Cat Fear No Evil (15 page)

None of the houses had been for sale, none had been shown to buyers. Joe was awed at Garza's thoroughness, and at the details possible when law enforcement from different cities shared information. Seven names surfaced as guests in more than two of the burgled residences. Joe grew so interested, pushing out farther and farther, that his whiskers brushed Juana's ankle. She jerked her foot away and leaned over, peering under the couch to see what was there.

Joe Grey was gone, curled into a ball among the shadows of the far corner, hiding the white markings on his face and chest and paws, and squinching his eyes closed.

When Juana decided there was nothing under there and settled back, Joe crept out again where he could see. It was interesting that, of the list of guests, three had themselves been victims of that rash of bizarre thefts. The statistics were broken down further into a morass of facts, which, without the written information before him, left the tomcat's head spinning.

He watched enviously as Garza printed it all out and stepped down the hall to the dispatcher's desk to make
copies. He would dearly love to have that printout. But even without a copy, two names on the list held Joe's attention.

A woman up the coast in Marin County had attended four of the listed affairs, all charity events. And Molena Point's own Marlin Dorriss had been a guest at five of those houses, at private dinner parties.

In no case had the two been guests at the same function.

“Dorriss knows everyone,” Detective Davis said. “He's all over the state, on the board of a dozen museums and as many charities.” She laughed. “Until this business with Helen Thurwell, Dorriss appeared to be without flaw in his personal life. And that,” she said coolly, “is all the more reason to check him out.”

Dallas said, “Max, you talked with Susan Dorriss—Susan Brittain? Her husband was Marlin Dorriss's brother? Why did she suddenly change back to her maiden name, all these years after her husband died?”

“She's never been close to her brother-in-law,” Harper said. “Something to do with Dorriss's two sons, her husband's nephews. Bad apples, Susan says. She didn't see much of Dorriss when they all lived in San Francisco. Said that not until after she moved down to the village to be with her daughter, did she know that Marlin had a place here.

“Then she had that accident and was in the nursing home, and she didn't think much about him. But after she recovered and was back in her own place she ran into Marlin. That distressed her, that he was living here. That's when she decided to drop the name, exhibit no more connection with him than necessary.”

“All because of his sons?” Juana asked.

“She said they were impossible as young boys and she'd heard they were no better now. She was very critical of the way Marlin raised them. I got the impression that if she'd known he had a home in the village part-time, she might not have moved to Molena Point at all.”

“Interesting,” Garza said. “Didn't her daughter tell her?”

“No, she didn't,” Max said. “Susan thinks that's because her daughter wanted her to move down, to get out of the city. I'd give a month's pay to see his phone and Visa bills, his gas station receipts. See if we could put him in those locations during the burglaries.”

“That's stretching a bit,” Dallas said. “No way the judge would issue a search warrant on that kind of conjecture. And if we went directly to the phone company and to his credit card people, if we got into that gray area…”

“I don't like to beat a dead horse,” Davis said, “but life was simpler twenty years ago.”

Garza grunted in agreement, then the three were silent. And beneath the couch, Joe Grey smiled. Marlin Dorriss might be as innocent and clean as driven snow, but the guy was worth checking out.

O
n a rocky point just at the south edge
of
the village,
Marlin Dorriss's villa rose among giant boulders that had been tumbled there eons before by the earth's angry upheaval. Its montage of angles and converging planes reflected moving light from the sea's crashing waves. The pale structure seemed, to some, harsh and ungiving. Others, including Dorriss himself, admired the play of light across its pristine surfaces, the shifting shadows always changing beneath swiftly blowing skies.

Few windows faced the street. Those slim openings, like gun slits, glinted now in the morning sun as Joe Grey slunk among the boulders. Studying the house, he prayed that he hadn't left Dulcie in danger as she went to investigate Consuela's rented house. He had made her promise that if she heard any noise from within, any small hint of a human presence, she'd get the hell out of there fast.

“What can happen? So I'm hunting mice. If a mouse ran in through an open window, why wouldn't I follow?”

“Not everyone loves a prowling cat. Just be careful.”

“You're feeling guilty because you suggested this gig and you're not coming with me. I think it's a blast. Who knows what I'll find?”

“I had hoped the kit—”

Dulcie had flashed him a look of green-eyed impatience. “
I
don't know where she is. And
you
know she'd only make trouble. She'd be into everything, and I'm always afraid she'll start talking a mile a minute.”

But Joe had parted from Dulcie with an unaccustomed fear tickling along his spine, a taut wariness that almost made him turn back. Only the urgency of Marlin Dorriss's personal papers led him on, calling to him like the sound of mice scurrying in the walls.

It would set him up big time to lay his claws on the precise evidence that Max Harper would so like to obtain, papers that Harper's officers couldn't legally search for, and without which they might never have the lead they needed—if indeed Dorriss
was
involved in these high-class thefts.

And if Dorriss wasn't the thief, nothing lost. A few hours' adventure.

