Cat Playing Cupid (22 page)

T
HEY WERE ON
the highway again, still moving north. Joe was getting used to the vibration on the floor of the Mercedes, which seemed to have turned into a rumbling purr and was making him sleepy. Was he actually going to drift off while roaring down the highway not knowing where he was headed or what would happen to him?

He had no idea who Lindsey had reached on the phone, but certainly she must have called the department. Had she talked with Harper? Dallas? Had they put out an alert on the navy blue Honda? Or did they not have enough on Gibbs to do that? So far, Ray Gibbs was really only a “person of interest.”

They were still on Highway 1, he could smell the sea. He kept wondering why, if Ray and Ryder were trying to avoid arrest, they'd chosen this slower route. Why hadn't they taken the busier, multilane 101? After they seemed to be in a hell of a hurry to get out of the village, here
they were tooling along by the narrow, scenic route like a couple of tourists.

Did they think they'd be expected to go the other way? Think that with more cops on the 101, maybe watching for them, they'd be spotted more quickly?

Or were they not running? Had that not been Ray's Honda leaving the ruins? Was this some big fat coincidence, could both he and Lindsey be wrong despite the couple's hurried departure? Were those two simply driving up the coast for the weekend, with no notion that Ray's dead wife might have been found? Were they maybe headed innocently to visit friends in Santa Cruz or Half-Moon Bay?

If this
was
a wild goose chase, and if Clyde learned about it, he'd never hear the last, Clyde would rag him for the rest of his nine lives.

Which, given his present situation and Lindsey's erratic driving, might not be too long.

But what if that dark figure slipping through the ruins had not been Ray or Ryder searching for the possibly valuable old book?

He wondered what Nina might have told Ryder about her aunt Olivia at the time the two were friendly, before they both set their caps for Carson. Would Nina have bragged about some rare old book in the family, a book that had vanished when Olivia died?

He wondered if Olivia, finding herself very ill, had hidden the book, not wanting Nina to have it and sell it. Not wanting to destroy it, but vowing to keep the cats' secret, she'd have no other choice but to hide it.

Olivia dies, but Nina knows about the book and has a nice little drama to recount. She tells Ryder, and then after Nina disappears, Ryder thinks about the story, and starts going up to the old estate looking for Olivia's treasure. Starts looking again after she returns from L.A., maybe venturing down into that labyrinth of old, crumbling cellars and up into the unsafe rooms among the mansion's fallen walls?

But she didn't find it, did she!
he thought, smiling.

 

D
ULCIE WAITED AROUND
the station for nearly an hour, fidgeting and biting at nonexistent fleas, but Joe didn't come bolting in. She was burning to know what had gone down this morning. Dallas was back in his office, very likely filing his report. She wanted to go back there and read it. Or should she join Mike in the conference room where he, too, was recording the morning's events while stoking up on stale coffee?

She was about to head for the conference room when a sleazy little woman in pink tights came in the front door to complain about a traffic ticket. And then, at the desk, Mabel routed a call through to Dallas that, in seconds, brought the detective double-timing up the hall shouting at Mike. “It's Lindsey, she's following them!”

Both men raced out the front door, piled into the Blazer, and spun out of the parking lot, their red light whirling. At the radio, Mabel put out an APB on Lindsey Wolf's tan Mercedes and on Ray's Honda Accord. The little woman in her pink tights had backed up against the
holding cell, out of the way. Dulcie felt cold clear to her paws—
now
she knew where Joe was.

Call it instinct, call it feline perception. She felt certain that, somehow, Joe had hitched a ride with Lindsey.

Everyone else was back from the ruins but Joe. Dulcie didn't know the details, but instinct told he'd slipped into Lindsey's car. Or, worse, had managed to crawl into Gibbs's car. Either way, Dulcie's paws were icy with dread.

She sat thinking for only a moment, weighing her options. And as a trio of uniforms hurried in, she slid out the front door, past their ankles, skinned up the oak tree, and took off across the roofs, speeding for Joe's house and Clyde.

