Cat Seeing Double (12 page)

“I…”

“The rug arrived from England, it's in San Francisco. It will be down by truck, a day or two. I went over this morning to see if the gallery had delivered the sculpture for the fireplace. The floor's wet, I guess from last week's rain.”

“Wet? How can it be wet?”

“The Landeaus have already installed the sculpture, I don't know when they were down. Not there now, and I can't get them on the phone. I nearly sank in water, the floor's soaked. That temporary rug under the skylight. We need to find the leak, we can't put down the new rug, with a leak.”

“There is no leak. I didn't build a leaky house. What did they spill?” Ryan could feel anger heat her face. “I installed that skylight myself, Scotty and I. It couldn't have leaked, it has a huge lip and overhang and it's all sealed, you saw how it's made. That's the top-of-the-line model. It's molded all in one piece, absolutely leak-proof. We checked with the hose, Hanni! Did you call the Landeaus? What did they say?” The idea that an item she'd ordered and checked out might be shoddy infuriated her.

She had finished the Landeau remodel shortly before she left for San Andreas. The Landeaus had bought the place as a teardown, meaning to start from ground up, but she'd talked them into gutting and refurbishing the well-built old cottage, turning it into a small and elegant Mediterranean retreat. She had torn out walls to create a flowing space for living, dining and master bedroom, and removed the old ceilings. The high, angled roof beams rose now to an octagonal skylight directly over the sunken sitting area.

She had covered the concrete floor, which was broken into three different levels following the rising hill, with big, handmade Mexican tiles the color of pale sandstone. Only the sunken sitting area was to be carpeted, with the rug that Hanni had designed, a thick, deep wool as brightly multicolored as Hanni's sweater, a rug to lie on reading, to sink into, to make love on. Hanni had ordered the handmade confection about the time Ryan started work on the house. The Landeaus had waited months for that rug, using a temporary brown shag that could be discarded when the new one arrived. And now that area was wet? The shag rug wet? She looked intently at Hanni. “The skylight did not leak. Marianna must have been down. What did she spill? Sullivan's blood?”

“Be nice, Ryan. You don't have to like the woman to do right by her professionally.”

“I am doing right by her professionally. The skylight didn't leak.”

She had a satisfactory enough business relationship with Marianna Landeau but she wasn't fond of her. Hanni jokingly said she was jealous of Marianna's
beauty, but it was more than that. Marianna was a difficult woman to warm to. The pale-haired ex-model of nearly six feet—fine-boned, slim-waisted, as broad-shouldered as a Swedish masseuse—was as cold as an arctic sea. Marianna dressed in silks with tangles of gold jewelry, and wound her flaxen hair in an elegant chignon so perfect that no ordinary woman could have mastered its construction on a day-to-day basis. Over the years that Ryan had worked with the Landeaus on their San Francisco house, she had never seen Marianna really smile, had
never
heard her laugh with pleasure, only with sarcasm. Marianna Landeau was beautiful ice, a client who paid on time, but a woman Ryan didn't understand and didn't care to know better.

Hanni gave the dog a pat. “It must have been awful this morning.” She waited quietly, watching Ryan, hoping that Ryan might unburden herself. Ryan scowled at her, and they sat not speaking. The dog sighed and stretched out. Hanni said, “What are you going to name him?”

“Why would I name him? The kids called him Rock.”

When Hanni reached to unbuckle the dog's collar, Ryan said, “No ID on that, I just bought that collar. I have to get moving, Hanni. I told Dallas I'd be over before the juvenile authorities get there—I can meet you at the cottage in an hour or so.”

Hanni hugged the dog, and rose, one easy twist from flat on the ground to her full five-six, a movement like a dancer, the result of her passion for yoga. When Hanni got up, the big dog rose with equal grace and started to follow her. Ryan grabbed his collar. He gave her a sly
sideways glance and sat down quietly beside her. It did cross her mind that they were both con artists.

“See you in an hour,” Hanni said and headed for her Mercedes where a New Orleans trumpet was entertaining the neighborhood of cottages that edged the small park.