“You're courting trouble,” Dulcie had told him. “Getting too bold. That place is huge, and built like a fort. Let me come…”

“We really need to know where the stolen clothes are hidden,” he'd said, and had bullied until he sent her away; and now he couldn't stop worrying about her. She had left him, scowling, her ears back, her tail lashing, her parting words, “You're going to trip on your own claws if you're not careful,” ringing in his ears as he crossed the village.

But what was life for, if not to balance on the edge?
He just didn't want to put Dulcie in that danger. Consuela's small house lent itself to quicker escape. Anyway, he had not the faintest notion that he would fail. With sufficient tenacity and clever paw work, why should he fail? Every human had bills to pay; every human kept his paid bills stashed in some drawer or cubbyhole.

“And how,” Dulcie had said, “are you going to keep from implicating Detectives Garza and Davis? You daren't make it look like one of them broke into Dorriss's. They both were there in Harper's office when he talked about the bills.”

Joe had been worrying about that. He'd told Dulcie, “No problem. I'll think about that after the deed.” If he could find evidence that Dorriss had been in those towns at the time of the burglaries, Harper would have something to work on. It had to be frustrating to have a multimillion-dollar case like this and not a useful bit of evidence. Harper and Dallas Garza's strong cop-sense that Dorriss could be involved was good enough, anytime, for Joe Grey.

A granite-paved parking area curved before the front of the house, between the huge pale boulders and the natural, informal gardens. Granite flagstones led to the heavily carved front door that was recessed beneath a white slab. Above the door at either side, surveillance cameras looked down on Joe. To a master of break-and-enter, the place looked like Fort Knox. He hoped to hell those cameras weren't running at the moment, closely monitoring him. Even if he was only an innocent feline, electronic surveillance made him nervous—though Dorriss ought to be happy to have a
stray cat wandering the property ridding the area of unwanted moles and gophers.

Passing the entry he trotted along the side of the house to the back, into a fine mist of sea spray. Crossing the stone patio he stood looking back at the house. Only here facing the sea were there wide expanses of glass looking out at the boulders and the crashing surf. The huge windows would, from within, afford an unbroken view of the Pacific.

The patio was protected from the wind by a six-foot glass wall, its panels skillfully fitted around the mountains of granite. From this sunny shelter a stone walk led down the cliff to the sea, doubling back and forth in comfortable angles until it reached the sand far below. For a few moments Joe crouched at the edge of the cliff rocked by the sea wind, caught in the timeless dance of the violent sea; then he turned away, approaching the house through the glassed patio.

He paused, startled.

Either luck was with him, or a trap had been laid.

Of the four pairs of sliding glass doors that opened to the seaward patio, the one at the far end stood open perhaps four inches, just wide enough for a cat to slip through.

Looking along the bottom of the glass he saw where it was locked in place so no one larger could enter. Higher up where the glass door joined the wall, he saw the tiny red lights of an activated security system, a strip of lights that rose from six inches above the floor to about six feet, a barrier impossible for a human to circumvent unless he was circus-thin and agile enough to slide in on his belly, or was a skilled high jumper.
Sniffing all around the open glass he could catch no animal scent, cat or otherwise, could smell only salty residue from the sea spray. He could see no one inside the room beyond the glass, but the place was huge, with angles and niches that might conceal an army.

Slipping beneath the electronic barrier ready to spin and run, he eased beyond the beam. Once inside, he expected his every move to trigger an interior beam, but no alarm sounded. Uneasily he rose to his full height, his gray ears pricked, his short stub tail erect, his yellow eyes searching every angle of the furniture, dissecting every shadow. Still no alarm—and talk about architectural bravado!

The walls of the soaring, two-story great room were hung with large and vivid action paintings from the mid-1950s. Thanks to Dulcie's coaching, he recognized several Diebenkorns, two Bischoffs, half a dozen Braden Wests. Opening from this soaring gallery were a dozen low, cavelike seating niches, cozy conversation alcoves that were tucked beneath the floor above. Each little retreat was furnished in a different style designed around some esoteric collection. One conversation area featured miniature landscapes. One was designed to set off a group of steel sculptures. In another, couch and chairs were tucked among huge six-foot-tall chess pieces. An array of carved wooden chests and small cupboards was arranged among soft velvet seating. Joe could imagine Dulcie and Kit prowling here for hours, riven with delight at every new discovery, rolling on every velvet settee and hand-woven cushion.

Keeping to the shadows, scanning every niche to make sure he was alone, he expected any second to see
someone sitting among the exhibits, silent and still, watching him. Or to come face to face with whatever animal, most likely a cat, enjoyed access through the open glass door. At the back of the room, behind a vast, two-sided fireplace, was a dining room with dark blue-gray walls. The huge carved table and chairs were rubbed with white, the chair seats upholstered in white. He would not have noticed these niceties if he had not spent so many hours with Dulcie. At every break-and-enter, she had to admire, examine, and comment upon the decor.

In the left-hand wall of the dining room, a door stood open to the kitchen. Far to the left of the kitchen an entry hall led to the carved front door, and here rose a broad and angled stairway. Was Dorriss's office up there on the second floor, his desk and files? Or did Dorriss have a secretary hidden away in some village office to take care of business matters? Likely he relied on a broker in some large firm to tend to his investments, but he had to have letters, personal bills. Wouldn't a house of this size and quality have a safe? Did Dorriss keep his stocks and bonds at home, along with the valuable pieces of antique silver and jewelry that he was known to collect?

