Cat Shout For Joy

18

Max Harper’s office smelled of overcooked coffee, cinnamon rolls, and gun oil. The sweet-scented bakery box stood on the credenza just above Joe as he strolled in, his coat damp from the early fog. He shivered once, glanced up with interest at the bakery treats but padded on past. Behind Max’s desk he leaped up into the bookcase. Max glanced around at him, broke off a piece of his own cinnamon bun, and laid it on the edge of the shelf. Handily Joe licked it up, every crumb, then lay down against an untidy stack of pamphlets, DOJ reports, and government busywork. Detectives Garza and Davis were settled at either end of the couch with their coffee and snacks. Both looked unusually pleased. They paid little attention to Joe, and that was the way he liked it. He’d worked long and hard to become no more remarkable than the tattered volumes on the shelf behind him.

Juana’s uniform was dark against the leather couch, a Glock automatic holstered at her side, along with handcuffs, cell phone, and radio. Dallas’s pale jeans were neatly creased, his black polo shirt and tan corduroy blazer soft and well-worn, as were his leather boots. He set his coffee cup on the corner of the oversize coffee table, which was covered with files and binders. And, holding Joe’s attention, two batches of photographs were aligned atop the other papers.

The pictures in one set were as ragged as jigsaw puzzles: color photos formed of tiny, chewed fragments pieced together and glued to sheets of white paper—images of shoes, or of shoeprints with fancy treads. Juana hadn’t wasted any time. Joe imagined her moving Ben’s bed away from the wall, kneeling in her black skirt trying to favor her painful knee, fishing out pieces of the mouse nest a few at a time. He wondered if the mouse was watching. He tried not to picture it attacking Juana, but he had to turn away to hide a smile.

He thought of Juana sitting up late last night in her second-floor condo just across the street from the station, sorting through the torn fragments, carefully fitting them together piece by tedious piece. In one photo of shoes he could see part of what might be the porch of the remodel. In another, a waffle shoeprint gleamed at the edge of what could be the wooden ramp. That pasteup showed a fragment of running pants, too, with a black satin stripe down the side just like a pair Tekla wore—though, since he’d become alert to that pattern, he’d noticed a number of runners in the village with the exact same kind of pants.

Lined up with the fragmented pictures lay whole, untorn photographs taken at various crime scenes. The shoe patterns matched in both sets of pictures—but manufacturers turned out thousands of each model, Molena Point shops probably sold hundreds. Had Ben taken these shots because he thought Tekla might be the mugger, following a guess, laying out a possible scenario to see where it led?

But now, though the pictures could be a great breakthrough, the department still didn’t have the shoes to match them. Even what looked like Tekla’s shoe next to what looked like the remodel property was in fact circumstantial.

They needed the shoes themselves. Shoes might give them fingerprints and maybe DNA, evidence far more conclusive than a photograph. And still the officers were ahead of Joe. They knew which San Francisco trial was involved, they knew who had been convicted and with what sentence and would be looking for connections. But now suddenly, as Joe pretended to nap on the shelf, watching the chief shift a pile of papers and pull out his yellow notepad, there it was.

The answer. The missing piece of information for which he had hurried out of the house this morning after gulping breakfast, scorching away over the foggy roofs, never pausing at Dulcie’s cottage, making straight for the station. There on the yellow pad was the answer, neatly set down in Max’s angular handwriting, the information Joe had missed when he arrived at Celeste Reece’s house too late to hear all the facts.

12 November, San Francisco County Court: Trial of Herbert Gardner. Rape and murder of a minor. Guilty, all counts. Death penalty. Incarcerated San Quentin awaiting execution.

A list of the twelve jurors followed. Bonnie Rivers’s name was at the top. Max’s notation indicated that Bonnie’s husband, Gresham, had died when their car was forced off the road and down a cliff north of the Golden Gate, that Bonnie had been hospitalized with severe leg injuries.

The second name was a Jimmie Delgado. Joe scanned the attached newspaper clipping. Delgado was killed riding his bicycle at night on a slick San Francisco street during a heavy rain. The time was just past midnight. Delgado worked as a waiter. The bike was his only transportation. The driver was never found, there were no witnesses, no clue to the make or model of the car that caused his death. Rain washed away any skid marks. Dark blue paint streaks were found on the bike. The car, if it was ever found, might yield more evidence. Or not, Joe thought, aware of San Francisco PD’s heavy workload. If they’d found no viable suspect yet, they might soon file the case away among hundreds of others that remained unsolved. He read the list trying not to stretch up and peer over Max’s shoulder. What he wanted to do was drop down to the desk beside the chief where he could see clearly Max’s jotted notes.

The next two jurors were the Molena Point victims who had died, James Allen and Ogden Welder. Max noted that Merle Rodin had died but had not been a member of the jury, that Rodin had not been in San Francisco during the trial, and according to his wife, knew only what they saw on the news, to which Merle had paid little attention. The next juror, the third Molena Point murder victim, was Ben Stonewell.

Of the last seven jurors, three were still in the city. Citizens, Max had noted, too well known, of sufficient standing that the killer might have backed off, might be reluctant to attack them. Four jurors had moved away, two to the East Coast, one to Mexico, the other an uncertain destination. The moves had all occurred after the two “accidental” San Francisco deaths. Below the jury list were the names of Molina Point’s other four victims, who were not jury members, with a note:“Shills?” Attacks that had been set up to put MPPD off the trail? Most of them were elderly—was that choice meant to further mislead the purpose of the assaults?

Joe eased back on the shelf. Now they knew the why of the killings, to vindicate the convicted rapist. The murder victims had all been jurors, all but Merle Rodin. Maybe the guy hadn’t meant to kill Rodin, maybe Rodin did simply fall on that brick when he was attacked, a minor slip in the killer’s plan.

But Ben’s murder was no accident. Now the department had the motive for the killings, and the list of further possible victims. But did they have any suspect who might want vindication? Anyone connected to murderer Herbert Gardner?

“Gardner had no family,” Max said, startling Joe, answering almost as if Joe had asked. “No siblings, not one relative that the investigating officers found, not even a close friend. No one he ran with, no drinking buddy. No women he dated, which is strange. Except the young woman he killed,” Max added. “And nothing in the presentence report, either.”

But how good were those investigations? Joe wondered. How thorough was that particular assistant district attorney, how good are these new, young probation officers? He’d heard too many stories of sloppy work by young, newly hired government employees. How dedicated wasthe PO who did the presentence? Had he just jumped through the usual hoops and gone no further, had he not really cared?

Settling more comfortably on the bookshelf, tucking his paws under his chest, Joe thought about someone out there, still on the loose, eaten up with rage over the conviction of Herbert Gardner, someone who loved Gardner well. A girlfriend whom investigators had missed, a sibling or parent that the law hadn’t found? Sure as hell Gardner hadn’t committed those murders himself, locked up in Quentin waiting to die.

When Max’s private line buzzed, he ignored it as he and the two detectives laid out plans for a deeper investigation into Gardner’s background, a more thorough search than SFPD, the CBI, or the parole office had made—but a search to be conducted in cooperation with those departments. When the line buzzed again, again Max ignored it. He had finished giving the two detectives instructions when a faint sound beyond the closed door brought Joe alert.

No one else heard the brush of a soft sole on the hard linoleum. Joe stood up rigid, listening. Max was saying, “ . . . send Mike Flannery up to the city as soon as he gets home from Alaska, he can do some of the legwork, he’s a hell of a better investigator than . . .”

The sound came again, the presence had not moved away: someone was standing close against the door, listening. Silently Joe dropped from the bookshelf to the desk and down to the rug. He approached the closed door, ears back, his walk stiff, his growl rising. Behind him he could feel Max and the detectives watching him. Silently Dallas rose, his hand relaxed beside his holstered weapon; he jerked the door open.

Evijean Simpson stumbled and nearly fell. She caught herself against the doorjamb, her right fist lifted as if she’d been ready to knock. “There’s an urgent call from Detective Ray. Chief, can you pick up?”

Max glanced at the phone he’d ignored, nodded to her, and turned to answer. Evijean left, heading back to the front desk. Joe Grey leaped innocently onto Max’s desk and curled down yawning beside him, his head on the notepad as close to the phone as he could get. But Kathleen’s voice was too low; without the speaker on, he couldn’t hear much.

“He did?” Max was saying. “Where? I’ll be damned. Yes, get on over and pick him up.”

There was a murmur from Kathleen. Joe wanted to reach out a paw and turn on the speaker. Max said, “Retrieve what pictures you can, print them, too, then get both items to the lab. Ask them to move on it. As soon as you’re done, let’s see what you have.” He listened, then, “You bet,” he said, grinning. Hanging up, Max looked across at the detectives.

“The cell phone and notebook the snitch called about? Billy found them, near where Ben died.”

Joe felt his claws dig into the blotter, and quickly sheathed them. Billy found them? He’d searched all over hell for that phone and notebook. And Billy Young found them? he thought, half annoyed, half smiling.

“He was cleaning the dryer vent in the remodel,” Max said, “where it dumps out into the yard. They were stuffed back inside, behind the flap.”

Joe wanted to yowl. Why hadn’t he looked there? He’d passed that vent a dozen times, had smelled nothing but the lingering scent of dried blood from where the body had lain, and the mixed, personal odors of the medics and coroner. He’d been so sure about the roof shingles—a bad guess—but not the vent, had passed the vent and hadn’t even thought to lift the flap and look behind it!

“Vent’s right below where Ben was shot,” Max said. “Just beside the marks in the grass where the ladder had been propped against the house. Blood on both the phone and on the notebook.” Max was quiet, then, “That was Ben’s last act, after he was shot? Hide evidence he thought was important, that he hoped we’d find?”

“Shoe photos?” Juana said. “The same photos I pieced together?”

“Apparently,” Max said. “Ben must have thought we’d find the shoes, find a match to the crime scene photos. Fingerprint the shoes, and we’d have our killer.”

Juana shook her head. “We’ve been checking the trash pickups, the Dumpsters, the landfill. Those two rookies weren’t happy, digging through landfill. We’ve got shoes, cartons of running shoes. I went over them again this morning. Not one of them matches the crime scene photos or the shots I pieced together.”

19

Earlier that morning as Joe Grey had headed for MPPD, in the chill fog Kit and Pan sat with Misto on the dock, tucked up beside Mary in a warm blanket. The three cats watched John put out food and water for the ferals, watched the wild band approach warily the heap of blanket. But when they caught Mary’s scent and the scent of the cats they knew, they relaxed and rubbed against the pilings and approached their food bowls greedily.

Misto, warm and purring, looked out at the incoming tide. In all his travels, he had followed, fascinated, the earth’s waters. He had lived on the rough wharves among the commercial fishermen, had once gone to sea with a fishing crew, had watched the hungry waves climb the sides of the keeling boat. Had crouched belowdecks when waves crashed over the bridge, wanting to wash him away, wanting hungrily to drown them all, man and cat alike. He had wandered the land where small blue lakes gleamed among pine forests, had seen the giant osprey dive into diamond-bright water and rise again, clutching silver trout in their talons. But best of all was right here, right now. The shore where, as a tiny kitten, he had waded in the white sand sinking deep, laughing at the incoming tide. He was once again where he was born, returned to this one perfect embrace of land and sea. Curled up between his son and Pan’s lady, the old cat was content. This was the place of his birth, this was where he had been set down by eternity, and this was where he would enter up into that realm once again.

The three cats and Mary lingered for some time as John moved among the feral cats, petting those who were tame enough, talking to them all, making sure none was hurt or sick. The little party left the shore, heading home, in time for John’s first clinic appointment.

In the bedroom Mary tucked the frail cat up among his blankets and again Kit and Pan settled beside him. As Misto drifted off into a nap, Pan dozed, too, content to be close. But Kit was content for only a little while. Soon she began to feel squirmy. She wanted to roll over but didn’t want to wake anyone. She needed to move; she ached from doing nothing, from being still too long; she needed to run. At last, losing patience, she slipped silently out of the blankets and left the bedroom. She crossed the empty living room, swung on the knob of the front door, and kicked it open.

