Cat Playing Cupid (23 page)

D
ALLAS'S
B
LAZER
had just passed the Soquel exit on Highway 1. From this juncture they had three choices: Stay on 1 up the coast, take 9 toward Saratoga, or take 17 toward 280 and San Jose. They hadn't seen a sign of the navy blue Honda, nor had they had any response to their “Be on the lookout.” Moving into the right lane, Dallas pulled off the highway and into a gas station. He was reaching for the radio when Harper came on.

“Where are you?”

“Just pulled over at Soquel. Not a sign of him, don't know which—”

“Cut over to San Jose. His car's at the airport, short-term parking. Wait a minute,” Max said. “He just pulled out in a black Audi, no plate number.”

Dallas swerved out of the gas station and hit the road again. “Who do you have up there? Why didn't they get the plate? Are they on his tail?”

“No one,” Max said stiffly. “No law enforcement.”

“What do you mean,
no one
? Who called in?” Dallas stared at the microphone in his hand, then back at the road.

“Mike's with you?” Max said.

“Affirmative,” Dallas said, scowling.

“Lindsey's car is there. San Jose is at the scene. There's a woman in the front seat, wounded.”

Mike grabbed the radio from Dallas. Max was saying, “A second woman ran, no sign of her.”

“Is it Lindsey?” Mike shouted. “How bad is she? What happened?”

“No ID yet. We don't know who, or how bad. Medics are on the way.”

“Step on it,” Mike yelled at Dallas.

Dallas had already switched on the red light, heading fast for the 17 turnoff that would take them inland to San Jose; as he peeled up the ramp onto the freeway, Mike shouted, “Are they sure it's Lindsey's car? Can't the informant ID her?”

“Informant didn't stay on the line,” Max said. “We're talking to uniforms at the scene. Car's registered to Lindsey Wolf but no ID on the woman, no purse.”

“Description?”

“Brown hair. Hazel eyes. About five seven. Wearing jeans. A Levi's jacket on the seat under her. Informant said there were two women, thought both might have been shot.”

Dallas hit the siren and gave it the gas. “Watch for the Audi coming this way.”

Mike leaned forward nervously, watching traffic. “There must be a million black Audis.” But he did the best
he could, as fast as they were moving. “Why would he come back this way? Why not head north, on the 101? If he hurt Lindsey…,” he said with cold threat.

“Settle down, you don't know that's Lindsey. You can't do her any good if you're all worked up. Settle down and watch for the Audi.”

 

I
N THE FALSE
twilight of the parking complex, police and sheriff's cars were crowded around an EMT van, blocking Lindsey's tan Mercedes and four parking lanes. San Jose officers stood redirecting traffic as a pair of medics slid a stretcher bearing a blanket-covered figure into the emergency vehicle, and climbed in behind it. Beyond the tangle of law enforcement, down on the concrete at the level of tires and hubcaps, Joe Grey crouched beneath an old brown Jeep. He hadn't been able to glimpse the figure in the Mercedes. Couldn't see whether it was Ryder or Lindsey. And now all he could see were cops' legs, the place was wall-to-wall cops.

But there had been only one person in the Mercedes, he knew that much. As the medics had put her on the stretcher, he'd gotten a glimpse of slim, Levi's-clad legs, dull-colored jogging shoes such as Lindsey had worn—but so had Ryder. He'd been mildly surprised that she wasn't dressed fancy when he first saw her leaving the condo. And now, with uniforms all around him, he could hardly leap atop a car and peer into the medics' van trying to see more.

Sure as hell, an unattended animal in this setting would
encourage some overzealous rookie to call the pound. And later, what joking comment would these guys, talking with MPPD, make about a weird gray tomcat sitting atop a car, watching the crime scene. And wouldn't that tear it, after his anonymous phone call.

Plus,
Joe thought,
I talked with Hendricks on the phone, and Hendricks knows the snitch's voice.
Hearing jokes about a nosy gray tomcat, would Hendricks get curious enough to put two and two together? Put the gray tomcat and the voice together, thinking outside the box? No matter how far out that scenario seemed, it might get others in the department thinking, and watching him too closely, even if, at first, only in a joking way.

The EMT van started its engine, ready to head for the hospital, and Joe still didn't know who was in there. He was moving forward beneath the parked cars, hoping to hear someone mention a name, when the van driver killed his engine. Something was happening.

