Cat Spitting Mad (19 page)

Harper's profile went rigid. That hard, ungiving cop look, that I-know-you're-lying look that Joe Grey knew too well.

“It was like Dillon was right there, her face in my face, shouting in my face. We were in a dark, tiny room—all concrete. She was so frightened, was beat
ing at the door—right in my face, beating and pounding on the door, shouting, ‘Let me out! Please, Crystal, let me out of here!'

“I've never had a dream like that, not so real.”

Harper's profile didn't change. He wasn't buying this.

“I sat up. Knew I couldn't go back to sleep. I thought of phoning Crystal, and knew I daren't do that. I got up, threw on some clothes, and headed for Crystal's. I knew it was crazy, but I couldn't help going.

“Crystal left as I was coming around the corner, I saw her car pull out. I was scared she had Dillon with her.

“I had a hammer in my hand, from my toolbox. I went to the side door, under the house. I was going to smash the glass but it was unlocked, like she forgot to lock it.”

On the top bunk, Joe grinned at Dulcie. Charlie was doing it up right, she even had
him
believing. He was mighty glad he had, on the second try, managed to slide that bolt.

“I found the door under the stairs, I
knew
she was there. It was the place I'd dreamed of. All I could think was, get her out of there, get her away.”

She looked at Max, lifted her hand to touch his face. “I drove the bolt back, got her out, and we ran.”

Harper looked hard at Charlie. He said nothing.

“What, Max? She's a very tough little girl.” She rose and stepped to the bunks, stood looking at the sleeping child, raised her eyes to the cats, and winked. Then turned back to sit beside Harper.

“This Dallas Garza, Max. What is he doing? Is he helping you? Is he honest? Does he talk to you? What does he tell you?”

“He's doing his job, Charlie. He's not supposed to keep me informed—though as a matter of fact, we had a talk yesterday.

“I asked him if Mr. Berndt had filed a report or tendered informal information regarding the case. Garza said not to his knowledge.”

Harper eased his back against the concrete wall. “When I was in the grocery yesterday, Mr. Berndt apologized for acting like an old woman about the groceries. I asked him what he meant.”

He reached for a cigarette, forgetting he'd quit, then dropped his hand. “Seems Berndt told Wendell, couple of days ago, that he'd noticed Crystal Ryder was suddenly buying a lot more groceries—peanut butter, kid cereal, a lot of kid food. That it made him curious. From what he'd observed, Crystal lives on salads, yogurt, and an occasional steak.

“Berndt had asked one of Crystal's neighbors, a real talkative woman, if Crystal had a child visiting. Molly—Molly Gersten. Molly hadn't seen a child. She can see the front of Crystal's apartment, the front door and windows, from her kitchen.

“Berndt thought it was interesting enough to call the station. Wendell was on the desk, and Berndt gave him the information. Wendell told him he'd pass it on at once, to Detective Garza.

“Garza said he never got it.”

Charlie nodded. “Tonight, Wendell stopped Crystal
when they were chasing and firing at us. But then he let them go. He had to have heard the shots. But he let them go.” She turned to look at him. “What are you going to do?”

“About Wendell?” Harper looked deeply at her. “Time, Charlie. Time, patience, and a cool head.”

“I'm not long on patience or a cool head.” She studied his face. “Who do you think killed them?”

“Maybe Baker. Maybe Lee Wark. Maybe Crystal.”

“Not Wendell.”

“Wendell is a follower, not a very bold type. Easily influenced. I inherited him on the force—should have sent him packing.”

“But who do you think attacked them—and almost killed Dillon?” she said softly.

“Charlie, you know I can't make that kind of premature call. It muddies the waters. Makes a case harder to work.”

“But that's the problem. You're not working this case. Your own future is at stake and your hands are tied. You're not allowed to dig out the facts.”

“And that is as it should be.”

“I wouldn't be worth a damn as a cop. I'd be champing at the bit all the time, wanting to hurry up an investigation, get to the bottom line.”

