Cat Telling Tales (10 page)

Nothing,
Joe thought,
but the two thousand bucks tucked away in your suitcase.

“Since you arrived in the village,” Max said, “have you been in touch with Erik? Or with Esther and Perry Fowler? Have you asked them for help in getting resettled?”

Joe knew Perry Fowler, the older of the two partners. You'd see him around the village dressed in tennis clothes, sometimes Fowler and Erik together. He was tall and slim like Erik but strangely pale despite the fact that he must be outdoors a lot. Pale hair, whitish skin, pale blue eyes, a hesitant way of moving. Joe had never seen Fowler's wife headed for the tennis courts; he guessed Esther wasn't interested in the game. He wondered what kind of tennis player Fowler was, as uncertain as he seemed.

“Erik doesn't know I'm here. I don't want him to know, so of course I haven't contacted Perry, either. He'd be sure to tell Erik.” She looked at Harper pleadingly. “Erik would knock me around for coming here where he works. He doesn't want people to know he left me. He won't think I'd come here, this is the last place he'll look. He'll think I headed north, away from California. Maybe just keep going until I found a job.”

“How long did it take you to drive down from Eugene?” The chief knew she'd moved out of the rented house ten days ago; he'd called Eugene just after the autopsy, Charlie had told Ryan that. Apparently, while Debbie had left the landlord's furniture intact, she'd taken everything else, down to the curtain rods, the towel racks, and the lightbulbs. Joe wondered if she'd left that little lightbulb in the refrigerator. He watched her fidgeting in her chair, her hands busy now, moving nervously, and then going rigid as she tried to keep them still. Max said, again, “The trip down from Eugene took you how long?”

“I . . . about a week and a half, I guess. We camped along the way. I needed time to think, I didn't know what I was going to do, I needed time to work out a plan. I didn't think he'd look for me in the campgrounds. I wouldn't normally camp, I don't like the dirt and the inconvenience.”

“It takes money, even to camp.”

“We brought what food we had in the cupboards, canned food, crackers. Ryan and her sister Hanni are the only friends I have, we had enough to get here, to them. I need to think of some way to make a living, some kind of job where I can take care of the kids, I don't want to impose on Ryan any longer than I have to.”

Joe rolled over in his chair, hiding a silent cat laugh.

Max said, “If he left you, Debbie, why would he look for you at all? Why would he care where you went?”

Debbie sighed again. “He might think I'd make trouble. He . . . he was into some real estate scams, some deals he made in Eugene. If he found out I knew about them, he'd want to hush me up, he'd come looking for me.” She pulled up the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “The purple is faded now, there were always bruises. That scar . . . he cut me with a paring knife, just before he left.” The scar on her inner forearm was maybe four inches long. “That wasn't the first time. When he was in Eugene, and even when he wasn't, I was afraid to run away, I knew he'd come after me. I was glad when
he
left. Maybe he doesn't suspect what I know. But,” she said tremulously, “I can't be sure of that.”

“You want to tell me about the scams?”

“I . . . would really rather talk about it later,” she said, glancing at Vinnie. “That can't have anything to do with my mother.”

“Did Erik get along well with your mother? Did he ever visit her?”

“I don't know why he would. They'd get along all right, I guess, if he ever saw her. But why would he bother with her?”

“Could Hesmerra have known about his real estate deals?”

“How could she possibly know something like that? Why would she care?”

“How did you know about the deals?” Max said. “Did you see contracts, sales agreements?”

“That would take a while to explain. Ryan's waiting for me,” she said, “to take me up to her cottage.”

Max rose. “We can talk about this another time,” he said easily. “Meanwhile, we'd like you to stop by the station, get your fingerprints on file.”

“What for? I'm not being investigated. Why would you need my fingerprints?”

“We need family prints to eliminate from others we might find at the scene.”

“It's years since I went there, before Greta's child was born. Whatever prints I might have left wouldn't still be there.”

“You're family,” Max said. “It's customary. We'll need Billy's prints, of course, and Esther's, as well as yours.”

When Debbie rose, Vinnie leaped up and grabbed her around the legs. Max looked at the child a moment, then let himself out the front door. Debbie stared after him, then turned away toward the guest room, dragging Vinnie. The child acted as if Debbie was private property, to push and pull as she chose. Just as, Joe thought, Debbie seemed to view those people around her, who might be useful.