Joe could see the van rocking, as if, inside, the medics were moving fast. He crept closer, his paws sweating.

He felt certain that after his call, Mike and probably Dallas were on their way. He felt sick for Mike, racing to get here, imagining the worst—as Joe, right now, was trying not to do.

He knew how he'd feel if he thought Dulcie had been shot, he'd race to the scene wanting to eviscerate whoever had attacked his lady. Right now, Mike would be feeling the same.

Whatever was going on in the medics' van seemed to take forever; the van continued to rock, while outside, officers continued to protect the area, turning cars and
pedestrians away from the scene. Creeping ever closer, he was only a few feet from the van when the back doors opened and a young, sandy-haired medic stepped down, stood talking with the San Jose sergeant who seemed to be in charge; the sergeant was a tall stringbeany, bald-headed guy. His few brief words chilled Joe.

“Go on out and help work traffic,” the medic said. “I'll call for the medical examiner.”

Whoever was in the van was with them no longer. Either Lindsey or Ryder had died as the medics fought to save her. Joe had to have a closer look, he had to know.

He was now only two cars away. Crouching against a front tire, he could see inside the van, see the body on the stretcher, covered by a length of sheet, the face also covered. His heart felt as heavy as lead. Despite the danger of being seen, he slipped out from under the car on its far side, leaped to its hood, and crouched in the shadows of a pillar from where he could see in through the van's open door.

A hank of wavy brown hair hung from beneath the sheet, over the side of the stretcher. He was trying to remember the exact shade of each woman's hair, trying to determine which sister lay there, when the whoop of a siren and the screech of tires sent him dropping under the car again, out of sight.

From beneath the greasy underpinnings of the older car, he looked out across the concrete that was reddened now by reflections of a whirling light. He had crept out far enough to see that the light was spinning atop Dallas's tan Blazer when the vehicle screeched to a halt and Mike bailed out, running for the ambulance.

I
N THE NIGHT-DARK
woods, Charlie headed back toward home carrying Sage in her arms, Kit riding on her shoulder. Her flashlight was nearly dead, just the weakest wash of fading beam as she tried to pick out hindering branches blocking her path. She felt sick that she'd had to shoot the two coyotes. Coyotes were in no way evil, they were only hunting as they'd been born to do, they were only what God had made them. Not evil in the way a human could be evil.

But she'd had no choice. She was just thankful that Sage and Kit were safe.

“More to the right!” Kit said. “You're drifting off again, Charlie.” Nothing was the same at night. All that was familiar by day was, in the blackness, a jagged world of hungry branches grabbing and poking at her.

“The barn's just there,” Kit hissed. “Five more minutes, straight ahead. Can't you feel it? Can't you sense it there?”

Charlie couldn't. “But of course you can't,” Kit said,
placing a soft paw against Charlie's cheek, making her feel grossly inadequate. But then in Charlie's arms Sage looked up at her, and though she couldn't see his face clearly, the trusting feel of him, so relaxed against her, the trust of this wild and shy little feral touched her and made her feel needed.

She was stepping carefully through a tangle of vines when her cell phone played its short tune. Hastily she answered, not liking that electronic sound here in the silent woods; her crackling, clumsy progress through dry leaves and twigs and fallen branches was quite enough intrusion in this wild place—and quite enough to stir other predators.

“Where are you?” Max said. “The house is dark, the door unlocked. Are you all right? I'm at the barn. You haven't fed. The horses and dogs are still out. What is it, what's wrong?”

“I'm in the woods. I'm fine, I'm almost home. Sage ran off, but I found him. He seemed disoriented this afternoon, maybe his medication. When he ran out, Kit followed him, the way cats will.” She had no idea whether an ordinary cat would do that, but what could she say? “I ran after her. It wasn't quite dark. I have a flashlight. I found them both, but there were…I could hear coyotes…”

Was he buying her rambling explanation? He said, “I'll saddle Bucky. I'll whistle to find you. Keep your light on.”

“I…The battery's about dead.”

Max said nothing. He hated it when she forgot to keep the batteries fresh. Cops, she thought. So damned careful about their equipment. But she was glad he was—and she wished she had been.

In a very short time she heard his whistle and the far sound of a horse approaching, stepping on twigs, the rustling sound as Bucky pushed through the dense foliage. He was there so quickly that she knew Max had hardly brushed Bucky's back, had just thrown the saddle on, jerked up the cinch, and headed out.

