Cat to the Dogs (14 page)

“We have two witnesses on store diversions up the coast that might be reliable. If we can ID the same women, here, and with your ID of Fulman, we might make something stick.”

“Might?”
She raised an eyebrow.

“Most of these cases walk, Wilma. You get them in court, no witness seems able to make a solid ID. Different hair color, different way of dressing, and the witness isn't that sure. And these people turn the courtroom into the same kind of circus, shouting, mouthing off in a language you can't understand.”

Harper shrugged. “A judge can charge them with contempt and lock them up, but besides disrupting the whole courtroom, they'll trash the jail cells—those women can tear up a jail worse
than a hundred male felons. And most times, the judge gets so tired of the noise and confusion in his courtroom and no solid witnesses, that he'll do anything to be rid of them.

“I've never seen you so negative.”

“You've never seen me faced with one of these renegade families. You heard them up there at the desk, couldn't get anything intelligible out of them. That's the way they are in court. You can lock them up, but if your witnesses are uncertain, you've got nothing to hold them. Then usually, their hotshot attorney shows up and offers full restitution.” Harper shook his head.

“All the shopkeeper wants is his money and the value of the goods they stole. Lawyer puts a little pressure on him and offers plenty of cash, and he'll drop charges.”

Harper shrugged, and lit a cigarette. “Without charges, they walk.”

He set down his coffee cup. “Your Sam Fulman—did he ever tell you anything about the Greenlaw family? Anything more than you know from Lucinda?”

“He said the clan is thick, that most of them come from one small town in North Carolina. Donegal, I think. Three-story brick houses, long, curved drives, swimming pools and private woods, landscaped acreage. He claimed they practically own the town.”

Wilma watched the officers settling back to their desks, the room calm now, and quieter. “Fulman told me the families all work together, but he never would say just what kind of work—the construction trades, I remember him saying once, rather vaguely. He said they all intermarry, all adhere to the family rules. Much, I suppose, like a tightly controlled little Mafia.

“Fulman is something of a renegade among them. He didn't knuckle under like the rest, didn't behave as the elders dictated. He moved out when he was young, came out to the coast, set up his own operation. I had him on probation for a chop shop. Later, at the time I got him revoked, he'd gone into business with Shamas.”

“What kind of business?”

“Selling machine tools.”

“What about Shamas's other business affairs?”

“When Lucinda and Shamas met, she told me, he was a rep for a roofing company in Seattle. Before they left Washington State, he had started the machine-tool company and entered into several related businesses—something about electroplating tools.”

Harper swiveled his chair around, reaching for the coffeepot. “When they moved down here, he kept those enterprises?”

“That's what Lucinda told me, but she was pretty vague. Evidently Shamas didn't like to talk to her about business, would never give her any details. Never told her anything about bank balances, just gave her an allowance.”

She looked at her watch. “Do you have anything on the Chambers stabbing? How is he?”

“He's doing okay. Doctors got the lung reinflated and repaired—he was lucky. He should be home in a few days. He says he didn't know his assailant, that he got only a glimpse. Said he'd stopped to use the phone, there by the rest rooms, that he was out walking and forgot he had an early appointment. The guy grabbed him from behind, a regular bear hug, and shoved the knife in his chest. Chambers fell and lay still, hoping the guy would think he was dead. His assailant heard someone coming and ran.”

“Wouldn't that pretty well clear Lucinda? Grabbing him from behind hard enough to hold him and stab him?” Lucinda had been questioned as a matter of routine because she'd been in the area and had reported the body, but also because Chambers was on board the
Green Lady
when Shamas drowned.

“I'd think it would clear her. Though she's tall, almost as tall as Chambers; and the miles she walks every day, she has to be in good shape for…”

“For an old lady?” Wilma grinned. “But what would be her motive?” She glanced again at her watch. “Didn't know it was so late—Sheril will pitch a fit, want to know if I've been shopping on
her time.” She rose, picked up her sack lunch from his desk, looked hard at Harper. “She's such a bitch to work for. You don't know, Max, the bad luck I've wished on you.”