Harper looked at her a long time, a look so intimate that Dulcie looked away, embarrassed. “You might,” Harper said, “make a good cop's wife.”

Charlie's face went totally red.

“Well,” he said gently, “you can cook and clean. Repair the roof and the plumbing, feed and care for the
horses, even train a dog or two. In fact, come to that, you're not a bad shot, either.” He reached to his belt. “I'll try the radio, see if we can get a line on Clyde—though I doubt we'll get much, this far underground.”

Charlie leaned forward to tie her shoe, as if getting control of herself.

Harper's hand was on his radio when, atop the bunk, Joe Grey froze, watching the short stair and the black cellar beyond. A faint brushing sound, too faint for human ears. Hissing, unable to avoid a low growl, he took off up the steps and up the stairs beyond.

Behind him, Harper extinguished the light and palmed his automatic. Charlie moved to follow Joe, but Harper pulled her back, shoved her to a crouching position at the side of the fallen door. Only Dulcie followed him, racing into the night.

The two humans waited, frozen and silent, the shooters crouched and aiming. And Dillon and the kit slept innocent and unaware.

D
riving the
old green Plymouth, Clyde tried every evasive tactic he'd ever learned from Harper or from watching cop flicks, ducking into driveways, doubling back to slip down an alley, making sure the black convertible was there behind him. With both of them running dark, he prayed no late-hour pedestrian or innocent animal hurried into the street. Crossing Ocean, Crystal stepped on the gas, but at the next intersection she held back as if wary of the brighter streetlight. Glancing back, he lifted a bag of cleaning rags from the seat beside him, let it be seen through the windows as if a passenger had stuck her head up. When Crystal speeded up, narrowing the distance for a better look, he dropped the bag on the seat.

In his rearview mirror, he couldn't see her passenger. Was he lying low or had he bailed out?

Maybe he'd picked up another car, would come slipping out of a side street to cut him off, thinking he had the child.

Or had Crystal's passenger spotted Charlie and Dil
lon, and was on their tail? They'd be high in the hills now, driving alone on empty, lonely roads, winding toward the Pamillon place. Harper might be following them, or he might not. Clyde was glad he'd given Charlie a gun, glad for their evenings, after hamburgers or Mexican, when he'd taken her to the police range and taught her the proper use of the weapon—glad, he supposed, for Harper's later training, on the nights Charlie went up there to work with the pups. He didn't know how he felt about that.

His relationship with Charlie, though they'd had their moments, seemed to have settled from hot romance into an easy and comfortable friendship.

Was that his fault or hers? He took two more corners, Crystal still on his tail. She'd bolt when she saw where he was headed. Lifting the ragbag again, he dropped it as an oncoming car swerved toward him, its lights blazing on high, moving fast. He tramped the gas, did a hard peel across the intersection on two wheels and down the side street, his rearview mirrors catching the lights as the car screamed on his tail.

It sideswiped him hard, knocking him into the oncoming lane. He managed to spin a U. It hit him again, sent him over the curb and across the sidewalk. The police station loomed half a block ahead. He hit the gas hard. He thought the car was turning away when it spun and hit him broadside—sent the Plymouth sideways into the department's plate-glass window, exploding glass. He threw open the door as a shot rang, and dove in a flying lunge toward the swinging glass doors and through them, nearly trampled as cops came boiling out. Two guys jumped over him where he sprawled. A young corporal
stepped on his hand. Three more shots rang out,
bing, bing, bing
. A small-caliber rifle. He saw its flame blaze from an officer's hands, aimed to stop the driver. When it didn't stop him, two patrol cars took off, on his tail.

And two officers grabbed Clyde, jerking his arms behind him, slapping on cuffs. Those two new rookies. He shouted, but no one paid attention. The dispatcher was busy calling the sheriff for assistance. The whole force was in action. Detective Davis spun him around, took one look, looked disgusted, and unlocked the cuffs.

At least he was inside the station, out of the line of fire—maybe.