Alone in the living room, except for little Tessa, behind the couch, a number of questions nudged Joe. The more he saw of Debbie Kraft, the less he liked her. He wondered what
had
happened to the family cat. Had Pan, the night of the fire, tried to return to the Krafts' rented house? If he'd shown up there, maybe injured from the fire, would Debbie have chased him away? Run him off, even if he needed help? She'd already dismissed the young tom as no more than a discarded toy: a cat her little girl loved, a cat who was quite possibly smarter, and surely more decent, than the woman he had come to for shelter.

12

F
rom the back of his well-clawed easy chair, Joe watched through the front window as the chief drove off in the direction of the station. He watched Clyde carry out a load of plastic bags and duffels, kiddie blankets and stuffed toys, and push everything into the back of Debbie's station wagon. Debbie followed him, scowling, bearing a tangle of clothes and stray shoes, none too happy to be shuffled off so quickly. Joe sat enjoying the drama until he heard Ryan's footsteps in the studio above him, then, leaping from his chair, he hightailed it up the stairs, where they could talk in private, hopefully without Vinnie charging in to catch her hostess and the house cat in a private discussion.

Ryan stood beside the tall studio windows looking down to the drive, the sun teasing a shine across her short hair. There was a more relaxed look on her face as she watched Clyde and Debbie pack up the car. Leaping onto the mantel beside her, Joe gave her a wicked smile.

“What?” she said, turning from the window, her green eyes looking into his. When he'd left the kitchen earlier, she knew he was taking advantage of the moment to toss Debbie's room. “What did you find?” she said softly.

“She's not so broke, ” Joe said with sly satisfaction.

“How much?”

“Two thousand, in cash. I didn't find a bankbook, so maybe that's all she has, but that's hardly the same as broke. That should hold her until she gets a job—if she plans to get a job. I wonder,” Joe said, “how much money she had when she left Eugene. Aren't there some pretty nice resorts in southern Oregon and on down in Mendocino?”

“You do have a suspicious mind, tomcat.”

“And you don't?”

“Cop's kid,” she said. “Comes with the territory. That's why we survive, suspicion breeds safety. Two thousand bucks! Poor thing. Talk about destitute.” Standing on tiptoe, she kissed him on top his head. “You did good, tomcat.” If a cat could blush, he'd look like a pink plush kiddy toy. Licking a paw to hide his embarrassment, he watched her make her way back downstairs, heard her in the living room hurrying Debbie along. When he peered down again through the window, the two kids were in the car, enthroned among the blankets and duffels, and Clyde was stuffing the last load in around them. Dropping down from the mantel, he pawed open the sliding glass door and slipped out onto the deck. Looking over, he watched Ryan hand Debbie the want ads, listened to her suggest job venues, including a contact with their friend Chichi Barbi, who had recently bought Charlie Harper's cleaning service. Chichi was expanding the business, taking on a long waiting list of homeowners who wanted their houses cleaned and maintained on a regular basis. She was interested in any possible new employee who could pass the background check and was a good worker. He wondered if Debbie could pass on either count?

But maybe he was being too hard on her, maybe with encouragement she'd knuckle down and get a job—or maybe, he thought, she'd run quickly through the two thousand, and then start whining again.

Debbie was saying, “I need to stop for groceries.” She sighed, looking toward the car. “Something to feed the kids.” Joe imagined them pulling up before the little village grocery, imagined Debbie asking Clyde to come inside, to show her where things were, so it wouldn't take her so long. And then at the checkout, giving Clyde that helpless, big-eyed look when she discovered she was short of cash.
Right,
Joe thought
. And Clyde's going to sucker up to that?

As Ryan and Clyde headed for Ryan's pickup to lead Debbie up to the cottage, Joe thought to scorch on down and ride with them, see how this played out. Except, he'd had more than enough of Debbie Kraft and Vinnie for a while. Instead he raced away across the roofs for Molena Point PD, where he could relax among easy cop talk, away from Debbie Kraft's lies and fake smiles; he pitied Rock, who had already scrambled up into the backseat of the truck.