Harper smiled, and rose, and walked with her to the front. The squad room was silent now, and half deserted, only a few officers at their desks. Wilma wondered, as she pushed out the door, how long the Greenlaw women would stay in jail before someone approached the Birtds with enough cash so they would drop the charges and Harper would be forced to release them. She stopped in a little park to eat her lunch, enjoying ten minutes of solitude, then headed for work. And it was not until the next afternoon that she learned, with amazement, that Clyde, too, had been arrested, that same afternoon. That her good friend had, uncharacteristically, also run afoul of Molena Point law enforcement—that about the time the Greenlaw women were set free, and Sam Fulman was picked up for questioning then released, Clyde, too, was cooling his heels behind bars.

T
HE TIME
was past midnight. Rain beat against Wilma's shuttered bedroom windows; a fire burned in the red-enameled woodstove, its light flickering across the flowered quilt and the white-wicker furniture. Wilma sat in bed reading, Dulcie curled up beside her.

She had spent the evening at her desk, poring over a map of the U.S., tracking the locations of auto-loan scams across the country, using an NCIC list that Max Harper had printed out for her from the police computer. The report covered the last six months, but the operations that interested her specifically had occurred within the last few weeks.

Her map bristled with pins, but the work had gone slowly, as she had not only to locate the scams, but then to find routes according to dates, marking each route with different colored pins. Some of the trails were circuitous, moving back and forth among half a dozen cities or to several adjoining metropolitan areas.

But one, a line of red pins, delineated a well-defined series of auto-loan scams over the last three weeks—beginning in Green
ville, North Carolina, half a day's drive west of Donegal, the home of the Greenlaw clan, and leading directly across the U.S.—scams that would not have been reported so early on, if not for one fortuitous accident.

When one of the small car dealers, driving a newly purchased BMW home for the weekend, was hit by a delivery truck, the officer who answered the call ran a routine check and came up with the fake registration.

This dealer had bought four cars within a twenty-four hour period; the fake registration made him so uneasy that he asked the police to check on the other three vehicles.

All four cars had come to him with fake paper.

The subsequent investigation spread from one small town to the next; dozens of false registrations were uncovered and reported to NCIC, long before any of the dealers would have been alerted by overdue car payments.

The trail ended at Bakersfield. Police had no record of any suspicious car purchases beyond that point. The perpetrators could have traveled north up the coast or south, or turned back east again.

Wilma's next step was to phone the car agencies that had been ripped off, compare the MOs with those she'd been dealing with at Beckwhite's: all had very professional IDs, excellent credit records that checked out with the credit bureaus. These people had to have, within their sophisticated operation, at least one very skilled hacker.

“Presume,” she told Dulcie, laying down her book, “that the Greenlaws were notified of Shamas's death the morning after the accident, that most of them started out within a few hours, driving across country for Shamas's funeral. They make their first stop at Greenville, to pick up a little cash. They buy two new BMWs, two Cadillacs and a Buick convertible, all listed by NCIC as sold in Greenville within hours of one another, at three separate dealerships, and all purchased with the maximum loans.

“Half a day's drive down the road, then, they sell the cars for cash to small, out-of-the-way dealers, or through quickly placed ads in the local paper, give the buyer a forged registration certificate that wouldn't come to light until they were long gone.

“Maybe thirty thousand apiece,” she told Dulcie. “They pick up maybe a hundred and fifty thousand for walking-around money, for their little jaunt out here to the coast.”

“Not too bad for a few hours' work,” Dulcie said. “Do you think NCIC could link pigeon drops the same way? Store diversions and shoplifting?”

“No,” Wilma said. “They couldn't. Only the big stuff is reported, things that might be interstate. Like stolen cars moved from one state to another. The little crimes, if they were reported to anyone beyond a local PD, would go to that state's crime bureau. You'd have to contact each state, see what might have been logged. The Greenlaws could have worked the local stores all across the country, picking up their groceries and a little loose change—now doing the same here while they wait for the last of the relatives to arrive for the funeral.”

“Very nice,” Dulcie said, “traveling along in their homes on wheels, stealing as they go. Just like Gypsies.”

Wilma sat looking at the little cat, taking that in.

“Have you ever heard of Travelers?” Dulcie said. “Irish Travelers?”

Wilma's eyes widened.

“In the library books on Gypsies,” Dulcie said, “the Irish Travelers are almost exactly the same. The whole family steals; it's how they make their living.”

