Кроха - Dedication

But that’s just what Joe would do.

Stay outside, she thought. Just watch the house, see if they try to run, see if they try to get away from Harper. Then call the station. Oh, don’t go in there. She moved to drop down to the desk, to head for the door and follow him—but now even Dulcie herself was too wary, thinking of the kittens. She was feeling heavier, clumsier. She thought of running over the rooftops, maybe getting into a tight squeeze inside the Bleak rental . . . If anything happened to the kittens, to Joe’s kittens . . .

And somehow, looking at Kit, at the flighty tortoiseshell, she didn’t want to ask Kit to follow him. When he’s alone, he’s extra careful. Alone, he can sometimes plan his moves better, he’s not distracted. No, this time she would put her trust in Joe, in Joe Grey’s strength and macho intelligence. Creeping closer to Kit, snuggled against her, she watched Billy Young, standing at the long table beside Juana, answering her occasional questions. She was comparing the crime scene shots and their matching shoes with a handful of the pasted-up photos.

“Yes,” Billy was saying, “that’s just behind the remodel, under the bedroom window. Those two pieces of two-by-four? I tossed them there a week ago, and forgot them. Same shoe, though. Same torn pant cuff.”

Was this why Billy was here, a civilian looking at police evidence to verify the locations of certain photos? But these locations could be verified by police photos of the larger surround, they didn’t need a witness. Dulcie and Kit looked at each other. Was this an added experience for Billy? Max’s ongoing introduction to see if the boy was truly interested in police work? Billy said, “How long will the lab take?”

“Hopefully, a week or two,” Max said.

“That’s wishful thinking,” Juana said, laughing.

“If they’re as backed up as usual,” Max told Billy, “could take a month or more.”

“While the killer,” Billy said, “could be long gone.”

Neither Max nor Juana replied.

Near the shoes lay machine copies from a small, spiral-bound notebook. Though only the top, lined page was visible. Ben’s note was short, but was carefully dated.

Monday, November 4. Ten a.m. Blonde in back of gallery again, back row but different seat. No hat today, dressed kind of fluffy, full skirt and a blousy shawl. Nothing like that leather cap and bulky jacket. I guess she’s hiding her extra weight, she could stand to lose a few pounds. It’s the same woman. She walks the same, kind of slow and like maybe she has arthritis. Same blond hair . . .

That was all the cats saw before Max glanced up at them and they turned to wash their paws.

Near the notebook pages, three photos had been set aside. Each showed a running shoe with the bottom of a pant leg, a black satin stripe down the outside seam and a small tear at the bottom. One showed the print of the shoe’s tread on the concrete, a waffle pattern with stars in it. The second photo showed only the footprint, but it was the same odd pattern. Neat handwriting in the white margin at the top of each photo gave the date and identified the attack. The third photo was of the same jogging pants with the black satin stripe, the tear, but with different shoes. It was dated this morning, and in different handwriting, and marked with a file number and the name “Sam Bleak.”

Max was saying, “This is enough to bring them back in for questioning.”

“Enough to file charges?” Juana said doubtfully.

“No. Only as persons of interest,” he said. “We’re not filing charges on a dead man’s notes and photos, even our own crime scene photos. We wait for the lab, hope they come up with prints. And Sam’s false accusation of Billy isn’t much of a case against them. You read their statements, how they backed down.”

“But they’re tied into this,” Juana said. “You want to try for a search warrant? Before they try to skip?”

“With Judge Manderson? You know he wants hard evidence before we do a search.”

Juana sighed. “Wish we had the gun that killed Ben. And what was that about, that fake attack this morning, throwing themselves right in our faces?”

Max shrugged. “No one said criminals were smart.”

Billy said, “Did they think if Sam was mugged, that you’d see them as helpless victims? And I guess,” he said, grinning, “I guess they don’t like me much. But,” he continued, “even when they left the station, they looked nervous.”

Juana turned when her desk phone rang, and flipped on the speaker.

Evijean said, “I just took an anonymous call. A message for Captain Harper. The man wouldn’t give his name.”

“I’m here,” Max said.

“He wouldn’t wait. He said to tell the captain that the convicted rapist, the one in San Francisco? . . . Gardner? That he has a mother somewhere, that they are estranged. The last he’d heard, she was living somewhere on the East Coast. He said you were looking for a connection, for family.”

“Why didn’t you switch him directly to me?”

“He didn’t want me to transfer the call, he said he was in a hurry. He told me to pass it on promptly . . . A very curt man,” she said. “He gave me the information and hung up.”

“No caller ID?”

“No, sir. Maybe an old cell phone with no GPS?”

Dulcie looked at Kit; they both watched Harper. The way Evijean described the call, that didn’t sound much like Joe Grey. Dulcie thought about the conversation in the tearoom. Could Evijean have made up that call, to pass her own information to the captain? And, when she glanced at Kit, she knew the tortoiseshell was thinking the same. So what was Evijean’s interest in this? Besides that it was her niece that Gardner raped and murdered. Maybe just a nosy clerk wanting in on the action, sharing information in her own ego trip?

Yet even as Dulcie puzzled over the phone call she began to feel edgy. Not uneasy about the Bleaks now, or the street prowler, or even about Joe Grey. She had every confidence in Joe, in his instincts to come out on top. Something else was bothering her. Rising, she began to pace the top of the bookshelf.

