Cat Seeing Double (23 page)

A week
earlier, Joe Grey would have sworn that this would never happen, that he and Clyde would never go undercover together running surveillance, tooling along in Clyde's old Hudson behind Larn Williams's Jeep like a pair of buddy cops. But here they were, slipping up the hills through the night behind Williams's white SUV.

Clyde had waited, in front of Burger Basher, as patiently for Joe as Holmes waiting for Watson while Joe played electronic bug underneath Ryan's table. Then that little affair in the alley that had left Joe weak with laughter, and left Clyde wired for action, ready to move as Ryan headed for Clyde's place to pick up Rock. Clyde had told her, in the alley, that he was just passing, that he had an errand. Whatever she believed, she'd grinned at him and thanked him nicely for coming to her rescue; no harsh word for following her. Gave him a buss on the cheek and said she'd see him in the morning.

So here they were following Williams, Clyde dawdling in traffic so not to be noticed, then panicked when Williams turned a corner for fear they'd lose him.
Joe did his best not to laugh. Watching Clyde practice his surveillance skills was an absolute and entertaining first.

And it was, as well, an occasion that Joe suspected he would deeply regret. First thing he knew, Clyde would be telling him exactly how to conduct every smallest detail of his private business.

“
Where's
he headed?” Clyde said, frowning.

“I could be wrong. I'm guessing the Landeau cottage. Watch the road,” Joe hissed as Clyde turned to look at him.

“Why would he go there?”

Joe himself was surprised. But maybe he shouldn't be. There was nothing to show a connection between Williams and the Landeaus, but they did live in the same small town of San Andreas, they could know each other.

Or, Joe thought, maybe this was the meaning of Gramps Farger's remark,
Them San Andreas people.

The Fargers and the Landeaus? Talk about an unlikely mix.

Once they were above the village the residential streets were black, where the moon had dissolved above pale clouds. Joe glanced at Clyde. “Better turn off your lights.”

“I'm not driving with my lights off. And hit some animal?”

“He'll make you, otherwise. There's not a car per square mile moving up here.”

Clyde cut his lights. The street went black.

“Drive slower.
I
can see the street,
I
can see if there's an animal. Maybe he'll think you turned off. He's not moving very fast.”

“Why would he trash her father? Why would he go to the Landeau place? What's the connection? What's this guy up to?”

“Slow down, he's turning in.”

Easing to the curb a block before the cottage, Clyde cut the engine. Williams had pulled onto the parking close to the cottage door, making no effort to hide his car. On the dark granite paving, the white Jeep stood out like snow on tar. “Roll down your window,” Joe said softly. “You'll stay in the car like you promised?”

“Didn't I promise?”

“That's not an answer.” Joe glanced at Clyde. “He sees you, you could blow everything—and could put me in danger.” Before Clyde could answer, he leaped across Clyde's legs, dropped out the window, and beat it up the street. He had no idea how long Clyde would remain patiently behind the wheel or, in his new investigative enthusiasm, come sneaking along the street like some two-bit private eye. Surveillance was easier with Dulcie. No human in their right mind would suspect a pair of cats.

He was just in time to see Williams let himself in with a key. Swiftly Joe slipped into the house behind his heels, just making it through as Williams slammed the door, and sliding behind the Mexican chest.

Williams didn't pause as if getting his bearings, nor did he turn on the light. He headed straight for the bedroom, knowing his way. Moving up the four steps he sat down on the bed and pulled off his shoes. The bed was unmade, the brightly patterned designer sheets and spread tangled half on the floor. Dropping his shoes, Williams picked up the phone. As he dialed, Joe crept
past through the shadows, and hightailed it into the kitchen.

Leaping to the dark granite counter, slick as black ice beneath his paws, he searched frantically for the extension. The counters were nearly empty. A set of modern canisters. Nothing behind them. Bread box, but no phone inside. Did they keep the phone in a cupboard?

Or was there only one phone, and Williams had moved it to the bedroom at some earlier time?

