Cat Under Fire

23

Kendrick Mahl's apartment occupied the third and highest floor of a casual Mediterranean condominium three blocks above the ocean, on the west side of Molena Point. The complex did not have a locked security door as Joe had envisioned, but was a structure of open, sprawling design, with gardens tucked between its rambling wings. Against the pale stucco walls, flowers bloomed all year in blazes of orange and pink and reds, and at occasional junctures, trellises of bougainvillea climbed to the roof, heavy with red blossoms.

Each first-floor unit opened to a terrace, and the glass doors of the upper apartments gave onto walled balconies set about with redwood chairs and potted plants. At one end of Mahl's veranda, a bougainvillea vine clung to the rail, providing from the ground below a comfortable vertical highway, an access tailored to the use of any inquisitive feline.

Joe and Dulcie, having checked the mailboxes in the open, tiled entry patio, headed for apartment 3C. Two floors straight up from 1C, Mahl's balcony was an easy climb. There was no one on the surrounding balconies to notice them, no one in the gardens below. The condo compound, this late afternoon, seemed to provide no visible witness.

From high up the vine they could see a small parking area, down between the buildings, surrounded by trees and flowers. But as they dropped down from the vine onto Mahl's balcony, they drew back. Classical music was playing softly, and the glass door stood wide-open. Deep within the bright living room, Mahl sat at a large, richly carved desk.

He was talking on the phone. They could not hear much of his conversation above the soothing music, something about delivering a painting. He seemed to be trying to arrange a suitable hour for his truck to arrive.

A skylight brightened the room, sending a cascade of sunlight down the white walls and across the whitewashed, polished oak floors. The room's furnishings were a combination of white leather and chrome set off by several dark, carved antique tables and chests, and half a dozen small potted trees. The pillows tossed on the long white sofa were deep-colored antique weavings. A Khirman rug in soft shades of red and rust graced the sitting area, nicely mirroring the fall of red bougainvillea on the balcony. And on the pristine walls, seven large paintings provided brilliant pools of color. None, of course, was by Janet Jeannot. Nor were any of the works by Rob Lake.

As the cats watched, peering in through the glass, Mahl hung up the phone and bent to some paperwork. In the instant that he turned to pull a file from the desk drawer they slipped in and fled, swift as winging moths, across to a white leather couch and behind it. Crouching in the dark between couch and wall, they looked out, assessing Janet's ex-husband.

Mahl was dressed in immaculate ivory slacks and a blue silk shirt, but the sleek clothes seemed too fine for his sour, owlish face, for shoulders hunched forward in an owlish manner. The cats grinned at each other, watching him, amused by his big, round, blank glasses. Even Mahl's nose was too much like a beak; Dulcie found him so humorous she had to hold her breath to keep from laughing aloud. And though Mahl was large and wide-shouldered, he did not look strong. His oversize form seemed put together carelessly, perhaps in haste. One had the impression of a creature that might be nearly hollow inside, of a thin, frail, loosely connected bone structure without strength.

They waited impatiently for Mahl to finish whatever work occupied him. At last he rose and retired to the kitchen; they heard the refrigerator door open and close, the sounds of metal cutlery on a plate. As Dulcie leaped to the desk, Joe slid behind a planter, where he could keep an eye on Mahl. From his leafy cover Joe watched Mahl make a roast beef sandwich, piling on thin, rare slices from a white deli wrapper. The rye bread and beef smelled so good he had to lick drool from his chin. But soon the smell was spoiled by the sharp scent of mustard. He never would get used to humans spreading all that smelly goo on good red meat.

Atop the desk Dulcie pawed through Mahl's in-box and stacks of papers, looking for some record of a rented locker or warehouse space. Most of the papers were letters, some about painting sales. She scanned them, but did not find them useful. None mentioned any kind of storage facility. None, of course, mentioned Janet's work. She left a few cat hairs clinging to the papers, but one could not help shedding. Mahl used as paperweights a small bronze bust of a child, a piece of jade as round and large as a goose egg, and a small pair of binoculars. All were hard to move as she perused the papers, all were hard to put back again. She had just moved the binoculars back into position and was fighting open the top desk drawer when Joe hissed.

