Cat Shout for Joy (18 page)

 

24

J
uana Davis's usually
neat office looked like a jumble sale. A long table stood in the middle of the room, her furniture pushed against the wall, the credenza, bookcase, and desk shoved together. Davis, Max Harper, and Billy stood at the table absorbed as Dulcie and Kit slipped into the room. Silently they hopped up onto the desk and to the top of the bookcase where they could look down.

Besides the shoes there were photos again: crime scene photos crowded the table. A set of pictures neatly arranged by each shoe. Now they had a match, the corresponding color shots marked with time, date, name of the victim. Kit looked smugly at Dulcie. She was so proud she could hardly help lashing her tail and grinning.

But Dulcie was looking for Joe Grey. Why wasn't he in here scanning the evidence? She couldn't even catch his scent.

She thought about the Bleaks' scam, how they'd tried to incriminate Billy, how angry Joe had been—­Kit said she didn't know what he'd do.
Oh
, she thought,
he hasn't followed them, he hasn't followed the Bleaks home?

But that's just what Joe
would
do
.

Stay outside,
she thought
. Just watch the house, see if they try to run, see if they try to get away from Harper.
Then
call the station. Oh, don't go in there.
She moved to drop down to the desk, to head for the door and follow him—­but now even Dulcie herself was too wary, thinking of the kittens. She
was
feeling heavier, clumsier. She thought of running over the rooftops, maybe getting into a tight squeeze inside the Bleak rental . . . If anything happened to the kittens, to Joe's kittens . . .

And somehow, looking at Kit, at the flighty tortoiseshell, she didn't want to ask Kit to follow him.
When he's alone, he's extra careful. Alone, he can sometimes plan his moves better, he's not distracted.
No, this time she would put her trust in Joe, in Joe Grey's strength and macho intelligence. Creeping closer to Kit, snuggled against her, she watched Billy Young, standing at the long table beside Juana, answering her occasional questions. She was comparing the crime scene shots and their matching shoes with a handful of the pasted-­up photos.

“Yes,” Billy was saying, “that's just behind the remodel, under the bedroom window. Those two pieces of two-­by-­four? I tossed them there a week ago, and forgot them. Same shoe, though. Same torn pant cuff.”

Was this why Billy was here, a civilian looking at police evidence to verify the locations of certain photos? But these locations could be verified by police photos of the larger surround, they didn't need a witness. Dulcie and Kit looked at each other. Was this an added experience for Billy? Max's ongoing introduction to see if the boy was truly interested in police work? Billy said, “How long will the lab take?”

“Hopefully, a week or two,” Max said.

“
That's
wishful thinking,” Juana said, laughing.

“If they're as backed up as usual,” Max told Billy, “could take a month or more.”

“While the killer,” Billy said, “could be long gone.”

Neither Max nor Juana replied.

Near the shoes lay machine copies from a small, spiral-­bound notebook. Though only the top, lined page was visible. Ben's note was short, but was carefully dated.

Monday, November 4. Ten
a.m.
Blonde in back of gallery again, back row but different seat. No hat today, dressed kind of fluffy, full skirt and a blousy shawl. Nothing like that leather cap and bulky jacket. I guess she's hiding her extra weight, she could stand to lose a few pounds. It's the same woman. She walks the same, kind of slow and like maybe she has arthritis. Same blond hair . . .

That was all the cats saw before Max glanced up at them and they turned to wash their paws.

Near the notebook pages, three photos had been set aside. Each showed a running shoe with the bottom of a pant leg, a black satin stripe down the outside seam and a small tear at the bottom. One showed the print of the shoe's tread on the concrete, a waffle pattern with stars in it. The second photo showed only the footprint, but it was the same odd pattern. Neat handwriting in the white margin at the top of each photo gave the date and identified the attack. The third photo was of the same jogging pants with the black satin stripe, the tear, but with different shoes. It was dated this morning, and in different handwriting, and marked with a file number and the name “Sam Bleak.”

Max was saying, “This is enough to bring them back in for questioning.”

“Enough to file charges?” Juana said doubtfully.

“No. Only as persons of interest,” he said. “We're not filing charges on a dead man's notes and photos, even our own crime scene photos. We wait for the lab, hope they come up with prints. And Sam's false accusation of Billy isn't much of a case against them. You read their statements, how they backed down.”

“But they're tied into this,” Juana said. “You want to try for a search warrant? Before they try to skip?”

“With Judge Manderson? You know he wants hard evidence before we do a search.”

Juana sighed. “Wish we had the gun that killed Ben. And what
was
that about, that fake attack this morning, throwing themselves right in our faces?”