Yes, behind the bread box he found the empty jack. Was the guy staying here with the Landeaus permission? Or without their knowledge? Why else would he not turn on the lights?

Dropping to the floor as silently as he could manage, he slipped into the bedroom in time to hear Williams say, “Yes, but I don't see the point. So the Jakeses sue her. So what does…?”

Pause…Behind Williams's back, Joe slid across the room and under the bed.

“Why is it none of my business! If I'm going to do the work, I…Does this have to do with her divorce?”

Joe could make out a faint metallic reverberation from the other end. Sounded like a woman's voice, sharp with anger. Creeping along under the bed, gathering strands of cobwebs that made his ears itch, he crouched directly beneath Williams. Amazing how fast these little busy spiders could set up housekeeping.

“Of course I did.
Yes
, a code she won't find. What do you think? So the Jakeses hit the fan, what then? So what's the purpose?”

Angry crackling. Definitely a woman.

“Thanks.
I
go to all the trouble, to say nothing of the risk, and all you can say is,
Don't sweat it! You
tell
me
don't sweat it!”

Crackle, hiss…

“She's what? What time in the morning?”

A terse response.

“
What
time? That's the crack of damn dawn.
Well, isn't that cute
…Of course I'll be out of here. When did you find this out? Why didn't you…Well, all
right
. Don't be so bitchy…No, I won't leave anything lying around!”

Crackle, crackle…

“All right. And what if I spill about
Martie
?”

The voice at the other end snapped with rage. Williams listened, drumming his fingers on the bedside table. “Well, it's just between you and me,” and he brayed a coarse laugh. “Just between us and
Martie! Martie Martie Martie.
” He pounded on the night table. “
Martie Martie Holland
…” then banged the phone down, giggling a laugh that made Joe's blood curdle.

This guy was one weird player.

And Ryan had gone out with him. Ryan had, Joe thought with a sharp jolt, Ryan had beat up on him…this guy who was, in Joe's opinion, first in line for the nut farm. And, first in line as having killed her husband.

For instance, what would most men do if a woman tried to beat up on them? Grab her arms and get her under control—or knock her around and pound her. Williams had done neither. How many men would just stand there and take it, as limp as a decapitated mouse? No, Larn Williams, in anyone's book, was a long way from normal.

And what did he mean to do to Ryan later? What might he be saving up to do?

Furthermore, if that was Marianna on the other end of the line, why would she want to cook Ryan's books? What did Marianna have to gain by framing Ryan?

And who was Martie Holland?

Above Joe on the bed, Williams shifted his weight, still giggling and muttering. Joe heard him pick up the phone again, heard the little click of the headset against the machine, heard the dial tone then a fast clicking as if Williams had hit the redial.

Laughing that same crazy laugh, Williams shouted the name over and over, “
Martie Holland Martie Holland Martie Holland,
” then he slammed the phone down again, rose, and padded into the kitchen. Joe heard him open the refrigerator, then the cupboard, heard the icemaker spitting ice cubes into a glass, and could smell the sharp scent of whisky. While Williams mixed a drink, Joe lay under the bed trying to make sense of his phone conversation. Williams brought his drink into the bedroom, set it on the nightstand, and stretched out on the bed so the springs creaked above Joe's head. He heard Williams plump the pillows then straighten the covers as if perhaps preparing for sleep. The tomcat was about to cut out of there when he heard, outside the window, the faintest rustling of bushes.

Scooting on his belly to the window side of the bed, he peered up at a familiar shadow dark against the glass—then it was gone.

He didn't wait to find out if Williams had seen Clyde. Leaving the bedroom fast, he leaped at the front door,
praying the dead bolt would give before Williams heard him—wondering if he'd be
able
to turn the bolt.

There was not a sound from the bedroom except Williams shaking the ice in his glass. Joe leaped again, and again. Dead bolts were hell on the paws, most of them stronger and with less leverage than a cat could manage. Had Williams heard him? Why was he so quiet? Joe was swinging and kicking when, glancing across the living room where moonlight slanted down against the mantel, he saw something that made him drop to the floor, looking.