The offending car was gone, four squad cars scorching after it. He hadn't seen what happened to Crystal; the black convertible had vanished. He sat down on the nearest desk, watching through the shattered window as Davis joined Hendricks, assessing the damage to the building. In a few minutes, two officers came up the street, marching a tall, good-looking guy before them, strong-arming him into the station. Baker. Stubby Baker. Clyde looked him over and went out to look at the Plymouth, his shoes crunching shattered glass.

Shoving through a crowd of onlookers, some in pajamas and robes, and several homeless with their backpacks, who seemed to greatly enjoy the entertainment, he scanned the street for Crystal's convertible. But she'd be long gone. The left side of the Plymouth was totaled.

Moving back inside, he watched as Baker was booked and printed. The well-made, dark-haired man was wide-eyed with surprised innocence. Clyde prayed that Charlie and Harper and Dillon were safe,
and he worried about the cats. He'd learned long ago not to argue with cats. Hard-headed and stubborn, they had bulled their way into Charlie's BMW. He guessed, after rescuing Dillon, they had a right to be in on the action—but they were so small and easily hurt. If he let himself worry about them, it tied his belly in knots.

Detective Davis sat down on the desk beside him, her dark eyes appraising. “What's going on, Damen? Why did he ram you? Why was he chasing you?”

He laid out as much of the scenario as he could reveal, told her that Charlie had found Dillon Thurwell in Crystal Baker's apartment, that Dillon had been locked in a cellar, that when Charlie got her out, Baker and Crystal followed and pulled a gun on them. He described his and Charlie's ploy to get Dillon away, their vehicular shell game. He didn't mention Harper.

Davis pushed back her short, dark hair. “So where are they now?” Her brown eyes were unreadable. He saw Officer Wendell beyond her, quietly listening.

“I don't know where Charlie took her. Maybe up the coast. Crystal was after them. Black Mercedes convertible. She was on my tail until Baker started ramming me.”

“And where's Harper? He's staying with you.”

“I—we started out together. He's in another car.”

“Is Charlie carrying?”

He nodded. The department knew he'd had Charlie on the range.

Davis sighed. “If you know anything that you're not telling us…”

He looked evenly at the solid, sensible woman. “I want Dillon safe, we need to find Dillon.”

“Can you tell me anything more?”

He glanced toward Wendell. Davis widened her eyes.

“I don't know anything more, Juana. I want Dillon and Charlie and Harper safe.”
I want the cats safe
, he thought.
I want Joe Grey back in one piece
.

Joe was so enraged by this scam against Harper, that Clyde had no idea what the tomcat would do. He looked solemnly at Davis. “You going to arrest me?”

“What for, Damen?”

Clyde shrugged, and felt easier.

He'd heard the dispatcher call Garza; the detective was on his way in. Clyde didn't quite trust Garza, after what Joe had told him; he was wary of how Garza would handle tonight's events.

If Garza was in on framing Harper, likely Stubby Baker would be out before midnight, free to go on searching for Dillon.

He turned when he heard Garza's voice, watched the tall, broad-shouldered Latino out on the street, talking with portly Lieutenant Brennan, assessing the damage to the building. In a few minutes they came into the station, and Garza nodded to Davis. She glanced at Clyde, jerking her thumb toward the video in the far corner of the squad room. “We're going to question Baker. You want to watch?”

He sat before the screen watching Garza and Davis, in the interrogation room, grilling Stubby Baker, their exchange fed to him through a camera mounted high on the interrogation room wall. Garza let Davis do most of the talking.

“You were with Crystal Ryder tonight in her apartment?”

“No. I was not.”

“When were you last in her apartment?”

“I don't remember.”

“When were you last within a block of her apartment?”

“Tonight. I followed Harper there. I saw Captain Harper go into her apartment.”

“Did she let him in?”

“I don't think so. Looked to me like he used some kind of lock pick. You know? Fiddling around with the lock.”

“Did he see you?”

“Don't think so. I'd got out of my car, left it around the corner. I was—ah, in the bushes.”

“What time was this?”

“Maybe ten.”

“Why did you follow him?”