Outside in the fog she raced across the garden to the next cottage, scrambled up a vine, hit the roofs, and galloped north, bridging between cottages on twisted oak branches. She came down only to cross Ocean Avenue among the feet of wandering tourists, and then up again, up and down the peaks racing, working off steam. Part of her wildness was her very pain for Misto. Part was an explosion of longing for Lucinda and Pedric because she missed them terribly. Having talked with them on Wilma’s phone she knew they were safe, but she wanted them home. Running in wild circles and from peak to peak, she wanted Dulcie beside her, too, but Dulcie wasn’t up to chasing, not now. Leaping and gamboling and too full of herself, and then thinking again about the street attacks and wondering if there was new evidence and what Joe Grey might be finding, she headed for Molena Point PD.

Detective Ray’s office was small, just space for Kathleen’s desk, a visitor’s chair, a tall and crowded bookshelf. Her desk faced the door, as an officer’s desk always does. The walls were hung with groups of miniature paintings, sunny and unassuming. Watercolors were Kathleen’s one quiet diversion from the pressure of the job. Billy Young, entering with the detective, moved away from the entrance, looking at the miniatures, enjoying the small, bright details of Molena Point’s hills and woods and rocky shore.

Painting had eased Kathleen’s stress as she worked as a model, too, before she left that world for the more honest company of cops in the small-town department. Kathleen was dressed this morning in slim jeans and a faded tan sweatshirt, her dark hair tied back casually. Billy thought she would be beautiful even in rags. She was kind, too. Kind to Billy, to animals, to everyone. He stood beside her desk watching her lay out her equipment, watched her begin to lift fingerprints from Ben’s cell phone and then from Ben’s small, spiral-bound notebook.

“Looks like only Ben’s,” she said at last, glancing up at him. He was pleased that she’d allowed him to come on back and witness the procedure. “These will go on to the county lab, they might be able to bring up prints I can’t, they have more sophisticated techniques.”

Billy nodded, he knew that. Once she’d lifted the prints, he watched her plug a USB connection into the cell phone and into her computer and download Ben’s pictures. He bent over the screen beside her, looking. Most of the shots were of construction jobs, details of the Bleak cottage and of other projects before it. But some were of shoes, photos angled at the ground as if secretly and hastily captured. Kathleen paused over each of these, and enlarged and printed it. She lingered longest over those that showed a bit of tread mark in the earth beside the shoe itself. One grid in particular, with a scar across the waffle pattern, made her smile.

“This could get us somewhere,” she said happily, her smile eager and pleased.

Once she’d finished the photos and had fingerprinted the notebook, too, she leafed slowly through its pages, touching only the edges with her thin cotton gloves. “Notes and sketches of building details. Hardware, light fixtures. Make and model numbers.” Not until the back pages did she turn to the copy machine and make two sets of duplicates, five pages each. When Billy stepped up to look, she shook her head.

“I can’t officially share these. You know that. Maybe later,” she said, “maybe the chief will. Youare like his own kid.” And that made Billy blush.

Dropping the notebook and phone into evidence bags, she packed them up to be sent to the county lab. “The fingerprints, if they can sort out any others besides Ben’s, those will go to IAFIS.”

“The digital database,” Billy said. Cop work was interesting. This last year was the first time in his life he’d thought about some kind of profession. As a little kid and before Gram died, he’d been too busy working to put food on the table, too busy taking care of his drunken grandmother to think of much else. Any job was welcome. He concentrated on doing things right, on keeping the animals well and happy and safe, and didn’t think about his own future.

But now he was not only learning the building trade. Max had urged him into firearms training and self-defense, too, into the police cadet class the department had started for a few of the village boys. The precision, the quick thinking and keen analysis of police work interested him a lot.

“Come on,” Kathleen said, slipping the phone’s photo prints and her copies of the notebook pages into a file folder. “Let’s take these into the conference room, lay the photos out where we can compare them.” Reaching for her desk phone she punched in the key to call Max.

Kit caught Joe Grey’s scent on the walk of MPPD. Peering through the glass door, she slipped in on the heels of three young officers—she slid into the holding cell as another officer came in and two left walking with a clean-shaven civilian in a suit and tie. A lawyer? Yes, he had that cool, superior look. Beyond the counter Evijean’s faded hairdo was just visible beside the copy machine. Now, with the lobby empty, Kit flew to the base of the reception desk, slunk along beside it, and fled down the hall, keeping to the shadows, pressing against the molding where the chief’s door stood cracked open.

His office was empty. She could smell where Joe Grey had rubbed against the woodwork, and could detect the horsey scent of the chief’s boots, and the scents of Detectives Garza and Davis, but there was no one here now. When she heard voices across the hall she peered out; she watched Kathleen and Billy move up the hall to the conference room and inside, Kathleen carrying a brown envelope and some file folders. Padding in behind them, she watched Max and the three detectives and Billy folding the metal chairs and stacking them against the wall so they could move freely around the conference table. Dallas had shrugged off his corduroy jacket and laid it on the counter. Davis was making a pot of coffee. Joe Grey sat on the counter beside her. Joe was about to lie down on the folded corduroy coat when, catching Dallas’s look, he changed his mind and turned away. When he saw Kit he flicked an ear, watched her slip into the shadows behind the trash bin.

From there, she leaped to the counter beside him. She stopped, startled, almost mewled with surprise. She studied the photos laid out on the table, shots of crime scenes, of the victims lying on the ground, an overturned wheelchair. And footprints. Pasted-up pictures of part of a shoe, or part of a print. Kathleen was saying, “ . . . not one discarded shoe we collected matches up with the crime scene shots, and doesn’t match with any of these that Ben took.”

Shoes! Kit thought. They’ve been collecting . . . thrown-away shoes? Oh, my! The shoes that woman dropped in the Dumpster right by my house the night Pan and I got home! Does the department have those shoes?

Max had picked up two photographs and stood comparing them. These might be of the same shoe, one at an attack scene where an elderly woman sat leaning against a stone wall, the other just a fragment, beside a wooden porch. Might or might not be the same.

Kit stared at Max, curious and excited, then dropped from the counter and bolted out of the conference room. Racing past Evijean she barely skinned out the glass door as a civilian came in wheeling a baby. Shoes. Thrown in a Dumpster. Shoes . . .

With all those photographs, with all four officers looking at footprints, she only prayed those thrown-away shoes were still there, that the Dumpster had not been hauled away, that full-to-overflowing Dumpster full of dead leaves and branches—and shoes.

20

Kit’s racing departure from the conference room startled the four officers and Billy, and badly unsettled Joe Grey, who wondered why she would make such a scene. But Kit was Kit, addlebrained and flighty. The chief had turned back to the table, to the machine copies of Ben’s notebook pages, to Ben’s comments about the San Francisco trial. The court would frown on a written personal record by a juror. But no court official was present, the trial was over, and in Harper’s view, this was police business now. As Juana stepped to the conference room door and firmly closed it, Kathleen read the pages aloud.

Most of Ben’s entries regarded individual jurors, his personal observations of their attitudes and their perceptions: a diary such as one might make on an interesting journey. No one was identified by name. Ben had given each juror a nickname, some amusing, all to retain individual privacy.

Pink Lady thinks Gardner can be rehabilitated? He raped and killed this young woman and who knows how many others? Now, all he needs is a few months’ therapy and he’ll be cured?

Big Ears thinks Gardner’s suffered enough at his own cruelty, that he is filled with remorse, that now he needs our compassion.

Besides his wry comments about the jurors, Ben had made observations about others in the courtroom: the attorneys and those regulars who returned several times to the visitors’ gallery. For such a quiet young man, Ben had had his sharp side. One entry that drew Max and the detectives, and drew Joe Grey, regarded a woman who sat in the back row of the gallery. “Day four: She’s here again, here every day. Always so bundled up. Well, the courtroom is cold. Strange hair, you’d call it blond, I guess. Cheap dye job. But something more about her. Something odd and unnatural. Maybe just too much makeup, along with the dowdy clothes. She—”

Kathleen stopped reading when Max’s cell phone buzzed. At the same moment Kathleen’s radio crackled, but the wail of a medics’ van passing nearly drowned Officer Crowley’s canned radio voice.

“Another assault,” Crowley said as the emergency van headed north, then soon went silent, reaching its destination. “Man in a wheelchair overturned,” Crowley said, “medics just arrived.”

Kathleen turned off her radio and Max switched on the speaker of his cell phone. They could hear garbled conversation in the background, could hear arguing, then Crowley came on the line. “It’s Sam Bleak, Chief. Dark-hooded guy knocked him over and ran. Bleak says he doesn’t want to go to the hospital, says he’s only bruised.”

“Did he see the man? Did anyone?”

“Says he was alone, attacked from behind. But yes,” Crowley growled, “he says yes, he did see his face.”

“You got a description.”

“Yes,” Crowley said embarrassedly.

Max looked puzzled. “Does he know him? You get a name?”

“He doesn’t . . . he seems reluctant.” Crowley sounded both angry and uncertain. As if he didn’t want to give information even on the phone. Again there was discussion in the background, then Crowley came back on.

“He refuses to come in, Chief. Says he’s done nothing, why should he come into the station like a common criminal?”

“Just hold him,” Max said, frowning. “I’m on my way.” And he was out the door, double-timing through the lobby. He didn’t see Joe Grey slip out behind him and leap into the truck bed. The chief swung away from the station unaware of the extra pair of eyes and ears that rode with him beneath a folded tarp.

Kit, racing up across the rooftops to the vacant lot, looked down on the Dumpster parked in front, and swallowed back a yowl of dismay. They were finishing up, were about to haul out of there. The lot had been cleaned off. No more dead trees, only stumps. No long, heavy tree trunks. They had been cut up and hauled away, probably on a big flatbed. At the curb, the Dumpster stood overloaded with rubble and branches, waiting to be hitched up and pulled off. Were the shoes still there, maybe way down, underneath?

Angled behind the Dumpster, three workmen sat in their pickup eating lunch—as if, having wrapped up the job, they meant to leave when they’d finished their noon meal. Maybe they were waiting for the tractor that would retrieve the Dumpster?

She had to get the shoes out before any tractor or heavy truck made an appearance and the shoes would be gone forever.

Maybe she’d better call the chief. Get the cops out here to stop them.

But in the time it took to gallop home, even if it was only half a block, the tractor might arrive, hitch up, and move out.

No, she had to do this now. Scrambling down an oak tree, she slipped across the street beneath the pickup, then under the Dumpster on the far side. Nearly hidden from the men, she leaped up, hung from the Dumpster by her front paws, then scrambled up on the thin metal rim.

The piled-up branches were thick with twigs and leaves crisscrossed and tangled together. Carefully poking in between them she could see, deep down, the toe of a tan running shoe. The whole load smelled of pine and willow sap. She didn’t want sap in her fur, she’d have to chew it out. Easing down between the branches, willing them not to slip and fall on her, she reached deep with a careful paw. She stretched farther down and down until she snagged the shoe with two claws.

Gingerly she hauled it out. Sliding it up between the branches, hoping she wasn’t smearing fingerprints, she pulled it onto the edge of the Dumpster. Balancing it there she took it in her mouth, her teeth clamped on the very edge. Don’t smear the prints, she kept telling herself. She glanced up to the pickup, praying no one would notice her.

She saw no movement in the truck, just the dark silhouettes of the three men, two of them wearing baseball caps. Dropping down with the shoe, holding her head high, she hauled it across the street beneath tree shadows. There she laid it under the lacy leaves of a low-hanging pepper tree and went back for the next one.

It took her a long time to find five shoes among the tangled branches, to back out hauling each one, without toppling limbs on herself. She dug and wriggled, searching, but couldn’t find any more. The sun was well past noon. Watching the three men, she thought, Eat slow, eat more! Talk and laugh, take your time!

Did the shoes hold fingerprints? Maybe not the canvas, but the plastic or leather parts? She prayed they did, and hoped again that she hadn’t smeared them. And what about DNA? Could that be inside a shoe, or would sport socks have soaked it all up?

Not that it made much difference. The county lab was so far behind it would take maybe a year to get DNA evidence back to the department. By then, who knew what else might happen?