“But all Gypsies aren't…” Wilma began.

“Not all Gypsies steal, just some clans. I was reading about them late last night—the library is so peaceful at night,” Dulcie said. “Well, not all Irish are Travelers. But the Travelers' ancestors centuries ago in Ireland—they were tinkers just like the Gypsies. Tinsmiths and peddlers traveling across Ireland in their pony
carts, stopping at little farms, trading and doing repairs. According to the books, some of the Travelers would steal anything left lying loose.

“You're not turning into a racist?” Wilma said, raising an eyebrow.

“What? Against the Irish?” Dulcie laid her ears back. “Why would I do that? I'm telling you what I read. It's supposed to be fact. Besides, you're part Irish. So is Clyde.”

“And how come,” Wilma said, teasing her, “how come you, of all cats, are talking about other folks stealing?”

Dulcie ducked her head. “That was…mostly…before I knew any better.” She looked up at Wilma. “It was never for self-gain. It's just that…Such lovely little sweaters and scarves and silky things, so pretty and soft…” She looked pleadingly at Wilma, deeply chastened. Wilma grinned at her and stroked her ears, and at last the little cat began to purr.

“But it is a touchy subject,” Wilma told her. “Many people in the East are still bitter about prejudice against the Irish. It started when Irish families came over here during the potato famine—the 1800s—They left Ireland to survive, to make a new start, their whole country was starving, people were starving by the thousands. But when they arrived in this country, there was so much bad feeling about them.”

“Maybe that's because of the Travelers,” Dulcie said, “because
they
were stealing.” She licked her paw and looked up at Wilma, filled with a quick, electric energy. “This Fulman that you had on probation, Shamas's cousin. What were he and Shamas doing in Seattle?”

Wilma's eyes widened. “For one thing, selling supposedly high-quality machine tools that were really junk. I don't remember all the details, but it involved a switch—showing the buyer fine merchandise as a sample, then shipping him shoddy stuff. They were paid up front, of course.

“When I checked out his family, through the probation office
in Greenville, the information they gave me was that the family was clean. Not a thing on the Fulmans or the Greenlaws.”

“Smooth,” Dulcie said. “And how would you know any different? Most people never think about whole families living that way, their entire lives dedicated to stealing and running scams.”

“My job was to look for these things. And Greenville had to know.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. The books say they're very law-abiding in their own town.” Dulcie grinned. “Maybe the probation officer was a shirttail cousin.”

Wilma looked at her, torn between laughter and chagrin. “I should have thought about that kind of connection. I've always known there were families in San Francisco running roofing scams, asphalt-paving scams, home-repair swindles. It's their way of life.” Wilma shook her head. “I never put that together with Fulman and Shamas—and it was my business to know.

“I hate to think how this would affect Lucinda if she should find out about Shamas. It would break her heart to know that her husband was a thief and a con artist.”

Dulcie licked her whiskers. “I think she knows. From the things I've heard her say to Pedric, and to Charlie, too, I think she knows very well what Shamas was.”

Wilma looked at her quietly.

Dulcie looked intently back at her. “How could Lucinda live with him all those years and not know there was something wrong?”

“You'd be surprised,” Wilma said, “how thoroughly humans can deceive themselves.” She settled deeper into the pillows, sipping her cocoa—and straightened up, nearly spilling it, when they heard above the pounding rain, a thud on the back porch, then the back door creak.

The noise brought Dulcie up rigid, too, her every hair standing straight.

Wilma slid out of bed, snatching up the fire tongs, and Dulcie dropped softly to the floor—then they heard Dulcie's cat door slap, banging against its metal frame.

“Anyone home?”

Dulcie relaxed. Her fur went flat, her claws drew back into their sheaths. Wilma sighed, and laughed as Joe Grey came swaggering down the hall, his silver coat soaked dark, dripping on the Persian runner. “I was around back, came down the hill, saw the bedroom light. Are those cookies I smell?”

Wilma trailed to the bathroom, snatched up a towel, and tossed it to the bedroom floor. Joe, giving her a sour look, rolled on the terry cloth until he was relatively dry, then leaped to the bed.

“Why are you out in the rain?” Dulcie said. “You weren't hunting, on a night like this.”

