Cat Seeing Double (28 page)

Police dispatcher
Mabel Hammond saw the gray tomcat slip into the station on the heels of two officers returning from lunch, strolling in behind them through the security door with all the assurance of the chief himself.

Glancing down over her counter, Mabel grinned at him. “Come on up, Joe Grey. I have fried chicken.” The officers looked around laughing, and went on down the hall.

Mabel was fifty-some and inclined to be overweight. Her curly white hair was dyed blond. Her thick stomach didn't allow her to lean too far over the dispatcher's counter that defined her open cubicle on three sides. On the back wall was an array of computer and video monitors, radios, and other state-of-the-art electronic equipment that Mabel commanded. She not only handled emergency calls and dispatched officers, relaying all urgent communications, she juggled incoming faxes and the computers for vehicle wants and warrants and for wanted persons, and indexed officers' reports.

Joe Grey, never one to refuse fried chicken, landed on the counter among the in-boxes of files and papers,
just inches from Mabel's face, smiling and purring up at her, laying on the charm. Mabel's hair smelled of perfume or maybe cream rinse; he wasn't an authority on these matters. Rubbing against her outstretched hand, he made super-nice in deference to the promised snack, and in keeping with his and Dulcie's commitment to improved public relations.

Ever since Harper had remodeled the station, increasing security and locking all outside doors, Joe and Dulcie's only sure access was the quick leap inside behind a returning officer. Their previous technique of pawing open the unlocked front door was no longer an option. Everything had changed. The new, efficient reception area was totally empty of desks to hide under. Upon entering, one faced only the dispatcher's cubicle, the booking counter, the holding cell back in the corner, and in the other direction a long, blank hallway. And the dispatchers didn't miss so much as a fly coming through the glass doors. Fortunately, those good women were all cat lovers.

Mabel had three cats of her own and, having recently married, shared her home as well with her husband's two dogs and his parrot. But despite her domestic menagerie, Joe Grey always amused her. The tomcat seemed to Mabel the epitome of cool feline authority. Mabel's work could get stressful; to have a four-legged visitor smiling and purring, sharing a few free moments, seemed to make her day shorter.

It interested her that the tomcat and his two lady pals liked to prowl the whole department, slipping in and out of the various offices. And, as cats were among the few visitors that could present no breach of security,
most of the officers made a fuss over them. No one knew why the cats had grown suddenly so friendly to the department after the renovation, but the little freeloaders did like to share the officers' lunches.

Reaching to a low shelf, Mabel opened the paper bag containing her own lunch and removed a fried chicken thigh. Tearing the chicken off the bone into bite-sized pieces, she laid these on a folded sheet of typing paper, on the counter.

The tomcat scoffed up the chicken, licked his whiskers, then padded along the counters investigating her cubicle as he often did. Pausing, he peered across the entry to the holding cell, which to a cat must smell to high heaven.
She
could still smell the lingering scent of the last occupant. Oh, not the boy. He'd smelled okay. But after they took the boy out to the regular cells, and brought that old man in,
he'd
stunk up the whole building.

The tomcat, returning to Mabel's in-boxes, began intently to watch the piles of papers that she'd set aside to index, patting and feinting at the reports as if maybe he'd seen a spider. Hot weather always brought out a few harmless spiders. The deadly ones stayed more in the dark, but did not live long if she spied them. Pawing at the papers, Joe went very still, staring as if he would grab whatever had crawled underneath. He remained for some time fixed on Gramps Farger's arrest sheet and then on the AFIS fax that had just come in for Detective Garza. It was wonderful, these days, how quick you could get back fingerprint information, to speed up the department's work. She watched Joe turn away at last, as if losing interest in the spider. What a strange cat, so de
liberate in his actions. Now suddenly his attention was totally on the front door where he could see, through the glass door, Detective Garza returning from lunch.

She buzzed the detective through. “Captain Harper's back, he just came in.”