She leaped off the desk, leaving the drawer open four inches, and slid underneath into the dark kneehole. The desk was a heavy mahogany piece with ball-shaped, carved feet that left a three-inch space beneath the back and sides. If she had to, she could just squeeze under.

Mahl came to the desk, but didn't sit down. His feet, inches from her face, were clad in soft leather slippers and cream-colored argyle socks below the creamy slacks. He grunted with mild surprise, and she heard him shut the drawer-the drawer she had worked so hard to open. She heard a paper rattle as if he had retrieved something from atop the desk, then he turned away, returned to the kitchen. She heard a chair scrape as if he had sat down at the kitchen table.

Leaping back to the top of the desk, again she worked the drawer open.

But it contained only a few desk supplies-pencils, pens, a plastic box filled with paper clips, a checkbook. She pulled out the checkbook and nosed it open. If Mahl found toothmarks in the leather, how would he know what they were?

Inside, besides the checks and check register, was a long, thin notepad. On the cover of the pad Mahl had written several phone numbers, an address, and on the lower left corner, in faint pencil, the numbers L24 62 97. The sequence looked familiar; this could be a padlock combination. It was the same pattern of numbers as Charlie's padlock.

Joe would make some comment about her rooting into Charlie's private possessions, but if Charlie didn't want cats nosing in her stuff, she should put it away. And Charlie had never rebuked her for jumping on the dresser.

Of course the numbers on Mahl's notepad could mean anything. There was no name of a locker complex, no number for the locker itself. She repeated the combination to herself twice, and then again. She could hear Mahl rinsing his plate. She searched the other drawers and looked beneath the blotter. She was down again, beneath the desk, searching up underneath in the best detective fashion, when Joe hissed once more, and she heard the soft scuff of Mahl's slippers. Sliding out under the end of the desk, she crouched behind a white leather chair. The music had increased in volume and intensity, until it was very military. She was not well hidden by the chair's chrome legs, but it was too late to move. Maybe he wouldn't look in her direction. Crouching behind the cold, shiny metal, she considered the task ahead.

They'd have to check every locker facility in Molena Point and, once inside, have to try their combination on every lock. And how were they going to turn the dial of every combination lock in every locker complex, when, probably, they couldn't even reach the stupid locks? She'd never seen a door for humans with a latch she could reach.

Crouching in Mahl's apartment behind the chrome chair, the task seemed impossible. They had no proof the numbers were a lock combination, and no proof what a locker might contain-maybe nothing more exciting than old worn-out furniture or tax files. How many locker complexes were there on the outskirts of Molena Point? How many lockers in each one?

It would be no use to try phoning the locker complexes, making up some story to get information: This is Kendrick Mahl, I've lost the number of my locker, I need to send it to a friend… because certainly Mahl would not have put the locker in his own name.

When Mahl turned away she slipped out from under the chair and slid behind the couch, beside Joe. He lay stretched full-length, half-asleep, as if without a care. She crouched beside him, depressed.

But when the music on the CD player grew stormy, she began to fidget, her thoughts circling. There had to be an easier way to find the locker.

Joe woke and glared at her. "Cool it," he whispered. "He's bound to leave sooner or later. Curl up, have a nap. A few hours-then we can take this place apart." He rolled over, closed his eyes, and went to sleep. She stared at him, unbelieving. Oh, tomcats could be maddening.

But she curled up against him, trying to think of a plan. The music progressed to the more powerful strains of Stravinsky, she knew that one from home. She could still smell that nice roast beef. Why did humans have to spoil everything with mustard?

She listened as Mahl made several phone calls. He ordered a grocery delivery of lettuce, some frozen breakfasts, a case of imported ale, and a loaf of French bread. He called his San Francisco gallery twice and talked to his assistant about some sales and about taxes. He made a date for an early dinner, before the local Art Association meeting. The Firebird finished, and Schoenberg's Transfigured Night lulled Dulcie into a little nap. The more familiar music eased her, soothed her jittery nerves. At five o'clock, Mahl put on a recording of the New World Symphony, and went to take a shower. Dulcie could hear the water pounding. She heard, from the bedroom, drawers being pulled out, and hangers sliding in the closet.