When she had the five shoes hidden under the pepper tree, she hauled them one at a time across the neighbors’ yards, staying to the shadows and beneath bushes. She dragged each one to her own yard, four houses down from the Dumpster, and nosed it under the front steps. When at last she’d hidden them all, she scrambled up the oak to her tree house. She lay down for a little rest, and to work the sawdust and leaves out of her long coat. There was tree sap; she’d deal with that later. She rested only a few moments, then crossed the oak branch to her cat door and slipped inside.

Max Harper’s cell phone number was on the Greenlaws’ speed dial. She hit the single digit, listened to the ring, was coughing from sawdust when Max answered.

“Shoes,” she said, swallowing. “Are you looking for shoes, maybe evidence to the assaults?”

“Yes,” Max said. “What have you got?” He didn’t ask who this was. Those days were long past when anyone in the department, except Evijean, would be so gauche as to question one of their prime snitches.

“Shoes thrown away in a Dumpster,” Kit said.

“Recently?”

“Yes. While they were clearing this lot. Looks like they’re all done, like maybe they’re just ready to leave now, but I have the shoes.”

“Yes, we’d like a look,” Max said. “The Dumpster’s where? Can you identify the person who dropped them?”

“No. I saw only their backs for a minute.” She didn’t want to say when she learned the shoes were of value, or when she saw them dumped. “I hauled five shoes out, hid them under a porch across the street.” She gave him the address where the Dumpster stood. Then, shivering, she gave him the address where the shoes were hidden, the address of her own house.

“Under that front porch,” she said. “That tall house with the children’s tree house in the back.”

She felt sick, taking a more than foolish chance, leading him to a hiding place so close to the truth. But her own front porch was the only one near that had a hollow beneath it; all the others were just a couple of concrete steps, solid and impenetrable. And if she hid the shoes among scattered bushes, neighbors’ dogs might find and chew up the evidence.

No, her porch was the safest. No neighbors’ kids poked around there, and it had been a long time since any unruly dog, facing her own claws and teeth, had invaded her yard.

“I know the house,” Max said uneasily. “Why that house?”

“It’s the nearest one to the Dumpster that has a good place to hide them,” she said coolly. “And that house looks empty, not a soul around. I pass that place every day on my way to work. There’s no car in the drive and never a newspaper and the shades always the same, half drawn, like they’re on vacation.”

She hoped she sounded businesslike and detached when in fact she was shaking with guilt. “Will you send someone for them?” she said innocently.

“We will, pronto. And thanks for the help.”

Smiling, Kit hit the button that ended the call—and prayed that Lucinda and Pedric’s ID blocking was working. With a nationwide phone company, one never knew. She shivered at having put the snitch in her own neighborhood. I pass that place every day on my way to work. That did scare her, to draw Max’s attention there—but it made her laugh, too. A cat going to work every day?

And how could she implicate Lucinda and Pedric, when they were far away in Alaska?

Max Harper reached the attack scene as the caller hung up. He pulled to the curb in front of the western shop where the little alley ran back, flanking the bakery. The street was blocked by the medics’ van and two squad cars. Parking beside the white van, but before stepping out, he called Dallas, sent Dallas over to retrieve the snitch’s evidence.

“Shoes?” Dallas said. “Under the Greenlaws’ porch? How come, after all these weeks, the snitch just now finds discarded shoes in a Dumpster? And near the Greenlaws’?”

“Hell, I don’t know. I don’t think they’ve been working long up there, clearing out those dying pines. Just go get the shoes,” Max said. “And get shots of any footprints the snitch left,” though of course Dallas would.

He sat a minute in his truck watching the four medics crowded around Sam Bleak, a woman medic taking his blood pressure, Sam huddled in his wheelchair looking pale and frightened. Tekla stood beside him, her hand protectively on his shoulder. Her stance was stiff and military, her face filled with anger as she raged loudly at Officer Crowley. The six-foot-six officer looked silently down at her, no smile, no frown, his face as still as stone. Max stepped out of the truck, approached the medics and three officers. Watching Tekla scolding, he took a second look at her black jogging pants, at the smear of dirt on the cuff.

He moved closer. Was that not a smear, but a small tear? He thought about Ben’s photographs, the one that showed a tiny rip in the cuff of black jogging pants, pants with the same satin stripe as these. Stepping away, he dialed Dallas again. “You still there?”

“Just out the door.”

“Before you leave,” he said softly, “send Kathleen over here with the big camera for some detail shots.”

Hanging up, he headed across to sort out the Bleak couple, Tekla’s angry diatribe filling his ears like swarming bees. Trying to hold his temper, he didn’t see Joe Grey peering out from the truck bed, didn’t see Joe’s smile as the tomcat thought about the phone call from Kit, about Kit leading Max to what? New evidence? Or only more useless shoes?

When, in the truck, Max’s phone had buzzed and, answering, the chief had straightened up in the seat keenly alert to the caller, Joe had slid out from under the tarp and pressed against the back of the cab, listening.

Shoes? Joe had come sharply alert. From Max’s end of the conversation, from the fact that Max didn’t cross-examine the caller or ask his or her name—and from the way Kit had raced out of the conference room earlier, she had to be the snitch.

Having been gone so long from the village, having just gotten home and most of her thoughts on Misto, she hadn’t realized shoes might be important until this morning. In the conference room piled with shoes and photographs of shoes, listening to Max and the detectives, she’d raced off alone to fetch what she hoped would be evidence. She’d retrieved the shoes, she’d hidden them where they’d be safe, and then she’d called Max, and that made Joe smile. Kit, their scatterbrained Kit, was indeed growing up.

21

In the back of Max’s pickup, parked in the shadows of a cypress tree, Joe Grey reared up to peer over the side of the truck bed. He watched one of the four medics, a woman, tenderly clean up Sam Bleak’s forehead and his upper arm, cutting loose his torn shirt, wiping away blood from both injuries. Officer Crowley was present with two other uniforms, talking with the chief. Sam’s wheelchair lay fallen across a flower bed that edged a narrow brick walk. Sam sat on a carved wooden bench at the edge of the walk, which ran back between the buildings past the western shop, a boutique, a toy shop. A matching bench could be seen farther in between the windowed stores. Little lanes and half-hidden courtyards could be found all over the village, pleasing the locals and offering a longed-for charm to eager tourists. When Sam’s forehead and arm had been bandaged, a second medic, a slim young man, handed him a clipboard and pen.

“This is your release, Mr. Bleak, if you’re sure you don’t want to go to Emergency.”

Sam said he’d see his own doctor. Tekla leaned over, took the board from him, and began to read it out loud to him. As if he were too injured and unsteady—or too senile—to read the form himself.

When she had finished reciting the dull paragraphs, she handed it back for Sam to sign: a release of liability, to protect the medics and police. These days a human could hardly breathe without removing responsibility from everyone in sight. The day will come, Joe thought, when Clyde and Ryan have to sign a waiver so the garbageman can pick up our trash.

When the medics had finished with Sam and turned away, Joe dropped out of the truck into shadow and slipped beneath the shrubs at the curb. Hunkering there out of sight, he watched the three men and the woman gather their equipment back into the van, their blankets and oxygen tank and masks, their various black leather cases with the big syringes, packaged needles, and who knew what other kind of torture. As the van pulled away, Max began to question Sam, nodding to Officer Crowley to take notes.

“He ran right up behind me,” Sam was saying. “Tekla wasn’t here, she—”

“I’d left him for just a few minutes,” Tekla snapped, “left him here in what I thought was a safe place while I ran into the bakery. Does a person have to be on guard every minute in this village? Isn’t there a street patrol? I would think . . .”

Max stared at her with that dry, patient look. The same look as when he was about to strong-arm a drunk.

Joe looked up when Kathleen arrived. Stepping out of her car, she stood a moment taking in the situation; then she adjusted her camera and began to shoot the scene and the surround. Kneeling, the tall, slim detective photographed marks on the sidewalk the wheelchair had gone over, and close-ups of the area of broken flowers in the narrow strip of garden. She took time to lift latent fingerprints from the wheelchair, then photographed Sam and the chair at different angles; she included in her camera range several shots of Tekla’s pant legs. She was fast but careful and precise, covering the area thoroughly.

When Tekla started berating the chief again, Max asked her to step on over with Officer Ray. “She’s nearly finished photographing,” Max said. “She’ll want to interview you. You can wait on that other bench, back along the walk there.”

Tekla looked as if she’d refuse. Scowling, she moved closer to Sam as if to remain protective of him—as if Max or one of the officers might do him bodily harm. Max looked over at Kathleen and nodded.

Turning, Kathleen headed for her car, locked the big camera safely in the trunk. She hung the smaller camera over her shoulder, took Tekla by the arm, and gently ushered the shorter woman back along the walk to the bench. She sat Tekla down with just enough force to prevent her from striking out as she seemed inclined to do. Quickly Joe moved to the back of the cypress tree out of sight and scrambled up. Hidden in the heavy foliage, he slipped out along a branch that arched over the sidewalk nearer to Tekla and Kathleen, where he could listen.

And where, within seconds, Kit came slipping along behind him as if out of nowhere. Feeling the sway of the branch, he glanced back; she peered out at him half hidden, her mottled black-and-brown coat blending into the shaggy cypress. With a flick of her ears, she looked over.

Max was kneeling beside the wheelchair where he could look Sam in the face. “I know you’re shaken, Sam, but can you tell me what happened? Just take your time,” he said gently.

“He hit me so hard. I was sprawled on the ground before I knew what happened,” Sam’s voice was unsteady. “Like Tekla said, she’d gone on a quick errand, left me parked right here in the lane, said she’d only be gone a minute to the bakery. I was looking in the window at those fancy western boots, in plain sight of the busy street, when I was struck so hard from behind I thought a truck hit me.” Sam rubbed at the bandage on his forehead.

“I went sprawling, my wheelchair slid away, I heard someone running. I saw a dark figure running, but I was so dizzy . . .” He looked pitifully at Max, pale and shaken—but anger burned, too, deep in Sam’s eyes, and that shocked Joe. Sam Bleak, so mild and docile, suddenly burned with a cold rage that the tomcat had not seen before.

Max studied Sam with interest. “Did you hear anything before he hit your wheelchair?”

Sam shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing at all, the street was quiet. Then that terrible blow and I went over, I had no way to stop, no way to catch myself.”

“Can you describe the person? Do you remember his clothes? His height? Some idea of age? Was it a man, a boy?”

“A boy,” Sam said, looking directly at Harper. “Tan Windbreaker, I remember that. Old, worn jeans and scuffed leather boots. Running away, running from me so I didn’t see his face but . . . but I know him,” Sam said.

Sam Bleak was silent, looking at Harper. His next words shocked Joe and Kit right down to their paws, made Joe want to leap down and claw Sam’s lying face.

“The boy . . .” Sam said, “the boy . . . was Billy Young.”

Max stood up, narrowly watching Sam. “Are you sure of that?”

“He looked exactly like Billy, and dressed the same. I swear it was Billy Young.”

Max was silent, his look cold and hard. Joe wanted to shout, That’s a lie! What the hell are you up to?

“The boy who flipped me over,” Sam said, “it was Billy Young. That boy who works for Ryan Flannery—that boy who’s too young to be working in a construction crew. Who thinks he’s so smart because he has a grown-up job.”

Joe and Kit looked at each other, fear for Billy sparking between them, fear of what they didn’t understand. Max stood rigid and withdrawn. Maybe only the cats and his fellow cops saw that twitch at the side of his mouth, that quick inner fire that some humans wouldn’t notice. To the cats, even Max’s scent changed, had gone sharp with fury.

Sam felt tenderly at his bandaged forehead. “Same jacket, same clothes,” he repeated. “Running away. I shouted at him to stop, shouted his name.”

Again he was quiet, fingering his bandaged arm. Then, “Why would that boy do such a thing? What did he want? It was then, as I fell, that Tekla came around the corner, saw me tipped over.Tekla saw him, too, Captain Harper.” Sam’s fists clenched in anger. “Tekla knew him. He raced away—up the brick alley and into the next street. Tekla started to pick me up, to pick up the wheelchair, but I told her to go on, try to catch him.