Skilled as he was with his paws, Joe's expertise did not, as yet, include safecracking. Anyway he was here for bills, not silver. Who kept their Visa bills in a locked safe? Contemplating the possible extent of Dorriss's security arrangements, and his skin rippling with nerves, he made for the wide stairway.

Leaping up the carpeted stair, he gained the top step and stood listening, sniffing the soft flow of air from open windows somewhere on this floor, seeking any
waft of human or cat scent. The house was meticulously clean; peering into a bedroom, he could see that the spaces under the chairs had all been freshly vacuumed. He could smell the faint afterbreath of the vacuum cleaner, that dusty aroma ejected through the dust bag even in the most expensive of models—though this dust-scented air was perfumed, as well, with cinnamon. Likely the housekeeper added powdered cinnamon to the fresh dust bags. Joe knew that trick—both Clyde and Wilma did it, to delicately perfume the house. Surely Clyde had learned the habit from Wilma, he'd never have thought of it on his own. The spice was far superior to air fresheners, which made Joe and Dulcie sneeze.

The wide upstairs hall was lit from above by a row of angled skylights. Paintings were spaced along both walls, again work by Diebenkorn, Bischoff, West, and James Weeks. Each piece had to be worth enough to keep Joe in caviar for ninety-nine cat lives. Five bedrooms opened from the hall. Each was handsomely designed, but none looked or smelled lived in. Only the last room, on his left, smelled of recent occupancy and looked as if it were regularly occupied; the shelves were cluttered with books and papers and several small pieces of sculpture, the smell of aftershave mixed with the scent of leather, and of charred wood from the fireplace. The fireplace was laid with fresh logs over a gas starter. The paneled wall on either side looked hand-carved, the oak slabs thick and heavy.

The master bedroom joined Dorriss's study through an inner hall, which also opened to the master bath and dressing room. This suite occupied the entire south end of the second floor. Around Joe the house was silent,
the only sound the dulled crashing of the sea and the whispering insistence of the sea wind. Intently listening he trotted into Dorriss's office and leaped to the desk.

The desk faced a wall of glass; one of the three panels was cracked open a few inches. Crouching on the blotter with his nose to the window, Joe had the sensation of floating untethered above the cliff and the sea.

A fax machine stood beside a phone. Dorriss's computer occupied an adjacent worktable of boldly carved African design. The monitor was the newest model, flat, slim of line, dark gray in color. There were no file cabinets, but the desk had one file drawer. How would all of Dorriss's various business and charity pursuits be conducted with no more file space than that one drawer? At home, Clyde's automotive interests over-flowed four file cabinets and all the bookshelves, plus six more file cabinets at the automotive shop. Did Dorriss keep all his business records in the computer? For the first time Joe wished he'd brought Dulcie; she could get into that computer like a snatching paw into a mouse hole.

With her official position as Molena Point library cat, Dulcie's access to the library computers, and her interest in such matters, had allowed her to become more than conversant with the daunting world of megabytes and hard drives. That, plus her female-feline stubbornness, assured that no computer program would outsmart this sweet tabby.

Joe stared at the computer wishing that he'd paid attention. Instead, he tackled the desk drawers, surprised to find them unlocked. Clawing the top drawer open, he wondered if, any second, he'd trigger a
screaming alarm. Or a silent alarm that would alert some private security company? Because why would Dorriss leave his desk unlocked unless he had it cleverly wired?

Or unless he kept nothing of value here.

The smaller drawers contained only office supplies: pencils, pens, paperclips, various-size labels, and thick cream-colored stationery embossed with Dorriss's elegant letterhead. Joe tackled the file drawer. As he clawed the drawer out, a noise above him brought him up rigid, ready to scorch out of there.

But it was only a bird careening against the window and gone, leaving a long smear of feathery dust. He scowled, annoyed at himself. He was a bundle of rigid fur, rotating ears, nervously twitching whiskers.

Why did he do this to himself? Why wasn't he out napping in the sunshine like a sensible, normal cat?

The drawer was neatly arranged with a row of hanging files—and talk about luck. Dorriss's paid bills were right there in front, in one of six color-coded files that were tucked into a hanging box folder. The packets of paid bills were each held together by a large clip: utility and phone, automotive and gas, Visa and American Express. Other receipts and documentation were filed behind these, the entire box folder marked “current year taxes.” When income tax time came, Dorriss had only to haul this stuff out and add up the numbers.

How strange that he would keep his credit card bills in plain sight. Or were these fake bills? Decoys meant for prowlers, and not the real thing?

But that was so dumb, that was really reaching. How would Dorriss even make that kind of fake bill?

Glancing over his shoulder toward the empty hall,
he lifted out the packets with his teeth and spread them across the blotter. As he pawed carefully through, his ears went up and his whiskers stiffened—he was looking at hotel and restaurant charges in cities where the thefts had occurred.