Garza nodded and headed down the hall; and Joe Grey dropped from the counter and followed, making Mabel smile. Too bad the captain and Charlie had to shorten their honeymoon, though it was nice to have him home. The department had seemed just a bit off-kilter with the captain gone, not quite steady or comfortable.

 

Following Detective Garza, Joe could hardly keep from turning flips; he was as high as a junkie from the fingerprint report on Marianna Landeau giving her real name as Martie Holland.
Martie Holland Martie Holland Martie Holland…
Joe thought, grinning. And the sight of Gramps's arrest sheet had almost made him open his mouth in a wild and unsuitable cheer.

Though even without the arrest sheet he'd know that Gramps had recently occupied the holding cell, by the stink that emanated from that corner. Didn't the old man ever bathe? Did the shack where Gramps lived have no running water? But it must have, if Gramps was making drugs up there. He guessed the old man was just naturally slovenly. You wouldn't catch a cat, even a very old cat, stinking that bad. A dog maybe. Never a cat.

The time of arrest was recorded as 7:15 last evening. The place of arrest was that cliffside shack up the mountain above the Pamillon estate. The charges on the arrest sheet were possession of explosives, evading
custody, and manufacturing illegal drugs.

Well done, Kit!
Joe thought, smiling. The kit had fingered Gramps Farger all by herself. Had practically wrapped him up, helpless as a slaughtered mouse, waiting for Garza to come find him. Phoning Garza, placing her first call, her first hard-won and important tip, she'd been so excited she hadn't thought how scared she was. She'd given Garza the facts just as skillfully as he or Dulcie would have done. And she'd hit gold. She had helped nab the bomber that Garza might never have found—that old man had ditched the law once, as slick as if the shack in the hills wasn't his only place to hide.

The tattercoat was growing up, Joe thought with a twinge of sadness. That fanciful youngster capable of such wild and passionate dreams was developing a solid, hardheaded turn of mind. This was all to the good, the kit was learning to take hold of a problem and deal with it. But he was going to miss her scatterbrained enthusiastic plunging into trouble that had so far marked the kit's approach to life.

Following Garza to Harper's office, Joe lay down in plain sight in the doorway. Garza had already seen him on the dispatcher's counter, so why not? Might as well try a little feline indolence, play the four-footed bum.

Harper glanced out at him, and shook his head. “That cat been hanging around?”

Garza laughed. “Off and on. I let him stay, he doesn't do any harm—keeps the mice away.”

“You get Curtis to talk?”

Garza shook his head. “Tight-mouthed. He's been an unhappy kid since we brought Gramps in. You can bet he's scared of the old man. Well, he wasn't too happy
before, either. He blames us and the whole world for his dad being in prison. But he wasn't like this, we need to move him somewhere. Even separated the way they are, the old man's been threatening him, hinting as much as he dares, figuring we have a bug on him, back in the jail.”

Which of course they would, Joe thought. It was perfectly legal, once a man was arrested, to bug his cell.

“You think the boy's scared enough, now, to talk if we get him away from Gramps?”

“He might. I'm sure he could use a friend. I was thinking of bringing Ryan back with the dog, try that again before we send him to some juvenile facility farther away.”

Harper said, “I was thinking of taking him over to drug rehab, give him a tour of the juvenile section, let him see what his daddy's and grandpappy's drugs did to those kids.”

“Might work,” Garza said.

Why, Joe wondered, would a boy who tried to kill several hundred people care about the suffering of drug addicts, even if they were kids his own age? Still, though, what could it hurt?

Garza said, “You find Hurlie?”

“He found us. I arrested him on obstruction of justice, sheriff took him in. We tossed his place. Didn't find any link to the bombing, but I have a nice list of purchases in the area, and three shopkeepers made Hurlie, from his brother's mug shot. Sheriff says Hurlie works sometimes for the Landeaus. At first, Landeau said he couldn't place him. Then I pressed a little. Not a friendly welcome.”