Something about the three smooth black indentations that held the three pieces of sculpture wasn't right. Two were smooth and properly constructed. But in the angled moonlight, the right-hand rectangle looked rough and unfinished. Someone had taken less than the required care in smoothing the concrete, had left a ragged line and rough trowel marks.

Considering the perfection of detail in the rest of the house, that did seem strange. Considering Marianna Landeau's reputation for demanding perfection, it seemed more than strange. He was about to slip closer, for a better look, when beyond the front door he heard Clyde's whisper.
“Joe? Are you there? Joe?”

In the bedroom, Williams stirred, sending a shock of panic through Joe. He turned, watching the man. He didn't think he wanted to play innocent lost kitty with this guy.

Leaping for the lock in huge panic, driven by desperation, he just managed to turn the dead bolt, seriously bruising his paws—the door flew open. Clyde loomed, his familiar scent filling Joe's nostrils. Joe glanced to
the bedroom again, but Williams had turned over and seemed to be dozing off.

“Wait,” Joe said. “Pull the door to and wait, I just want to…”

“Wait, hell. Come out of there
now
.”

“One second,” Joe said, and he was across the room rearing up, staring up at the moonlit mantel.

Yes, definitely flawed. Sloppy work that Marianna should never have permitted, or for that matter, Ryan either—though possibly you couldn't see this in the daylight; Joe hadn't seen it then. Only now did the sharply angled light pick out clearly the thin, ragged line that ran diagonally across the black concrete.

Wondering if such a flaw
could
have gone undetected, he heard Williams stir again and push back the covers. Taking one last look at the rough black concrete, Joe fled for the door. Clawing past Clyde's feet, he was out of there racing ahead of Clyde across the yard into the dark, concealing woods, where they crouched together among the bushes like two thieves.

“What was that about?” Clyde snapped, snatching Joe up in his arms. “Why did you go back? That guy…”

“I…something I needed to look at.”

Behind them there wasn't the faintest sound, the front door didn't open. Rising slowly, holding Joe half-concealed under his jacket, Clyde slipped out of the woods and headed fast for the car. Jerking open the driver's door of the Hudson, he tossed Joe on the torn seat, slipped in and locked the door behind them. “You're risking your neck in there and risking mine, you sound like a herd of bulls jumping at the door, but then you
just have to go back—for another look at what? Did it occur to you that this guy might snatch up a cat and…”

“It occurred. It occurred. It was something urgent.”

Clyde started the engine. “I endanger life and limb playing bodyguard to a demented gum-paw, and something in there is so important you risk both our necks, going back.”

“We didn't risk our necks. That guy's a wimp.
Ryan
beat him up.”

Clyde sighed and headed down the hills, turning his lights on the instant he was around the first curve. Watching him, Joe felt almost bad that he wasn't sharing what he'd seen with Clyde.

But for the moment he wanted to keep that puzzling glimpse of the fireplace to himself, wanted to think about it without Clyde's take on the matter, without anyone's input. When something strange nagged at him, he liked to let it fall in place by itself. Let it rattle around with the rest of the mismatched facts and see how they shook out; see what his inner thoughts would do, without outside influence.

He'd had the feeling, when he looked up at that black recess, that this was the moment of truth. That he stood teetering on the brink of one big, momentous discovery.

Beside him, driving down the dark and narrow, twisting streets, Clyde was nearly squirming with curiosity. “So besides whatever you went back for, whatever you're keeping so secret, what else went on in there? Did I hear him talking on the phone? I thought sure he'd find you, I was ready to smash a window.” He
looked sternly at Joe. “This stuff's hard on a guy's blood pressure, you ever think of that?”

Joe smiled. “He was talking to a woman. I'm guessing it was Marianna, that he's here with her permission, that they're friends.”

“That would be a twist. So what was he shouting about?”

“I think the guy's crazy. Kept shouting the name Martie Holland, over and over, wasn't making any sense. You ever hear of a Martie Holland? Harper or Dallas, or Ryan, ever mention that name?”