Max shrugged. “No one said criminals were smart.”

Billy said, “Did they think if Sam was mugged, that you'd see them as helpless victims? And I guess,” he said, grinning, “I guess they don't like me much. But,” he continued, “even when they left the station, they looked nervous.”

Juana turned when her desk phone rang, and flipped on the speaker.

Evijean said, “I just took an anonymous call. A message for Captain Harper. The man wouldn't give his name.”

“I'm here,” Max said.

“He wouldn't wait. He said to tell the captain that the convicted rapist, the one in San Francisco? . . . Gardner? That he has a mother somewhere, that they are estranged. The last he'd heard, she was living somewhere on the East Coast. He said you were looking for a connection, for family.”

“Why didn't you switch him directly to me?”

“He didn't
want
me to transfer the call, he said he was in a hurry. He told me to pass it on promptly . . . A very curt man,” she said. “He gave me the information and hung up.”

“No caller ID?”

“No, sir. Maybe an old cell phone with no GPS?”

Dulcie looked at Kit; they both watched Harper. The way Evijean described the call, that didn't sound much like Joe Grey. Dulcie thought about the conversation in the tearoom. Could Evijean have made up that call, to pass her own information to the captain? And, when she glanced at Kit, she knew the tortoiseshell was thinking the same. So what was Evijean's interest in this? Besides that it was her niece that Gardner raped and murdered. Maybe just a nosy clerk wanting in on the action, sharing information in her own ego trip?

Yet even as Dulcie puzzled over the phone call she began to feel edgy. Not uneasy about the Bleaks now, or the street prowler, or even about Joe Grey. She had every confidence in Joe, in his instincts to come out on top. Something else was bothering her. Rising, she began to pace the top of the bookshelf.

Is it the kittens?
she thought nervously.
Is it time?
She felt no pain, there were no contractions, though the little mites were, as usual, squirmy and restless. Kit watched her with alarm, her yellow eyes wide.

Below them, Max was on the phone again when the cats heard Charlie's voice in the hall. They watched Charlie and Ryan squeeze into the room, both dressed in jeans and T-­shirts. Watched them move out of the way among the crowded furniture, looking with interest at the evidence, the shoes and photos and Ben's notes—­though most of their attention was on Dulcie. Charlie, taller than Ryan, reached up to pet her.

Dulcie stiffened when Charlie scooped her up; she glared at Charlie indignantly. Charlie lifted her gently down and cuddled her—­imprisoned her—­in her arms. Securely gripping the nape of Dulcie's neck so she couldn't leap away. Holding her
captive
. Shocked, she hissed at Charlie. When Ryan reached over to gently stroke her, she growled and hissed at Ryan, too. What
was
this? Neither Charlie nor Ryan had ever manhandled her. Captive, incensed, she wanted to snag her claws in Charlie's red hair and pull hard. She was mad as hell and she couldn't say a word. Couldn't swear. Couldn't scream for help. She could only snarl and growl.

“What the hell?” Max said. “What's the matter with her? You only picked her up.” Putting his arm around Charlie, he reached out his hand to see if Dulcie would strike at him, too.

She didn't, she drew back. She
could
not
bloody the chief, that was unthinkable.

But even so, Max's hand paused in midair. “What . . . ?” He looked hard at Dulcie, and then at Charlie. “This cat's pregnant, no wonder she's cranky. Didn't you know she's pregnant? Does Wilma know? She shouldn't be out on the streets like this, look at her.” Max might be a tough cop, but he had a tenderness for Dulcie and Joe and Kit, just as he did for all animals.

But now Charlie and Ryan looked at him with cool female tolerance. “Yes, pregnant,” Charlie said, “waiting for kittens. We came to get her.”

Juana watched the scene with amusement. Davis had cats, too, but neither one was in danger of getting pregnant. Billy, stepping up beside Max, stroked Dulcie's ears and face. Then, taking liberties Dulcie would allow to only a few, he felt her belly knowingly.

“Pretty soon,” Billy said, looking up at Charlie. “Less than two weeks?” Billy had taken in rescue cats since he was a small boy; in the last few years he had helped birth more kittens than he could count, strays that came to him half starved when he'd lived in the shack down by the riverbed, strays more prevalent before CatFriends got to work saving lost and abandoned cats and ferals.

Max said, “Wilma can't want her running the village when her time is so close. Why did she let her out? If the kittens come early on some rooftop, in some out-­of-­the-­way place . . .”

“Dulcie's supposed to be locked up,” Charlie said innocently. “Wilma called, she's frantic and is out looking for her. Somehow Dulcie managed to slip out through her cat door. I'll take her home,” she said, keeping a strong grip on the nape of Dulcie's neck.

