe, reaching a paw to the phone, stared out through the window hissing with surprise, watching a gray hatchback pull out without lights, following Ryan's car; and before Dulcie could say a word Joe was pawing in the number of Ryan's cell phone. The cats caught one glimpse of the driver as the car moved under a streetlight.

Ryan answered at once.

"This is a friend. It appears that a car is following you, a block back, without lights. A gray hatchback."

"Who is this?"

"A neighbor, just happened to look out and see you leave in your red truck, saw this guy pull out from up the hill and take off following you. You might want to see if you can lose him. I didn't see the plate number."

"How many people in the car?"

"One man," Joe said. "Tall and appeared to be thin. Seemed to have a relatively short haircut. That's all I could see."

"Where do you live? A neighbor? How did you-"

Joe hit the disconnect, then punched in another number, accessing Max Harper's cell phone. Dulcie sat quietly listening, washing her paws and whiskers. She liked watching Joe at work. He'd told her about the first time he had ever used a phone, how scared he was. In the village drugstore, crouching behind the counter, he had used their business phone to call Clyde. That had been a big-time emotional trip, a milestone trauma for both the tomcat and Clyde.

It was different now. Joe had developed a really professional telephone presence.

When Dulcie heard a woman answer, she put her face close to Joe's, to listen. He'd gotten Charlie. Dulcie gave him a stern sideways glare, a don't you dare play games look. Don't you dare draw Charlie into a conversation in front of Harper-if indeed the captain was present. Knowing Joe, the temptation had to be great, and she watched him with a warning gleam.

"Captain Harper's number," Charlie repeated.

"Charlie? It's… This is…" Joe swallowed. "I have information for Captain Harper."

"May I take a message?" The cats could hear in Charlie's voice a desperate attempt to hide a guffaw of laughter. This was a first for her, taking a call from Joe Grey for the captain. Passing on a secret feline communication that, if Harper knew the identity of the caller, would send him right over the edge. "I… he's driving," she told Joe shakily. "Wait, I'll turn on the speaker."

There was a pause as if she was looking for the speaker button. "Go ahead."

"Captain Harper? That boy, Curtis Farger-I think he gave you a no-good address in San Andreas."

"Wait a minute, you're cutting out," Harper said. There was a long pause. Then, "Okay, go ahead."

"Apparently Curtis was staying with his uncle up there, a Hurlie Farger. I think Hurlie is Gerrard's brother. I don't know where he lives. I get that the Fargers have friends or a contact of some sort in San Andreas, maybe friends of Hurlie's."

"Do you have something more specific?"

"At the moment, that's all I have, that was all I could pick up, and you'll have to run with that."

"Where did you hear this?"

"I… a discussion between the boy and the old man."

"A discussion where?"

"The old man was talking through the kid's cell window. I'm sure Detective Garza will want to know that the old man is still in the village. Will you fill him in?"

"I'll do that." Was Harper laughing? Joe didn't know how to take that. Laughing at what? He turned an alarmed look on Dulcie.

But maybe Harper was only laughing because the snitch was telling the captain what to do.

"Maybe someday," Harper said, still with a smile in his voice, "you'll have sufficient trust in me-as I've learned to trust you-to share your sources with me, and share your identity."

Joe hit the disconnect, his paws tingling with nerves, his whiskers twitching. He looked at Dulcie, frowning. "I think I'll tell Garza myself."

She shrugged, amused at him because Harper had made him nervous.

Dialing a third number, he looked at Dulcie's grin and pushed the headset across the blotter. "It's your turn, miss smarty. You talk to Garza."

"I can't. What…" Taken off guard, she was silent when Garza came on the line.

"Detective Garza," he repeated.

She swallowed. "That old man," she said in the sultry voice that she saved for these special calls, "that old man that bombed the church. Are you looking for him?"

"We are," Garza said, dispensing with unnecessary questions.

"He's in the village, or he was around noon today. He's driving a black Jaguar convertible…" She allowed herself a little laugh. "Done up real classy with zebra seat covers. California license two-Z-J-Z-nine-one-seven.

"He talked with the boy, through that high little window into the holding cell. He climbed up that leaning oak trunk, and nearly fell. He's pretty crippled. They have-the boy has an uncle in San Andreas. Hurlie Farger, apparently Gerrard's brother. That's where the boy was staying. We've already informed Captain Harper. He was in his car, so they may already be on their way to San Andreas." And before Garza could ask any questions, Dulcie hit the disconnect and collapsed on the blotter.

Joe watched her, grinning. "That should shake things up. Let's hit for Lupe's Playa, before we miss the action-and miss supper."