Garza nodded.

“I left Charlie in the car with the keys and phone and radio. She was more scared than she let on. Landeau's guard dogs watched her the whole time, while Landeau jived me along. Sheriff said the feds are spotting marijuana patches up there, that they took out a couple last week, over in the national forest. The sheriff was…maybe holding something back. Telling me what he knew I'd learn anyway.”

Max leaned back in his desk chair absently reaching for a cigarette though it had been more than a year since he quit. “I talked with DEA. They think the Landeaus have been backing small meth labs in several counties, using the take to finance some marijuana operations. Good chance Hurlie could be involved.”

“As could the sheriff?”

Harper grunted. “I hope not. Maybe intimidated—that's a political appointment, you well know. Important thing is, you have enough on Gramps to go to the grand jury.”

“I have more than that. I might have Rupert Dannizer's killer.”

“Oh?”

“I ran prints on Marianna Landeau. Her real name came up Martie Holland.”

“That's one of the women we couldn't get a line on, supposed to be in the Bahamas. Some years back, Mike had her on parole.”

Dallas nodded. “That's a long story. Your snitch got her prints to me last night. Don't know how. Don't know why,” he said quietly.

Harper listened, saying nothing.

“I came down last night, ran them through AFIS. Had a warrant for her issued on information, and called San Francisco.”

“She was in the city. Well, I sure missed that one.”

“As did Wills and Parker. Well, the woman has a whole new identity. If you'd never seen her…San Francisco picked her up at her Nob Hill address early this morning. All packed, said she was going up to their country place. But she had a ticket for Caracas.”

Harper grinned.

“They took her in, impounded her car. Searched the house, found a hand truck in the garage that, from its dust tracks, had been moved recently. Track marks match those from Ryan's driveway. I thought I'd send Green and Davis early tomorrow, to pick her up. D.A. has called the grand jury for her, and for Gramps Farger. They're able to meet day after tomorrow.”

“Very nice.”

“I'll rest easier when Ryan's completely in the clear. We'll all rest easier when this bomb trial is under way.”

Harper nodded. “Ryan doing all right?”

“Keeping her head.”

“When did you talk with Mike Flannery?”

“He's back, he came straight down here, got in yesterday morning, worried about Ryan. He didn't know then about Martie Holland's prints, the snitch hadn't delivered them yet. Brought them right to my door, last night. Half-a-dozen compacts the guy apparently lifted from the Landeau cottage.” The two officers looked at each other, a
Don't ask, don't try to figure
look. And out
in the hall, Joe Grey turned to scratch a nonexistent flea, then appeared to collapse once again into sleep.

“Mike says he has enough on Martie Holland to establish motive,” Dallas said. “He'll testify before the grand jury. I remember a good deal about her from when he had her on parole; I was working in north Marin then, never ran into her. Don't remember seeing a mug shot. But I knew then, through Mike, that she was involved with Rupert. I don't think Ryan ever knew about that. Mike will be by in a while, to fill you in. Where's Charlie?”

“Up at the house getting settled. And seeing her cleaning crews. We'll bring the horses back down tomorrow. You going to let that cat sleep in your door all day?”

“Why not? Well, now look. You woke him.”

Yawning, Joe Grey rose and headed up the hall in the direction of the locked security door. If no officer opened it, he knew that Mabel would come out from behind her counter and oblige. He had a lot to tell Dulcie, and a lot to tell the kit that would please her.

He'd like to have one more look at Marianna-Martie, at that cold piece of work, before she went to prison.

He could watch the trial, of course, if it was held in Molena Point. He and Dulcie had, during past trials, enjoyed a private and uninterrupted view from the window ledge above the courtroom; they wouldn't miss a thing providing the weather was warm enough so the windows were open.

But he'd like a look at Marianna
now
, when they brought the woman in. He didn't know why, or what he expected to see. Call it a hunch. What he'd
like
to see
was how Rock responded to Marianna Landeau-Martie Holland.

