How to Catch a Cat (16 page)

THE VOLUNTEER

“YOU’RE HERE FOR
the intern position?”

The niece couldn’t believe her ears.

“The
mayoral
intern position?”

The young man pointed across the reception desk to a sign posted over the door to the mayor’s office. Muffled howls emanated from within as Monty applied disinfectant and antibiotic cream to the deep scratches on his shoulders.

“This is the mayor’s office suite, isn’t it?”

The niece plopped down in the chair behind her desk. “You know what happened to the last two mayoral interns, right?”

The man nodded, unconcerned.

The niece decided to be blunt. “They were both murdered.”

The remark caused no dent in the man’s armor of confidence.

“By the Knitting Needle Ninja.”

He smiled, undeterred by the prospect of being gored through the chest with an antique sewing weapon.

“Hmm.” The niece stared at the potential intern, searching for the catch.

Isabella resumed her position on the filing cabinet. The cat leaned forward, her blue eyes gleaming with intensity.

He seemed like a nice enough guy, the niece thought, puzzling over the man’s suicidal interest in the treacherous intern position. He wore his hair in a buzz cut, trimmed so short she couldn’t tell whether the color was a dark blond or light brown. Fit and athletic, he had a pleasant smile and a casual demeanor.

He didn’t
look
like a disturbed individual—nor did he resemble an overzealous political type.

Further questioning was definitely in order.

Before she could speak, Hoxton Finn strode through the reception entrance. Popping his notepad against his left thigh, he grunted at the man who had just volunteered for intern duty.

“Hello, Officer.”

—

THE WOULD-BE UNDERCOVER
intern crumpled into an office chair, blushing at how easily he’d been revealed. He grimaced up at Hox.

“I didn’t think you’d recognize me that easily.” He pointed to his short hair. “I got my hair shaved off and everything.”

Hox whapped the notebook against his leg. “I’ve been telling you to cut that mop for years. Five pounds of hair removal is hardly a disguise. If I recognized you, Mabel surely will.”

The officer held up his hands, trying to deflect the criticism. “It was unlucky, running into you first thing. Before I had a chance to perfect my role. You won’t tell anyone at the station, will you, Hox? I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Hox huffed noncommittally. “They should have told me they were sending you over here.”

“Well, hey, no harm done,” the man said with an impish grin. “You’re in the know now.”

The notepad took another beating. “Surely you’re not serious about going through with this?”

The officer straightened his shoulders. “Of course I am. We can’t let the Ninja continue her killing spree.”

“You’re underestimating this woman. You think she’s nothing but a little old lady with a knife problem.”

Solemnly, the officer unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a Kevlar vest. “I’m prepared for anything . . .”

But Hox wasn’t finished. “Or maybe you’re just trying to advance your career.” He bent over the man’s chair. “Accolades aren’t much use if you’re dead.”

The officer rebuttoned his shirt. His expression remained steadfast. Hox’s warnings were not having any effect.

“What’s your alias?” The reporter crossed his arms over his chest. “So I know what I’m supposed to call you.”

“Toronto. James Toronto.” He paused before adding with a wink. “In honor of Alberta.”

Hox groaned and turned away.

The niece had remained silent throughout this exchange, occasionally looking up at the filing cabinet to visually confer with Isabella. As Hox paced a circle around her desk, however, she leaned in for a question.

“Can you do event organization?” she asked. “Some routine filing, perhaps make a few phone calls?”

At his nodding shrug, she shoved a stack of papers across the desk.

“Great. You’re hired.”

With an apologetic glance at Hox, she added, “And, uh, please try not to get yourself killed.”

CAPED CRUSADERS

THE FRISKY PARROT
shot into the second-floor foyer outside the mayor’s office suite, relieved to hear the reception door
thump
shut behind him, sealing the two pursuing cats on the opposite side.

The bird took a relaxed swoop through City Hall’s ornate rotunda, his red head bobbing as he surveyed the building’s open center.

He had strayed almost two miles from his regular roost on Telegraph Hill, but the morning light streaming through the stained glass windows felt warm and inviting—and there was something familiar about the stenciled image of the
San Carlos
etched into the windows’ center panes . . .

