Fat Cat At Large (A Fat Cat Mystery)

TWENTY-EIGHT

The square-jawed policeman raised his gun again, this time pointing it at the newcomer. Mike stopped in the doorway to Hilda’s kitchen, his eyes wide.

“What’s going on?” Mike asked.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” The policeman sounded as suspicious of Mike as he had of Chase. She wondered if Mike’s heart was hammering as fast as hers was.

“I’m Dr. Ramos. I live across the street. I was coming home for lunch and saw the commotion. Is Ms. Bjorn all right?”

“I think someone hit her on the head,” Chase blurted.

The round-faced policeman silenced her with a glare. The other one was talking on a phone.

“I saw the ambulance take her away,” said Mike. “Is she going to be okay?”

“Are you a medical doctor?” asked the policeman not on the phone.

“No, a veterinarian.”

“Isn’t that medical?” asked Chase.

“You be quiet.” Another one of those stern glares. He went to talk to his partner again. After further hushed debate, he turned to Mike. “Would you be able to take this animal?”

“Take him where?” Mike and Chase both said together.

The policeman unhooked a set of handcuffs from his belt. “We’re taking her in, but can’t take the cat.”

“You’re what?” Mike said it, but Chase thought it at the same time.

There was no answer. Mike threw Chase a worried glance. “What did you do?”

“I found Ms. Bjorn on her floor and called nine one one.”

“Quincy got out again, I gather.”

Chase nodded. She wanted to ask him what he was doing here when he had told her an appointment was coming in his door and he needed to hang up on their conversation.

“I’m sure this will get cleared up in a hurry.” Mike took Quincy from Chase, giving her a pat on the shoulder. It should have been reassuring, but she barely noticed, as the policeman, the round-faced one, grabbed her wrists and pulled them behind her to snap on the cuffs. They were cold and uncomfortable.

“Can I get my phone?” Chase asked. It lay on the floor where she had dropped it. It was unbroken, at least. The round-faced policeman picked it up and pocketed it.

“I’ll take care of Quincy,” Mike said, as he left. “Then I’ll go to the station. Call me when you know what’s going on.”

Chase nodded again, unable to speak her thanks. As soon as Mike was gone, tears started spilling down her face. It was distressing that she wasn’t able to wipe them with her hands secured behind her. The taller, square-jawed one took her elbow and guided her, not ungently, out of the kitchen and to the front room. He motioned her onto one of the soft chairs and she perched on the edge of the cushion, not able to sit back because of the awkward handcuffs.

After a few minutes she asked what they were waiting for. As she was speaking, a team of forensic people entered with cameras and bags of equipment. Oh yes, she thought, the CSI people. Detective Olson followed them. They all proceeded down the hallway, but Detective Olson soon returned.

He took a seat in the other easy chair and sat facing her. “What’s going on?” he asked the uniformed policeman. He didn’t seem like the monster he had been when he was grilling her.

“Suspect was found standing over the victim. Victim was on the floor, bleeding and unconscious, with a heavy piece of marble beside her.”

The detective turned to Chase. “Again?”

“Not exactly. This wasn’t a stabbing. And I didn’t do it this time either.”

The policeman, still standing, stirred a bit. He was frowning at Chase. She didn’t think he believed her. He stood at attention, his hands clasped behind him, and swayed slightly.

“I know, you were chasing your cat,” said the detective.

“Yes.”

“No, not really. Chasing your cat again? I was joking.”

“Quincy likes Ms. Bjorn. He’s run away and come here before.” She wished that policeman would stop swaying. And frowning.

“Tell me exactly what happened, Ms. Oliver.” Detective Olson took out a notepad. The whole scenario was all too depressingly familiar, from the use of Ms. Oliver to the notepad. At least she was in a living room.

She related how Quincy must have gotten out of the office as she hung up from talking with Mike. She called him Dr. Ramos, making herself a mental note to ask Mike, when she picked Quincy up, why he was going home to lunch right after he’d told her his next appointment was at his office.

After she’d told Detective Olson the rest, which wasn’t much—that she’d gone after Quincy, learned from Professor Fear that Ms. Bjorn had been ill today, and had entered her house to see if she could do anything for her—he wrote for another minute or so, then looked up.

“Why would you be concerned about the woman who is a witness against you?”

“She’s . . . she’s an old woman and she’s sick and she’s . . . wrong.”

“Were you thinking of attempting to change her mind about what she saw?”

He could tell that? “No, of course not. That would be tampering, wouldn’t it?”

Detective Olson narrowed his eyes in an unattractive way.

“Since I was here, because Quincy was here, I thought I’d peek in and see if she needed anything. Professor Fear said—”

“Yes, I heard you. He said she was sick.” He still didn’t seem convinced, but told the policeman to take the handcuffs off.

“My cell phone,” Chase said.

Detective Olson retrieved it and handed it to her. “If I need anything further, I’ll be in touch,” he said.

Grateful, Chase stammered something and fled.