Shirley Murphy - Cat Seeing Double

"Where did you hear this?"

"I… a discussion between the boy and the old man."

"A discussion where?"

"The old man was talking through the kid's cell window. I'm sure Detective Garza will want to know that the old man is still in the village. Will you fill him in?"

"I'll do that." Was Harper laughing? Joe didn't know how to take that. Laughing at what? He turned an alarmed look on Dulcie.

But maybe Harper was only laughing because the snitch was telling the captain what to do.

"Maybe someday," Harper said, still with a smile in his voice, "you'll have sufficient trust in me-as I've learned to trust you-to share your sources with me, and share your identity."

Joe hit the disconnect, his paws tingling with nerves, his whiskers twitching. He looked at Dulcie, frowning. "I think I'll tell Garza myself."

She shrugged, amused at him because Harper had made him nervous.

Dialing a third number, he looked at Dulcie's grin and pushed the headset across the blotter. "It's your turn, miss smarty. You talk to Garza."

"I can't. What…" Taken off guard, she was silent when Garza came on the line.

"Detective Garza," he repeated.

She swallowed. "That old man," she said in the sultry voice that she saved for these special calls, "that old man that bombed the church. Are you looking for him?"

"We are," Garza said, dispensing with unnecessary questions.

"He's in the village, or he was around noon today. He's driving a black Jaguar convertible…" She allowed herself a little laugh. "Done up real classy with zebra seat covers. California license two-Z-J-Z-nine-one-seven.

"He talked with the boy, through that high little window into the holding cell. He climbed up that leaning oak trunk, and nearly fell. He's pretty crippled. They have-the boy has an uncle in San Andreas. Hurlie Farger, apparently Gerrard's brother. That's where the boy was staying. We've already informed Captain Harper. He was in his car, so they may already be on their way to San Andreas." And before Garza could ask any questions, Dulcie hit the disconnect and collapsed on the blotter.

Joe watched her, grinning. "That should shake things up. Let's hit for Lupe's Playa, before we miss the action-and miss supper."

The aromas of garlic and chilies drew Ryan like a benediction. The enticement of a spicy, delicious meal, the hot Mexican music, the soft light cast by the swinging lanterns, all the rich setting of Lupe's Playa seemed to cosset and comfort her. On the brick patio beneath the gently blowing oaks, they had their favorite table in the far corner beside the brick wall. This was where she and Clyde had first met, when she first arrived in the village and Dallas brought her here for dinner. Now, seated beside Clyde, ordering a beer, she took his hand, comforted by his strong presence. Ever since taking the call on her cell phone she had felt even more uncertain, even more raw and exposed.

She hadn't told Clyde about the call, hadn't wanted to spoil their evening. Now, she tried not to keep glancing out through the pieced-brick patio wall, to the street, to see if she had been followed. Yet she couldn't help watching the host's desk, through the patio doors, studying each new arrival, wondering… a thin man, the caller had said. She had no idea whether she would know the person- if she'd been followed, if this wasn't some hoax, someone wanting to harass her. Who could have made such a call?

Certainly Max Harper received some strange phone calls. But she wasn't a cop, she was a private citizen. How could this call tonight have any connection to a police informant?

Whatever the truth, that anonymous call, just after the murder, had given her a deep and lasting chill.

It wasn't as if she knew her neighbors, as if any of them would be concerned about her safety. Certainly none of them would have her phone numbers handy.

"So, you have another date? You want to hurry on through dinner?"

She looked at him blankly.

"You've been staring out at the street like you're waiting for a lost lover."

"I had a phone call, coming down. He wouldn't give a name. Said that when I left the apartment I was followed. I didn't want to tell you, and spoil the evening. He described a slim man driving a gray hatchback, said he'd been parked above the apartment apparently waiting for me. It's probably some nut call, but…"

Clyde's expression startled her. His face flushed but he didn't seem exactly surprised. "What the hell. You don't need crazy phone calls on top of everything else."

"It made me a little nervous, that's all," she said quickly. She wiped some water from the table with her napkin and unrolled the blueprints, weighting them down with the chip and salsa bowls. Clyde leaned over, studying the drawings. She had presented the floor plan and several elevations. The vaulted ceiling of the new room was impressive, both from the street and from within.

But even with the excitement of the promised addition, Clyde's mind remained on the phantom snitch. His thoughts about the tomcat were not charitable. Did Joe have to upset Ryan? Probably the car Joe saw had been some neighbor or visitor pulling away, and Joe had let his imagination run. Damn cat had to mind everyone's business. And what was he doing near Ryan's place? Or, in Ryan's place? Involuntarily Clyde glanced out through the pierced wall, himself, at the slowly passing cars, wondering if someone had followed her-and that message to Ryan wasn't the only phone call Joe had placed tonight.

Just before Clyde left the house Max had called, on his way from San Francisco to Sonoma. The snitch had been in touch, the same unidentified voice that contacted Harper periodically. Max always filled Clyde in because those calls made Max nervous. The snitch had never been identified, the caller refused to give his name, and he did not fit the profile of most snitches- he sure never asked for payment.

The bottom line was, Joe Grey could not stay off the phone.

And now, tonight, had the snitch gone too far? He had told Harper that the San Andreas address for Curtis Farger was a fake, that Curtis had been staying with an uncle up there. How could the tomcat know such a thing, so soon after the bombing? Know more about the young prisoner than did either Garza or Detective Davis, both of whom had questioned Curtis?

This time, Clyde didn't see how Joe could have a solid source, for either call. So he saw someone driving down Ryan's street behind her. Probably some guy running down to the store for a bottle of milk or a six-pack. Joe had to be snatching at whirlwinds, clawing at unreliable "facts" that would only serve to muddy the investigation. Clyde didn't like to think that of Joe.

Certainly he'd underestimated Joe in the past; but these calls just seemed too far out-scaring Ryan, and maybe sending Harper on a wild-goose chase. And there was nothing that he, Clyde, could say to Harper to stop him from wasting his time. That was my tomcat calling, Max, and this time, I gotta say, he was way off base.

Right.

Clyde did not stop to examine his perplexed anger, or to consider that it grew precisely from his own increased respect for the small hunter's skill. Deeply irritated with Joe, wanting only to dismiss the matter, he concentrated on the blueprints.

The first stage of the work to update his modest Cape Cod cottage called for converting the smaller of Clyde's two bedrooms into a stairway and storage closet, the stairs to lead to the new second floor. Ryan planned to jack the tilting roof straight up to form two walls of the new upstairs. She said this was the fastest and most economical approach, and it was a concept that made sense to Clyde. The new master bedroom would have a fireplace, two walk-in closets, a compartmentalized bath, and a large study with a second fireplace. Both fireplaces would have gas logs but could be converted easily to burning wood. Neither Clyde nor Ryan had mentioned that the suite was admirably set up for a couple.