Beside them, Ryan put her arm around Billy. “And you and I need to get back to work, finish cleaning up until we know what the Bleaks intend to do. Keep on building, or scrap the job?” she said with irritation. “Charlie can drive us over. I left my truck there.”

“Don't leave Billy there alone,” Max said, “until we have this sorted out. Are you carrying?”

“In my truck,” Ryan said.

“Wear it,” Max said.

Charlie's eyes widened. She nodded, gave Max a kiss, careful not to squash Dulcie between them, and they left.

In the SUV Dulcie didn't need to be held captive. She snuggled on Charlie's lap obedient and silent—­worrying again about Joe Grey.
Had
he followed the Bleaks when they left the station, was he watching their apartment? Was he
in
the apartment? Was that why she felt so nervous? If he had followed them, he'd be sure to find a way inside. She didn't want to think of him shut in alone, with those two. Maybe she and Charlie should swing by the Bleaks' rental, after they'd dropped off Ryan and Billy.

And maybe not. Maybe that would make things worse, would really alarm the Bleaks, would make them run or would put Joe in jeopardy.

She didn't know what to do; she was in a quandary and that wasn't like her. She wanted to race over there herself, but when she felt the kittens squirming she knew she wouldn't.

Charlie pulled up in front of the remodel beside Ryan's truck, and Ryan and Billy got out. As Charlie headed away again, she gently stroked Dulcie. “I'm sorry I manhandled you. You looked determined to take off. Tell me about the photos and shoes, and what happened with Billy? Those Bleaks didn't really accuse him!”

“They did,” Dulcie said. “Kit told me, blow by blow.” She passed on to Charlie everything she knew, from Sam's fake attack and the Bleaks' accusation of Billy, to the conversation in the tearoom, to Evijean's strange phone message. Charlie was silent as she pulled up in front of the stone cottage, putting the details together. Wilma came hurrying out, scowling at Dulcie and ready to scold her. But instead Wilma gathered her up in a hug of relief, and Dulcie relaxed against her. Purring, she patted a soft paw against Wilma's cheek—­and she could smell a pot roast cooking. Yawning against Wilma, suddenly drained of all her cat energy, she wanted only to eat and then sleep warm in Wilma's arms.

 

25

W
hen Joe had
left the station, he'd had every intention of tossing the Bleaks' apartment for evidence; surveillance was not enough. Racing the length of the courthouse roof, he hit the peaks above Jane's Knitting, Matelle Bakery, and three upscale clothing stores. On the roof of a small motel he galloped past second-­floor windows, surprising a little child looking out. From a patio café across the street, the smell of frying onions followed him as he headed a block north to the tall, two-­story frame on the corner, the butter-­yellow house named Daffodil Walk. There were no daffodils in the scruffy fenced yard.

The small rental cottage at the back might once have been brown. It was not fenced, as was the big house. A narrow, cracked drive led from the side street to the cottage's attached one-­car garage that jutted out in front. The Bleaks' white van stood to the right of the drive on a patch of grass, handy to the front steps. Oak trees shaded both yards.

Dropping into a tangle of twisted branches, Joe made his way to the back. In the yard of the big house a heavy-­shouldered Rottweiler stopped chewing on a fallen branch and stared up at him, his yellow eyes small and mean, his growl a low rumble. He glared unblinking as Joe slipped over the hip of the cottage roof out of sight. The beast knew he was still there, could surely smell him; but, not seeing the invading feline, he might be less likely to bark and draw attention.

Stepping stones led from the street along the drive to the front door of the cottage. Over in the fenced yard the dog rumbled once more, leaped at the closed gate, then returned to maul his oak branch. Joe could see a kennel at the back near the big house.

Padding on across the cottage's ragged shingles, he backed down the last gnarled tree into the sweet smell of mock orange bushes shedding their wilted flowers. A temporary wooden ramp led up beside the three steps to the small porch. The front door stood open.

The van's passenger door was wide open, too, revealing Tekla's black-­clad backside where she leaned in. Her posterior and thighs looked narrow as a boy's. She backed out, carrying a crookedly folded blanket, a six-­pack of bottled water, and a handful of road maps. Before she could turn toward the house Joe was inside and under the first shelter he came to: a padded bench against a short wall that faced the front door. Diving under, he glimpsed the small, crowded living room beyond.

To the left of the front door in a narrow alcove hung two Windbreakers and a yellow raincoat on wooden hooks. The front door itself was flanked by tall panes on either side, swirly glass so you could see only a person's shape and what color he was wearing. The glass panes were the perfect arrangement for a thief. Only a moment to break the window, reach through and turn the key; unless, of course, one had had the foresight to remove the key.