“Hour and a half,” Ryan called, picking up her trash. Walking back with Rock to the truck, the dog turned puppyish, dancing around her, his tongue lolling. Loading him up, she headed for the police station wondering again if she was doing the right thing to approach Curtis Farger, if this was a smart move, trying to out-con that deceitful boy.

The parking
lot of Molena Point courthouse was shaded by sprawling oak trees that rose from islands of flowering shrubs. The building, set well back from the street, was of Mediterranean style with deep porticos, white stucco walls, and tile paving. The police department occupied a long wing at the south end that ran out to meet the sidewalk. Recently, Captain Harper had remodeled the department to afford increased privacy and heightened security. The jail was in a separate building, at the back, across the small, fenced parking lot reserved for police cars. Within the station itself one holding cell was maintained, opening to the right of the locked and bulletproof glass entry. The seven-by-eight concrete room had an iron bunk, a toilet and sink and one tiny window high in the east wall secured by bars and shaded by an oak's dark foliage. The oak's three thick trunks angled up from the garden as gently as staircases. Joe Grey and Dulcie were set to race across the garden and up into the branches that covered the cell window, when whispers from above them in the tree sent them swerving away again, to crouch among the bushes.

A man clung high above, among the dark leaves, his shoes and pant cuffs just visible, his balance on the slanting trunk seeming unsteady. He wore high-topped, laced shoes, old man's shoes. Moving to a better vantage, the cats could see one gnarled hand reaching out to grip at the bars for support as he peered down through the little window. It must have been hard for the old boy to climb up, they could imagine him teetering, grabbing the surrounding limbs.

If this was Gramps Farger, he had plenty of nerve to come right to the station when every cop in the state was looking for him—or maybe he thought this was the last place they'd look. Joe wanted to shout and alert the department. His second, more studied response, was to shut up and listen.

The old man's faint quarrelsome whispers and the boy's hissing replies through the open window were so soft that even from within the police department, maybe no one would hear them, not even the dispatcher from her electronic cubicle; the whispers would be easily drowned among the noise of her radios and phones.

Slipping closer, where they could hear better, the cats began to smile.

“Them big mucky-mucks don't care,” the old man rasped. “The way you muffed this one, Curtis, I'm sorry you showed up at all. You should've stayed in them mountains. Well, the deed's done—you blew it, big-time. Your pa sure ain't gonna be pleased.”

The kid's reply slurred angrily against the rumble of a car engine starting in the parking lot. And not for the first time, Joe wished he had one of those tiny tape recorders, wished he was wired for sound.

“Your uncle ain't gonna like it neither. You know Hurlie don't tolerate sloppy work. And your ma…”

“None of
her
business.”

“Them cops're gonna ask you plenty. You see you don't mention Hurlie or them San Andreas people. You don't tell no one you was up there. Pay attention, Curtis. You don't know nothing about where Hurlie is, you don't know nothing about where your old gramps is. You understand me?”

“What you think I'm gonna do,” the kid snapped. “Why would I tell the cops anything?”

Apparently, Joe thought, the old man didn't know that Curtis had hitched a ride with Detective Garza's niece. What a joke. Maybe Curtis himself didn't know who she was.

“Keep your voice down. Don't matter I'm your grampa, I cut no slack if you mess up again.”

“Mess up!
That rabid damn cat near killed me. You don't give a damn about me, you don't give a damn if I die!”

“You ain't gonna die. From a cat scratch? And you sure as hell didn't see me over at that church, no matter what they ask.” The old man peered down into the cell. “I'm out of here, Curtis. Meantime, you keep your mouth shut.” And Gramps started shakily down the tree snatching at branches, putting his unsteady feet in all the wrong places. Nearly falling, stumbling down the last few feet he tumbled into the geraniums so close to Joe and Dulcie that they spun around, melting deeper into the bushes.

The old man rose, apparently none the worse for the spill, and turned toward the parking lot. The cats fol
lowed him out across the blacktop, staying under parked cars when they could, slipping along in the river of his scent, which was so overripe they could have trailed him blindfolded. This old codger needed a bath, big-time. A Laundromat wouldn't hurt, either. Pausing beneath a plumbing repair truck, they looked ahead for an old pickup, as the kit had described, for some rusted-out junker. The old man was passing a black Jaguar convertible when he whipped out a key.

