Cat Under Fire

2

The Molena Point jail stood across a narrow alley from the police department and courthouse. Its ancient brick structure was well past its prime but solid as the proverbial brick outhouse, and Police Captain Harper fought each attempt to condemn the jail and tear it down. Its proximity to the station was convenient for new bookings and court case confinements, so his officers did not have to transport prisoners to and from the county lockup. The property, however, in the center of the village, was so valuable for commercial purposes that every year there was a battle. So far, Harper had prevailed. The back of the jail faced the police parking lot behind the station, and was shaded by a gnarled oak, its branches caressing the barred jailhouse windows.

Three stories above the alley, Dulcie crouched in the knotted, twisted tree, gazing intently across empty space to the window of Rob Lake's cell. On the brick windowsill two dozen pigeons strutted, dirtying the bars, eyeing her, and cooing inanely in their conviction that no cat could reach them across empty space. Peabrains. Can't they remember I've leaped that chasm every day for a week?

Gathering herself, fixing her attention on the narrow brick sill, she tightened down, flexed her haunches, lashed her tail, and sailed across. Pigeons exploded away loud as a clap of thunder.

Moving along the sill between pigeon droppings, she pressed against the bars and wire mesh. The high degree of security amused her. Max Harper took no chances with his prisoners. Below her in the dim cell, Rob sat hunched on his unmade bunk, his head in his hands, unaware of her. Hadn't even glanced up at the explosion of pigeon wings. He'd made no effort to clean himself up for the day, his brown hair was rumpled from sleep, his face stubbly, his prison blues wrinkled. His bedsheet and dingy blanket were in a tangle, his pillow fallen to the floor.

He was a young man, nice enough looking, though his soft face was perhaps a bit weak, a bit sullen. Maybe his very weakness drew her, stirred her pity-my maternal instincts, Joe says-and kept her coming back. He always seemed so happy to see her, as if she was perhaps the only visitor he had, besides his attorney.

And who could warm to that attorney? Deonne Baron might be a good defense lawyer, but she was abrupt and cold, and spoke with a harsh, precise voice that gave Dulcie a cat-sized headache. She could hardly bear to listen to Baron in court, had developed a deep, snarling dislike of the woman.

Now, she stared down into the cell at Rob's bent head, and mewled softly.

He looked up and grinned. The desolation, which showed for only an instant, left his face. He rose and came to the window, reaching up to press his fingers through the wire mesh and pet her. "Glad you're here, cat. I was getting the sweats real bad; the walls were closing in." He looked her over, reached a finger to rub her ear. "I don't know why, cat, but you always make me feel better. Somehow you take away the trapped feeling."

He frowned, scratched his stubbled cheek. "Another day in court. More endless testimony. And for what? They all think I killed her."

He looked at her deeply. "Why do you come here, cat? I'm sure glad you do, but hell, I don't even feed you, except a few scraps, sometimes. And I can't really pet you very well through all this metal. What brings you here, kitty? My sweet jailhouse smell?" He pressed his hand harder against the wire, seeking her warmth. She pressed back, rubbing her face against the cold wire, then winding back and forth on the narrow ledge, looking in at him inquiringly. Usually an inquiring look would get him to talk; this was how she had gotten him to tell her how he felt about Janet. He had sworn to her that he didn't kill Janet. And why would he lie to a cat?

Joe said maybe Rob was a pathological liar, maybe he'd rather lie than tell the truth, even to a cat, that maybe he lied to himself, too. Or maybe he liked to practice his lies on her, polishing them for his next court appearance.

But Joe was wrong. Rob Lake did not kill Janet.

She knew he felt trapped, trapped in the tiny cell, and trapped most of all by a legal system that should have protected him. Rob seemed, as the trial progressed, to grow more and more despondent. As if the whole world was against him, as if he didn't have a chance. And when he talked about Janet, Dulcie knew he had loved her, that he couldn't have hurt her.

Janet's death had shaken the whole village. The young artist had been such a bright part of Molena Point life, and so beautiful, her long pale hair, her slim build and easy stride, her cheerful, unassuming presence. She didn't fuss over her looks-she never wore makeup, and she usually dressed in old, worn jeans, which often had a welding burn or a paint stain. Of all their local artists, Molena Point had loved Janet best, and had loved her paintings best. Her big, splashy interpretations of the wind-driven rocky coves, her tiny cottages tucked between the huge and windy hills, were subjects which, treated by a lesser painter, would have been trite, but to which Janet brought a powerful vibrancy and magic. Dulcie had been deeply touched by her work. The transition Janet accomplished, turning an ordinary bit of the world into something new and wondrous, seemed to mirror exactly the transition in Dulcie's own life-from ordinary cat self into a world exploding with vistas and possibilities she'd never before guessed at.

She missed Janet, missed seeing her around the village, missed her casual visits to Wilma's when she would pop by for a cup of coffee and a few minutes of comfortable talk. The day of the fire, after Janet's body had been taken away, Dulcie came home and crept under the couch into the quiet dark and curled down into a little ball, her nose pressed to her flank, her tail tight around herself. No one but Wilma or Joe could understand how a cat could grieve for a human.