If Max was back at the station, maybe he'd already called Eugene to check on Debbie's movements, see when she
had
left Oregon for California. He wondered if he should call Eugene himself, to try to get a line on the red tomcat. The nursing home must have set up a temporary office, maybe even with the original phone number. Running across the roofs, with an icy wind at his back, he hurried for the station, thinking that winter had turned serious and bold. Dark clouds hung low over the village, the damp air smelled of rain and of a deeper cold yet to come. Well, but February weather on the central coast was never to be relied on. Racing beneath the wind, sailing across the occasional narrow alley, he hit the cold tile roof of the courthouse, ran its length, and dropped down to the roof of MPPD.

He was just backing down the oak, headed for the front door, when a black-and-white pulled to the curb below. Hidden within the prickly oak leaves, he watched two uniformed officers step out, force their handcuffed prisoner out of the backseat and through the glass door, into the little foyer: a young, skinny fellow, long face, long greasy hair. Even from the tree Joe could smell the oily stink of his old leather jacket. As they marched him inside, Joe hit the ground behind them and slid in, too. The arrestee looked startled to see a cat race in past his feet, but the officers paid no attention. They stood at the dispatcher's counter, portly Officer Brennan booking the guy in, printing him, listing his personal effects that Brennan had laid out on the desk; a dirty handkerchief, a little greasy coin purse, a squashed candy bar.

Joe strolled past them and down the hall, thinking that there was a lot to be said for the ambience of a small-town police department. He couldn't imagine being allowed this kind of freedom in the vast, impersonal complex of San Francisco or LAPD. He'd seen the pictures of those daunting establishments with their complicated security, bulletproof glass walls, locked doors. He'd heard the officers discuss the many divisions of the metropolitan hierarchies, and couldn't envision a feline sleuth trying to function in that high-powered maze.

Surprisingly, though, cats
were
serving their own important role in big-city PDs. Even in L.A., feral cats were doing important work. Not sleuthing, but protecting the criminal files and records. Several L.A. precincts, whose buildings were plagued by rats, had brought in colonies of feral cats, housing, feeding, and caring for them, setting them loose among the offices to handle the out-of-control rodent population. Rats in the offices. Rats in the lunchroom. Rats running down the halls into the storage rooms, eating paper supplies and, more alarming, destroying old criminal files: a felon's record quickly expunged, vanished into the belly of a hungry rodent. And it wasn't only L.A. that was employing ferals who might otherwise be killed. Other large city police departments were taking notice, bringing in their own bands of ferals, working with foundations of volunteers like Alley Cat Allies or Animal Friends. Feline exterminators were now working at city offices, college campuses, all kinds of institutions—stable cat populations that did not produce unwanted kittens, but went happily about their business destroying the rats, not only saving valuable paperwork, but saving lives, too. For every rat the cats killed, they destroyed a potential carrier of hantavirus that was fatal to humans, and for which there was no vaccine and no cure. Dogs, Joe thought, weren't the only four-legged professionals serving human needs. Those cats could be as important as Red Cross nurses, giving folks a helping paw.

Slipping into Max's office, into what he considered his personal lair beneath the credenza, he sniffed the sweet scent of horses from Max's Western boots. The chief was on the phone, glancing up now and then at Detective Juana Davis. She sat in one of the leather chairs, leaning over massaging her left knee where a prospective felon, now in Soledad Prison, had graced her with a well-placed kick while she was cuffing his partner. Orange cat hairs clung to Juana's dark uniform, evidence of the kitten she'd recently adopted. Juana seemed more relaxed since the kitten had come to share her condo; the little creature was born nearly in the middle of a murder case that Juana, and Joe himself, had worked in tandem, Juana happily unaware of the identity of the snitch who alerted her to the murder, unaware of the three cats' roles in the timely demise of the killer. Max hung up the phone, looking across at the detective.

“As far as Eugene PD can tell, Debbie did leave ten days ago, about the time she mailed Ryan's letter. Landlord said her lease was up three months ago, but she refused to move. He called her husband here in the village. Erik was out of town, but he got him on his cell. Kraft told him he was divorcing her, said if she wanted to stay she'd have to sign her own lease, pay her own rent. Landlord went over there three times with a lease. Her car was there but she wouldn't answer the door. Brown, 1998 Suzuki station wagon. Eugene has our BOL on her but hadn't spotted her. Strange, if she was camping, they watch those campgrounds pretty close. Well, she's here now, arrived last night, stayed with Ryan and Clyde. I went by this morning, talked with her, asked her to come in and get printed. She doesn't want Erik to know she's here, claims she's afraid of him. Claims he's into some kind of real estate scam.”