The parrot circled the enormous interior, casting a moving shadow across the multiple marble surfaces.

Office workers traversing the second-floor corridor shuffled from side to side, trying to avoid the dark object sliding across their feet. Someone realized the source of the shadow and called it out to the others. Soon, groups began to gather, staring up at the unusual sight.

Despite the vast open space beneath the dome, City Hall rarely entertained avian visitors. Occasionally, a stray pigeon or two managed to sneak through the front doors before being corralled out the exit, but no one could recall ever having seen a parrot inside the building.

Pointed fingers traced the bird’s path through the rotunda. Excited whispers bounced off the stone walls as the collected watchers lost track of the green body and then picked it up again.

Unaware of all this attention, the parrot glided into the ceremonial rotunda at the top of the central marble staircase and landed on the polished bronze head of the Harvey Milk bust.

Making himself at home, he reached over his shoulder and casually preened his feathers.

•   •   •

MEANWHILE, THE MORNING’S
first wedding party gathered in the first-floor foyer outside City Hall’s licensing office.

The couple had decided to turn their nuptials into a theme party. The bride was dressed as Wonder Woman, with a red and gold corset, a short star-spangled skirt, and knee-high red leather boots. The groom had donned a shiny blue Superman suit, complete with flowing cape. Members of the wedding party were clad as various comic book characters.

Everyone cheered when the wedding coordinator rounded the corner, applauding with delight at her over-the-top Marilyn Monroe getup. Her blond wig, stuffed bosom blouse, and bouncy white skirt fit right in with the rest of the group.

The groom whooped his approval.

“Man, I can’t wait to see our wedding pictures.”

With a demure smile, the coordinator ushered the eager couple and their entourage toward the inner dome area.

But at the entrance to the rotunda, she looked up and across to the top of the central staircase where the soup vendor stood with the parrot perched on his arm. Raising her hand, she halted the wedding party.

“There you go, Petey. Let me give you a ride.” Oscar’s voice echoed down to the rotunda’s lower level as he began to descend the steps. “What are you doing so far from home? Come along with me. I’ll take you back where you belong.”

The wedding coordinator pursed her heavily painted lips. She wasn’t sure why, but she felt a strong aversion to the bird.

Pivoting, she turned her clients toward the elevator bank in the foyer wing.

Preoccupied with the antics of a Green Lantern–impersonating groomsman, the group didn’t notice the sudden diversion.

But after a discussion about their various superhero powers, the conversation turned to the recent City Hall crimes.

“Is it true the Ninja killed another intern? On the billionaire’s yacht during an America’s Cup shindig?”

“Do you think she’s hanging out here in City Hall?” The caped crusader shuddered at the thought. “That would be creepy.”

“Well,” Marilyn replied as the elevator doors slid open, “that’s what they say . . .”

THE CAPTAIN OF A TROUBLED SHIP

REPORTER HOXTON FINN
returned to the newspaper’s Mission Street office building that afternoon, perplexed by the latest development in the Ninja case. He’d spent several hours at the police station, arguing with the chief detective about the risks of Officer Toronto’s undercover assignment—to no avail.

It had been three months without any leads. The investigators were desperate for a break.

With a grunt, Hox swung open the door to the third-floor conference room that he had commandeered last fall after the murder of intern Spider Jones.

He had an assigned desk in the main office area, but he rarely used it. Whenever he worked in the newspaper’s building, he closed himself up in this conference room. Here, he was the captain of a troubled ship, surrounded by files, boxes, newspaper clippings, and other various documents related to the Knitting Needle Ninja.

Everything the reporter had gathered about the most recent episode was piled in the center of a long wooden table.

Alberta’s murder on the Baron’s yacht had generated a stir in the local press. Once the signature knifed knitting needles had been spotted, there had been no doubt as to the murderer’s identity. Despite a thorough search of the massive boat, the Ninja had eluded capture.

Alberta’s beaming smile had been plastered across every news outlet. Word had quickly spread, generating gruesome headlines.

THE NINJA TAKES ANOTHER

BAY AREA ASSASSIN SKEWERS CITY HALL INTERN

NAUGHTY KNITTER NOTCHES ONE MORE VICTIM

Conventional wisdom now assumed that the Ninja had taken up a disguise—leading to a second series of bold-type banners.