It was not a new-model Jag but it was sleek and expensive. The top was down, and several celluloid kewpie dolls hung from the rearview mirror. The bucket seats were fitted out with tacky zebra-patterned covers as furry as an Angora cat. A very nice car, royally trashed.

Unlocking the driver's door, Gramps slid in and kicked the engine to life. Pulling on a tan safari hat, he tucked his long shaggy hair under, and wriggled into a khaki jacket straight out of an old B movie. The attempted disguise was so ludicrous the cats wanted to roll over laughing. This old man wasn't for real, this old man was dotty.

But, in fact, he had changed the way he looked. As the old man sat at the wheel tying a white scarf around his throat, Joe glanced tensely back toward the station, his heart thudding with urgency. The old boy would be gone in a minute, he was going to get away, and all they had was the license number. Crouching to scorch up the tree thinking to shout through the holding-cell window and alert the dispatcher, get some muscle out there, Joe paused.

If he knew where the old man was going…

The tomcat crouched, tensed to leap in. Dulcie
stopped him with a swipe of her paw, ears back, eyes blazing. “Don't, Joe!”

He backed off, hissing.

Gramps put the car in gear, revving the engine like a teenager—and at the same instant, Gramps saw Joe. Staring down at Joe, his expression said this guy was not a cat lover. Joe's paws began to sweat. Gramps cut the wheels suddenly and sharply toward the tomcat and gave it the gas—and the cats were gone, scorching under the plumbing truck, the Jaguar headed straight for them. Maybe, since the aborted church bombing, Gramps Farger hated all cats.

Safe under the big yellow vehicle, but ready to run again, they cringed as, at the last instant, Gramps swung a U just missing the truck and screeched off toward the street.

Coming out shakily, they fled up the nearest oak. Staring out, they could see the Jaguar heading north and then east, up into the hills. They watched until the car disappeared over the next rise.

At least they had a general direction, and they had the make and license. Who would be dumb enough to drive such an easily identifiable vehicle? Talk about chutzpah. And the old boy might as well have driven the Jaguar right on into the station, every cop in the village was looking for him. Did he think his stupid disguise would fool anyone?

But maybe it had fooled someone. Turning out of the lot, Gramps had passed two young officers returning on foot to the station. Both had looked right at him. With the scarf tucked up around his beard, and his grisly long hair out of sight, Gramps looked like just another ec
centric, another tourist. The rookies looked at him and kept walking, no change of expression, no glance at each other, no quickening of their walk to hurry into the station. Complacent, Joe Grey thought. Harper needed to talk to those guys, shake them up.

But the two cops weren't the only ones to miss something.

Though the two cats couldn't have seen her, and with Gramps's overripe scent they would never have smelled her, the kit passed within feet of them crouched on the floor of the Jaguar. They had no hint that she was huddled behind the driver in the escaping car, shivering with excitement and with fear.

The kit knew Joe and Dulcie were there. From deep in the garden she had watched the old man pull into the lot and had watched him climb to the kid's cell window, had watched the two older cats approach to listen. Downwind from them, she had listened, too, then had beat it for the Jaguar, leaping in while Gramps was still precariously descending the tree. And now she was being borne away who-knew-where, in a car racing way too fast and she couldn't jump out and she was getting pretty scared. Was regetting, not for the first time, what Wilma called her impetuous nature.

 

“Who from San Andreas?” Joe said, feeling defeated and cross. “Who else besides this Uncle Hurlie? Who was the old man talking about?”

“I don't…There's Ryan's pickup, just pulling in.”

As Ryan parked and swung out of the truck, the gray dog leaped out too, coming to heel. And Dallas stepped out of the station as if he had been waiting for them.

The detective looked the dog over. “You
found
this animal? How long was he running loose—five minutes?” The dog watched Dallas brightly, his yellow eyes alight as if he recognized a dog man, a kindred and understanding spirit. Only when Dallas put his arm around Ryan did the weimaraner growl.