The night before Janet was killed, she had driven home alone from a long weekend in San Francisco, from the opening of the de Young Museum Annual, where she had accepted first prize for oils and second prize for sculpture. That was a heady night for any artist, to receive two top awards in one major show. That was Sunday night. She had left the reception around ten, driving south along the coast, the only direct route, arriving home near midnight. She had pulled the van into her hillside garage-studio, and in a few minutes, a neighbor said, her lights came on in her downstairs apartment. Half an hour later the lights went out, as if she had gone to bed.

She rose early Monday morning as was her habit- she was up by five. A neighbor leaving for his job on the Baytowne wharves saw her lights. She must have dressed, gone directly upstairs, and made coffee in the studio as she usually did. The newspaper said she was under a tight schedule, finishing up the last small touches on a metal sculpture commission to be delivered that week. The county fire investigators weren't sure whether, when she turned on her oxygen gauge, the tank exploded, or whether fire broke out first and caused the tank's explosion. She was hit in the head by flying metal.

The Molena Point police found a liberal smearing of oil on Janet's oxygen gauge and in the lines. Oil which, when the tank was turned on, could have caused the explosion. But that wasn't what killed her.

Traces of aspirin were found in her blood, and Janet was deathly allergic to the medication; even a small dose would have dangerously slowed her breathing. The police had found traces of aspirin in the metal of the melted coffeemaker. The combination of aspirin and smoke inhalation had been sufficient to end Janet's life. And perhaps the explosion of her van had prevented her dazed escape.

Normally she did not weld with her van inside the studio complex, but she only had to do a little touch-up to the sculpture. When flames reached the van's gas tank the resulting explosion turned the fire into an inferno that leveled her studio and swept on across the hills. Fanned by the early-morning wind, it burned a wide swath of the residential hills, igniting a half-mile corridor of trees and houses to the south, but leaving Janet's apartment below the studio's concrete slab nearly untouched. The evidence soon pointed to Rob Lake. His old Chevy Suburban was seen in the drive just before the fire and his prints were recovered from the scene. Dulcie watched him now as he paced the cell, returning to her, reaching up again, then moving away. He could not be still.

Janet had broken up with Rob nearly a year before she died. They were not on good terms. They had parted when Lake began a professional relationship with Janet's ex-husband.

Onetime art critic Kendrick Mahl, now a gallery owner, had made a big name of Lake, though Lake's work wasn't much. Village gossip had it that Mahl took Lake into his stable to spite Janet. And who could blame Lake for jumping at the chance? Mahl was a big name in California art circles.

Mahl promoted one-man shows for Lake, pressed for articles in art publications, ran full-page, full-color ads in those same journals. Until the murder, Lake had been well on his way to becoming a big name. Now, except for the attention of sensation seekers, Lake's career was on hold. Rob Lake's world had shrunk overnight to the size of his jail cell.

Lake didn't have a solid alibi for the night Janet died. There was no witness to his movements once he left San Francisco. After the reception at the de Young, he had parried with friends. He returned home to Molena Point about 4 A.M. and went to bed. Two witnesses testified that he left San Francisco shortly after two in the morning. Lake had had keys to Janet's studio from the days when they were dating, as well as keys to her four-year-old Chevy van. He testified that for sentimental reasons he hadn't returned them, that he kept them in his dresser drawer.

But Janet's agent, Sicily Aronson, also had a set of keys, to both the studio and the van. And so had Kendrick Mahl at one time. Mahl, in court testimony, said he'd given them back and that he hadn't made copies.

Rob stroked Dulcie through the wire. "You know, cat, I never had pets. I always laughed at people with pets. I thought it was stupid, dogs fawning and whining, that having an animal was just a big bother.

"I figured cats were totally aloof, that cats just used a person. But you're not like that."

He looked at her intently. "I give you nothing, I can't even pet you properly, and still you come to see me. Why?"

Dulcie purred.

"Sometimes, cat, I don't think even my attorney gives a damn. I wish… But what the hell. Maybe all attorneys are like that." He was silent for a few moments, his gaze boyish and innocent. "Maybe if I could paint in here, if they'd let me have paints and some canvas, maybe I could relax." He pressed both hands against the mesh, his palms flat.

"But what good would it be to paint? Truth is, I'm not sure if I want to go on painting when I-if I get out of here."

She gave him a surprised look, then quickly she nibbled at her paw.

He studied her, frowning. "I'm not like Janet; I'm not a passionate painter like Janet was." He grinned at the word. "But it's true. Janet painted because she had to, she was driven to paint. But me-I never had that kind of passion.

"And ever since she died, cat, I really don't give a damn."

He leaned his forehead against the concrete. "I envied her talent, cat. But you know I couldn't have killed her." He looked up at her searchingly. "I hope you know it. I guess you're the only one who does know it." He looked sheepish suddenly, then he laughed.

"I've really lost it, telling my troubles to a cat. But, I don't know…" He frowned, shook his head. "I feel like you really do care. Like you know I didn't kill her."

She purred louder, wishing she could speak to him, could comfort him.

