Shirley Murphy - Cat Spitting Mad

"Exactly. But the phones are only part of it. Those prisoners have computers, e-mail, the Web, you name it."

Dulcie sighed.

"The Justice Department wants to crack down on the phones, though. Justice thinks the prisoners are making too many drug deals and orchestrating too many murders from behind bars."

"Now you're kidding."

"Dead serious."

"Too many drug deals? And just how many is too many? Too many murders?" Her tail lashed with rage. "What's happening to the world?"

"You have to make allowances. You're dealing here with humans."

"Oh, right."

"Bottom line-the state earns a lot of money from those pay phones. Harper said the take in California alone last year was something like twenty-three million bucks from prison pay phones."

"Come on, Joe."

"Knight Ridder Newspapers-the wire service," Joe said authoritatively. "Harper was so angry about it, he clipped the article to show Clyde. It gave statistics for Illinois and Florida, too. Said in Illinois, in one year, inmates placed over three million longdistance calls-and the deal with the phone company is, the state gets half the take."

Dulcie's ears went back; her eyes darkened with anger. "Why do we even bother to try to catch a killer, if that's all it means? He gets free room and board, free computers, free phones so he can do his dirty drug deals-and the state of California rakes in twenty-three million dollars." She was so worked up she growled at Joe and the kit both. "Those cons sit inside like some Mafia family in its Manhattan penthouse arranging drug sales and murdering people by remote control."

"That's about it," Joe said. "Used to be, prisoners were allowed maybe one call every three months-and those were likely monitored. Now they can use the phone all day. That's who you talked to, Dulcie, some inmate waiting for a call."

And Joe Grey smiled. "Lee Wark escaped from San Quentin, but his accomplice in the Beckwhite murder is still there-and Osborne is not on death row. Osborne's serving life. He'd have unlimited phone privileges. And he isn't the only no-good that Harper helped put in Quentin. Kendrick Mahl's there, too."

Max Harper had helped see Mahl convicted for the murder of Janet Jeannot.

Joe and Dulcie had also helped-though only two people in the world knew that.

Joe sat down on the blotter. "This could be not one felon setting up Harper, but a partnership. A whole squirming nest of rats."

"Fine," Dulcie said. "Our source of department information dried up. Harper knows no more than we do. And when we can't pass on the tiniest little tip without implicating Harper."

Joe said nothing. Pacing back and forth across the desk, his ears and whiskers were back, his scowl deep, pulling the white splotch down his face into washboard lines.

The fascinated kit lay belly-down on a stack of bills, looking from one to the other as if watching them bat a mouse back and forth.

"So how are we going to play it?" Dulcie asked. "How are we going to lay this on the new detective? Clyde's right about the phone tips. We try an anonymous tip with Garza, he thinks Harper's trying to manipulate him.

"Still," she said, "when the tip proves to be true…"

Joe rubbed his whiskers against hers. "We don't want to blow this, Dulcie. I want to think about this."

He gave her a broad grin. "I could move in with Garza."

"Oh, right. Play lost kitty, as well fed as you look?"

Joe dropped his ears, sucked in his gut, and crouched as if terrified, creeping across the desk as though someone had beaten him.

"Not bad."

"Add a little roll in the dirt, scruff up my fur, and I'm as pitiful as any homeless. You're not the only one who can play abandoned kitty."

"But you can't play stray kitty for Garza. His niece, Hanni, knows us from when she gave us a ride to Charlie's apartment. Hanni knows you're not a stray."

Joe looked sheepish. He didn't often forget such important matters.

He had to get hold of himself. This worry over Harper was fogging his tomcat brain.

"So I stroll in the front door, look Garza in the eye. Don't offer up an excuse. Make myself at home. Demand food, lodging, and respect. I think Garza could relate to that."

"I think Garza would boot you out on your furry behind."

"Or Kate can grease the wheels. She can say Clyde asked her to keep me for a few days, until the demolition is finished. Say I'm a bundle of nerves from all the noise. That I've gone off my feed. Twitching in my sleep."

Dulcie smiled.

"Once I get inside, I make friends with Garza, and I have free access. I can figure out how to let him in on the Quentin connection, if he doesn't already know."

"And what if he does know? What if he's part of it?"

He only looked at her.

"Joe, this is beginning to scare me."

"Hey, we're only cats. Who's to know any different?"

"Lee Wark would know different."

"Lee Wark isn't here. Wark wouldn't dare show his face in this village."

"So when are you moving in with this high-powered San Francisco detective?"

"Soon as I can set it up with Kate-and with Clyde," Joe said, thinking how unreasonable Clyde could be.

"Clyde's going to pitch a fit. You know how he-"

"I don't need Clyde's permission. I'm a cat, Dulcie. A free spirit. A four-legged unencumbered citizen. I don't need to answer to Clyde Damen. I'll tell him what I'm going to do, and do it. If I want to freeload on Garza, that's my business. It's none of Clyde's affair."

"You're getting very defensive, when you haven't even talked to Clyde yet."

Joe only looked at her. Then he dropped off the desk, beat it through the house and out the cat door.

And Dulcie sat listening to the plastic flap swinging back and forth in its little metal frame. Pretty touchy, she thought, feeling bad for Joe.

It wasn't easy to have his best line of communication dried up-and the source of that information, the man he admired so deeply, the brunt of a plot that would destroy that man. Couldn't the city attorney see this? Couldn't the movers and shakers of the city make a few allowances?

But she guessed that was part of being human-humans ideally had to stay within the law. Once they'd made the rules, the point was to follow them.

MID MORNING SUN washed the village with gold, laying warm fingers into Joe Grey's fur as he galloped through the streets, dodging dogs and tourists' feet. Sliding in through his cat door, he heard the washer going. The time was ten-fifteen. Maybe Harper, who had moved in last night, was getting domestic. Strolling into the laundry, he found Clyde was still home, sorting clothes, tossing the whites onto the top bunk, which belonged to the cats, and his colored shirts onto the lower bunk. The fact that the dirty clothes were picking up animal hair was of no importance in this household.

"What're you doing home?" he said softly, glancing in the direction of the spare bedroom. "Harper's not still asleep? You feeling okay? You take the day off?"

"Took the morning off. Harper's riding with one of the search groups."

Joe leaped into the bottom bunk, onto old Rube's blanket, and began to lick dust from his paws. "Has he heard anything more about the case? Anything from his officers?"

Clyde didn't answer. Continued to sort clothes.

"Well? What? You don't need to act like I'm the enemy."

"You know how I feel about your meddling."

"I'm meddling? Harper's career is on the line, his whole life is on the line, and I'm meddling? And what about the evidence we've already found?"

"What evidence? What are you talking about?"