“I took a little jaunt by Cara Ray's motel, after you said she wasn't at Lucinda's for supper.” He licked a few swipes across his shoulder.

Wilma shoved the cookie plate in his direction. He took one in his teeth, crunching it with pleasure, dropping crumbs. The quilt was due for a washing; this was why Wilma liked washable furnishings, so she and the cats could enjoy, and not fuss.

“So what did you see?” Dulcie said. “Was that Sam person there at her motel?”

“No. Nor Cara Ray, either. I nearly drowned climbing up to the roof, nearly broke my neck on those wet, slick shutters, slipping down to Cara Ray's window. Lucky someone didn't find me smashed on the pavement below, lying in the gutter broken and my poor cat lungs full of water. All I got for my trouble was a cold bath, and a view of Cara Ray's messy motel room.

“I waited for maybe an hour, thinking she might bring him back with her, and the rain pounding against the windows like shotgun blasts. Where would they go on a night like this? So damned wet—couldn't get a claw into anything.”

“You haven't been home?” Dulcie said.

“I was home for dinner. Why?”

“Clyde didn't say anything?”

“About what?”

“Clyde was arrested.”

Joe stared at her. Stared at Wilma. “You're joking. There's no way Max Harper…Arrested for what? Who would arrest him? In what town? For speeding? Oh, that would—”

“Not for speeding,” Wilma said. “For creating a public nuisance.”

Joe settled down on the quilt, his yellow eyes fixed on Wilma. “What stupid thing has he done now?”

“Selig broke his collar,” Wilma said.

“I told Clyde the pups had been chewing on each other's collars,” Joe said, “the whole time they were together.”

“Clyde was walking the pups down Ocean,” Wilma said, “when a big Harley came roaring around the corner. The pups went crazy, hit the end of their leads bellowing, and Selig kept on going, chasing the Harley and baying like a bloodhound—and Clyde chasing him, dragging Hestig through traffic, yelling and swearing.”

Joe Grey smiled, his yellow eyes slitted with pleasure.

“A squad car came around the corner,” Wilma said, “following the roar of the Harley.” In Molena Point, motorcycles were just as strictly forbidden as were unleashed canines.

“Another black-and-white screamed down Ocean, and when they got the Harley cornered, Selig and Hestig and Clyde were right in the middle, Clyde trying to hold Hestig and slip the other leash around Selig's neck.”

Wilma smiled. “All of this in front of the Patio Café, and half the village looking on.” She and Clyde had been close friends forever—if she had a little laugh at his expense, he'd had plenty of laughs at hers. “My friend Nora was waiting tables and had a ringside view. Those two rookies that Harper just hired—they don't know Clyde.”

“They arrested him,” Joe Grey said, rumbling with purrs.

Wilma nodded. “Arrested him while the pups had him tangled in the leash.”

Dulcie looked from one to the other, half amused, half feeling sorry for Clyde.

“Clyde got himself untangled,” Wilma said, “but Selig wouldn't let the rookies near the Harley. The puppy seemed to think that
he
had caught the cycle, and they had no right to it. He stood guarding it, snarling like a timber wolf, and Clyde trying to pull him away.

“One of the rookies stepped into the café and bought a prewrapped beef sandwich. He distracted Selig with that until his partner could lock the Harley driver in a squad car. Ordinarily, a rookie wouldn't be assigned alone to a unit, but there was some kind of changeover at the station.”

Wilma settled back against the cushions, and for a long, perfect moment, she and the cats envisioned Clyde Damen in the backseat of a black-and-white, confined behind the wire barrier.

“Nice,” Joe Grey said. “Wait until I lay this one on him.”

“He didn't mention it?” Dulcie asked.

“Silent as a mummy in the tomb.” He looked at Wilma. “So what happened when they got to the station? Did you talk to Harper, get a blow-by-blow?”

“When rookie Jimmie McFarland tried to get the pups out of the unit, they set their feet and wouldn't come.

“McFarland had saved back a little of the sandwich. He bribed them out with that. But when he got them into the station, Selig took a look at all those nice uniforms and began to bark and leap in the officers' faces, kissing everyone. And Hestig grabbed McFarland's field book, raced around the station with it, dodging anyone who got close.

Wilma smiled. “When the dispatcher called the dog catcher, that's when Clyde began to shout.”