She'd have to tell him that she'd killed the coyotes. She wasn't looking forward to that. He must have still been on the highway when she fired, or he would have heard the shots. They'd have to send wildlife management to collect the bodies and test for rabies, and Max would question her to see if she or the cats had been bitten. She answered his whistle, and in a moment Bucky came looming out of the night between two stands of pine, nearly in her face, his pale shoulders catching her fading light, his nose pushing at her. She'd never been so glad to see anyone, she wanted to hug both Bucky and Max at once.

Leaning down from the saddle, Max took Sage gently from her.

“Watch his leg,” she said. “He may have torn the splint loose.”

Max got Sage settled in his arms, and took his foot out of the stirrup so she could swing up behind him. Kit clung to her shoulder, trying not to draw blood. The tortoiseshell was so careful that Charlie hardly felt a claw.

Quietly she settled behind Max on the saddle skirt, leaning against his warmth.

“Why did the cat run?” Max said, looking down at Sage. “Well, you couldn't leave him out here all trussed up. Damn cat. How did you find them in these tangles?”

“I could hear coyotes, that's what drew me. The cats
were on a branch and two coyotes were leaping up at them.”

“Lucky the coyotes didn't climb. They will, you know. Then what happened?”

She laid her head against his back. “I killed them.”

And Max said nothing more as good Bucky made his way home through the night-black woods.

 

A
S
M
IKE AND
Dallas careened into the San Jose airport, their siren screaming and red light spinning, Dallas glanced at Mike with concern. His brother-in-law, not the type to come apart, was pale and sweating.

During his professional life, Mike Flannery had handled easily the most out-of-control parolees and the most temperamental judges, soothing both with the greatest diplomacy, but now he was a basket case, the detective had never seen him this way, not since the death of his wife, Dallas's sister. Pulling into the airport, navigating between drivers too preoccupied with finding their terminal to pull out of the way, between pedestrians too busy hauling luggage and racing for connections, he said, “You're not helping Lindsey. Get it together, take it easy!”

“What the hell was Lindsey doing, chasing them!”

Dallas slowed for a woman pushing a baby stroller. “Say Gibbs did kill the woman at the ruins. How would Lindsey know that? And how did Gibbs know we found the body? For that matter, why put his car in short-term if he meant to catch a flight and skip?”

Stopping to snatch a ticket to open the gate, Dallas
maneuvered through the covered parking area toward the flashing lights, approaching the cordoned-off crime scene. “Why the hell haven't they cleared a larger area, cleared the whole parking garage?” But most of the area would already be contaminated by the movement of officers and their vehicles. Dallas moved on through, pulling up behind the medics' van. The Blazer hadn't come to a stop when Mike jumped out and ran.

Two officers behind the van grabbed him. He shoved them away, his rage surging, jerked open the van doors and leaped inside, his mind a cold blank, not wanting to think what he would find.

The body was covered with a sheet. The face covered, a hank of brown hair hanging down. A sheet pulled over her face as if…as if…Kneeling beside the stretcher, he reached over, ignoring the medic's hand on his shoulder. When the medic held him back, he straightened up and spun around swinging.

The medic grabbed his arm. Tall, skinny, no more than a kid, he didn't back off, but looked at him steadily. All he said was “Can you identify her?” Then Dallas was there beside him, too, gripping his shoulder. Mike shrugged him off, wanting to be alone with her, not wanting anyone near them. The two men backed off. He reached out to her, reached to lift the sheet, steeling himself. Needing to touch her, to hold her. Not wanting to see her like this. Wanting to turn away, not really knowing what he wanted.

He folded the sheet back. Didn't want to look, and was drawn to look, to touch her face…

He went limp. Felt Dallas supporting him.

Ryder
. It was
Ryder
. Ryder Wolf lay there, not Lindsey. Ryder, blood congealing on her face, blood gluing her shirt to her chest. He stared at her, shocked with relief.

She'd apparently taken a glancing shot to her cheek and jaw, the flesh and bone were torn, clotted with drying blood. There was a second, close shot to her chest. Her blouse was torn open where the medics had staunched the wound with gauze. He looked at her for a long time. Thanking God that this was Ryder. Wondering if he'd burn in hell for his joy and gratitude at someone's death. But Lindsey was safe, Lindsey was alive.

Wasn't she? Where was she?

Stepping down out of the van, he realized Dallas was still holding his arm. He looked around, past the cops and security people, past the tangle of vehicles, scanning the covered parking.