It
was
only a hunch, but a hunch so strong it made the fur down Joe's spine rise and prickle.

The roof
had been raised; its two long slanting surfaces stood upright, forming the new walls of the bedroom suite. The new roof trusses overhead were covered with tar paper and plywood and shingles, weather tight. Where the fresh studs of the end walls were still open the setting sun slanted in, turning the late afternoon light golden with floating dust motes. The forty-foot space was otherwise empty, or nearly so. The carpenters were gone for the day, the two younger men heading home as Ryan and her uncle Scotty descended the stairs to the kitchen, brushing off sawdust. Joe and Dulcie wandered the sun-warmed space alone, relishing its vastness and the challenge of unconquered heights.

Leaping to a sawhorse then atop a ladder they gained the soaring rafters. From that vantage they could see, through the open ends of the vast room and beyond the tops of the dark oaks, the ocean's breakers blowing with foam. Nearer, just below them, the village rooftops angled cozily, inviting a run across those slanting shingles. On a neighbor's roof a flock of bickering crows shouted and swore. From the outside stairs,
Scotty looked up at the cats, and laughed, taking pleasure at the sight of them. The redheaded, red-bearded giant had told the younger carpenters that cats were just as lucky at the site of new construction as were cats on shipboard.

Close around the cats, the warm air smelled sweetly of fresh-cut lumber—and of hickory-scorched beef from the back patio, where Clyde had the rotisserie turning over glowing charcoal, preparing a welcome-home dinner for the newlyweds. But when, from the rafters, the cats spotted Harper's truck turn onto the narrow street they galloped down the stairs, pushing into the kitchen through Rube's dog door.

They watched Ryan throw her arms around Charlie then hold her away. “You got back yesterday! You look great! How was the wine country? Did you have lunch at Beaudry's? Isn't it beautiful! You're sunburned.”

Charlie laughed. “Like a patchwork quilt. We saw the Jakeses' new addition. We love it, Ryan. It's beautiful. When can you build my studio? Maybe redo the kitchen and enlarge the master bedroom. Or maybe—”

“Anyone home?” Dallas shouted, coming in through the front door with Mike Flannery. Wilma entered just behind them carrying a bakery box under one arm, and the tattercoat kit balanced on her shoulder. She set the box on the kitchen counter, but the kit made no move to jump down or to leap to the top of the refrigerator beside Joe and Dulcie. She clung to Wilma, tucking her face beneath Wilma's chin and would not look up at the two cats. Wilma looked highly amused, the laugh lines around her eyes crinkled. Her long white hair was escaping in tendrils from its clasp and her lipstick was
worn away as if she'd hardly had time to tend to her own concerns.

Full of uneasy questions, Joe and Dulcie followed the party as everyone carried plates and silverware and beer out onto the patio. Charlie and Ryan were still deep in conversation. The cats liked seeing Charlie find a woman friend she truly cared for, she'd always been such a loner. They had observed Wilma and her older contemporaries long enough to see the warmth and strength that could evolve from such a sisterhood, a friendship very different from Charlie's solid friendship with Clyde—and now of course her most enduring friendship of all, with Max himself.

Well, Joe thought, Charlie had liked Kate Osborne too. They could have been close friends if Kate had stayed in the village. They had in common, for one thing, the privilege of the cats' own secret. But Kate had abandoned Molena Point for San Francisco and abandoned Clyde, leaving the field wide open to Ryan—humans, one had to admit, could be every bit as fickle as the randiest tomcat.

Yet despite human vicissitudes, Joe found himself deeply purring as he watched Charlie and Max. Mr. and Mrs. Maximilian Franklin Harper, he thought, grinning. A name that very few people had ever heard, Max himself finding his full name far too fancy and formal.

Joe had missed the chief.

Well, I missed needling Harper, he thought, embarrassed by his sentiment.

