Shirley Murphy - Cat Fear No Evil

As the three tucked into their deli lunch, Joe couldn't help an occasional drool dampening Harper's new carpet. Listening to paper rattling and the sounds of their satisfied munching amid small talk, he had a long and hungry wait before Harper laid down his sandwich and picked up a file of reports.

Covetously Joe eyed the sandwich, but told himself to forget it. He could see from his position beneath the couch a long reflection in the glass-fronted bookcase that gave him a view of Harper's desk. This thoughtful touch, too, had been Charlie's. She and Joe had tested it early one morning when Harper was downstairs on the indoor pistol range.

Harper looked up at Garza. "You have no indication that Quinn's house had been broken into."

"None," Garza said. "And no other prints besides Quinn's. Only Quinn's prints on the handle of the gas jet, where of course his prints would be."

Harper shuffled the stack of papers. "There seems nothing out of place here, among his real estate transactions. Both Helen and their broker have been over everything, found nothing out of the way, except for the missing notebook. You searched the real estate office?"

"Yes," Davis said. "The broker, James Holland, helped Helen look for the notebook while I waited. They ransacked the entire office. We searched Quinn's car again, took out the seats, everything short of dismantling the vehicle."

"The notebook may be of no value," Harper said, "but the case is open until it's found."

The three were silent, finishing their lunches. Harper asked Davis about two identity thefts that had been reported, both involving scams on local residents. These piqued Joe's interest because this was the first he'd heard about them. Crimes like identity theft made him glad he was a cat without the encumbrance of a charge card, social security number, and other invitations to embezzlement.

"The victims are getting their papers together," Davis said. "Paid bills, canceled checks. Both have retained attorneys. The one woman, Sheila James, is looking at a five-thousand-dollar-a-month mortgage on a house that is, in fact, completely paid for. The other folks, Ron and Sandy Bueller, moved here just a year ago. Six new credit card accounts in their name, some sixty thousand in debts outstanding, so far, plus payments on a two-million-dollar piece of land in the north part of the county that they didn't buy and have never seen."

Davis shifted her position on the couch; the leather creaked again. "All of that within the space of a week. And we have nothing so far. Zilch."

That, Joe knew, was par for the course in these cases. The officers discussed every possible venue at their disposal to get a line on the guy; Davis and Garza were working on them all, and would keep digging; the loopholes, the lack of ways to nail these thieves was, Joe thought, like chasing mice through a metal grating: the chasee escapes, the chaser bangs his nose on the barrier.

"What about the Greenlaw accident?" Davis said. "Still no bodies?"

"Not so much as a scorched bone," Harper told her. "Sheriff thinks, now, that neither of the Greenlaws was in the RV when it crashed. He's searching the area, thinking they might have been murdered and dumped before the wreck.

"If they were alive," Harper said, "someone would have heard from them. Wilma, certainly. She's not only Lucinda's friend, but her executor. She's ready to drive up there, car gassed up, suitcase packed. She'd like to help the sheriff's teams search but right now there's nothing she can do that they're not on top of. Sheriff has dogs out, the works."

"They're eighty years old," Garza said. "There are some desolate stretches in those forests."

"Eighty years old and tough as boots," Harper replied. "Certainly Pedric is. And Lucinda, since they married, has become just about as strong mentally and emotionally. When Shamas was alive, Lucinda was little more than a wilting violet, acted like she was scared of her own shadow."

Harper studied his two detectives. "I had a call this morning, about the burglary at Alice's Mirror.

"Our favorite snitch," Harper said, "suggested we ask Harry Jarman about a key he might have duplicated for Consuela Benton." The captain smiled. "I picked up a key from Alice's Mirror this morning, stopped by Jarman's with it. He remembered Consuela coming in a couple of weeks ago. I laid seven keys on the counter, six from my own pocket.

"He picked it out right away. Remembered he'd used the last blank like that, and had to order more."

Davis gave a little pleased "All right!" Dallas laughed softly.

"I have a Be-on-the-lookout for Consuela," Harper said. "Soon as we can print her, if we get a match, maybe we can make a case and get a warrant for the cottage she's renting up on Carpenter. I understand the garage is part of the rental deal."

Beneath the couch, Joe Grey grinned. Right on, Kit, he thought, both saddened and relieved. You nailed her. And if the department can make Consuela for masterminding the burglary, maybe it will go easier for Dillon. And, Joe thought, the cops might need a warrant to toss Consuela's rental. But a cat didn't.

The three officers moved on to the rash of coastal burglaries, and for over an hour they discussed the various reports from up and down the California coast, comparing MOs. The information from some two dozen fences was all negative. None of the stolen items had been traced to any of the known fences. The burglaries covered the geographic area from Malibu in the south to Point Reyes in the north, and inland as far as Oakland and Berkeley and Thousand Oaks. Garza had prepared a chart on the computer, listing the dates of the burglaries, the time of day they were discovered, the length of time since the items had last been seen. In the case of jewelry kept in a home safe, the lapse of time might amount to several months, the piece in question might have disappeared at any time during that period. There had been no report at all on Clyde's antique Packard.

Peering out from beneath the couch, Joe could barely see the chart without being seen himself, without his gray-and-white nose and whiskers protruding. As the three officers talked, Davis swung one stockinged foot over, twiddling her toes just inches from Joe's nose. Her feet smelled of talcum powder. Dallas's chart showed all social gatherings at each address within the last three years, with size and description of events, from dinner parties to charity functions. An addendum provided guest lists, and lists of household help and maintenance people for each event.

None of the houses had been for sale, none had been shown to buyers. Joe was awed at Garza's thoroughness, and at the details possible when law enforcement from different cities shared information. Seven names surfaced as guests in more than two of the burgled residences. Joe grew so interested, pushing out farther and farther, that his whiskers brushed Juana's ankle. She jerked her foot away and leaned over, peering under the couch to see what was there.

Joe Grey was gone, curled into a ball among the shadows of the far corner, hiding the white markings on his face and chest and paws, and squinching his eyes closed.

When Juana decided there was nothing under there and settled back, Joe crept out again where he could see. It was interesting that, of the list of guests, three had themselves been victims of that rash of bizarre thefts. The statistics were broken down further into a morass of facts, which, without the written information before him, left the tomcat's head spinning.

He watched enviously as Garza printed it all out and stepped down the hall to the dispatcher's desk to make copies. He would dearly love to have that printout. But even without a copy, two names on the list held Joe's attention.

A woman up the coast in Marin County had attended four of the listed affairs, all charity events. And Molena Point's own Marlin Dorriss had been a guest at five of those houses, at private dinner parties.