The discs had finished when he returned to the living room. He was dressed in dark slacks, a white, turtleneck pullover, and a suede sport coat. And though his clothes were handsome, Mahl still looked like a bad-tempered owl. He turned off the CD player, locked the sliding door to the balcony, and left the apartment. Joe woke as Dulcie raced to the balcony and leaped to unlock the door again, slapping at the latch.

Outside, they jumped to the rail to look down, watched him cross the parking lot, get into a white BMW, and head out. Beyond the parking lot and beyond the red tile roofs of the condo complex, the hills and the mountains were burnished gold in the late-afternoon light. They could not see the ocean, to the west, or the setting sun. But off to their right, beyond the village rooftops, the bay looked like melted gold. Along the bay sprawled the warehouses and wharves.

"Rob's studio is there," Dulcie said. "I bet, if Mahl had binoculars, he could see it from right here."

"And if he could?"

"I don't know-a funny feeling." She lay down on the concrete rail, batted at a bougainvillea flower. "Rob got home from San Francisco the morning of the fire around four. That's what he told the court. He said he partied late, drove home tired, and went to bed.

"But then a phone call woke him around four-thirty. He said he answered and he guessed it was a wrong number, no one was there."

"What are you getting at?"

She licked her paw. "It would probably have been easy for Mahl to get hold of Rob's car keys, maybe when Rob was in the gallery unloading paintings. Pick them up, step out for a few minutes, have them copied."

He waited, ears forward.

"Just assume Mahl did take the paintings. He might even have used Janet's own van, taken it out of the St. Francis parking garage late Saturday night. Say he drove down to Molena Point, used his key to her studio, loaded up the paintings. Hid them in that locker…"

"If there is a locker."

She flicked her ears impatiently. "He hid the paintings, drove back to the city, arrived before dawn Sunday morning. Put her car back in the garage…"

"So what did he use for a ticket, to get her van out in the first place?"

"Used his own parking ticket, for the BMW. Then when he drove her van back in Sunday morning, he got another ticket. Used that to take the BMW out, Sunday night.

"But somewhere along the way he realized he'd lost his watch.

"He couldn't turn around and drive back to Molena Point-it was nearly dawn. He had to be seen having breakfast in the hotel, that was part of his alibi."

"And then," Joe said, "it was daylight, he didn't want to be seen going into Janet's studio in broad daylight. And that night, Sunday night, was the opening, he had to be seen there."

Mahl had testified that after the opening he did not return to his home in Mill Valley, but had driven down to the Molena Point condo, intending to meet with two buyers on Monday morning. Both buyers, one a well-known collector, had testified that they did meet with Mahl late that Monday morning.

Dulcie leaped down and began to pace the balcony. "He must have been panicked about the watch. He wanted it back; he didn't dare let it be found in Janet's studio."

She smiled, smoothed her whiskers. "He got here to the condo sometime after midnight. All he could think of was the watch. Maybe he sat here on the balcony, with the binoculars, watching the warehouse area, watching for a light to come on in Rob's studio."

"But when a light did come on," Joe said, "maybe he couldn't be really sure it was Rob's studio. So he picked up the phone. That's what the phone call was."

"Yes. When Rob answered, Mahl hung up. Got in his car, drove down there, took Rob's Suburban, and hightailed it up to Janet's to get his watch."

Joe nodded. "But Janet was already up, lights were on in the studio, he didn't dare go in. All he could do was hope the watch would be destroyed in the fire, melted beyond recognition."

"And when the watch didn't turn up as part of the evidence, and when no one had testified to seeing him take Rob's Suburban or return it, he thought he was home free."

"Right. Except that this is all supposition."

"It won't be supposition if we find the paintings," she said.