That would really tear it-send Joe into complete orbit.

"Even when Mahl took me into his gallery, cat, when he made me a part of that exclusive stable, I knew I wasn't in the same league as Janet.

"Right from the start, I knew that Mahl did it to hurt her. I was ashamed of that," he said softly. "But not ashamed enough to stop him. I let him do it, and I didn't complain, I didn't have the guts. All I wanted was to be famous."

Lake turned away again to pace the cell, then whirled to Dulcie so suddenly she started and nearly fell off the narrow ledge.

"I wasn't ashamed enough to stop," he shouted. "Not ashamed enough to turn away from one big ego trip."

She stared at him until he calmed down. This guy could, without too much effort, become a real basket case.

"If I hadn't let Mahl build me into a big name, hadn't let him use me to hurt her, maybe she'd still be alive. Maybe we would never have broken up, maybe we'd still be together." He sat down on the rumpled bunk, looked up at Dulcie.

"Maybe we would have been together that night, and I might have prevented what happened." He stared up at her bleakly. "I didn't kill her, cat. But maybe it's my fault she died."

Dulcie was stricken with pity for him, but she was irritated, too. Right from the start he had stirred every ounce of her sympathy, yet his total lack of hope enraged her. He seemed to have given up already. Sometimes he was so negative she wondered why she bothered.

Maybe she was suffering from misguided mothering instincts, but one thing she knew for sure-Lake was innocent. He was in there because of Marritt's sloppy investigation. Captain Harper wouldn't keep Marritt on the force for a minute if the mayor and city council hadn't threatened Harper's own job. She thought Harper was biding his time, waiting for a good way to dump Marritt, one the city couldn't argue with.

And as for the prosecuting attorney, what could you say? The county attorney wanted a conviction.

But it was her dreams that had really convinced her of Rob's innocence. Three times she had dreamed of Janet's white cat, and he was trying to tell her something, show her something important.

Before the fire she and Joe had occasionally seen the white cat as they hunted the hills, and had glimpsed him leaping out through Janet's studio window, which the artist had kept open for him. They didn't see him often, and Dulcie thought he must have spent a lot of time in the house, sleeping. He was not a young cat.

After the fire, crews of villagers and SPCA volunteers had searched the hills for all the missing animals. They had found most of the dogs and cats, but they had found no trace of Janet's cat. Joe said he probably died in the fire; but no remains were found. It was a terrible thing to die in a fire; Dulcie was sickened to imagine such a death.

It was a week after the fire when she began to dream of the white cat. He was a longhaired torn, very elegant, with deep blue eyes. Her dreams were so clear that she could see the rabies tag fixed to his blue collar, and the small brass plate with Janet's name. In each dream he wanted her to follow him, he would turn looking back at her, giving a switch of his tail and a flick of his ears. But each time, when she tried to follow, she woke.

Rob stood looking out into the hall through his barred door, then returned to the window. "The police are going up to Janet's this morning; they're going to look for her diary. God knows what's in it, cat. God knows what she said about me."

She stared at him, puzzled, galvanized with interest. She'd heard nothing about a diary.

"Late yesterday a witness testified about the diary. That skinny old lady who said she saw my Suburban at Janet's the morning she was killed. She testified again, told the court that Janet had a diary."

The witness was Elisa Trest. Dulcie had thought Elisa wasn't going on the stand until this morning. If she'd known that, she would have stayed later yesterday afternoon.

"That Trest woman used to clean for Janet. I remember her up there poking around. Dried-up, nosy old biddy. She couldn't have seen my car. Why would she lie about it? She's saying Janet kept her diary on the shelf in the bedroom, but I never saw it. If there was a diary, I bet the old woman read every word, the way her face turned pink."

He sighed. "After we broke up, and I went with Mahl, I can imagine what Janet must have written about me. Well, it's out of my hands. But if the cops find it, that could mean another delay. Sometimes I think the delays are worse than a conviction; it's the delays that drain you, drag you down.

"But what do you care?" he said crossly. "What would a dumb cat care?"

Dulcie blinked.

He was like this sometimes, sweet and needing one minute, and angry the next. Well, the young man hurt; and he was afraid. And she was the only one available to yell at. She narrowed her eyes, thinking about the diary, wondering if such evidence would help Rob or would strengthen the case against him. Wondering, if Detective Marritt found the journal, what he would do. And if Deonne Baron got hold of the diary, if she thought it would win the case, she was the kind of woman who would spread Janet's personal life all over the papers. Ms. Baron didn't care about Rob, Dulcie was convinced of that, but she was boldly aggressive about winning.

Dulcie lashed her tail, dunking. She wanted to see Janet's journal; she wanted a look at it before the police found it.

She turned, looking down into the police parking area. The officers' private cars were damp with overnight dew, the windshields fogged over. The shift hadn't changed. It wasn't yet eight o'clock, when the day watch came on, when Marritt would arrive at work and maybe head right up to Janet's to look for the diary.

She gave Rob a long look and left him, leaping across the three-story drop into the oak tree, scattering pigeons. Clinging to the branches, digging her claws deep into the rough bark, she backed down and took off, running.