“But he was gone,” Sam said shakily. “Just like those other attacks.” He put his head down on his hands as if he felt dizzy or was still very frightened.

Max glanced at his watch. “And then what happened?”

“I told Tekla to leave me be, in case anything was broken, and she called 911.” He did look pale. But, in truth, this was no more than a hoax, no more than a vicious lie.

“The siren came right away,” Sam said, “the medics’ van. Then more cops while the medics were looking me over, poking and prodding, and one of the cops—that tall one, the first one here, he started taking pictures. The medics kept arguing with me to let them put me in the van, but I didn’t want to go to a hospital, I’ve had enough of that. And then,” Sam said, “you got here, your pickup pulled in to the curb.”

“You’re sure it was Billy Young,” Max said coldly.

“Looked exactly like him. I only glimpsed the side of his face—high, thin cheekbones, brown hair, tan Windbreaker. Same clothes he usually wears,” Sam said, “same Windbreaker, same old, battered boots.”

“I’d like you to come into the station, you’ll need to fill out a report.”

Sam’s frown turned uncertain. He glanced across to where Tekla was deep in conversation with Kathleen Ray, as the detective recorded Tekla’s version on her phone, so the two interviews could be compared.

“If you file a complaint,” Max told Sam, “if you can identify him clearly, you can bring charges. If the boy has attacked others, it’s your responsibility to tell us what you can.”

Above in the cypress tree, Joe and Kit smiled at how cool Max was. The Bleaks had to know that Billy was the chief’s ward, or at least that he lived with the Harpers. So why would they set Billy up? For what possible reason? Simply because Tekla didn’t like Ryan, to get at Ryan through Billy, make them both look bad to Harper?

That didn’t make any sense. And now, as Max pushed Sam with questions, was Sam indeed getting nervous?

Could this all be Tekla’s setup? Had she forced Sam along with it, and now he was losing his resolve?

But then, what was Sam’s anger about? Was that all fake, too?

Whatever the answer, Joe thought, the Bleaks will find out soon enough what the chief already knows. This was a crime Billy couldn’t have committed, Billy was safe at the station when Sam was mugged; a dozen cops had seen him, including Max and all three detectives. The Bleaks, in a moment of misguided inspiration, had backed themselves into a corner, and didn’t that make Joe and Kit smile.

Most likely Tekla had tipped over the wheelchair herself, maybe eased it over gently so Sam wouldn’t in fact break any bones and create a real problem.

But they did manage to scrape his forehead and arm, Joe thought. Maybe they didn’t mean to do that, maybe that part was an accident as they performed their little charade. And that made him smile all the more.

The question is, why would they go to such lengths to get Billy in trouble? Oh, but Tekla would, Joe thought, just out of meanness. Or, he wondered, did they do this as some sort of diversion?

“Did you and Tekla walk down from your apartment?” Max said, glancing back along the street. “From the little guesthouse you’re renting?”

“Yes,” Tekla said coolly. “So that Sam could get some air. It isn’t good to always be riding around in the van.”

Kathleen said, “I can give you a ride to the station, if you like. So you can file your complaint.”

Tekla drew herself up. She said nothing. Sam smiled weakly. Kathleen and the chief stood over them waiting for a response, both officers so stern and severe that the Bleaks might find it hard to refuse. At last Sam allowed Kathleen to help him into the wheelchair, careful of his painful arm, and she wheeled him to her squad car, Tekla walking like an angry guard dog beside him. Kathleen settled them in the backseat and folded Sam’s chair into the trunk.

As they pulled away, leaving Max talking with Officer Crowley, Joe and Kit left the cypress tree praying Billy was still at the station. They didn’t want to miss this confrontation. Joe wished Dulcie were there. He’d give her a blow-by-blow account, just as he would lay it all out later for Misto and for Pan. Misto needed to be kept in the loop; the old cat needed to see and feel as much as he could of these last, waning days, Joe thought sadly.

But as he and Kit galloped away across the roofs toward the station, he looked slyly at her. “You found shoes! Did Dallas get them?”

Kit smiled. “I watched him fish them out from under my porch. He lifted each one with a stick inside so he didn’t smear any prints. I hope I didn’t smear any.”

“Your porch?” He stopped and looked at her, and was getting ready to scold her. But she looked at him so contritely that he swallowed back his words.

What the hell, she’d gotten the shoes, hadn’t she? That could be the key, if they could find a matching shoe, one with a good set of fingerprints. That could be the evidence they needed; and he looked at Kit and didn’t criticize—he wasn’t going to trash her bright-eyed joy in finding them.

As they leaped to the roof of the courthouse and raced its length, Kathleen’s squad car pulled up to the red zone below. Dallas’s Blazer was already there. He was just disappearing through the glass door carrying a cardboard box. It was filled with evidence bags, each the size and the shape of a shoe. Kit stared down at it with triumph, her ears up, the tip of her tail twitching.

Joe just hoped they’d turn out to be the right ones, belonging to the perp, not just someone’s worn-out footwear. Backing down the oak tree, they crouched in the bushes by the front entry watching Kathleen remove Sam’s wheelchair from the trunk and unfold it. As she held the glass door so Tekla could roll him through into the lobby, Joe and Kit slipped behind them into the smelly retreat of the holding cell—their retreat for as long as Evijean remained on duty. He thought of Dulcie resting at home as she’d been told, and wished she were there to enjoy the coming performance.

22

Though it was just mid-morning, a warming fire burned on the Firettis’ hearth, its blaze reflected in the fog-frosted windows. Firelight brightened the flowered couch where Misto lay tucked up in a quilt between Dulcie and Pan. Mary Firetti and Wilma sat on the matching couch sipping coffee. Wilma had brought a gift for Misto, a big tray of custards. The three cats had promptly lapped up three small bowls before they snuggled close.

At home earlier, Dulcie had paced from room to room wanting to be outside, wanting to roam but having promised to stay in, not to run the roofs but to rest. She had paced and glared at Wilma, who sat at her desk paying bills. She’d wanted to be at the station, wanted to find Joe Grey, wanted in on the action. Whenever she’d trotted out into the garden for a few minutes she felt Wilma at the window watching her. It was all very well to be quiet and protect the kittens, but she’d begun to feel like a caged wildcat. But when the custards were ready to take to Misto, getting in the car, Wilma said, “You need only be idle for a little while, the kittens will arrive soon. I don’t need to tell you how important this is, these are the most precious of babies.”

Dulcie knew that! She tried not to snap at Wilma. She tried not to sound sulky. But even a trip in the car was a treat, just to get out. Trotting up the Firetti walk through the last of Mary’s cyclamens as bright as new crayons, she had raced into the cottage to nearly pounce on Misto and Pan, she was so glad to see them—though it had only been a few hours.

Pan said, “Kit slipped away early. Restless, so restless.”

Dulcie snuggled closer and looked tenderly at Pan. “You miss Kit this morning,” she said, licking his ear. Kit might have been restless, she thought, but maybe that was a loving gesture, too, to slip away at dawn, to leave father and son alone together, just the two of them.

Mary had set Wilma’s dozen little bowls in the refrigerator to keep cool. “Misto does so love your custards. I make little stews, I make soups, but your custards are the real treat.” She looked at Misto, then back at Wilma. “We talked about Ben,” she said softly. “I told him about Ben.”

Misto lowered his ears and put out a paw to Wilma. But as she reached to stroke him she saw behind his grieving look that staunch certainty, too, in his golden eyes. “Where Ben is now,” the old cat said, “he is safe, he is beyond human cruelty.” He licked Wilma’s hand. “Ben is loved with a strength the living cannot imagine, he is free in joy now, he flies weightless.”

They talked about Ben and about the attacks, Misto stoic, in his own way removed from the deepest pain. It was nearly noon when Wilma and Dulcie left the Firetti cottage, Misto napping again, and Pan still close beside him. Riding home, Dulcie thought about the street crimes, about new police reports, new intelligence coming in, about Joe at the station, and she looked up forlornly at Wilma.

Wilma sighed. She hadn’t worked in corrections for all her career without knowing how these present crimes drew Dulcie. “You want to be with Joe, putting the pieces together.”

Dulcie sighed.

“I’ll take you to the PD if you’ll promise to wait there. To let me pick you up later, not come galloping home alone over the rooftops. You might not go full term, Dulcie, you might . . .”

“I promise,” Dulcie said.

Reluctantly Wilma dropped her off in front of the courthouse, watched her disappear into the bushes to wait for a chance to slip inside the station. Wilma lingered for a few minutes, and then a few minutes more, but no one came or went through the glass door. She could see action inside, could see Max and Detective Kathleen Ray; she could just see Joe Grey in a corner of the holding cell, and she glimpsed a fluff of tortoiseshell fur; Kit was there with him. She could see that brittle temporary clerk, Evijean, behind the counter. And was that the Bleak couple in there? That was curious, what was that about?

She watched Dulcie peering out, watching intently from the bushes. She watched the tabby move beneath a camellia, closer to the glass door where she could see in better. Wilma waited a few minutes more, got an angry scowl when the tabby reared up to look back at her. Whatever was happening had Dulcie’s full attention. At last Wilma left her. Joe Grey and Kit were there if the tabby needed someone. Dulcie had a loud yowl if she found herself in trouble. As many times as I’ve worried over her, I have learned to trust her. I’m not going to rein her in completely, even now.

It was earlier, just after Sam Bleak’s fake attack, that Joe and Kit slipped into MPPD behind Kathleen Ray and Sam and Tekla, the two cats sliding into the shadows of the holding cell. Surely Evijean hadn’t seen them, there had been no cry of outrage. Beyond the reception counter among the computers, radios, and office machines they couldn’t see even the top of Evijean’s head. When Joe reared up for a better look, he was sure no one was minding the counter—though the clerk’s area was never left unmanned.

As he watched, Detective Ray moved toward the counter, alert and wary. She had switched on her radio when Max pulled up outside, swung out of his truck and in through the glass door—and as Evijean emerged from the conference room, slipping out with a guilty look.

Max watched Evijean, frowning because she’d left her station. He looked down the hall at the door she had closed. “Are you keeping that room locked?”

Evijean set a cup of coffee on her desk. “Detective Davis moved those . . .” She glanced at the Bleaks. “That material that was on the table. She moved it to her office,” she said with more finesse than Joe would expect. “Detective Garza is with her and the boy.” Joe thought she might have the courtesy to call Billy by name.

Max looked at the Bleaks, then back at Evijean. “How long has Billy been here?”

She looked confused.

“How long has he been in the station this morning? Since what time?”

“Maybe two hours,” Evijean said. “Since Detective Ray brought him in with . . . Since around nine when she brought him back to your office.” She watched the chief, frowning. Her finesse just went so far. Over in the waiting area, Tekla and Sam had come to full attention. Both had begun to fidget.

“Evijean,” Max said, “ask Detective Davis, Detective Garza, and Billy to come up front. And hand me two complaint forms.”

Evijean frowned uncertainly and looked down into the shelves beneath the counter.

“Those forms in the box at the end,” Max said impatiently. Joe knew what he meant. These were the sheets the chief had made up for previous incidents where he wanted the complainants’ statements in their own handwriting; they were not the usual documents that an officer himself filled out. Evijean found them, inserted the forms in two clipboards, and handed them to him. Even she knew this was unorthodox, that a complaint was filed verbally to an officer and the complainant only signed the paperwork.

When Evijean had called back to Juana’s office and relayed the chief’s message, Max said, “Has Billy left the station since Kathleen brought him in this morning?”

“No, sir.”

“Not at all, for any reason? Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir, I’m sure.” Her look was sharp, keenly puzzled.

In the waiting area, Tekla had risen and stood scowling at the chief. “You would stand up for that boy. Isn’t he your ward or something? Of course you’d say he was here, you wouldn’t want—”

Max looked hard at her. “Mrs. Bleak, there’s a law against false accusation.” Whether he meant false accusation of Billy as the attacker, or false accusation of Max himself for lying to cover for Billy, his words made Tekla back off, and made Joe and Kit exchange a whiskery grin.

Max had turned to Sam. “You can have a good look at Billy Young now. If you’re sure it was Billy who attacked you, you can file the complaint and we can move on with the matter. Maybe we can put him in juvenile hall until we get this sorted out.”