“Where is she? Where's her car?”

Dallas pointed. The tan Mercedes, circled by yellow crime scene tape. A man was coming toward him carrying a black satchel, a stoop-shouldered man wearing a mussed suit, his tie loose over the open collar of a rumpled white shirt, a man who held out his hand to Dallas.

He watched and listened to Dallas greet Emmett Brassen, the San Jose medical examiner. None of their conversation seemed to make sense, they could have been speaking in Swahili. Brassen complained about the contamination of the crime scene, then headed for the Mercedes. Mike, behind him, approached Lindsey's car, where cops and a plainclothes detective were working, and now he was afraid again.

But if Lindsey were hurt, they'd have her in the med
ics' van. Was she in the car, at an angle where he couldn't see? Approaching the Mercedes, his stomach twisted.

He stopped where he could see in through the car's open door. No one in the driver's seat. It was covered with blood. Bloody Levi's jacket bunched up on the passenger seat, a plain Levi's jacket like the one Lindsey had worn this morning. He could not see a purse. Had she carried a purse this morning? He looked into the backseat, saw that it was empty. Moving away, he scanned the rows of parked civilian cars, looking for her, cold with the feeling that he'd see her lying on the concrete. Three officers were walking the scene, not collecting trace evidence but looking for Lindsey, looking in and under cars. Mike was both annoyed by their interference and annoyed by his illogical reaction, and thankful for their help.

He had no notion that someone else had already scanned the scene, far more efficiently, crouched on the concrete where he could see nearly the whole floor of the parking complex except behind the cement pillars.

 

S
EEING NO BODY
,
Joe had returned to the shadows beneath the Mercedes, where he at last picked up Lindsey's scent trail, carefully sorting it out from Ryder's and Ray's scents and from the aromas of the many officers. Ducking behind wheels and pillars, he had tracked Lindsey until he lost her at the curb, where her trail vanished abruptly. He sniffed the curb and sidewalk for a long time, trying to find her again among the scents of hundreds of pedestrians, and sidestepping those caring folk who were sure he
had escaped from his cat carrier and should be bound for the hold of some unknown flight, who wanted to pick him up and take him to security.

Had he simply lost her scent? Had she made it to another level of the parking complex, or maybe inside the terminal? Or had she gotten into a car at the curb? Had Ray Gibbs doubled back after shooting Ryder, found Lindsey trying to get away, and forced her in at gunpoint? And had taken her where in the stolen Audi?

From behind a pillar, Joe watched Mike and Dallas and the other officers searching for Lindsey, watched Dallas place a number of calls and talk with various officers and airport personnel, trying to get a line on what might have happened to her. The two men joined a search of the airport, which, in Joe's opinion, was like trying to catch a fly in a whirlwind. He could see them inside talking with airline and airport employees. They were gone a long time, the tomcat was growing hungry and sleepy again, feeling lost again, when they returned, Mike looking pale and despondent. They were talking with the SJPD sergeant once more when Mike's cell phone rang.

“Flannery.” Mike listened, looked up only to signal Dallas. As Dallas joined him, Mike found a slip of paper in his pocket and hastily jotted something.

“We're on our way,” he said. “Be careful, stay out of sight. Get out of there, now. Out the back, there has to be a back entrance. Stay out of his way until the law gets there.”

Clicking off, Mike stood grinning at Dallas, looking so relieved that Joe's own heart pumped harder. “She's in the city, at the wharf. Gibbs just checked into the Argo
naut, or seems to have. Unless he made her and has given her the slip. She called the PD. You better call them.”

“How did she…?”

“She followed him in a cab,” Mike said. “The fare took most of her cash. She's convinced he didn't see her. Said there were several yellow cabs on the freeway, and her driver kept well back.

“Said that when Gibbs drove around to Fisherman's Wharf, her driver followed on the next street. Said Gibbs was driving really carefully, taking his time. Saw him go in the hotel. She's across the street in a restaurant, thinks he took a room at the front, saw a curtain pulled back and said it looked like Gibbs at the window.”

Dallas accessed his phone list, hit the number for SFPD, and made sure there were officers on the way. Then he called San Francisco's detective division and got a detective he knew. As he laid out the scenario, setting in place some backup to the street patrol, Joe Grey moved fast for Dallas's Blazer. He wasn't going to be left behind on this one. Not in this godforsaken airport, forty miles from home.