Shirley Murphy - Cat Fear No Evil

"See the cat?"

"Not a sign of him."

That made Joe nervous. "What are they doing in there? Wish you could lip read. Why don't you call Harper, see if he got the warrant, see if that's what this is about."

Clyde lowered the binoculars, looking at Joe. "Harper doesn't need to know I'm here. And how would I know about a warrant?"

"Just play dumb. Tell him you came up to the city because you were worried about Kate-tell him the truth, Clyde. He doesn't need to know what else you're interested in, or where you are at this particular moment."

"So when I tell him I came up to see Kate, he's going to offer gratis information about a search being conducted by San Francisco PD?"

"Feel him out, draw him out. You can do that. Maybe those guys are just fishing-that's more than we had time to do."

Their plan had been to walk through the complex trying to see into the garages that occupied the first floor beneath the apartments. They'd thought maybe there'd be windows in the back. But they hadn't had time to look for the Packard before they saw Consuela and the black tomcat, and then the cops showed. Now, as the uniformed officer moved out of sight, Clyde's cell phone rang.

"Damen," he said softly. Then, "Where are you?"

Joe leaped to the back of the seat to press his ear to the phone. Kate was saying, "We're at Ghirardelli Square for breakfast, waiting for our order. I've made an appointment with an appraiser, for Lucinda's jewelry, just before noon. I just stepped outside to do that, and to check my messages; the gardens are so beautiful. What's this about your car? Where are you?"

"Just up from you, opposite the yacht harbor. Do you- Hold on."

Above them in the condo, Consuela had left the window. But the black cat had appeared at the other end of the condo on a balcony. Clyde felt Joe's claws digging into his shoulder as together they watched Azrael climb up a bougainvillea vine, clawing his way toward the roof. The black cat moved slowly, dragging something heavy that was dangling from his clenched teeth. "What is that thing?" Clyde said. "Something blue. Looks like a woman's purse."

On the phone, Kate gasped, "That's…"

But Joe was out the window, slashing Clyde's hand when Clyde tried to grab him, dropping to the street behind a passing car. He could hear Kate shouting into the phone as Clyde bailed out behind him, swerving into the path of a cab. Joe was safely across when tires squealed, and then Clyde was across, yelling as Joe headed for the end of the building where a pine tree rose, as bare as a telephone pole, its high, faraway branches brushing the roof where Azrael had disappeared.

Storming up the tree, Joe leaped for the roof, his claws scrabbling and slipping on the slick, rounded tiles. Ahead of him among a maze of heating vents and chimneys a black tail flashed and was gone. Watching for the tomcat to show again, Joe studied the shadows among the rooftop machinery.

Joe waited for some time, then slipped in among the pipes and wire mesh boxes, sniffing the air. All he could detect was the smell of machine oil, ocean, and fish from the wharves.

But then, where the shadows of two chimneys converged, he saw a faint movement. He remained still, his heart pounding.

Azrael appeared suddenly, leaping to the top of a wire cage. Dropping the blue bag between his paws, he hunched low over it, watching Joe. Crouched in attack mode, his amber eyes were slitted, his teeth bared. At this moment, against the sky, he looked as huge and fierce as if the beast did, indeed, bear the blood of jaguars as he boasted.

Warily, Joe approached him. As he rounded on Azrael, he heard from the apartment below a crash that sounded like furniture breaking, heard Consuela swear, then a softer thud, and one of the cops shouted. At the same instant, Joe made a flying leap onto the mesh box and straight into Azrael's claws. Burying his teeth in the tomcat's shoulder, he bit and raked, ripping his hind claws down Azrael's side. Azrael, twisting with the power of a thrashing boa, bit into Joe's belly. Below them glass shattered, a cop barked an order, and then silence, sudden and complete.

Coming at Joe with all the screaming power of an enraged jaguar, Azrael slashed at Joe's face; Joe tasted blood. Clawing at each other, the two toms slid across the tiles rolling and scrabbling. And as Joe leaped for the black cat's throat, the pounding of hard shoes came running, sliding, and Clyde loomed over them, diving for Azrael. Azrael gave a violent surge that hurled Joe sideways, slashed Clyde's arm, and twisted out of Clyde's hands, snatching the bag where it had fallen among the shadows. Weighted by his burden, Azrael sailed off the roof into the overhanging branches of the pine and was gone, scorching down in a shower of pine bark. Joe streaked down after him, hitting the ground with a thud that knocked his wind out. Already Azrael was half a block away flashing through the condo gardens and up the hill at the back, his neck bowed sideways as he dragged the blue suede bag. As Joe leaped after him, he heard Clyde running across the roof above, and down wooden stairs somewhere at the back.

And as Joe fled after the black tom, intent on Kate's vanishing jewels, down the coast in Molena Point, Dulcie and Kit lay quietly in Detective Juana Davis's office observing a material witness to the death of James Quinn. Listening to the woman who, though in part responsible for the real estate agent's demise, seemed without knowledge of that fact.

Dulcie lay curled in Juana's in box as unmoving as a sleek toy cat. Across the desk from her, the kit lay sprawled across a stack of reports, belly up, fluffy tail dangling over the edge of the desk, her long fur tumbled in all directions like a ragged fur piece. Detective Davis sat at her desk between the two cats, apparently amused by the pair, making no effort to evict them. Across from her, settled at one end of the couch, Helen Thurwell looked up at Davis, calm, composed, and puzzled.

"I thought I'd told Detective Garza everything that might help," Helen was saying. "It wasn't much, but… you're still thinking that it might not have been an accident? That someone killed James?"

Neither cat opened her eyes. Neither cat allowed her ears to rotate following the conversation. Both seemed deeply under, twitching occasionally as if wandering somewhere among mysterious feline dreams.

"I understand that this is painful," Juana was saying. "But I believe you can help. Quinn was your partner for how many years?"

"Nearly ten years," Helen said. "He was a good partner, always careful in his record keeping, always cordial and considerate of our clients, never impatient with them-never stepping on my toes in a transaction. You don't work with someone that long, and that closely, and not grow to care for them."

"No one is suggesting that there was any problem between you."

Dulcie slitted her eyes open just enough to watch Davis. Juana Davis was a no-nonsense sort of woman in her fifties, squarely built, with dark hair and dark eyes. She was a steady, commonsense person, but along the way she hadn't lost her sympathy for another human being. She was just very selective as to who deserved it. Dulcie thought that Juana was still making up her mind about Helen Thurwell.

On a hunch, Dulcie unwound herself from the in box, sat up yawning, and leaped to the couch to settle down beside Helen, curling up close to her, to see what she would do.

Davis's couch was old, tweed-covered, and smelled of cocker spaniel from some past life before she bought it at the Pumpkin Coach Charity Shop. The city did not pay for items the city fathers considered luxury purchases. Dulcie didn't see why a couch would be considered a luxury; but then, she wasn't the city manager. On the coffee table before Helen lay a thick briefcase. Before she reached for her files, Helen turned to stroke Dulcie.