Beneath the bunk, Kit’s yellow eyes widened but Joe Grey only smiled. There was no way in hell Max would do that. They heard a door open down the hall, footsteps approaching, and Billy and the two detectives came up to the front. At the sight of Billy, Tekla moved behind Sam’s wheelchair as if to remain in control, to wheel Sam on out of there to safety. Billy, looking puzzled, came to stand beside the chief. Max put his arm around him and turned him to face Sam.

“Is this the boy who attacked you, who tipped over your wheelchair?”

Billy stared at up at Max and then at Sam, uncomprehending.

Sam wouldn’t look at Billy. Nor did he look at Max Harper. “Maybe . . .” he began, “Maybe . . . maybe that boy’s jacket was gray, not tan. Maybe . . .” He frowned at Billy as if seeing him for the first time, this boy he saw nearly every day working on the remodel.

“I think,” Sam said, “I think that boy’s hair was darker. Yes, a darker brown, and longer, down around his neck. Hard to remember,” he said, “when I was sprawled there dizzy and hurt, and he was running away . . .” He looked down at his hands, at the scuff marks that the medics had bandaged.

“I guess,” Sam said lamely, “I guess I could be wrong. I was so frightened and confused when I was knocked over, the sidewalk seemed to be whirling under me, so dizzy . . .”

Max and the detectives watched him with interest. Had the Bleaks thought, with the crime scene cleared at the remodel and the yellow tape removed, Billy would be cleaning up there now as Tekla had demanded? Had they, this morning, seen Scotty, or maybe Ryan or both off in the village running errands, maybe picking up material? Assuming Billy was working alone as he sometimes did, thinking there would be no witness to the boy’s whereabouts, had they jumped at the chance to stage their little ruse, to lay the crime on Billy? A spark of inspiration that went bad? Joe and Kit, looking hard at them, wished they could stare the truth right out of that pair of liars.

“Even if you’re not sure of the identity,” Max was saying, “if you file a complaint describing the attack, that will help us. That would be considerable assistance in finding whoever did attack you. You needn’t mention Billy at all, if you’re not sure he was involved.”

He handed Sam a clipboard with a complaint form. Sam took it with his right hand, laid it carefully against his hurt left arm. The chief handed a second form to Tekla. Joe watched Max pick up one of the folding chairs and settle Tekla across the room. “You need to each do your form separately, without discussion,” he told her.

The chief and Kathleen had already taken their statements, that was the complaint. Now Max was poker-faced. Joe had seen him at the card table with that look, running a bluff.

“Describe only what you remember,” the chief told Sam. “Tell what happened as best you can, just as you told it to me and Detective Ray. You’re the only witnesses we have. Your statement is of great value.” Max’s demeanor was smooth as silk. As Sam filled out the form, bent earnestly over the clipboard, Evijean came out from behind the counter carrying her purse. One of the rookies came down the hall to take her place, relieving her for an early lunch, a blond young man brushing a speck of lint from his uniform. Evijean had hardly left when Kit stiffened, peering out the glass door.

Joe barely caught sight of Dulcie as she slid past the station following Evijean. The next minute, as two civilians came in, Kit slipped out and fled down the sidewalk, to follow Dulcie. Why was Dulcie out of the house where Wilma had meant for her to rest and act matronly? And what the hell was she up to? Joe remained still, his ears back, watching them. He wanted to follow her, too, but his questions swung so sharply back to the Bleaks that he stayed put.

The couple had finished up their complaint forms, signed them, and were handing them to Captain Harper. Something about the look they exchanged as they headed for the door held Joe.

They left the station quickly, Tekla determinedly pushing Sam’s wheelchair as if wanting to be swiftly away from MPPD and Max Harper. As Max turned to the desk with the forms, Joe leaped up beside him, rubbing chummily against his arm.

Max looked down, laughing at him. Joe was happy to lighten the chief’s mood, and as Max stroked him, he got a look at the forms with the Bleaks’ rental address.

Molena Point did not have house numbers. Sam identified the street and cross streets in the usual way, then the name of the house, Daffodil Walk, with an added note, “the guesthouse in the back.” Joe knew the house, a two-story frame painted butter yellow. Joe had never seen a daffodil in the yard. Giving Max a nudge and a purr, Joe dropped down from the counter, galloped to the glass door, and yowled stridently for the chief to let him out.

“Spoiled, worthless tomcat,” Max said, sounding too much like Clyde.

Smiling, Joe slipped through the open door, skinned up the oak tree as Max turned back inside, and scorched away over the rooftops. He wanted to arrive at Tekla and Sam’s rental before they did. He wanted to slip into the apartment behind them and hastily conceal himself.

23

Dulcie was already gone from in front of the PD when Joe Grey went racing out, headed for the Bleaks’ rental. Watching the busy lobby, she had drawn back when Evijean came out and headed along the street. A few doors down stood Effie Hoop in her red sweatshirt, smiling, waiting for Evijean. What was this? Did these two know each other? Curious, Dulcie followed, slipping along in the shadow of the building. She watched the two women hug in greeting. They glanced toward the police station, then quickly entered the new little tearoom that stood between two larger shops.

The leaded front windows were low to the ground, looking out on a row of ceramic pots planted with red geraniums. Dulcie stood half hidden among these, looking in. The tiny restaurant was charming, was most attractive to tourists. It was handy to the department, too, for a quick snack. But a cop wouldn’t be caught there with its fluffy flowered curtains, its décor as overdone as a dollhouse. It was perfect, however, for lunch for the two ladies. Dulcie wondered where Effie had left her husband, Howard. This was sure not his kind of place. And how did they know each other, Effie, with her strange remarks about San Francisco, and sour, bad-tempered Evijean? They looked as easy together as old, dear friends as they were led, laughing and talking, to a frilly corner table, its ruffled cloth printed with a tangle of daisies.

When Kit appeared suddenly pushing in beside her, Dulcie nuzzled her in greeting; both cats were so focused on Evijean and Effie that when another two ladies entered they slid inside at once and under a padded window seat.

The tearoom was small, its decorative windows framed by ruffled curtains. Though the day was warm, a tiny stone fireplace sheltered an equally tiny but welcoming flame of miniature logs. The women, only glancing at their menus, were already deep into a discussion. Dulcie crouched, listening. Hadn’t Effie Hoop or Howard mentioned a sister, that morning in the café patio over breakfast? But Effie was saying, “It doesn’t make sense. Seven attacks, three of them jurors. Those jurors dead, plus the two killed in the city. But what about the others, those here in the village that had no connection to the trial?”

She went quiet as the waitress came to take their order, setting down a pot of hot water and a selection of teas. Both women ordered a small salad and scones.

“Those other attacks,” Evijean said, “may be a diversion. The department thinks that’s what it was.”

“I suppose that’s possible. What did you find out this morning?”

“They have more photographs. They took shots this morning, too. And they have some kind of new evidence, Detective Garza came in with a box full of evidence bags. I didn’t get a look, he took them on back to his office. As for Herbert Gardner,” Evijean said, “as far as anyone knows he didn’t have any connections. No family anywhere.

“But someone’s out to get the jury that convicted him.”

“Maybe some slimy friend of his,” Effie said, “that the investigators didn’t find.”

“Whatever,” Evijean said, “Marilain’s dead, that can’t be undone. It’s not surprising,” she added. “The girl was no better than a streetwalker.”

“No matter what she was, she was our niece! Our own brother’s child. It’s not his fault she went bad.”

Dulcie and Kit glanced at each other. The two women, despite their difference in size and bulk, did look alike, their pale coloring, their long noses. Effie’s brown hair had started to go gray. Evijean was some years younger, but her hair was so faded that, under the strange blond coloring, it must be graying, too.

Evijean stirred sugar into her tea. “Well, she had a poor start, fell into bad ways herself.”

“Don’t you care that she’s dead?”

Evijean shrugged. “Gardner will die for it. However this turns out, that’s the consolation.”

Effie looked at her sister, her round face disapproving. “You dated him once, didn’t you? Before Marilain met him, when you lived in the city?”

“Not dated, he was a generation too young,” Evijean said sourly. “Marilain was only seventeen, a child. I just had dinner with Gardner a couple of times, after work. Then when he met Marilain, of course he had no time for anyone else, even a friend. I think he hung out with me to meet her. Ithought he was a friend. I had no idea what he was, what he might do,” she said bitterly.

“Well,” she said, “that was a long time ago, before I worked for the sheriff’s department and then moved down here. I might never have gotten this temp job if I hadn’t been cleared, back then, for the sheriff’s office.

“But now . . . it’s the jurors,” she said, “they had no need to die. How did the killer get their names? All that is sealed. But you were there in the courtroom, in the gallery. Did you notice anything strange, or anyone you knew? Did you know any of the victims?”

“The only victim I know is Betty Porter, and she wasn’t on the jury. I know her from earlier visits, from talking with her in the drugstore.

“Well, in the courtroom, I did see that other woman, Bonnie, who was nearly mugged right here in front of the station. She was on the jury—but it was her husband who was killed. I recognized her from the San Francisco paper. She was the juror, and he died for it.” She paused as the waitress brought their order.

Evijean said, “So strange that the San Francisco investigators, the county attorney, knew so little about Gardner’s background.”

“They found enough to prosecute him,” Effie said. “They didn’t need to know his life story. That defense attorney,” she said with a smile, “his heart wasn’t in saving Gardner.”

“You have to give him that,” Evijean said. “No one wanted Gardner to go free.”

“Except the stalker,” Effie said. “Didn’t Gardner ever say anything to you about his background, his family?”

“Nothing. He was so closemouthed. That in itself should have alerted me. Marilain never said anything about his past, either, and by that time, I didn’t care. And then I moved down here and didn’t see her anymore. She might have been our niece, but I didn’t like her much. She wasn’t much good,” Evijean said.

Effie poured more tea for herself. “Well, someone was close to him, cared about him. Someone is killing innocent jurors because they did their job.” She set down the teapot. “Marilain did come to see us a time or two when we lived on Grant Street—wanting to borrow money. She said Gardner had no family, that his mother would have nothing to do with him, that he hadn’t seen her in years, that she’d moved to the East Coast somewhere—maybe as far away from him as she could get.”

“Well, it couldn’t have been her,” Evijean said. “If his mother hated him for how he’d turned out, maybe knew about earlier crimes, why would she come back here and go after innocent jurors for convicting him? She should celebrate.”

Effie shrugged. “Some women are like that. Hate their kids when they turn bad, but then they go all defensive when the kid gets caught and has to pay for his sins.” She settled heavily back in her chair, buttering a scone. “And the police here, they don’t have any background on Gardner? Theydon’t know who might be connected to him?”

“Not that I can find,” Evijean said. “But now, this morning, they’re working on new evidence, something’s going on in there.” She sipped her tea, looked up at Effie; she went quiet as the waitress brought their check.

When Dulcie looked at Kit, Kit looked sly and smug. A look of triumph, as if she had her paws in the cream. “What?” Dulcie whispered. But the women had paid the bill and risen. With no more useful information forthcoming, and with not much traffic in and out of the tearoom, the two cats hurried out the door behind them.

Evijean went on into the station. Dulcie and Kit waited in the bushes until they could duck through, unseen. “What?” Dulcie said again. “What did you do?”

“The shoes,” Kit whispered. “I found thrown-away shoes. Dallas has them.” Quickly Kit told her about Sam’s “accident,” about the Bleaks’ charges against Billy. “And Joe,” Kit said, “Joe was mad enough to . . . I didn’t know what he’d do.” She peered in through the glass door. “Looks like the Bleaks are gone. They . . .” She hushed as Officer McFarland pulled up in his squad car. As he got out, they slipped up to the door behind him. Seeing them, McFarland grinned, his boyish brown hair mussed under his cap, and he held the door for them. They trotted through, glanced up at him with a flick of their tails, and hurried past the counter out of Evijean’s sight, quickly down the hall, to the safety of Max Harper’s door.