 

D
ESPITE HIS NERVOUS
state and the fast and careening ride, Joe dozed; he woke to the rumble of heavier traffic, as if they were now on a busy freeway. And soon, peering up through the windows at a sky turned hazy with smog, he glimpsed a dark airport sign flash by overhead:
SAN JOSE INTERNATIONAL.
Lindsey had turned inland, he could hear the big planes taking off, one coming right over them, nearly deafening him. Was she still with the Honda? She had the air-conditioning on, and he could see by the flat, smoggy sky that it was hot here, a haze-filled scorcher.

If Ryder and Ray were headed to the airport to catch a plane, would Lindsey try to get a ticket, maybe on standby, and follow them? Right. And leave her locked car in short-term parking among acres of empty cars, leave him shut in a sweltering vehicle. He stared up at the door lock, won
dering if he could open it. Every make and model was different, and this one didn't look easy.

If he couldn't slip out before she slammed the door, he'd be imprisoned alone with no phone and no one to hear his yowls for help. Trapped in the hot car as the heat built and kept building…How long could he live in heat that would peak at far over a hundred? How long before he keeled over from dehydration, turned up his claws, and breathed his last?

Shaken by the thought of increasing thirst and a slow and agonizing bodily shutdown, he prayed fervently to the great cat god that he could open that lock—yet even hidden by the back of the seat he was reluctant to reach up an exploring paw and try it, afraid he'd make some little noise or that she'd glimpse his paw in the space between the seat and the door. Tempted as he was, he remained crouched in a frightened funk as more airport signs flipped by overhead on their tall poles. She slowed at the sign for short-term parking.

They sat idling, as if there were cars lined up ahead. Was the Honda up there in front of them? He heard the gate arm rise five times, as the drivers ahead stepped on the gas and pulled through.

Was Ray leading her into a trap? Wanted her to park inside that cavernous, covered, fenced lot, where he could get at her?

As wild as that seemed, if Ray or Ryder
had
killed Carson, and maybe Nina, what difference was one more murder? Had Lindsey thought of that? Did she realize how foolish she might be to follow them?

He kept puzzling over why, after their argument in
the condo, the couple was fleeing together. It had sounded as if each was conning the other, as if either one could be the killer. Now, the only conclusion was that whoever was the killer had at last confided in the other, that they had fled together, partners to the end.

Unless he was reading this all wrong. Unless, despite Ray's hatred of cops, both were in fact innocent.

Could Lindsey be following them knowing full well they were innocent? Following them because
she
needed a scapegoat and was somehow setting them up?

He heard the parking machine whir as Lindsey punched the button for her ticket, heard the gate rise again. She'd turned the air-conditioning down, and already it was getting hot on the floor. He wondered if, at the last minute, he
could
leap out before she slammed the door. Or if he'd lose his nerve, break his solemn commitment to silence, even forget that all he need do was meow, and find himself shouting in fear for her to let him out, to save him? If, in panic, he'd spill his and Dulcie's and Kit's secret to save his own scrawny neck?

They moved through the gate at a crawl. As they crept beneath the concrete roof, the interior of the car darkened to a murky half-light. She stopped several times, apparently as cars paused ahead of her, then she swerved abruptly into a parking space, pulling in beside a tall SUV that blocked his view on the right. He poised to leap as she got out. But she was too quick, she flipped the master lock, slammed the door nearly in his face, and slipped along beside the car, looking across the lot. Watching Ray and Ryder?

Locked in the car, should he make his presence known?
Mewl and yowl like an ordinary cat and paw at the window? One more second and she'd be gone, it would be too late.

Cautiously rearing up, he saw Ray and Ryder crossing the street, heading for the terminal. When Lindsey moved as if to follow them, Joe remained silent, his paws sweating—then it
was
too late, she was gone between the parked cars.

He tried the back door handle and the lock. He couldn't budge either, nor the lock on the other back door. Had she activated some kind of safety lock, some child-proof mechanism? When he rose to look out, she was nearly to the terminal. He paused before jumping into the front seat.

Alone, he began to feel very small. The parking cavern spread over him vast and grim into its own horizons, as if there was nothing else in all the world. Could she mean to follow them onto a plane, find out where they were going, and then scramble to buy a ticket? The car was growing uncomfortably warm.

Maybe she meant only to see what flight they boarded, then use a phone in the airport to call the station?