To the right of the front door a narrower, closed door probably led to the garage, Joe could smell the oil-­rubber-­tire-­mildew scent common to most village garages. To the right of that door was the kitchen alcove with a small breakfast table. The cramped living room behind him held a faded couch, a fake leather easy chair, a TV on a rolling stand, a depressing tableau for the desperate renter.

Two hard-­sided suitcases stood beneath the hanging coats beside the front door. From the shadows beneath the bench, he watched Tekla lay the blanket on the larger one, set the maps and the bottled water on the blanket. As she shut the front door the hinge gave a little squeak. Her black jogging shoes were inches from his nose as she headed down a short hall to his left past a tiny bedroom to a larger one at the back. He followed her, praying she wouldn't glance around. At the sound of Sam's muffled voice from the back room, Joe froze. “You want
all
these clothes?” He didn't sound happy.

“Just the front ones,” Tekla snapped. She moved on to the larger bedroom, Joe following; even this room was minuscule. Just space for a double bed partly blocking a glass door with the draperies drawn, a dresser, a small armoire that would hold a TV. Tekla entered the small walk-­in closet, its door standing wide, Sam's wheelchair parked beside it. Joe waited in the shadows, watching.

Inside the closet Sam was standing up, supporting himself by gripping the overhead rod. As Tekla lifted off the first few hangers, Joe slipped across behind them to the unmade bed and underneath to the far side.

Rearing up between bed and draperies, he considered the suitcase that lay open atop the tangled sheets and blankets. He was poised to disappear again if they turned. The suitcase was packed with Spandex pants and shirts, most of them black. On top of a folded black tank top lay a handgun, a dark automatic. The clip was in, and he assumed that was loaded. Another clip lay beside it, and two boxes of ammunition marked .
32
caliber brass jacketed hollow point
, a hundred rounds each. The same caliber bullets as the one that killed Ben.

If he could get out of here with the gun, that would be all ballistics needed—­compare these riflings to the bullet that murdered Ben.

Why had he been so sure he'd
find
a gun? The
right
gun?
And, what am I doing shut in this house within grabbing distance of these ­people?
They'd seen him at the remodel; they knew him, if they'd paid any attention. Whatever, they'd have to wonder what a cat was doing in here.

So they wonder
.
So, what are they going to think? That I'm tossing the place?

But even so, Sam and Tekla gave him the creeps. In the closet, Sam was saying, “ . . . was a stupid thing to do, a cockamamie idea. You only set the cops onto us.”

“They were
already
onto us, poking around like they were.”

“That's your imagination.”

“That boy was right there in the house that morning, he could have seen everything.”

“Then why didn't he tell the cops?”

“
I
don't know, Sam. But I don't trust him. And it was too good an opportunity to miss, you falling like that on the edge of the walk, wrenching your arm and crying out. There was no one around to say you weren't pushed and that it wasn't the boy did it. I
thought
he was alone this morning, we
saw
the contractor and that red-­bearded carpenter in the village, I
thought
he'd be alone in the remodel and no one to say where he really was . . . Put him in as bad a light as possible in case he did tell what he saw that morning. Maybe he saw nothing, maybe he heard the shot, but make a liar of him right off,
before
he started talking. It was just too good
not
to say it was him. How was I to know he was with the damn cops?”

“You blew it, Tekla. And you made me lie for you. Again,” he said darkly.

“I never made you lie for me. You could have—­”

Sam laughed, a bitter, small sound. “What was I supposed to do? Call you a liar, in front of the cops?

“As it is,” he said, easing out of the closet and into his wheelchair, “they're suspicious now, all right
.
Hurry it up, let's get moving. They might have already put a watch on this place.”

He was silent a moment, getting settled properly in the wheelchair. “I want out, Tekla. I want out of this now, I want done with this even if Herbert was—­is—­my son.”

As Sam turned the chair to wheel toward the bed, Joe slid to the floor and behind the draperies. Looking out through the small space where the two drapes met, he watched Tekla turn to the suitcase carrying a plastic grocery bag. “And what about the house?” Sam was saying. “All that work—­and money.”

“Have we ever worried about money? I have my ways. When we get where we're going, we contact the Realtor, sell the house in the name of Bleak.” She turned to look at him. “There was a good chance no one would ever find out, that we could have stayed right here, live rich in this village for a while. Rub elbows with the movie stars,” she said, laughing.

“It didn't work out, did it, Tekla?”