His office was empty, the door cracked open but no one there. They could hear voices from Juana Davis’s office. They crossed the hall and slid inside, halting inches behind Detective Davis’s black shoes and the chief’s western boots where they stood at a long, folding table. Kit slid in first. She knew at once by the smell that the shoes were there, the shoes she’d found in the Dumpster; the smell of pine pitch was so strong that she had to hide a grin.

24

Juana Davis’s usually neat office looked like a jumble sale. A long table stood in the middle of the room, her furniture pushed against the wall, the credenza, bookcase, and desk shoved together. Davis, Max Harper, and Billy stood at the table absorbed as Dulcie and Kit slipped into the room. Silently they hopped up onto the desk and to the top of the bookcase where they could look down.

Besides the shoes there were photos again: crime scene photos crowded the table. A set of pictures neatly arranged by each shoe. Now they had a match, the corresponding color shots marked with time, date, name of the victim. Kit looked smugly at Dulcie. She was so proud she could hardly help lashing her tail and grinning.

But Dulcie was looking for Joe Grey. Why wasn’t he in here scanning the evidence? She couldn’t even catch his scent.

She thought about the Bleaks’ scam, how they’d tried to incriminate Billy, how angry Joe had been—Kit said she didn’t know what he’d do. Oh, she thought, he hasn’t followed them, he hasn’t followed the Bleaks home?

But that’s just what Joe would do.

Stay outside, she thought. Just watch the house, see if they try to run, see if they try to get away from Harper. Then call the station. Oh, don’t go in there. She moved to drop down to the desk, to head for the door and follow him—but now even Dulcie herself was too wary, thinking of the kittens. She was feeling heavier, clumsier. She thought of running over the rooftops, maybe getting into a tight squeeze inside the Bleak rental . . . If anything happened to the kittens, to Joe’s kittens . . .

And somehow, looking at Kit, at the flighty tortoiseshell, she didn’t want to ask Kit to follow him. When he’s alone, he’s extra careful. Alone, he can sometimes plan his moves better, he’s not distracted. No, this time she would put her trust in Joe, in Joe Grey’s strength and macho intelligence. Creeping closer to Kit, snuggled against her, she watched Billy Young, standing at the long table beside Juana, answering her occasional questions. She was comparing the crime scene shots and their matching shoes with a handful of the pasted-up photos.

“Yes,” Billy was saying, “that’s just behind the remodel, under the bedroom window. Those two pieces of two-by-four? I tossed them there a week ago, and forgot them. Same shoe, though. Same torn pant cuff.”

Was this why Billy was here, a civilian looking at police evidence to verify the locations of certain photos? But these locations could be verified by police photos of the larger surround, they didn’t need a witness. Dulcie and Kit looked at each other. Was this an added experience for Billy? Max’s ongoing introduction to see if the boy was truly interested in police work? Billy said, “How long will the lab take?”

“Hopefully, a week or two,” Max said.

“That’s wishful thinking,” Juana said, laughing.

“If they’re as backed up as usual,” Max told Billy, “could take a month or more.”

“While the killer,” Billy said, “could be long gone.”

Neither Max nor Juana replied.

Near the shoes lay machine copies from a small, spiral-bound notebook. Though only the top, lined page was visible. Ben’s note was short, but was carefully dated.

Monday, November 4. Ten a.m. Blonde in back of gallery again, back row but different seat. No hat today, dressed kind of fluffy, full skirt and a blousy shawl. Nothing like that leather cap and bulky jacket. I guess she’s hiding her extra weight, she could stand to lose a few pounds. It’s the same woman. She walks the same, kind of slow and like maybe she has arthritis. Same blond hair . . .

That was all the cats saw before Max glanced up at them and they turned to wash their paws.

Near the notebook pages, three photos had been set aside. Each showed a running shoe with the bottom of a pant leg, a black satin stripe down the outside seam and a small tear at the bottom. One showed the print of the shoe’s tread on the concrete, a waffle pattern with stars in it. The second photo showed only the footprint, but it was the same odd pattern. Neat handwriting in the white margin at the top of each photo gave the date and identified the attack. The third photo was of the same jogging pants with the black satin stripe, the tear, but with different shoes. It was dated this morning, and in different handwriting, and marked with a file number and the name “Sam Bleak.”

Max was saying, “This is enough to bring them back in for questioning.”

“Enough to file charges?” Juana said doubtfully.

“No. Only as persons of interest,” he said. “We’re not filing charges on a dead man’s notes and photos, even our own crime scene photos. We wait for the lab, hope they come up with prints. And Sam’s false accusation of Billy isn’t much of a case against them. You read their statements, how they backed down.”

“But they’re tied into this,” Juana said. “You want to try for a search warrant? Before they try to skip?”

“With Judge Manderson? You know he wants hard evidence before we do a search.”

Juana sighed. “Wish we had the gun that killed Ben. And what was that about, that fake attack this morning, throwing themselves right in our faces?”

Max shrugged. “No one said criminals were smart.”

Billy said, “Did they think if Sam was mugged, that you’d see them as helpless victims? And I guess,” he said, grinning, “I guess they don’t like me much. But,” he continued, “even when they left the station, they looked nervous.”

Juana turned when her desk phone rang, and flipped on the speaker.

Evijean said, “I just took an anonymous call. A message for Captain Harper. The man wouldn’t give his name.”

“I’m here,” Max said.

“He wouldn’t wait. He said to tell the captain that the convicted rapist, the one in San Francisco? . . . Gardner? That he has a mother somewhere, that they are estranged. The last he’d heard, she was living somewhere on the East Coast. He said you were looking for a connection, for family.”

“Why didn’t you switch him directly to me?”

“He didn’t want me to transfer the call, he said he was in a hurry. He told me to pass it on promptly . . . A very curt man,” she said. “He gave me the information and hung up.”

“No caller ID?”

“No, sir. Maybe an old cell phone with no GPS?”

Dulcie looked at Kit; they both watched Harper. The way Evijean described the call, that didn’t sound much like Joe Grey. Dulcie thought about the conversation in the tearoom. Could Evijean have made up that call, to pass her own information to the captain? And, when she glanced at Kit, she knew the tortoiseshell was thinking the same. So what was Evijean’s interest in this? Besides that it was her niece that Gardner raped and murdered. Maybe just a nosy clerk wanting in on the action, sharing information in her own ego trip?

Yet even as Dulcie puzzled over the phone call she began to feel edgy. Not uneasy about the Bleaks now, or the street prowler, or even about Joe Grey. She had every confidence in Joe, in his instincts to come out on top. Something else was bothering her. Rising, she began to pace the top of the bookshelf.

Is it the kittens? she thought nervously. Is it time? She felt no pain, there were no contractions, though the little mites were, as usual, squirmy and restless. Kit watched her with alarm, her yellow eyes wide.

Below them, Max was on the phone again when the cats heard Charlie’s voice in the hall. They watched Charlie and Ryan squeeze into the room, both dressed in jeans and T-shirts. Watched them move out of the way among the crowded furniture, looking with interest at the evidence, the shoes and photos and Ben’s notes—though most of their attention was on Dulcie. Charlie, taller than Ryan, reached up to pet her.

Dulcie stiffened when Charlie scooped her up; she glared at Charlie indignantly. Charlie lifted her gently down and cuddled her—imprisoned her—in her arms. Securely gripping the nape of Dulcie’s neck so she couldn’t leap away. Holding her captive. Shocked, she hissed at Charlie. When Ryan reached over to gently stroke her, she growled and hissed at Ryan, too. What wasthis? Neither Charlie nor Ryan had ever manhandled her. Captive, incensed, she wanted to snag her claws in Charlie’s red hair and pull hard. She was mad as hell and she couldn’t say a word. Couldn’t swear. Couldn’t scream for help. She could only snarl and growl.

“What the hell?” Max said. “What’s the matter with her? You only picked her up.” Putting his arm around Charlie, he reached out his hand to see if Dulcie would strike at him, too.

She didn’t, she drew back. She could not bloody the chief, that was unthinkable.

But even so, Max’s hand paused in midair. “What . . . ?” He looked hard at Dulcie, and then at Charlie. “This cat’s pregnant, no wonder she’s cranky. Didn’t you know she’s pregnant? Does Wilma know? She shouldn’t be out on the streets like this, look at her.” Max might be a tough cop, but he had a tenderness for Dulcie and Joe and Kit, just as he did for all animals.

But now Charlie and Ryan looked at him with cool female tolerance. “Yes, pregnant,” Charlie said, “waiting for kittens. We came to get her.”

Juana watched the scene with amusement. Davis had cats, too, but neither one was in danger of getting pregnant. Billy, stepping up beside Max, stroked Dulcie’s ears and face. Then, taking liberties Dulcie would allow to only a few, he felt her belly knowingly.

“Pretty soon,” Billy said, looking up at Charlie. “Less than two weeks?” Billy had taken in rescue cats since he was a small boy; in the last few years he had helped birth more kittens than he could count, strays that came to him half starved when he’d lived in the shack down by the riverbed, strays more prevalent before CatFriends got to work saving lost and abandoned cats and ferals.

Max said, “Wilma can’t want her running the village when her time is so close. Why did she let her out? If the kittens come early on some rooftop, in some out-of-the-way place . . .”

“Dulcie’s supposed to be locked up,” Charlie said innocently. “Wilma called, she’s frantic and is out looking for her. Somehow Dulcie managed to slip out through her cat door. I’ll take her home,” she said, keeping a strong grip on the nape of Dulcie’s neck.

Beside them, Ryan put her arm around Billy. “And you and I need to get back to work, finish cleaning up until we know what the Bleaks intend to do. Keep on building, or scrap the job?” she said with irritation. “Charlie can drive us over. I left my truck there.”

“Don’t leave Billy there alone,” Max said, “until we have this sorted out. Are you carrying?”

“In my truck,” Ryan said.

“Wear it,” Max said.

Charlie’s eyes widened. She nodded, gave Max a kiss, careful not to squash Dulcie between them, and they left.

In the SUV Dulcie didn’t need to be held captive. She snuggled on Charlie’s lap obedient and silent—worrying again about Joe Grey. Had he followed the Bleaks when they left the station, was he watching their apartment? Was he in the apartment? Was that why she felt so nervous? If he had followed them, he’d be sure to find a way inside. She didn’t want to think of him shut in alone, with those two. Maybe she and Charlie should swing by the Bleaks’ rental, after they’d dropped off Ryan and Billy.

And maybe not. Maybe that would make things worse, would really alarm the Bleaks, would make them run or would put Joe in jeopardy.

She didn’t know what to do; she was in a quandary and that wasn’t like her. She wanted to race over there herself, but when she felt the kittens squirming she knew she wouldn’t.

Charlie pulled up in front of the remodel beside Ryan’s truck, and Ryan and Billy got out. As Charlie headed away again, she gently stroked Dulcie. “I’m sorry I manhandled you. You looked determined to take off. Tell me about the photos and shoes, and what happened with Billy? Those Bleaks didn’t really accuse him!”

“They did,” Dulcie said. “Kit told me, blow by blow.” She passed on to Charlie everything she knew, from Sam’s fake attack and the Bleaks’ accusation of Billy, to the conversation in the tearoom, to Evijean’s strange phone message. Charlie was silent as she pulled up in front of the stone cottage, putting the details together. Wilma came hurrying out, scowling at Dulcie and ready to scold her. But instead Wilma gathered her up in a hug of relief, and Dulcie relaxed against her. Purring, she patted a soft paw against Wilma’s cheek—and she could smell a pot roast cooking. Yawning against Wilma, suddenly drained of all her cat energy, she wanted only to eat and then sleep warm in Wilma’s arms.

25

When Joe had left the station, he’d had every intention of tossing the Bleaks’ apartment for evidence; surveillance was not enough. Racing the length of the courthouse roof, he hit the peaks above Jane’s Knitting, Matelle Bakery, and three upscale clothing stores. On the roof of a small motel he galloped past second-floor windows, surprising a little child looking out. From a patio café across the street, the smell of frying onions followed him as he headed a block north to the tall, two-story frame on the corner, the butter-yellow house named Daffodil Walk. There were no daffodils in the scruffy fenced yard.