If one of them
was
the killer, wouldn't they try for an international flight, skip the country, go where they'd be hard to locate? Not likely that Lindsey would have a passport with her. Would Ray and Ryder board using assumed names, carrying false IDs? Who knew what other crimes those two might have committed that would require a fake ID as a tool of the trade. Leaping to the front seat to try those locks, he heard footsteps.

She was coming back. He ducked down fast, didn't
dare jump over into the backseat again, she was too close and he was in plain sight. He crouched on the seat waiting for her to open the door, determined to fly through.

Nothing happened. Her footsteps stopped.

When he rose to sneak a fast look, she was standing in front of the car shielded by a pillar, looking across the vast sea of cars toward the terminal. He could see Ray and Ryder in front of an entry, they seemed to be arguing. Lindsey watched for a moment, but when they turned away, moving inside through the swinging door, she took off running.

P
AWING AT
the driver's-door handle of the Mercedes, Joe was surprised that it pulled down easily. No safety lock here. But he'd set off the alarm! Its whoop deafened him.

Shouldering the door open fast, he was out of there. He remembered only then that if a car was locked from outside, then opened from the inside, this would inevitably happen. Leaping to the top of the car trying to ignore its shrill scream, and watching for security, he stared frantically across the rows of parked vehicles for Lindsey.

He saw where Ray had parked the Honda. Looked like he'd been in such a hurry he'd left the windows down. Even rearing up, Joe couldn't see much on the street beyond. Leaping to the top of a tall RV, wondering how long that siren would keep pulsating, he looked over the tops of the other parked cars, past the gray concrete expanse to the terminal.

There she was, running through the crowd of hurrying passengers. She seemed to be headed for a cop car
parked a block away in front of the Delta entrance. As she dodged behind a bus, he saw Ray Gibbs.

Gibbs had spotted her. He spun around, ran straight for her. She didn't see him. The alarm of the Mercedes was still blaring. Another second and Ray would grab her. Joe, speeding over the roofs of parked cars, heading for the unlocked Honda, prayed for luck, prayed they'd been in such a hurry they'd left belongings behind. Had maybe left…Leaping up clawing at the partly open glass, he hung there for an instant then bellied over into the seat praying to find…

A jacket lay crumpled on the seat, half a dozen empty paper cups and wadded paper bags were on the floor, and, beside the jacket, Ryder's open purse. Then they
were
coming back, he thought frantically.

Rooting in the purse, he found what he wanted. Stuffed down among lipstick, nail polish, wadded tissues, and a packet of broken crackers nestled Ryder's cell phone, either abandoned or forgotten. Pawing open the phone, he was studying it, hoping he could figure this one out, when he heard a scream.

He never knew later how he got up onto the Honda's roof so fast, clawing himself up over the edge and then rearing high…Surprised himself that he had the cell phone clutched in his teeth, probably soaking it with cat spit. They were closer, just outside the parking area. Ray had Lindsey, pulling her arm behind her. She elbowed him and kicked at him. People were staring, but no one ran to help. Pedestrians moved back, scattered. Had the cop seen? Joe stared at the unit a block away. It looked empty.

“What the hell do you want?” Ray was shouting. “Why did you follow us?” Joe forgot about the phone as Lindsey fought, hitting useless blows, twisting around trying to strike at his face; Ray ducked, grabbing both her arms. Lindsey kneed him hard. As he doubled over, Joe turned frantically to the phone. Where was the security vehicle that should have come to the Mercedes's siren blast?
Dial 911
, Joe thought frantically,
dial it now—there it is, the Send button.

But then he stopped.

Ryder's cell phone would be on the Molena Point prefix. If he dialed 911, he'd get Molena Point PD. What he wanted, fast, was San Jose PD or the local sheriff or a nearby CHP unit—and he didn't know the prefix for those. Ray shouted again and hit Lindsey hard, sending her reeling. At the same moment, the Mercedes's alarm went quiet. Lindsey spun around and came at Ray, enraged. “
You
killed him!” she screamed. “
You
shot Carson!”

Dropping down again through the Honda's window, Joe laid on the horn, blasting away in a wild and uneven rhythm that should get someone's attention.

