Shirley Murphy - Cat Spitting Mad

Why hadn't Garza tossed Stubby Baker's apartment? Why hadn't he searched Crystal's duplex? Did he not have sufficient cause? Didn't he think the judge would issue warrants?

Or did he have no need to do those things?

Did Garza already know where Dillon was?

Watching the detective, he told himself he was letting his imagination run crazy, that he was too emotionally involved. But he felt as restless as bees on a skillet.

Well, maybe Garza didn't have probable cause to do those searches. But not every player in this game needed a warrant.

Giving Kate a look of urgency, as if he really needed to go out, he headed for the back door.

THE TIME was 9:30, the night sky clear, the slim moon and stars as bright as polished diamonds. On the village sidewalks, traffic was beginning to thin, late diners emerging from the restaurants, heading home or to their motels. While the tourists dawdled, looking in the shop windows, Joe Grey hurried along, brushing past their ankles, dodging across the narrow streets between slow-moving cars until soon he had left the shops behind and was among the crowding cottages. Passing Wilma's house and moving up the north slope of the village, he paused before Crystal Ryder's duplex.

Above the two double garages, with their closed, unwelcoming doors, Crystal's windows were ablaze. In the far unit, only a faint light burned. Two different kinds of music came out-modern jazz from Crystal's side, country from her neighbor, the two mixing in nerve-jangling discord.

Padding up the tall flight of wooden stairs, he leaped to Crystal's window.

The screen was still loose, but the window itself was locked. He was peering between the curtains when the garage door rumbled open below him. Dropping to the deck, he looked over, watching Crystal's black Mercedes back out, the top down, Crystal's amber hair catching the light from the overhead. Behind her, as she headed down the hill, the door rumbled closed again. He watched until she was out of sight, then tried the front door, leaping up to swing on the knob.

Locked.

Galloping down the stairs, he fled around the building and up the grassy hill, to where the back windows might be accessible.

From the steep slope, he peered across a six-foot space to a lone window, very small, perhaps the bathroom window. The top half was open a few inches.

No light burned in the bathroom, but light seeped through from the studio. Springing across to the sill, he leaped for the top of the double-hung. Under his sudden weight, it crashed down so hard it nearly sent him flying. Scrambling over, he dropped down inside, narrowly missing a cold bath in the commode. He was just congratulating himself on his graceful entrance when the garage door rumbled up again and he heard the Mercedes pull in.

Had she forgotten something? If he only waited a few moments, would she drive away again?

Since he and Dulcie had followed the kit and found the tapes and escrow papers, he hadn't been able to shake his uneasy feeling about this apartment. Call it overactive curiosity, call it senseless fear. Joe thought of it as the kind of feeling a cop got-he'd heard plenty of stories over the poker table as he lolled across the cards, getting in the way. Sometimes an officer just knew something was amiss. Knew that the perp had a gun stashed in the seat behind him. That the innocent-looking high school girl batting her eyes at him from the driver's seat had a trunkful of drugs. No rhyme or reason. Just a feeling. He had it now, about this apartment.

Crouched in the bathroom where he'd landed, he heard a door open in the garage, then close again, and a lock snap or slide home. Heard Crystal come upstairs within the house, heard the door at the top open, heard her cross to the kitchen.

He peered out. The door to the stair stood ajar. The smell of garlic and tomato sauce filled the stairwell. He beat it down to the garage before she came back.

He heard her cross the room, heard the door close above him, heard her crossing back and forth, heard the water running, then in the kitchen heard her pull out a chair, then silence.

The garage was empty and neat, not like many village garages, filled with cast-off furniture, moldering storage boxes, and greasy yard equipment.

This two-car space had been swept clean. It contained only Crystal's black Mercedes, a broom standing in the corner, a square metal furnace, a washer and dryer, and some empty metal shelves fastened to the wall. Beneath the stair was a small wooden door. He could hear, from within, a soft shuffling noise, then a tiny thump as if rats were at work on whatever was stored there.

The aroma of spaghetti clung around the door.

Sniffing beneath the door, he caught a scent that made him rear up, pawing at the bolt, then leaping and fighting, trying to slide it back.

The sounds from within ceased.

Above him, footsteps crossed the room. The door opened, spilling light. Crystal came down, opened the little door, slipped inside, and closed it behind her.

In the small space, the two female voices echoed sharply, one young and angry, the other haughty.

"I want to call my mother. I want to tell her I'm all right. If you really mean to help me, I don't see why-"

"How many times do I have to go over this? He's bound to have a tap on their phone. One call, and he'll find you. And if he finds you, Dillon, he'll kill you. You're the only witness."

"I'm tired of being shut in this stinking place. I'm cold. I'm tired of the dark! I'm tired of using a bucket for a bathroom."

"It's better than being dead."

"Not much. Why can't I come upstairs with you! I hear you moving around, I hear the TV and radio. I hear the water running-the shower! I want a shower! And last night I smelled steak cooking."

"I brought you spaghetti. And here's some Hershey bars. Eat them and shut up. You should be thankful that I got you out before he found you. Thankful I'm taking the trouble to protect you. If I hadn't found you, you'd be rotting dead up there on that mountain."

"You could've taken me to the cops. Why didn't you take me to the cops?"

"What would they do? Question you and take you home. And the minute you're home, he'd have you. Your parents couldn't protect you. You told me they don't keep a gun. He breaks in, kills you all. Kills you first, Dillon. In front of them. Then kills your mother and father."

"I don't want to stay here! I want out!"

The sounds of a scuffle. Dillon yelped as if Crystal had hit her. "Leave me alone! And what do you get out of this? What do you get for saving me ?"

No answer.

"I want to call my mother. I'll make her promise not to tell anyone."

"The worst thing you could do. No mother would keep a promise like that; she'd hightail it right to the cops. And he'd find you. Now shut up. It won't be much longer."

"Much longer until what}"

"Until I can set you free. Until the coast is clear and I can let you go."

But in the shadows, Joe Grey had a different interpretation, one that made his skin crawl.

There was only one window in the garage, a small dirty glass high in the back wall, just below the ceiling. He had noticed it from the hill, but it did not lead into the house. He thought Dillon might squeeze through, if he could get her out. But she would need a ladder. He could see no ladder, nothing to stand on but the Mercedes, and it was too far from the window. Maybe Dillon could push the dryer across. All she'd have to do was unplug it, and the dryer would be lighter than the washer.

Right. And it would be noisy as hell-and first he had to open the locked door.