“I thought he'd be looking for the kid. To do her, you know?”

“Why would he want to do her?”

“Because she saw him kill those women.”

“What made you think the child was at Crystal's?”

“I'd been watching.”

“Watching what?”

“Watching Crystal come and go. I thought she had someone staying there.”

“Why did you think that?”

“She was bringing home a lot of groceries.”

“What did you do when Harper went in her apartment?”

“I sat down in the bushes and watched.”

“Was Crystal there?”

“The garage door was shut. I didn't see her at the
windows.”

“Was Crystal there?”

“I guess. She came out later, drove off fast after Harper, after he took the kid.”

“How long were you there?”

“Until Harper went off with the kid. When Harper took off, I followed. Afraid he would kill her.”

“What time was this?”

“I guess about an hour ago.”

“Why did Crystal have her there?”

He looked surprised. Looked right into the camera. “To save her—keep Harper from doing her.”

“And what was your interest in the matter?”

“She's just a little kid. I read the papers, I watch the news. A cop gone bad is a terrible thing.”

Detective Davis snorted. Garza's expression didn't change. Clyde was glad he wasn't in the room; it would be hard to hold his temper.

“And so you followed Harper?” Davis said.

“I followed him, then that other car came. That old Plymouth. Harper pulled up beside it and got out, and they talked.”

“And?”

“There was a lot of moving around, doors opening and closing. I thought he put the kid in the Plymouth.”

“Go on.”

“I followed it. Driver kept dodging me. I tried to head it over here, toward the station. You know? To get help.”

Baker gave Davis that boyish smile. “Well, guess I did get some help. But then I didn't see the kid. Plymouth rammed the station. Well, you saw. And I didn't see the kid. Did you get the kid? Is she safe?”

Talk about chutzpah. Clyde's fists were balled, itching to punch Baker. He waited for Baker to finish, then went back to a conference room with Garza and Davis, and gave his own statement, sipping coffee that tasted like burnt shoes.

“Harper's staying with me, he was there all night, playing poker. We went to bed around ten. Harper snores so loud he rocks the guest room—no way he could have slipped out, even if he'd do such a thing.

“Phone rang, woke me up. It was Charlie. Said she had Dillon. That she was just south of Wilma's house, and Crystal and Baker were shooting at them. Said to meet her at the shop, if she could give them the slip. The back door, up the alley. That maybe we could switch cars and get Dillon away. I woke Harper and we took off.”

Davis was recording it all. Somewhere down the line she'd type it up and expect him to sign it.

“I kept wondering, when you questioned Baker, if he and Crystal were the only ones involved. Or if there could be a second man. A man still out there, riding with Crystal, following Harper and Charlie and Dillon.”

Davis turned a dark brown, Latin stare on him. “It's possible. Six cars are out looking. Where are they?”

“Try the Pamillon place.”

Davis dialed the dispatcher, gave the instructions, then fixed again on Clyde. “I asked you earlier where they were. You didn't know.”

“Didn't want to talk in front of Wendell. I don't trust Wendell.”

Her response was noncommittal. Garza didn't blink,
sat unmoving, watching Clyde. The interview was soon terminated, Clyde none the wiser about what the officers thought. He was heading for the door when a call that stopped him came in. Harper's voice, crackling with static. He moved toward the dispatcher's desk to hear better.

“Code two. I have Dillon Thurwell. The old…” Harper went silent, and they heard three shots pop. Clyde didn't wait; he ran for his car, then remembered it was wrecked. Garza was behind him, and Davis. He swung into the backseat of a black-and-white, Garza behind the wheel. The detective spun a U and headed up Ocean, the siren blasting. Clyde was cold with fear for Harper and Charlie and Dillon—but weak, thinking of the cats up there in the middle of the confusion and gunfire, three small cats soon to be surrounded by wheeling squad cars and running officers—three little cats who had saved Dillon Thurwell and now were in danger for their own lives.

And no one knew to care. No one but Charlie would think of protecting them; no one knew how special they were.