When he stopped for a minute, he heard Lindsey shout, “Who was with him when you killed him? Who was she?” This was not the soft-spoken Lindsey Wolf Joe knew, this woman was wired. “Was that Nina with him? You killed Nina, too!” she shouted, and hit him hard in the face.

Joe gave the horn another long, ear-splitting blast then three short ones. Three more, in the signal for
Need help
. Then he grabbed the cell phone in his mouth, crawled out the open window, dropped to the concrete, and slid
under the car. And he took off running beneath the parked cars, listening for footsteps or for some engine starting up, for a car ready to back out. He tried his best not to drool on the phone. Who knew what cat spit would do to that delicate tangle of microchips and electronic mysteries? He was looking for a place to hide, to try to get through to the local cops, when Lindsey screamed in pain. Her voice was closer, and he could hear scraping footsteps as if Ray was dragging her.

Joe leaped to the hood of a pickup in time to see Ray hit her again, so hard she reeled against a car and fell. It was then he saw Ryder, slipping up behind Ray. Joe stiffened as she jammed a pistol in his ribs. He could just see the small automatic in the palm of her hand. “Back off, Ray! Leave her! We're getting out of here!”

Ray spun around and in one swift move slammed Ryder's arm away and grabbed the gun. A shot rang out, echoing beneath the concrete roof. A second shot came as Joe dove for cover behind some crates in the bed of the pickup, wondering if wooden crates would stop a stray bullet.

There was a long silence. He slipped up to look.

He couldn't see anyone. Not Ray, not Lindsey, not Ryder. Leaping to the top of the pickup, he saw a car pulling out of a parking place and another, a black Audi, pulling in hurriedly, as if the driver might be late for a flight.

Apparently the new arrival hadn't heard the shots or had thought they were backfires. As the portly, dark-suited man stepped out of the Audi, Ray appeared behind him, spun him around with a hard punch to the side of the neck. The guy went down in a heap. Ray snatched his
keys, fished in the guy's pockets as if looking for a parking ticket, then jumped in the car and burned rubber as he backed out and took off. Over the stink of exhaust, Joe caught a whiff of blood.

Rearing up, he saw Lindsey rise slowly, clutching her side, pulling Ryder up with her. Ryder leaned against her as they stumbled toward Lindsey's Mercedes. Joe lost sight of them as he frantically punched in 911, for Molena Point PD. He thought he should have done that in the first place—but on the first ring, the black Audi came wheeling back, screeching into the same parking spot.

Ray leaped out, gun in hand.

At the same moment, a figure jumped out of the Mercedes and took off running, doubled over. Joe couldn't see if it was Lindsey or Ryder. Brown hair, a glimpse of jeans—both had brown hair, both were wearing jeans. The phone made three rings, then Officer Hendricks picked up.

“Get Garza on your radio,” Joe told Hendricks, wanting to shout but keeping his voice low. “Ray Gibbs. At San Jose airport. He just shot either Ryder Wolf or her sister. Short-term parking.”

Looking up, he saw Ray standing at the open door of Lindsey's car, looking in. Saw Gibbs fire another shot into the front seat, and then take off running after the escaping figure. As he disappeared among the cars, a police car pulled in, moving slowly, the lone officer scanning the area as he cruised behind the parked cars in the direction of the shots.

Joe could hear Hendricks talking, presumably on the radio, as he'd instructed. The cop car had turned into the lane that would put him behind Lindsey's Mercedes,
which stood with its door open. The smell of blood was strong. Stepping out, gun drawn, the officer approached the driver's side, where he could see in. “Hands on top of your head. Get out slowly.”

Inside, no one moved.

“Get out
now
!”

A dozen cars away the black Audi slid quietly out of its parking place and headed at a sedate pace for the exit. With the light glancing against its closed windows, Joe couldn't see if Ray was alone or if he had Lindsey or Ryder.

“He's in a stolen black Audi,” Joe said softly. “He's leaving, he—”

He could see the cop on his radio calling for assistance—he looked up in Joe's direction, as if he'd heard the tomcat's whisper. Silently Joe laid down the phone in the bed of the pickup, pawed it behind the crates, leaped over the side of the truck bed, and hit the ground running.