Joe sighed. "You're imagining a lot. Talk about a needle in a haystack." He scratched a flea, then rose, trotted back inside across the thick oriental rug toward the kitchen. "But first things first. I'm not going to search two or three locker complexes, all those miles of buildings, on an empty stomach."

In Mahl's kitchen they polished off half of the remaining roast beef, hoping Mahl would assume that was all he'd left when he made his sandwich. They enjoyed a hunk of Camembert, but left the remains suspiciously ragged. They smoothed it out as best they could with neat little nibbles. They split the last yogurt and hid the empty container in the bottom of the trash can. Who would guess cats had been at the refrigerator? They licked up a few stray cat hairs and then, strengthened, searched the condo.

Looking into the cupboards, the dresser drawers, the closet, and the nightstand, they found nothing of interest. But when Dulcie pulled out a briefcase from behind Mahl's Ballys, they hit pay dirt.

The closet was neatly arranged. The hanging garments were sorted as to type and color with the help of one of those intricate modular systems designed for optimum space utilization. The white, wire mesh shelves beneath his slacks and suit coats held twelve pairs of perfectly arranged dress shoes and loafers, a leather overnight bag, a pair of golf shoes, and a small metal tool box. In the corner leaning against the wall was an expensive-looking golf bag and a three-foot-long pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters. The briefcase was on the bottom rack behind the shoes. They dragged it out, sliding the shoes aside.

The combination lock wasn't engaged. The briefcase contained a stack of letters, and a sheaf of paid bills and receipts secured by a rubber band. Dulcie pulled off the elastic with her teeth, and they began to nose through.

"I don't believe this," Joe said when, halfway through, they found a receipt from Shorebird Storage, for locker K20. Dulcie said nothing. She only smiled. The locker had been rented four months ago, for an annual fee of twelve hundred dollars.

They put the bills back as they had found them, closed the briefcase, and slid it behind the shoes, straightening the Ballys to perfect symmetry, as Mahl had left them. And within minutes they were down the bougainvillea vine and headed for Highway One, the locker combination firmly engraved on their furtive cat minds.

The golden October evening was deepening, the sky streaked with indigo. As they trotted up Sixth Street, enjoying the warmth of the sidewalk beneath their paws, they sniffed the good village smells of fresh-cut grass, crushed eucalyptus leaves, and the salty, iodine smell of the sea. And at this hour the air was filled, too, with the aromas of suppers cooking in the houses they passed, the scents of baking ham, of hot cheese and beef stew. That snack at Mahl's had been a nice first course; but who knew if there was anything edible in a concrete locker complex? Who knew how long they'd be occupied? Cats, as Joe had pointed out to Clyde on more than one occasion, needed frequent sustenance.

In an overgrown flower garden they stalked and caught a starling. The bird was tough, not tender and sweet like a robin or a dove, but it was filling. They finished their supper quickly, washed up with a few hasty licks, and trotted on into the deepening evening.

Crossing over the top of Highway One, where it tunneled under Sixth, they turned north. Traveling along through a string of cottage gardens, leaping through flower beds and watching for sudden dogs, Joe looked ahead lustily, his yellow eyes burning. Dulcie, watching him with a sideways glance, had to smile. He was all aggression now, hot for the kill-as if nothing would keep them from Mahl's locker even if he had to claw through solid wood.

And now they could see, a quarter mile ahead where the highway came up out of the tunnel, the Shorebird Storage Lockers sign, its red neon glowing brighter than fresh blood against the gathering evening.

Their plan was to slip into the complex before it closed, wait inside until the caretaker locked up and went home, until they had Shorebird Lockers to themselves. And Dulcie shivered with anticipation. They could be coming down, tonight, on some heavy stuff. If the paintings were there, this would blow Rob's trial wide-open. Detective Marritt's sloppy investigation, his lack of investigation, would be clear for everyone to see.

She would not even consider, now, that they might be disappointed, that the locker might contain something very different from Janet's paintings, she had put that unworthy idea aside. Dulcie felt success in her bones; she was afire with the same surge of blood, the same deep, sure excitement as when they trotted up into the hills on a fine hunting night-on a night she knew would be laced with some pure, hot victory.