Shirley Murphy - Cat Seeing Double

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 me 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 fingering 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 five 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 deliberate 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."