Shirley Murphy - Cat Seeing Double

"You're stalling. Was it my gun that killed him?"

"It's Sunday, Ryan. I had to get a ballistics man off his fishing boat. He wasn't happy. The only reason I did was to keep from having to arrest you and set up an arraignment."

"If it wasn't my gun, you'd have told me right away."

"I'll have the full report tomorrow. But ballistics turned up enough to keep from booking you."

"What! It wasn't my gun? Why didn't you tell me!"

"The two bullets in your garage wall were fired from your gun, but ballistics doesn't think they killed Rupert. There was no blood or flesh on them."

"But how…? Those holes in the wall were so small. They couldn't be my loads, mine would have done more damage. The holes in the back of his head…" she said sickly. "What am I missing here?"

"Forensics says Rupert was shot at about six feet by a hard case thirty-eight bullet or maybe a thirty-two."

"But I load hollow points. You know that."

There was a long silence.

"What?" she said. "You know I load with hollow points."

Another silence. They heard the dog's toenails on the linoleum. Dallas said, "Are you sure of your load? Are you certain what you loaded?"

"Of course I'm sure."

Another heavy pause as if each word took great effort. "Your thirty-eight, registered to you, with your prints on it, was loaded with hard case. Four rounds and two empty cylinders."

"No. I loaded hollow point, that's all I use except on the range."

"Maybe you forgot to reload out there? Left the…"

"You know I use wad-cutters for practice. You know I wouldn't leave those loads in."

"Anyone can make a-"

"Didn't," Ryan said. "I remember reloading-with hollow point."

The cats well understood about hollow-point ammo and why Ryan used it. If she ever had to shoot in self-defense, a hard shell could travel an incredible distance, the bullet might go right through the intended and hit someone beyond. They'd read about such cases. But a hollow point would stop in the object or person hit, and would be more certain to halt an attacker-and that was what defensive shooting was about. The only reason Ryan would shoot someone was if her life were threatened and she had no choice.

"Someone not only took my gun from the locked glove compartment," she said in a shaky voice, "they reloaded it."

"You want the last doughnut?"

"Eat it. Don't give Rock any more, you know better."

"We searched every inch of the garage again, came back while you were with Hanni, went through every piece of that damned stuff you have stored down there. Did you ever think of taking that clutter to the dump?"

"That stuff's valuable, sooner or later I'll use every piece of those wonderful old details. I'll use it if I… if I'm still in the free world to use it."

"Come on, Ryan. Your prints weren't on the trigger of the Airweight, though it had been fired."

"Whose prints…?" she began excitedly.

"None. No prints on the trigger. Your prints were on the smooth parts of the grip and on the holster we took from the glove compartment."

"I cleaned the Airweight last week. Scotty and I spent the afternoon at the San Andreas range, while we were waiting for the plumber. Cleaned it, loaded it with hollow point and holstered it. I did not," she said as if Dallas was staring at her, "reload with practice ammo."

"And what did you do with the gun?"

"Dropped it in my purse, kept it with me in the trailer, put it in my glove compartment when I started home. Locked the compartment when I left the truck to load the windows, and again when I stopped to eat."

"It was there when you left the restaurant and hit the road again? Did you look?"

"No, I didn't look. The truck was locked. I could see it from the restaurant. No one bothered it. But I… I left the gun in the truck that night and the next-in the locked truck in the locked glove compartment. When I got home I was so tired, I just unloaded the windows and came up and fell into bed. And the next night, after the wedding, you were all over the truck. No one had bothered it."

"I wasn't into the glove compartment, wasn't in the cab."

"Someone," Ryan said softly, "someone unlocked my truck the night I got home, or the next night. Down there in the drive. Unlocked the glove compartment, took my gun, reloaded it, and either carried it away and killed Rupert, or killed him here, after you left-while I was right here asleep. Not ten feet from him.

"And where," she said, "was Rock, that night? Where were you, big boy, while all this was happening? Out running the neighborhood chasing the ladies?"

"The better question," Dallas said, "is what would he do if it happened again? He has a strong feeling for you, now.

"Except, you don't know his background or training. You don't know what he's trained to do. I'd feel better if you'd move in with me for a while."

"You can't baby-sit me twenty-four hours a day. Whoever killed Rupert could break into your downstairs in the middle of the night, just as easily as into my truck and garage-even if Scotty's back, staying with you. He sleeps like… he wouldn't hear anything. Rock," Ryan said softly, "Rock and I will do just fine."

Joe glanced at Dulcie. Had Rupert's killer also prowled around the Landeau cottage that night? Was that what Rock had smelled this morning that sent him snarling and ready to attack?

Maybe the killer had been after Marianna too? Did he have some vendetta against Marianna Landeau as well as against Rupert and Ryan?

But what vendetta? What was the connection? Did the killer plan to murder Marianna, as well, and incriminate Ryan for that crime?

More puzzling still, Ryan had seen how the dog behaved at the Landeau cottage, but she hadn't told Dallas. Did she think the dog's wariness wasn't important, that he had simply been startled by Eby Coldiron, by the sound of someone unseen approaching up the drive?

And that was only one crime, one set of players. What about the bombing? The cats needed urgently to pass on to Detective Garza the information about Curtis's uncle Hurlie who had perhaps sheltered the boy when he ran away to San Andreas, who had perhaps been involved in the bomb-making. They needed to call Dallas, or call Harper himself on his cell phone before he arrived in San Andreas, let him know about Hurlie, and that the address Curtis gave Dallas was probably as fake as a rubber rodent stuffed in a mouse hole.

The cats could see, from beneath Ryan's daybed, Ryan's phone sitting on the desk, its summons so strong that Joe was tempted beyond reason to creep across the room and try phoning Harper. With his voice drowned by Ryan and Dallas, could he make a quick call?

Oh, right. And see his entire life and Dulcie's irrefutably hit the fan.

Dallas said, "You're starting Clyde's job tomorrow, you'll be too busy to worry while we get on with the investigation."

"I'm thinking of putting Clyde off. I don't want to start ripping into the roof, then have to leave him with the house torn apart."

"Have you told him that?"

"No. We're having dinner. I'll tell him then."

"Is your crew ready?"

"Two good men. But I don't like to…"

"Can you call Scotty? Does he have to stay up there?"

"He's just doing some landscaping, putting in some sprinklers and walks. I guess he could-"

"Call him," Dallas said. "Get him down here and get on with the Damen job. I wish your dad was here. Call Scotty. You need to stay on schedule. Clyde's easy," he said, his voice lighter, "he'll understand if we throw you in jail, if he has to live for a few weeks with the roof off his house."

"'Specially if it rains." Ryan returned his laugh shakily, sounding close to tears.

Chair legs scraped as if he had risen. "Hang in there, honey. We'll get it sorted out. We'll do our work, and you do yours, and it'll come out all right."