And he
had
missed Charlie, missed her steady support. Because Charlie knew the cats' secret, she had been there for them in the same way that Clyde and
Wilma were there. She knew what they were up to, and was ready to help if she could. Joe had, in fact, found Charlie, just a few months ago, snooping among the same incriminating books and papers that he himself had found suspicious, evidence that had ultimately helped convict a killer.

He watched Charlie and Ryan and Wilma set the table and lay out, on the edge of a planter box, a place mat and three small cat dishes, causing Max to give Charlie a sour look. Little did Harper know that Charlie was setting the supper table for his three best informants. But Joe's eyes grew round with surprise when Dallas took the kit from Wilma and held her, gently stroking her, his dark eyes laughing.

“Since when,” Ryan said, “were you so fond of cats?”

“Since I had to arrest this little terror,” Dallas said, settling the kit on his shoulder. “Talk about chutzpa.” He looked into the kit's yellow eyes. “This one's a regular little burglar.” He didn't seem to notice Charlie turn pale, or Clyde stop speaking. The kit closed her eyes, hiding her face against Garza's shoulder.

“You arrested her where?” Ryan said. “What could a little cat do?”

Garza sipped his beer. “You know how secure a grand jury room is. No one's allowed in except the prosecuting attorney and witnesses, and the court reporter.

“I was called in this morning to testify, but also to evict the cat from underneath a chair. I had to haul her out by the nape of the neck before I could give testimony. No one knew how she slipped in. The jurors were not amused. Clerk of the court took it as a per
sonal affront that a cat had sneaked past her into that part of the building. I took Kit to the dispatcher, and she called Wilma to come get her.”

Wilma said, “I found her on the dispatcher's counter lapping up a carton of milk. I don't know what got into her,” she said innocently. “Why would a cat…? Well, I kept her in the house the rest of the day, shut in the bedroom.”

Clyde had turned away to check the prime rib, hiding a laugh. Joe watched him, scowling. Why were the kit's adventures so entertaining, when his own serious surveillance and information gathering drew nothing from Clyde but insults? Joe supposed that the kit, because she was responsible for Gramps Farger's arrest, had wanted to be in on the kill. He watched Clyde remove the roast from the rotisserie to a platter and, with a lethal-looking carving knife, begin to cut off paper-thin slices so juicy and pink that the tomcat began to drool. He watched Dulcie wind around Clyde's ankles with the three household cats, and the two dogs crowd so close their noses were scant inches from the carving board. It was only when everyone was seated, tying into the delicious meat and two vegetable casseroles and salad, and the animals all had their own plates, that Clyde said, “After the grand jury evicted Kit, what did they find?”

“With the evidence we had,” Dallas said, “they indicted Martie Holland for Dannizer's murder. And they indicted Gramps Farger. Four charges of manufacturing drugs, two of attempted murder for the bombing, two on inciting a juvenile.”

Behind Dallas, the kit looked incredibly smug.

“What
about
the boy?” Ryan asked.

“We're still holding him,” Dallas said. “He'll be remanded over to juvenile. There'll be a hearing. I expect juvenile court will either put him in a foster home and maybe a trade school, or send him to one of the boys' ranches if they think he's a good enough risk. I doubt it. I don't like to think we'll be seeing that kid back in jail in years to come, but you know the statistics.

“No one knows for sure what was in the kid's head—whether he was as hot to blow up the church as his grampa says, or whether the old man forced him to climb up on the roof, maybe threatened him.”

Garza frowned. “Some kind of grandfather. He laid as much blame as he could on the boy, said Curtis wanted to set off the bomb.” He looked at Ryan. “If the defense attorney can get the boy to lie, on the stand, to protect Gramps, that could complicate matters. Would you want to talk with him again? See if he'll open up? He's scared now, since we arrested Gramps. The old man
has
threatened him. But maybe if we can convince him Gramps will stay locked up, and with the dog to comfort him, maybe he'll open up, tell us what happened.”