The small rental cottage at the back might once have been brown. It was not fenced, as was the big house. A narrow, cracked drive led from the side street to the cottage’s attached one-car garage that jutted out in front. The Bleaks’ white van stood to the right of the drive on a patch of grass, handy to the front steps. Oak trees shaded both yards.

Dropping into a tangle of twisted branches, Joe made his way to the back. In the yard of the big house a heavy-shouldered Rottweiler stopped chewing on a fallen branch and stared up at him, his yellow eyes small and mean, his growl a low rumble. He glared unblinking as Joe slipped over the hip of the cottage roof out of sight. The beast knew he was still there, could surely smell him; but, not seeing the invading feline, he might be less likely to bark and draw attention.

Stepping stones led from the street along the drive to the front door of the cottage. Over in the fenced yard the dog rumbled once more, leaped at the closed gate, then returned to maul his oak branch. Joe could see a kennel at the back near the big house.

Padding on across the cottage’s ragged shingles, he backed down the last gnarled tree into the sweet smell of mock orange bushes shedding their wilted flowers. A temporary wooden ramp led up beside the three steps to the small porch. The front door stood open.

The van’s passenger door was wide open, too, revealing Tekla’s black-clad backside where she leaned in. Her posterior and thighs looked narrow as a boy’s. She backed out, carrying a crookedly folded blanket, a six-pack of bottled water, and a handful of road maps. Before she could turn toward the house Joe was inside and under the first shelter he came to: a padded bench against a short wall that faced the front door. Diving under, he glimpsed the small, crowded living room beyond.

To the left of the front door in a narrow alcove hung two Windbreakers and a yellow raincoat on wooden hooks. The front door itself was flanked by tall panes on either side, swirly glass so you could see only a person’s shape and what color he was wearing. The glass panes were the perfect arrangement for a thief. Only a moment to break the window, reach through and turn the key; unless, of course, one had had the foresight to remove the key.

To the right of the front door a narrower, closed door probably led to the garage, Joe could smell the oil-rubber-tire-mildew scent common to most village garages. To the right of that door was the kitchen alcove with a small breakfast table. The cramped living room behind him held a faded couch, a fake leather easy chair, a TV on a rolling stand, a depressing tableau for the desperate renter.

Two hard-sided suitcases stood beneath the hanging coats beside the front door. From the shadows beneath the bench, he watched Tekla lay the blanket on the larger one, set the maps and the bottled water on the blanket. As she shut the front door the hinge gave a little squeak. Her black jogging shoes were inches from his nose as she headed down a short hall to his left past a tiny bedroom to a larger one at the back. He followed her, praying she wouldn’t glance around. At the sound of Sam’s muffled voice from the back room, Joe froze. “You want all these clothes?” He didn’t sound happy.

“Just the front ones,” Tekla snapped. She moved on to the larger bedroom, Joe following; even this room was minuscule. Just space for a double bed partly blocking a glass door with the draperies drawn, a dresser, a small armoire that would hold a TV. Tekla entered the small walk-in closet, its door standing wide, Sam’s wheelchair parked beside it. Joe waited in the shadows, watching.

Inside the closet Sam was standing up, supporting himself by gripping the overhead rod. As Tekla lifted off the first few hangers, Joe slipped across behind them to the unmade bed and underneath to the far side.

Rearing up between bed and draperies, he considered the suitcase that lay open atop the tangled sheets and blankets. He was poised to disappear again if they turned. The suitcase was packed with Spandex pants and shirts, most of them black. On top of a folded black tank top lay a handgun, a dark automatic. The clip was in, and he assumed that was loaded. Another clip lay beside it, and two boxes of ammunition marked .32 caliber brass jacketed hollow point, a hundred rounds each. The same caliber bullets as the one that killed Ben.

If he could get out of here with the gun, that would be all ballistics needed—compare these riflings to the bullet that murdered Ben.

Why had he been so sure he’d find a gun? The right gun? And, what am I doing shut in this house within grabbing distance of these people? They’d seen him at the remodel; they knew him, if they’d paid any attention. Whatever, they’d have to wonder what a cat was doing in here.

So they wonder. So, what are they going to think? That I’m tossing the place?

But even so, Sam and Tekla gave him the creeps. In the closet, Sam was saying, “ . . . was a stupid thing to do, a cockamamie idea. You only set the cops onto us.”

“They were already onto us, poking around like they were.”

“That’s your imagination.”

“That boy was right there in the house that morning, he could have seen everything.”

“Then why didn’t he tell the cops?”

“I don’t know, Sam. But I don’t trust him. And it was too good an opportunity to miss, you falling like that on the edge of the walk, wrenching your arm and crying out. There was no one around to say you weren’t pushed and that it wasn’t the boy did it. I thought he was alone this morning, we saw the contractor and that red-bearded carpenter in the village, I thought he’d be alone in the remodel and no one to say where he really was . . . Put him in as bad a light as possible in case he did tell what he saw that morning. Maybe he saw nothing, maybe he heard the shot, but make a liar of him right off, before he started talking. It was just too good not to say it was him. How was I to know he was with the damn cops?”

“You blew it, Tekla. And you made me lie for you. Again,” he said darkly.

“I never made you lie for me. You could have—”

Sam laughed, a bitter, small sound. “What was I supposed to do? Call you a liar, in front of the cops?

“As it is,” he said, easing out of the closet and into his wheelchair, “they’re suspicious now, all right. Hurry it up, let’s get moving. They might have already put a watch on this place.”

He was silent a moment, getting settled properly in the wheelchair. “I want out, Tekla. I want out of this now, I want done with this even if Herbert was—is—my son.”

As Sam turned the chair to wheel toward the bed, Joe slid to the floor and behind the draperies. Looking out through the small space where the two drapes met, he watched Tekla turn to the suitcase carrying a plastic grocery bag. “And what about the house?” Sam was saying. “All that work—and money.”

“Have we ever worried about money? I have my ways. When we get where we’re going, we contact the Realtor, sell the house in the name of Bleak.” She turned to look at him. “There was a good chance no one would ever find out, that we could have stayed right here, live rich in this village for a while. Rub elbows with the movie stars,” she said, laughing.

“It didn’t work out, did it, Tekla?”

“No matter. Everything’s set up for the sale, escrow and bank accounts in the Bleak name, fix it like we always do. Sell the place from a distance and move on.” Reaching deep in the suitcase beneath the folded black spandex, she pulled out four rust-colored folders, the kind of heavy envelopes that a bank might use. Fanning them out, she chose one. “This will do.”

Putting the other three back beneath the clothes, she shoved the one envelope in her purse. She removed a golf cap from the plastic bag, wadded the bag inside to keep the cap from wrinkling, and tucked it down in the side of the suitcase. The plain beige cap had a ponytail attached to the back, a dark auburn hairpiece—stirring a perfect picture of early mornings when the cats would see a lone runner on the beach, her auburn ponytail bouncing in the dawn light.

Though sometimes they would see a blonde running, equally petite, loose blond hair streaming out the back, and sometimes running with a young boy. Or sometimes it was two boys, both wearing baseball caps.

Tekla picked up the gun, checked what Joe assumed was the safety. She fished a soft, pistol-shaped gun case from a side pocket of the suitcase, slipped the gun and the extra clip into it, zipped it up, and slid it back into the slim pocket.

“Aren’t you going to . . . ?”

“I don’t want to be caught with the guns. Not until we’re out of California. Unsecured, loaded guns on us, and an underage kid in the same car?” She looked at Sam, scowling. “I don’t think so.”

“What about Arnold?”

“I called the school, he’s on his way. I said his daddy was hurt bad, had been assaulted like those others. He . . .” They heard the front door slam, and Arnold called out.

“In here,” Tekla answered as Joe drew deeper behind the drapery. Adult eyes, even Tekla’s, might miss him. But kids were so nosy, and Arnold made him nervous. And what did she mean, guns? Where were the rest? How many guns? What did they have, a whole arsenal?

“What are you doing?” Arnold said, stomping in.

“Get packed,” Tekla said.

He kicked at the corner of the bed. “Why are we leaving this time? What’s happened now?”

“Just get packed. Make it snappy.”

Arnold stomped out. Joe listened to him banging around in the other bedroom as if heaving his possessions into a suitcase. But Joe had to smile. They might think they were hauling out of there, but Harper’s patrol would have a tail on them, pronto. What made them imagine they could dodge the cops in that big white van?

When Sam retreated to the closet again, and Tekla followed him, reaching to sort through another load of clothes, Joe slid up into the suitcase. Feeling carefully along the sides and between the folded layers, he searched for other guns. He shocked himself, quickly drew his paw back, when he uncovered the cold stainless steel of a big, heavy revolver.

It was twice the size of the automatic, smooth and slick to the paw, not holstered, not encased in anything he could carry.

But the one he wanted was the automatic, the gun that could have killed Ben. Feeling into the narrow pocket where he’d seen her stash the padded gun case, he took it in his teeth. Praying the safety was indeed on and that there was no shell in the chamber, gingerly he hauled it out. Easing it to the floor, he half carried, half slid it across to the armoire, guiding the muzzle away from him, all the while keeping an eye on the closet and listening to Arnold banging around; he didn’t want to hear silence from the boy, see him slipping back into the bedroom.

With a careful paw he pushed the gun case under the armoire as far back as he could reach. If she missed this gun and went looking for it, maybe she wouldn’t look here.

The banging from the next room stopped. When Arnold’s footsteps started down the hall Joe slid fast under the armoire, flat on his belly beside the gun case, flat as a sardine mashed in a can.

At the bedroom door, Arnold paused. “You want the suitcases in the van?”

“Leave them by the front door,” Tekla said.

Arnold turned, his footsteps scuffing away down the hall. Joe heard him drop his suitcase by the door. Tekla swung over to the bed, stood a moment as if arranging clothes in the open suitcase, then a thump and click as she closed and latched it. The space beneath the armoire smelled of dust, dust clung to his whiskers, and, peering out, he could see dust under the bed and along the edge of the fallen blankets. He hoped to hell he wasn’t going to sneeze. Across the dusty floor he could clearly see drag marks where he’d moved the gun and that made his heart pound.

Tekla, busy hauling the suitcase out to the entry, barely noticed Sam grappling with his own, smaller suitcase and the wheelchair. He finally got the suitcase aboard, and the chair turned around in the tight space. Tekla was much more helpful in public. At the front of the house Joe heard a door open, but not the front door with its squeaky hinge. The other bedroom door wasopen. Only the garage had been closed.

Could they have another car? He’d never seen them in anything but the van. Could they have kept a car hidden, ready to travel? They meant to leave the van so it would look like they were still home? If they left in a different car, without a description, they’d be hell to find once they got out on the freeways. A cop would have to spot the Bleaks themselves, and because of Tekla’s little tricks with hairstyles, even that could be iffy.

26

Joe heard Tekla drag a suitcase across the entry, heard it clunk down a couple of steps into the garage and the door slam. He heard a click and then a thunk, as if the tailgate of a hatchback or SUV had been opened Skinning out from beneath the armoire, he slipped down the hall, leaving the gun hidden. Halfway down, he froze. The door to the garage opened and Arnold clumped in—but he turned away to the kitchen. Joe heard the refrigerator open. While the kid was occupied, Joe hit for the bench and under it.

Tekla’s purse stood on top. He longed to claw it open and drag out that narrow brown envelope. He pulled deeper into the shadows as Arnold came back munching, smelling of peanut butter. The boy, turning back into the garage, let the door slam behind him: one of those spring-hinged jobs as lethal as a spring-loaded rat trap. Before the door slammed shut Joe tried to see in, see what kind of car, but he got only a glimpse. The space was dim, the big garage door still closed. With Arnold blocking the view, he could see only a dull brown, dirt-encrusted rear fender and open tailgate where the car had been backed in, perhaps for faster loading. Now, with the inner door to the house shut again, he heard the faint sounds of suitcases thumping into the back and the mumble of their voices, could make out only a few scattered words. Behind him Sam was coming down the hall, sounded as if he were pushing his wheelchair, leaning on it in an uneven walk. The garage door opened again and Tekla came into the entry. “Leave the chair, Arnold will bring it. Arnold, help your father get in the car.”

