Shirley Murphy: Cat Playing Cupid

When the department's original investigation had come up with nothing on Chappell's disappearance, Lindsey kept up the search on her own, had kept at it for nearly a year, making contacts, even hiring a private investigator-though at the same time, she'd seemed to get on with her life. After some months of searching and grieving, she'd started dating Mike, apparently needing someone, and they'd grown pretty serious.

But then suddenly something had happened between them that Mike would never afterward talk about. Lindsey had left the village, had moved down to L.A., there'd been no phone calls, no contact that Dallas knew of. She'd started her own accounting service down there, apparently successfully.

And then, almost nine years later, she'd moved back to central California, back to the village, where she wasted no time opening office quarters in a small cottage in the mixed-business area of the casual village, a nice office with living quarters conveniently located above, and she had slipped quickly back into the life of the village.

He'd seen her only from a distance; he wondered if she'd changed much. Was she still as beautiful? His own quickening interest annoyed him. Turning in his swivel chair to face the bookcase behind him, Dallas reached for the other cold files he'd shoved out of the way between copies of the California Civil Code, his hand brushing against the gray tomcat where Joe lay curled up, dozing. Damned cat really had taken up residence, Dallas thought, amused.

Maybe Joe Grey's nose was out of joint, with Clyde about to be married. Maybe home had already changed, probably the house was in an uproar. Knowing Ryan, they might already be rearranging furniture, cleaning out cupboards to accommodate her belongings. If cats were anything like dogs, the gray tom wouldn't like any disturbance in his home and routine. Change, to an animal, translated into threat.

With enough provocation, who knew? The tomcat, Dallas thought, might move into the station full-time.

"Things bad at home?" he asked the tomcat, scratching Joe's ear. "Ryan won't throw you out, you know. Or," he said, looking into Joe's yellow eyes, "could you be jealous of her?"

Joe glared at him, and Dallas grinned. "You've had your own way around the house for a long time. Maybe you don't like competition from a new roommate and her dog?"

The tomcat studied him almost as if he understood.

"And why aren't you out catching mice instead of schlepping around in here sleeping and cadging treats from the dispatchers? The time you spend in the department, Joe, you might as well move in and get yourself on the payroll."

The tomcat turned to lick his paw, and then looked at Dallas sleepily-as if willing him to get on with his own business and leave a cat to nap in peace. Dallas scratched Joe's head until Joe tired of the attention, sat up, licked the other white paw and gray leg, then washed the white strip down his dark nose.

"Strange," Dallas said companionably, "that Lindsey was so uptight. I hope that wasn't guilt talking."

The gray cat, still washing, raised his yellow eyes to Dallas.

"This wouldn't be the first time a guilty party brought evidence to the attention of the law," Dallas told him, "trying to turn away any new suspicions."

Joe Grey yawned in Dallas 's face, lay down again on the bookshelf, and seemed to go back to sleep. Dallas watched him, a grin touching his stern Hispanic face-he found he liked having the cat to talk to.

He'd never cared much for cats until this one, he'd always been a dog man. Pointers, fine gundogs. But this cat, in some ways, seemed more like a dog than a cat. Joe was, for one thing, a pretty good listener, more attentive than Dallas expected cats to be-the gray tom seemed, in fact, nearly as responsive to his moods as were his dogs.

Part of the comfort in talking to an animal-dog, cat, or horse-was that they didn't offer advice, didn't tell you what to do. Animals were sympathetic and willing listeners, but they couldn't repeat what they heard. Couldn't pass on some casual remark, or the contents of a phone conversation or high-security interview-and as Dallas stroked Joe Grey, appreciating the cat's admirably mute ways, he didn't see, when the tomcat ducked his head under the detective's stroking hand, the cat's sly and knowing smile.

JOE GREY HADalready read the faxed newspaper article over the detective's shoulder, and from his position on the shelf just behind Dallas's left ear, he'd clearly heard both sides of Lindsey's phone call, had heard her tension just as Dallas had, and was equally puzzled by her apparent nervousness and stress.

From what Joe had heard around the village, he thought of Lindsey Wolf as a soft-spoken lady always in charge of herself, a fascinating woman nicely reined in, always in command of her emotions. He knew that his tabby lady had cadged occasional tidbits from Lindsey's hand in restaurant patios, and that Dulcie liked her gentle ways-but today, Lindsey sounded harsh and nervous, almost brittle.

Dropping down onto Dallas 's desk, Joe watched the detective set the Chappell file aside and dig into his overloaded in-box. "We'll see what Mike can do with the case," Dallas said, half to himself.

Joe thought it interesting that Dallas 's brother-in-law, having just retired from Federal Probation, didn't take a sensible rest, as any cat would do. That Mike wanted to get right back to work, didn't want to be idle when he moved down to the village.

Admittedly he'd be working his own hours, though, investigating the department's cold cases.

"Maybe he won't want to work the case," Dallas said, stroking Joe. "Maybe he'll change his mind, decide not to have anything more to do with Lindsey. Whatever blew up between them," he told the tomcat, "left him cranky as hell for a long time."

Joe Grey twitched an ear and rubbed his whiskers against Dallas 's hand; Dallas scowled at the stack of paperwork that seemed to grow taller every day. Cops always had too much paperwork, Joe thought, curling up on the blotter, directly in Dallas's way, so that the detective had to work around him; when Dallas pushed him gently aside, Joe didn't get up and move, but stretched out, taking up more space and shoving away papers with his hind feet, as he lay thinking about Mike Flannery and Lindsey Wolf.

Maybe when the two had started dating, after Chappell disappeared, it was because Lindsey had needed someone, needed a friend who didn't make cutting remarks about how Chappell had run out on her, as, apparently, most of Lindsey's women friends and her sister liked to do. Joe picked up a lot of information among Clyde 's friends, from casual remarks at parties or over poker games. He knew that Mike would come down from San Francisco to spend his summer weekends in the village, and that he'd been pretty serious about her. Joe thought the two must have made a handsome couple-tall, sandy-haired Mike Flannery and willowy Lindsey Wolf.

But then suddenly she'd pulled up stakes and moved to L.A., and the way Joe heard it, Mike had never talked about what happened between them.

"Just our luck," Dallas said, startling the tomcat. "If Mike does take the case, some troublemaker claims that because Mike dated Lindsey, any current investigation is unethical-if it comes to a full investigation," he said, easing a sheaf of papers out from under Joe. "But, hell, what are the odds that that's Chappell, up there in Oregon?

"Anyway," he muttered, as he scanned and then signed a stack of routine forms, "that was nearly ten years ago. And Mike isn't a member of the department, this is contract work." He looked at Joe, his square Latino face thoughtful. "Let Mike run with it. Who knows what he'll find?"

Who knows what'll happen? Joe thought. And then the tomcat, watching the detective, caught a glimpse of something else besides concern for departmental policy. Did he see a spark of jealousy in those dark Latino eyes? A surge of macho competitiveness over Lindsey Wolf?