Is it the kittens? she thought nervously. Is it time? She felt no pain, there were no contractions, though the little mites were, as usual, squirmy and restless. Kit watched her with alarm, her yellow eyes wide.

Below them, Max was on the phone again when the cats heard Charlie’s voice in the hall. They watched Charlie and Ryan squeeze into the room, both dressed in jeans and T-shirts. Watched them move out of the way among the crowded furniture, looking with interest at the evidence, the shoes and photos and Ben’s notes—though most of their attention was on Dulcie. Charlie, taller than Ryan, reached up to pet her.

Dulcie stiffened when Charlie scooped her up; she glared at Charlie indignantly. Charlie lifted her gently down and cuddled her—imprisoned her—in her arms. Securely gripping the nape of Dulcie’s neck so she couldn’t leap away. Holding her captive. Shocked, she hissed at Charlie. When Ryan reached over to gently stroke her, she growled and hissed at Ryan, too. What wasthis? Neither Charlie nor Ryan had ever manhandled her. Captive, incensed, she wanted to snag her claws in Charlie’s red hair and pull hard. She was mad as hell and she couldn’t say a word. Couldn’t swear. Couldn’t scream for help. She could only snarl and growl.

“What the hell?” Max said. “What’s the matter with her? You only picked her up.” Putting his arm around Charlie, he reached out his hand to see if Dulcie would strike at him, too.

She didn’t, she drew back. She could not bloody the chief, that was unthinkable.

But even so, Max’s hand paused in midair. “What . . . ?” He looked hard at Dulcie, and then at Charlie. “This cat’s pregnant, no wonder she’s cranky. Didn’t you know she’s pregnant? Does Wilma know? She shouldn’t be out on the streets like this, look at her.” Max might be a tough cop, but he had a tenderness for Dulcie and Joe and Kit, just as he did for all animals.

But now Charlie and Ryan looked at him with cool female tolerance. “Yes, pregnant,” Charlie said, “waiting for kittens. We came to get her.”

Juana watched the scene with amusement. Davis had cats, too, but neither one was in danger of getting pregnant. Billy, stepping up beside Max, stroked Dulcie’s ears and face. Then, taking liberties Dulcie would allow to only a few, he felt her belly knowingly.

“Pretty soon,” Billy said, looking up at Charlie. “Less than two weeks?” Billy had taken in rescue cats since he was a small boy; in the last few years he had helped birth more kittens than he could count, strays that came to him half starved when he’d lived in the shack down by the riverbed, strays more prevalent before CatFriends got to work saving lost and abandoned cats and ferals.

Max said, “Wilma can’t want her running the village when her time is so close. Why did she let her out? If the kittens come early on some rooftop, in some out-of-the-way place . . .”

“Dulcie’s supposed to be locked up,” Charlie said innocently. “Wilma called, she’s frantic and is out looking for her. Somehow Dulcie managed to slip out through her cat door. I’ll take her home,” she said, keeping a strong grip on the nape of Dulcie’s neck.

Beside them, Ryan put her arm around Billy. “And you and I need to get back to work, finish cleaning up until we know what the Bleaks intend to do. Keep on building, or scrap the job?” she said with irritation. “Charlie can drive us over. I left my truck there.”

“Don’t leave Billy there alone,” Max said, “until we have this sorted out. Are you carrying?”

“In my truck,” Ryan said.

“Wear it,” Max said.

Charlie’s eyes widened. She nodded, gave Max a kiss, careful not to squash Dulcie between them, and they left.

In the SUV Dulcie didn’t need to be held captive. She snuggled on Charlie’s lap obedient and silent—worrying again about Joe Grey. Had he followed the Bleaks when they left the station, was he watching their apartment? Was he in the apartment? Was that why she felt so nervous? If he had followed them, he’d be sure to find a way inside. She didn’t want to think of him shut in alone, with those two. Maybe she and Charlie should swing by the Bleaks’ rental, after they’d dropped off Ryan and Billy.

And maybe not. Maybe that would make things worse, would really alarm the Bleaks, would make them run or would put Joe in jeopardy.

She didn’t know what to do; she was in a quandary and that wasn’t like her. She wanted to race over there herself, but when she felt the kittens squirming she knew she wouldn’t.

Charlie pulled up in front of the remodel beside Ryan’s truck, and Ryan and Billy got out. As Charlie headed away again, she gently stroked Dulcie. “I’m sorry I manhandled you. You looked determined to take off. Tell me about the photos and shoes, and what happened with Billy? Those Bleaks didn’t really accuse him!”

“They did,” Dulcie said. “Kit told me, blow by blow.” She passed on to Charlie everything she knew, from Sam’s fake attack and the Bleaks’ accusation of Billy, to the conversation in the tearoom, to Evijean’s strange phone message. Charlie was silent as she pulled up in front of the stone cottage, putting the details together. Wilma came hurrying out, scowling at Dulcie and ready to scold her. But instead Wilma gathered her up in a hug of relief, and Dulcie relaxed against her. Purring, she patted a soft paw against Wilma’s cheek—and she could smell a pot roast cooking. Yawning against Wilma, suddenly drained of all her cat energy, she wanted only to eat and then sleep warm in Wilma’s arms.