Grinning, Dallas stepped away. “Looks like he's found his home.” He looked down at Ryan. “You doing okay? You all right about what's ahead of you?”

“I guess. There's nothing I can do about it. Have you…You haven't been in touch with Harper?”

“He called, the murder's been on the San Francisco news. He and Charlie are coming back, canceling the cruise.”

“Oh, damn! Because of me. Because of Rupert—and the bombing. Why does this have to spoil their honeymoon?”

Dallas squeezed her shoulder. “One of life's nasty tricks. One big, double calamity, sandwiched in with the good stuff.” He knelt and beckoned the dog to him. Not until Ryan released him with a command, did Rock approach, sniffing Dallas's hand. The detective looked up at her. “You're going to keep him.”

“I can't, Dallas. I don't…”

“He's pretty protective already, a little work and he could be useful.”

“I don't need protection.”

He just looked at her.

“Hanni—Hanni loaned me a gun.”

“I don't need to know that. You could build a fence up that back hill for him, I'm sure Charlie wouldn't mind.”

“Let's go in. I told Hanni I'd meet her up at the Landeau place in an hour, there's some kind of water problem. Leaky skylight, Hanni said.”

“You've never installed a leaky skylight.”

She tugged on his arm, heading for the station. “I'm losing my nerve. I'm not looking forward to this.”

By the time they entered through the bulletproof glass doors, the cats were high in the oak outside the boy's window. Hidden among the leaves, they listened to the
scritch
of metal against metal as the cell door swung open.

No one spoke. They heard a sudden intake of breath and a doggy huff, then the scrabbling of claws on concrete. Warily they peered down through the bars.

Ryan sat alone on the end of the boy's cot. The boy stood rigid, his back to the wall, staring at her with rage as he held up an arm halfheartedly fending off the dog who, wild with joy, was leaping and pressing against him, his whine soft, his short tail madly wagging. Ignoring him, Curtis's cheek was touched with shine. Was the kid crying—or was that dog spit?

Ryan watched him evenly. “What's his real name, besides Rock?”

“How would I know? He's a stray. Why did you bring him here? What do you mean, his real name?”

“He rode down in the truck with you.”

“So he got in the truck. What was I supposed to do, shove him out? And what difference? He don't belong to no one—he don't belong to
you
.”

“He's a beautiful dog. I can see he's your buddy.”

“Do I look like he's my buddy? What do you want?”

“He rode down with you, so I figure you're responsi
ble for him. You want him running the streets, hit by a car on the highway? That would be ugly, Curtis.”

“So take him home with you.”

“I can't keep him. I live in a small apartment, I have no yard for a dog.”

“Feed him, he'll stay around.”

“I can't let him run loose. If I knew where he lived…”

Curtis just looked at her.

“I could take him back to San Andreas, to his owners, or to the people you were staying with.”

No answer. The dog licked Curtis's face then looked past him through the bars, watching someone. In a moment there was a stirring at the cell door, and the air was filled with the smell of hamburgers and fries.

The blond, matronly dispatcher, glancing in at Ryan, handed a large paper bag through the bars. Boy and dog sniffed as one, eyeing the grease-stained bag.

Tearing open the bag, Ryan spread it out on the bunk, revealing four burgers, a box of fries, a large box of onion rings and a tall paper cup that, when the boy began to drink, left a smear of chocolate across his lip. Curtis didn't wait to be asked. Gulping most of the first burger, he slipped a few bites to the dog. Ryan said, “If you can't tell me where he lives, I'll have to take him to the pound.”

Curtis glanced around the tiny cell as if thinking the dog could stay there.

“I work all day, Curtis. I can't keep him. Maybe the pound will find him a home before they have to gas him.”

For the first time, the boy's defiance faltered. “You looked all over up there for his owner. There's no way you'd take him to the pound.”

“I have no choice, unless I can find his owner. I'd drive him back up to San Andreas, to people who'd take care of him, if you'll tell me where. Otherwise it's a cage at the pound and maybe the gas chamber.”

“You won't do that.”

“Try me. I can't keep him, and I don't know anyone who can. I'd rather take him home. If I have to, I'll call the weimaraner breeder's association. They'd have the name of the registered owner.”