Shirley Murphy - Cat Deck the Halls

Hoping they got something positive on the blood samples or the prints, hoping they could find the body, nail the killer, and wrap this up quickly, she listened to the crash of the Pacific ten blocks away. The waves sounded violent, and would be black and churning-with the extremely high tide just after midnight, the Pacific all along the coast would be dangerous. That meant emergency calls, and another strain on the department. Every year some fool, most often an uninformed and overly trusting tourist, went too near the sea during a storm and had to be rescued-rescued if they were lucky. And either way, needlessly putting lifeguards and law enforcement in danger. The rule was, never turn your back on the sea. Even in calm weather. That bright, seductive monster was always hungry, waiting for the foolish and unwary.

Turning back inside, she locked the slider, feeling secure within her own space. Cheerful fire on the hearth, her old familiar Christmas ornaments on the tall, fragrant tree, her grandmother’s Creech on the mantel, the hand-carved Creech she’d had since she was a child in Ventura in their close Mexican family-a childhood of safety and warmth, in sharp contrast to what this sleeping child might have known.

Moving to the kitchenette, she started a pot of coffee, then went to take a shower. Stripping off her holster and pajamas and stepping into the pelting hot water, Juana had no notion that the storm that now battered the shore was about to claim another victim. No notion that the black water crashing up the cliffs was already licking at its prey, hungry to receive the sacrifice offered. No idea, as she soaped and rinsed off and wrapped her towel around her body and moved into the bedroom to put on clean clothes, that the eager sea was already doing its best to swallow what murder evidence might remain.

T HE GRAY TOMCAT strolled into Molena Point PD yawning, and full of breakfast, still licking sardine oil from his whiskers. He had, crossing the roof of the courthouse complex heading for the station, seen Juana Davis leave her condo building, hurrying in the same direction.

Scorching down an oak tree and racing across the parking lot, he’d moved inside behind her through the bulletproof glass door, receiving only an amused glance from the detective. Slipping into the shadows of the empty holding cell that faced the reception area, he tried to hold his breath against the faint odor of old urine and the stronger nose-twitching stink of disinfectant. Tried to breathe in only the fresh, forest smell of Mabel’s little Christmas tree on her dispatcher’s counter.

The child wasn’t with Juana. He hoped to hell she hadn’t taken the kid to Children’s Services. He didn’t think Juana would do that. From his shadowed retreat beneath the single bunk, he watched Juana move away down the hall to the back of the building, watched as she checked the overhead surveillance camera that showed the officers’ fenced parking area, then opened the steel back door a few inches to look out. He heard a car pull up, caught a glimpse of a white patrol car close outside the door. Watched Juana step aside as Officer McFarland entered, his black trench coat bulging so severely one would think Jimmie McFarland was pregnant with twins.

Behind McFarland, four officers crowded in, effectively shielding him from anyone standing outside the fence or looking down from one of the second-story windows across the street. When the door had safely closed, McFarland removed the black coat.

The little girl clung to him, her arms around his neck, and didn’t want to get down. As Joe heard the car take off again and move away out the gate, he came out of the cell, crossed the reception area, and padded toward them down the hall-just Damen’s tomcat come to freeload, to cadge his morning handout of doughnuts or coffee cake.

Juana took the child from McFarland, cradling her against her shoulder-but as the child looked over Juana’s shoulder, her big dark eyes looked straight down the hall and into Joe Grey’s eyes. She opened her mouth as if she would speak; but then she closed her eyes and turned away, her face pressed against Juana, quiet and unresisting. As if she didn’t care what happened to her. Juana came up the hall carrying her and talking softly to her, and turned in at Max Harper’s office, where a light burned, and where Joe could hear the chief and Detective Garza talking.

As Davis ’s voice joined the men’s, Joe wandered in behind her and lay down beneath the credenza, with another wide yawn. Juana was tucking the child up on the couch with a lap blanket around her.

“They gave her a little sedative last night,” she said. “She drank some cocoa when we got home, and had a cookie. Didn’t want anything this morning but a few bites of oatmeal.”

“No disturbance during the night?” Dallas asked.

“Nothing. Did the coroner identify the blood?”

“Human,” Dallas said. “All of it. He called about an hour ago. Blood on the toys, all the samples-same blood type as from the child’s clothes.” Joe knew it would take several days, at best, to get results on the DNA that might, with great good luck, help identify the victim.

“Question now is…” Juana said, glancing at the child on the couch and then at the chief, where he sat behind his desk.

Max was silent for a moment, then, “If I talk with the director of Children’s Services, maybe-”

“No,” Juana said. “They don’t know what security means. You could take her up the coast and lock her in juvenile hall, she’d be safer.”

Max just looked at her.

“She’s better off in my apartment,” Juana said, “with guards on all watches. I know it’s a big-budget item, but there’s no way around a guard, wherever she is, sure not in Children’s Services. Not until we lock up the shooter.”

Max glanced at the sleeping child, and his thin lined face softened. “We don’t know what she saw. Don’t know what the killer thinks she saw. I don’t like keeping her in your apartment long enough for someone to notice activity there.”

Joe had been watching the child, wondering if she was really asleep. Now suddenly she stirred, looking up at Davis and Harper and Garza-and then straight across the room into the shadows beneath the credenza, staring again straight into Joe Grey’s eyes.

Why did she do that? Joe wondered. Don’t do that! Look away from me! She was way too interested in him. Above him, the discussion had ceased, the three officers were all watching her. Then Juana rose and knelt before the credenza, and gently hauled Joe out. He hung limp, didn’t complain as she carried him to the couch and knelt, holding him up to the child and gently stroking him. Joe cut Juana a look. But the child reached out to him, her dark eyes needy. And of course, ham that he was, he slipped into her arms and snuggled against her-and found himself purring like a steam train.

Dallas and Max chuckled, which made Joe scowl. But the child stroked him and buried her face against his shoulder, and when he looked up at the officers again, they looked only pleased. They looked, in fact, almost admiring-as if Joe’s role in calming the kid was not at all to be laughed at.

But they looked puzzled, too, and Joe could almost hear the questions churning-questions he didn’t want to think about. Juana said, “She was like that with the cats last night, when we found her. Cuddled up to Joe and that tortoiseshell cat. Maybe,” she said, “she only feels safe around animals.”

Both officers, being dog men and horsemen, could relate to that. Max said, “We have dogs at the ranch, she might do well up there-isolation could be to our advantage. Or not,” he said, concerned about the lack of security among the open hills and woods and pastures.