“If she's avoiding him,” Davis said. “Why would she come here?”

Max shook his head. “Says he won't expect her here, that he'll think she's headed north.”

“His condo's right in the middle of town,” Davis said. “Pretty hard to keep out of his way. The Brighton, that second-floor penthouse.” In Molena Point, as in much of California where the buildings were designed to resist impending earthquakes, even a second story often rose above the surrounding rooftops. Joe knew that penthouse well; its walled back patio was a favorite for the village cats, a sunny spot out of the wind on cold days. The little terrace had no access from the roofs around it except to the pigeons and seagulls, and through open aspects at the base of the wall meant for rain runoff, where the local cats could easily slip inside. With Erik gone so much of the time, it was an ideal hunting preserve. One could enjoy a sunny afternoon nap, wake when a pigeon landed, snatch him up before he knew you were there. Warm nap and instant feast, how could any cat resist?

Max said, “Kraft's still out of town, expects to be gone for another month or more. I talked with Fowler. Says he's down in Orange County reorganizing the branch office there, some kind of staff shake-up. Says from there, he's headed for the Bahamas on vacation.”

Davis smiled. “Pretty tough life.”

Max laughed. “For sure, Debbie's current digs won't match that kind of luxury. Ryan and Clyde are moving her into one of the cottages they bought, that dilapidated one up near the meth house we raided.” He frowned, none too happy with that operation.

“They sure saw that coming,” she said. “Empty house, nothing left but the smell. Crime-scene cleanup service should be in there this week. Took us a while to locate the landlord, the house sold six months ago to a Jarvis James, in Chicago.” They exchanged a look of disgust. Someone out of state buys an old cottage, next thing you know they're making meth.

And,
Joe thought,
most likely ruining the house for future sale.
Even if the house was torn down, the land could be useless if it was sufficiently soaked with lethal chemicals.

Davis said, “We have computer copies of the deed and the closing papers. Most of it was done online.” Neither Davis nor the chief liked the shift from paper contracts to those completed online, which the real estate and escrow companies had so eagerly embraced, and which made evidence harder to nail down.

“Kathleen's working on the contract,” Davis said, “trying to pick up the trail.” Kathleen Ray, the newest of the three detectives, had brought with her a fine expertise in the world of computers, and both older detectives were more than happy to see her take on that annoying aspect of their work. Davis said, “She's found other purchases for James, so we'll see where that leads. Looks like Ryan and Clyde, and Hanni, are stuck with those places for a while. Besides the economic slump, no one wants to buy near a meth house.”

Max said, “Hanni's nearly done with her renovation. Ryan and Clyde mean to go ahead, too, and then wait it out.” He tilted back in his chair. “The meth house isn't the only problem up there. The papers on some of those places are in a hell of a tangle. City attorney's beginning to see illegal foreclosures, false documents, the works. Could keep that area depressed for some long time.”

“Anywhere else,” Davis said, “I'd worry. But land's too valuable in Molena Point, city council's too concerned, city attorney rides too close when these things begin to happen.”

Joe thought about the cats that the rescue group had trapped in that neighborhood. Many members of their local CatFriends group had taken three or four cats apiece into their homes, to shelter on a temporary basis. He thought some of them would turn out to be so charming they'd end up as permanent family members. Juana had already told Charlie she'd take another young cat, that her orange kitten was growing bored, home all day alone, that he was clawing and chewing up the furniture. Davis hoped that two cats, if they were compatible, would chase each other, climb the cat trees, play tag, rather than spend their energy as a two-cat demolition crew.

“Anything more on the burn?” Max asked.

“We lifted three sets of prints from the whiskey bottles and the carton, besides Hesmerra's. Sent the whole thing for contents analysis to the lab, along with the shattered remains of the bottle she had in bed. The few dishes, glasses, pans, knives and forks were melted, but we sent a collection of that to the lab. I'm guessing, even with the new methods, they won't be able to lift much. The rest of the burn, Dallas and I lifted four sets of prints besides hers.”