“I could try,” Ryan said doubtfully. “It can't hurt to try.”

“I took makings for the bomb from that shack where Gramps was living, and from the trash bags he hid at the Pamillon estate, along with the stuff from his underground meth lab. Empty containers of Drāno, white gas, alcohol. Propane cylinders, you name it. The old man's prints all over everything. And the Jag is registered to Curtis's mother, she's been driving the old
man's broken-down truck.” He looked at Max. “I'd sure like to thank your snitches.

“I'm guessing the old man waited until we checked that area up there, before the trial and again last month, waited until he thought we'd lost interest, then moved in.”

Max nodded. “Checked every out-of-the-way house and shack in the county.
And
the Pamillon ruins.”

“It's called egg on our face,” Dallas said, laughing. “Anyway, the grand jury had a full and productive day. Davis will have Holland back here safe and sound, early tomorrow.”

Ryan looked at Clyde. “That's what Larn Williams was talking about when he accused Dad of having affairs with his caseload—a parolee named Martie Holland, alias Marianna Landeau. Only it wasn't Dad she was involved with. It was Rupert.”

Flannery said, “Martie came out of federal prison ten years ago. Beautiful woman, could have had anything she wanted. But she couldn't stay out of trouble. She wasn't out two months, she was into an extortion racket. When I told her to clean up her act or I'd send her back, she came on to me. She thought she could buy the world.

“When she understood that
I
wasn't buying, she decided to target my family. She wasn't used to not having her way. She settled on Ryan, I guess because Rupert was…accessible. She was soon in bed with him and teaching him how to skim the company books. When I found out, I revoked her, sent her back.

“She came out with no time to serve. Was in L.A. for a while, got married. Became Marianna Landeau. I
didn't keep track of her, didn't know they'd moved back to the Bay Area or that she'd laid a false trail under her own name to the Bahamas.

“Apparently she got involved with Rupert again, perhaps out of spite. Martie was never what you'd call forgiving. They began skimming the books again, before Ryan left him. We've talked with Ryan's attorneys. If I'd known that Martie was back in the city…”

“The woman I built that house for,” Ryan said angrily, “the woman I created that beautiful cottage for. That was their love nest. Her and Rupert's love nest. She killed him there, to pin the murder on me. To destroy me.”

“To destroy
me
,” Flannery said, “by destroying you.”

“She shot Rupert in there,” Ryan said. “A love nest as lethal as the web of a black widow. Luring the male in, to kill him.”

Dallas said, “The lab found blood in the rug that was taken from the cottage, the rug Ryan and Hanni gave to the Coldirons. That too was a tip from one of Harper's snitches. The lab came through right away. Since the county allotted more funds, they've been able to do some hiring. We're waiting for an answer on the DNA. If it's Rupert's, we've got a closed case.

“She shot him in front of the fireplace,” Dallas said. “Shot into the niche where the right-hand sculpture is placed. Where the concrete had been patched and repainted, Davis and I dug out two spent bullets. I have no idea how the informants knew about the damaged fireplace. Maybe I don't want to know. The important thing is, their information dovetailed in nicely with our investigation.”

“We're not sure yet,” Harper said, “what else the
Landeaus were into. The feds will be dealing with that. Could be, we'll be able to nail them with backing the Fargers' meth labs, we don't know yet. As to the bombing, from the evidence we now have, that was strictly a Farger family project.”

“And what about the dog?” Clyde asked. “With all the threads that stretch from San Andreas to Molena Point, everyone's guilty but the dog.”

Mike Flannery laughed. “He's the only innocent.”

“Maybe,” Dallas said, “Rock can help convict Gramps, if he and Ryan can get Curtis to talk.” He glanced at his niece. “And maybe Rock's some kind of compensation, for Ryan having to go through this mess.”

Ryan grinned, and rubbed Rock's ears, where the big dog leaned against her.