Arnold appeared, shoving the last of his sandwich in his mouth. In that moment, as he clumsily handed his father down the two steps into the garage, Joe saw the SUV more clearly, but it didn’t help much. Faded brown in color and far from new, but he didn’t recognize the make, nor could he see a logo. Creeping out straining to see the license, he sucked back fast as Tekla turned.

Picking up her coat and purse from atop the bench above him, and Sam’s and Arnold’s jackets, she hauled them into the garage, letting the door slam closed. This time Joe heard the dead bolt turn. In a moment the car started, the garage door rumbled up, he heard them pull out and the door rattled down again.

He leaped at the knob, swinging and kicking—but the dead bolt held tight. They were gone, gone before he’d seen much of the car, and sure as hell they were headed for the freeway.

The van still stood in the narrow drive, the van the police would be watching. Paws sweating in his haste, he searched the house for a phone. He looked everywhere, every room, but found only empty jacks. They must have used only their cell phones. Half their belongings were still scattered about. In Arnold’s room, wrinkled clothes, school papers, empty drink cans strewn everywhere. By the front door, the three coats still hung abandoned. But they’d taken the front-door key.

They couldn’t have left it unlocked? Were they gone for good and didn’t care if someone came in? Maybe they had simply left what they didn’t want? Leaping, he swung on the knob until he’d turned it. Holding it, kicking hard against the molding, he fought until he was out of breath but he couldn’t force it open.

He wanted out of there, wanted to get to a phone. Turning, he surveyed the small crowded rooms.

He seldom saw a house he couldn’t break into or out of. Always he and Dulcie were able to jimmy a window or a lock somewhere. But as he made the rounds of the small cottage, leaping up to each sill, he found himself fighting uselessly. The metal bolt locks were driven down hard into the molding; all were so old they maybe wouldn’t slide at all. Didn’t these people ever open a window? The old house had settled, too, making everything even harder to operate. Maybe the bedroom slider would work better; he had seen a narrow patio beyond. Maybe in spite of the position of the bed, they might have used that opening on warm nights.

Slipping in behind the bedroom draperies, he peered at the slim crack where the moldings met. He could glimpse the engaged dead bolt, the door securely locked. When he leaped for the lever that would unlock it, it flipped right down. Scrambling up again he gripped the handle with both paws and kicked against the wall. Kicked again and again. The door remained solidly closed, stuck tight. Or was it screwed close? Yes, when he examined the bottom molding, there were four big screws embedded.

When he checked the bathroom window, it was frozen in place. They sure as hell didn’t believe in fresh air. Or the landlord didn’t. Doubling back through the house, he peered up at the ceiling-high heat vents, their grids secured with rusted screws. Even if he could climb on the bookcase in the boy’s room—which was crowded with junk and sports equipment, not books—even if he could somehow get into the vent, where would that lead him?

Inside the heater, that’s where.

By the time he reached the kitchen, one bruised paw was bleeding and he felt as mean as the Rottweiler. By this time the Bleaks would be well out of town on one of the freeways, headed who knew where? And the van still in the drive to keep Harper’s patrol complacent. Springing to the counter beside the sink, he peered out the kitchen window.

The main house was just to his left. Straight ahead across the narrow, scrubby yard and just inside the woven fence, the Rottweiler was demolishing the last of the oak branch. Joe envisioned a huge lump of splinters in the dog’s stomach. Despite his distaste for the mean-tempered animal, Joe didn’t envy him that misery.

A light was on in the yellow house, in what looked like the kitchen. Behind the thin curtains he could see a figure moving about, maybe fixing a bite of lunch. Stepping onto the sill Joe tried the window lock, but this, too, was totally stuck. One of those ancient curved jobs that would have to be turned with pliers. Maybe even pliers couldn’t budge it—the device was thick with coats of old paint. Watching through the window as the Rottweiler pursued his frenzied chewing, Joe reared up against the glass.

The moment the dog paused to get his breath Joe let out a bloodcurdling yowl and raked his claws down the pane. The scritching sound put even Joe’s teeth on edge. The Rottweiler paused, looking up. Joe stretched taller and gave another howl. The dog stared at him, roared, and charged the fence hard enough to break through—but the fence held. When Joe yowled and clawed again, the Rottweiler’s barking frenzy brought the back door crashing open. A broad-shouldered, bearded man stepped out clutching a leash in one hand, a cell phone in the other, holding the phone to his ear—talking, and watching the cottage.

Joe couldn’t hear a word with the dog roaring. Twice the man stopped talking to shout at the dog, but it kept on barking and lunging. Still talking on the phone, the guy came down off the porch and headed for the cottage. He paused once, looked back uncertainly at the dog, glanced down at the leash, and turned back toward the closed gate.

Don’t bring him. Leave him be, he’ll only complicate matters, don’t bring the damned dog.

The man opened the gate, shouting to quiet the animal. When he leashed the Rottweiler, the dog settled down. Together man and beast headed for the cottage.

Joe heard them walking around the yard, circling the house, the dog huffing and snarling. When Joe heard the man’s step on the porch and the click of doggy toenails he fled past the front door to the open alcove where the coats were left hanging. He leaped, hung with his paws on the shelf above the hooks. With his hind feet he kicked down the wrinkled jackets, dropped on top of them and pawed them into a heap. They smelled of the boy and of Tekla. Outside the glass, the man had paused, still talking on the phone. Yes, he was talking with the dispatcher. Joe waited, listening.

“No, I’ll stay on the line,” the man said irritably. He spoke again to the dog, to quiet him, then he knocked and called out to Tekla. His shadow shone through the obscure glass, waiting, listening, the dog a dark mass moving restlessly against his knee.

When no one answered, he knocked harder and called out again. He waited, then, “They’re not home,” he told the dispatcher. “But my dog don’t bark for nothing. Yes, send the patrol. My dog don’t bark for no reason.” When Joe heard keys jingle, he raced halfway down the hall. There, Joe Grey did the unthinkable.

He backed up against the wall and sprayed.

Streaking to the bedroom, he did the same on the bedroom door and then hastily sprayed the bed. Storming back to the entry, he heard the key turn in the lock. Diving beneath the jackets, Joe was out of sight when the door edged open. The Rottweiler, pressing his face at the crack, got a good whiff of tomcat and let out an echoing roar. Joe was peering out, ready to leap up for the closet shelf, when the Rottweiler lunged through, exploded into the entry as black and huge as a rodeo bull, jerking the leash so hard the big man could barely hold him. Charging toward the hall, he bolted for the smell of Joe’s markings, the man double-timing behind him, leaving the door wide.

And Joe was out of there.

Leaping from beneath the jackets, he flew out through the open door as two cops answered the landlord’s call, pulling in behind the van.

Parking their police unit, Officers Brennan and Crowley got out and approached the open door, their hands poised near their holstered weapons. Joe watched from the bushes for only a moment and then he was off, scrambling up the oak to the roofs, streaking away home. Racing for a phone, to get the message to Brennan and Crowley before they cleared the house and left again. He wanted them to find the gun, not leave it there unguarded. He wanted them, in proper police procedure, to bag it at once, fresh with Tekla’s prints.

27

Dulcie, having been chauffeured home by Charlie—like an invalid, she thought irritably—woke much later warm and cozy curled in Wilma’s lap. It was late afternoon, the westering sun slanting in through the living room windows across Wilma’s cherry desk. How hard she had slept. She woke filled with strange dreams, though already they were fading. She tried to bring them back, but they had flown apart, vanishing into fragments. Why did dreams do that?

All that remained was the sense of danger, of Joe Grey’s fear. But now even that was fading—and as fear vanished, she was filled with Joe’s wild amusement. She could hear faintly from the dream the roar of a barking dog. She sat up, puzzled, kneading Wilma’s leg, pushing Wilma’s book aside.

Wilma stroked her, watching her. “What?” she said softly.

“A dog, a huge dog threatening Joe. A gun. And . . . Tekla. Tekla Bleak,” she said, hissing. “But now . . . Joe’s all right, it’s all right. He’s all right,” she said, purring. She looked into the fire that burned on the hearth, trying to sort out what she’d seen, what exactly had happened. As she reached for the dream again, trying to slip back into its shadows, faces and action overlapped into softer visions, and soon she dozed once more and Wilma returned to her book.

But then as she fell into sleep a brighter vision touched Dulcie, not a dream at all but something more alive and urgent shaking her awake, her heart pounding.

“It’s time,” she said, leaping down from Wilma’s lap. “Something’s happening, it’s time.”

“The kittens!” Wilma said, shoving her book aside and getting up.

“No,” Dulcie said, “not the kittens. It’s Misto.” She shivered, staring at Wilma. “It’s time to go to Misto.”

Wilma grabbed her purse, smothered the fire with ashes, found a jacket on the hook in the kitchen. She never questioned Dulcie’s perception. She picked Dulcie up gently and they were out the kitchen door into the bright afternoon, into the car, backing out. “What did you see? What did you dream?”

Dulcie snuggled close against her. “I was with Misto in another place, not Molena Point, not this world but a place so bright, larger than our world could ever be, the sky stretching away more huge than our sky and millions of miles of green hills rolling on and on and up into endlessness . . . And yet,” Dulcie said, “at the same moment we were in our own village, so tiny in those vast spaces. I can’t explain how that could be, we floated in eternity but still were in our own tiny village, and then . . . And then Misto and I were in the village library but the room, the book stacks, were dwarfed like a tiny jewel in endless space. We were looking through old, old books at pictures of my little calico, the way I dream of her, the way Misto describes her. We were looking at our girl kitten over the centuries. The same sweet face, sly and clever, the same faded calico markings and dark swirling stripes, and her little soft paws.

“There she was in those ancient tapestries and books, in lives so many generations gone. There, in one century and then another, born to different times, though Misto said she will remember little of those lives. But now,” she said, “he has shown her to me for the last time. Now Misto himself is going home. My dream of Courtney is his parting gift.”

Slowing the car, Wilma turned onto the Firettis’ street. She felt cold, her hands shaking. Parking before the cottage, she lifted Dulcie as if, Dulcie thought, she were as frail as porcelain. Contritely Dulcie leaped from Wilma’s arms into the fern bed by the Firettis’ front door, the fronds soft beneath her tummy and paws. She waited as Wilma knocked, both strung tight with heartbreak—but both would smile and comfort Misto. They would offer only brightness to the old cat, would lay only love before the venerable cat they so treasured.

In much the same way that Dulcie knew Misto needed her, Kit looked up suddenly from hunting gophers in Lucinda’s garden. She had come home from MPPD alone, abandoned by Joe, left on her own by Dulcie and Ryan and Charlie; had padded home feeling lonely and not sufficiently praised for finding and retrieving the evidence of shoes; had padded home to her empty house, to hunt alone in her empty garden. But now suddenly she turned from the gopher hole, startled. She listened. She sat very still looking away across the village, hearing in her thoughts a bright whisper. She felt awash suddenly in brilliance. Joy filled her, a need filled her, the old cat was calling to her . . .

She was distracted suddenly as the gopher stuck his head out. She grabbed and killed it all in a second, in a fast reflex, and then she bolted away, left the dead gopher lying limp and forgotten. The old cat was calling her. She raced away through neighbors’ gardens and up to the roofs and down and down across the shingles and peaks of cottages and shops, hurrying, sprinting for the Firettis’ cottage.

But Joe Grey, bolting home from the Bleaks’ empty rental, was driven by another mission. Still smiling at his well-timed escape from the Rottweiler, he leaped into his tower and through it onto the high rafter and dropped down onto Clyde’s desk. From the love seat Snowball looked up at him sleepily. She was alone; likely Rock was with Ryan. The little white cat yawned, watching him paw at a pile of papers. Finding his cell phone he punched in the one digit for Max Harper. He waited only two rings.

“Harper,” the chief said shortly.

“The Bleaks have skipped. Left town in another car, a small brown SUV. Clothes, suitcases, maps, like they’re set to travel. I didn’t get a good look at the car, can’t tell you the make, couldn’t see the license. It was in that little garage where they were renting, it was gone when your officers got there. If they’re still there,” Joe said, “there’s a gun in the bedroom, under the armoire. A loaded automatic, in a gun case. Get it out before the damned dog—”