NINJA GIVES SLEUTHS THE SLIP

HOW WELL DO YOU KNOW YOUR NEIGHBOR?

NURSING HOME KNITTING CIRCLE NEEDLED BY COPS

Hox grunted as he flipped through the pages. Each round of publicity, he sensed, only increased the likelihood of another kill.

He had a bad feeling about the police department’s covert intern operation. He leaned back in the conference room’s creaking chair, surveyed the cluttered table, and wondered how long it would be until the next slaying.

“You’d better watch your back, Toronto.”

August 1775

POSSESSED

“THAT’S PREPOSTEROUS!”

Father Monty shook his head, refusing to accept the niece’s interpretation of the images the Indian chief had drawn in the sand. He absolutely rejected the notion that something evil had invaded their ship.

They were on their way back to the
San Carlos
, having bade good-bye to their new friends at the campfire. Father Monty led the way down the return path. The niece followed several feet behind, pushing the cat-filled stroller.

“Absolutely ridiculous!”

Father Monty’s ranting could be heard all along the beach.

“I’m a priest,” he said, stopping to turn and wag his finger at the niece. “Trust me, I would know if the ship was possessed.”

He resumed his pace, no less agitated. “I have specific training in this area.” He threw his hands in the air. “No respect, I tell you.”

The niece glanced down at the stroller and exchanged looks with Isabella.

A discreet warble of skepticism floated up from the carriage.

“Mrao.”

—

BY THE TIME
Father Monty reached the gangplank that had been left propped down to the beach, he’d nearly lost his voice.

While the niece still viewed the priest with suspicion and distrust, those feelings were now evenly matched—if not surpassed—with that of annoyance.

Thankfully, the buzz on board the
San Carlos
drowned out Monty’s last hoarse complaints.

Humphretto and his team had just returned from their exploration of the bay’s south shoreline, and the lieutenant was eager to share what they’d found.

As the niece hefted the cat carriage up the slanted walkway, Humphretto began his enthusiastic report.

“Unbelievable find, Captain. You could not imagine a better port. Yes, yes, okay, it’s a bit marshy there along the shore, but we can work with that.”

A few muttered grumbles rumbled up from the men who had paddled the canoes.

“Okay, yes, there were some issues with the current,” he said defensively. “But nothing like what we experienced coming in from the Pacific.”

Ayala listened to the discourse, vaguely amused and secretly jealous of the excursion. It had been difficult for him to remain on the ship while watching Humphretto and the other crew members through his scope. Frustrated, the captain pressed down on his injured foot, an action that sent a shot of pain up through his leg, a reminder of why he had been forced to stay behind.

The captain hadn’t spent the whole afternoon with his foot propped up. Restless, he’d taken advantage of the lull to conduct another search of the ship.

The few crew members still on board had been busy swabbing the deck, cleaning the rigging, and checking the intricate network of ropes for nicks or frays. Down below in his galley, Oscar had hummed while chopping up ingredients for the night’s meal. But beyond these areas of activity, the captain had been able to inspect the
San Carlos
unimpeded.

He’d scoured every available inch, hoping to find some previously overlooked clue to the deckhand’s murder—or to the phantom stowaway widely believed to have killed him.

Everything had been disturbingly normal.

He’d found nothing but his own increased unease.

—

STILL PONDERING THE
mystery, Ayala turned to greet Father Carmichael, who had just stepped off the gangplank and onto the deck.

“How was your walk?”

“Indians,” Monty croaked hoarsely.

Ayala thumped his left thigh with his spyglass. His face registered concern.

“Were they friendly?”

Monty threw his hands in the air. “Witchcraft-practicing heathens . . . uncivilized barbarians . . .” Then he stomped down the stairs toward his quarters.

Puzzled, the captain shifted his attention to the niece. With his free hand, he grabbed the front rim of the wicker stroller and helped her lift it over the top of the gangplank.

“Well?”

The niece shrugged. “They fed us a nice lunch.”

Ayala sensed there was something more. “And?”

From the cat compartment, Isabella called out her response.

“Mrao.”

The niece translated the remark for the captain.

“The Indians think the
San Carlos
is cursed.”