“No matter. Everything's set up for the sale, escrow and bank accounts in the Bleak name, fix it like we always do. Sell the place from a distance and move on.” Reaching deep in the suitcase beneath the folded black spandex, she pulled out four rust-­colored folders, the kind of heavy envelopes that a bank might use. Fanning them out, she chose one. “This will do.”

Putting the other three back beneath the clothes, she shoved the one envelope in her purse. She removed a golf cap from the plastic bag, wadded the bag inside to keep the cap from wrinkling, and tucked it down in the side of the suitcase. The plain beige cap had a ponytail attached to the back, a dark auburn hairpiece—­stirring a perfect picture of early mornings when the cats would see a lone runner on the beach, her auburn ponytail bouncing in the dawn light.

Though sometimes they would see a blonde running, equally petite, loose blond hair streaming out the back, and sometimes running with a young boy. Or sometimes it was two boys, both wearing baseball caps.

Tekla picked up the gun, checked what Joe assumed was the safety. She fished a soft, pistol-­shaped gun case from a side pocket of the suitcase, slipped the gun and the extra clip into it, zipped it up, and slid it back into the slim pocket.

“Aren't you going to . . . ?”

“I don't want to be caught with the guns. Not until we're out of California. Unsecured, loaded guns on us, and an underage kid in the same car?” She looked at Sam, scowling. “I don't think so.”

“What
about
Arnold?”

“I called the school, he's on his way. I said his daddy was hurt bad, had been assaulted like those others. He . . .” They heard the front door slam, and Arnold called out.

“In here,” Tekla answered as Joe drew deeper behind the drapery. Adult eyes, even Tekla's, might miss him. But kids were so nosy, and Arnold made him nervous. And what did she mean, guns? Where were the rest? How many guns? What did they have, a whole arsenal?

“What are you doing?” Arnold said, stomping in.

“Get packed,” Tekla said.

He kicked at the corner of the bed. “Why are we leaving this time? What's happened now?”

“Just get packed. Make it snappy.”

Arnold stomped out. Joe listened to him banging around in the other bedroom as if heaving his possessions into a suitcase. But Joe had to smile. They might think they were hauling out of there, but Harper's patrol would have a tail on them, pronto. What made them imagine they could dodge the cops in that big white van?

When Sam retreated to the closet again, and Tekla followed him, reaching to sort through another load of clothes, Joe slid up into the suitcase. Feeling carefully along the sides and between the folded layers, he searched for other guns. He shocked himself, quickly drew his paw back, when he uncovered the cold stainless steel of a big, heavy revolver.

It was twice the size of the automatic, smooth and slick to the paw, not holstered, not encased in anything he could carry.

But the one he wanted was the automatic, the gun that could have killed Ben. Feeling into the narrow pocket where he'd seen her stash the padded gun case, he took it in his teeth. Praying the safety was indeed on and that there was no shell in the chamber, gingerly he hauled it out. Easing it to the floor, he half carried, half slid it across to the armoire, guiding the muzzle away from him, all the while keeping an eye on the closet and listening to Arnold banging around; he didn't want to hear silence from the boy, see him slipping back into the bedroom.

With a careful paw he pushed the gun case under the armoire as far back as he could reach. If she missed this gun and went looking for it, maybe she wouldn't look here.

The banging from the next room stopped. When Arnold's footsteps started down the hall Joe slid fast under the armoire, flat on his belly beside the gun case, flat as a sardine mashed in a can.

At the bedroom door, Arnold paused. “You want the suitcases in the van?”

“Leave them by the front door,” Tekla said.

Arnold turned, his footsteps scuffing away down the hall. Joe heard him drop his suitcase by the door. Tekla swung over to the bed, stood a moment as if arranging clothes in the open suitcase, then a thump and click as she closed and latched it. The space beneath the armoire smelled of dust, dust clung to his whiskers, and, peering out, he could see dust under the bed and along the edge of the fallen blankets. He hoped to hell he wasn't going to sneeze. Across the dusty floor he could clearly see drag marks where he'd moved the gun and that made his heart pound.

Tekla, busy hauling the suitcase out to the entry, barely noticed Sam grappling with his own, smaller suitcase and the wheelchair. He finally got the suitcase aboard, and the chair turned around in the tight space. Tekla was much more helpful in public. At the front of the house Joe heard a door open, but not the front door with its squeaky hinge. The other bedroom door
was
open. Only the garage had been closed.

Could they have another car? He'd never seen them in anything but the van. Could they have kept a car hidden, ready to travel? They meant to leave the van so it would look like they were still home? If they left in a different car, without a description, they'd be hell to find once they got out on the freeways. A cop would have to spot the Bleaks themselves, and because of Tekla's little tricks with hairstyles, even that could be iffy.