Shirley Murphy - Cat to the Dogs

But one, a line of red pins, delineated a well-defined series of auto-loan scams over the last three weeks- beginning in Greenville, North Carolina, half a day's drive west of Donegal, the home of the Greenlaw clan, and leading directly across the U.S.-scams that would not have been reported so early on, if not for one fortuitous accident.

When one of the small car dealers, driving a newly purchased BMW home for the weekend, was hit by a delivery truck, the officer who answered the call ran a routine check and came up with the fake registration.

This dealer had bought four cars within a twenty-four hour period; the fake registration made him so uneasy that he asked the police to check on the other three vehicles.

All four cars had come to him with fake paper.

The subsequent investigation spread from one small town to the next; dozens of false registrations were uncovered and reported to NCIC, long before any of the dealers would have been alerted by overdue car payments.

The trail ended at Bakersfield. Police had no record of any suspicious car purchases beyond that point. The perpetrators could have traveled north up the coast or south, or turned back east again.

Wilma's next step was to phone the car agencies that had been ripped off, compare the MOs with those she'd been dealing with at Beckwhite's: all had very professional IDs, excellent credit records that checked out with the credit bureaus. These people had to have, within their sophisticated operation, at least one very skilled hacker.

"Presume," she told Dulcie, laying down her book, "that the Greenlaws were notified of Shamas's death the morning after the accident, that most of them started out within a few hours, driving across country for Shamas's funeral. They make their first stop at Greenville, to pick up a little cash. They buy two new BMWs, two Cadillacs and a Buick convertible, all listed by NCIC as sold in Greenville within hours of one another, at three separate dealerships, and all purchased with the maximum loans.

"Half a day's drive down the road, then, they sell the cars for cash to small, out-of-the-way dealers, or through quickly placed ads in the local paper, give the buyer a forged registration certificate that wouldn't come to light until they were long gone.

"Maybe thirty thousand apiece," she told Dulcie. "They pick up maybe a hundred and fifty thousand for walking-around money, for their little jaunt out here to the coast."

"Not too bad for a few hours' work," Dulcie said. "Do you think NCIC could link pigeon drops the same way? Store diversions and shoplifting?"

"No," Wilma said. "They couldn't. Only the big stuff is reported, things that might be interstate. Like stolen cars moved from one state to another. The little crimes, if they were reported to anyone beyond a local PD, would go to that state's crime bureau. You'd have to contact each state, see what might have been logged. The Greenlaws could have worked the local stores all across the country, picking up their groceries and a little loose change-now doing the same here while they wait for the last of the relatives to arrive for the funeral."

"Very nice," Dulcie said, "traveling along in their homes on wheels, stealing as they go. Just like Gypsies."

Wilma sat looking at the little cat, taking that in.

"Have you ever heard of Travelers?" Dulcie said. "Irish Travelers?"

Wilma's eyes widened.

"In the library books on Gypsies," Dulcie said, "the Irish Travelers are almost exactly the same. The whole family steals; it's how they make their living."

"But all Gypsies aren't…" Wilma began.

"Not all Gypsies steal, just some clans. I was reading about them late last night-the library is so peaceful at night," Dulcie said. "Well, not all Irish are Travelers. But the Travelers' ancestors centuries ago in Ireland- they were tinkers just like the Gypsies. Tinsmiths and peddlers traveling across Ireland in their pony carts, stopping at little farms, trading and doing repairs. According to the books, some of the Travelers would steal anything left lying loose."

"You're not turning into a racist?" Wilma said, raising an eyebrow.

"What? Against the Irish?" Dulcie laid her ears back. "Why would I do that? I'm telling you what I read. It's supposed to be fact. Besides, you're part Irish. So is Clyde."

"And how come," Wilma said, teasing her, "how come you, of all cats, are talking about other folks stealing?"

Dulcie ducked her head. "That was… mostly… before I knew any better." She looked up at Wilma. "It was never for self-gain. It's just that… Such lovely little sweaters and scarves and silky things, so pretty and soft…" She looked pleadingly at Wilma, deeply chastened. Wilma grinned at her and stroked her ears, and at last the little cat began to purr.

"But it is a touchy subject," Wilma told her. "Many people in the East are still bitter about prejudice against the Irish. It started when Irish families came over here during the potato famine-the 1800s-They left Ireland to survive, to make a new start, their whole country was starving, people were starving by the thousands. But when they arrived in this country, there was so much bad feeling about them."

"Maybe that's because of the Travelers," Dulcie said, "because they were stealing." She licked her paw and looked up at Wilma, filled with a quick, electric energy. "This Fulman that you had on probation, Shamas's cousin. What were he and Shamas doing in Seattle?"

Wilma's eyes widened. "For one thing, selling supposedly high-quality machine tools that were really junk. I don't remember all the details, but it involved a switch-showing the buyer fine merchandise as a sample, then shipping him shoddy stuff. They were paid up front, of course.

"When I checked out his family, through the probation office in Greenville, the information they gave me was that the family was clean. Not a thing on the Fulmans or the Greenlaws."

"Smooth," Dulcie said. "And how would you know any different? Most people never think about whole families living that way, their entire lives dedicated to stealing and running scams."

"My job was to look for these things. And Greenville had to know."

"Maybe. Maybe not. The books say they're very law-abiding in their own town." Dulcie grinned. "Maybe the probation officer was a shirttail cousin."

Wilma looked at her, torn between laughter and chagrin. "I should have thought about that kind of connection. I've always known there were families in San Francisco running roofing scams, asphalt-paving scams, home-repair swindles. It's their way of life." Wilma shook her head. "I never put that together with Fulman and Shamas-and it was my business to know.

"I hate to think how this would affect Lucinda if she should find out about Shamas. It would break her heart to know that her husband was a thief and a con artist."

Dulcie licked her whiskers. "I think she knows. From the things I've heard her say to Pedric, and to Charlie, too, I think she knows very well what Shamas was."

Wilma looked at her quietly.

Dulcie looked intently back at her. "How could Lucinda live with him all those years and not know there was something wrong?"

"You'd be surprised," Wilma said, "how thoroughly humans can deceive themselves." She settled deeper into the pillows, sipping her cocoa-and straightened up, nearly spilling it, when they heard above the pounding rain, a thud on the back porch, then the back door creak.

The noise brought Dulcie up rigid, too, her every hair standing straight.

Wilma slid out of bed, snatching up the fire tongs, and Dulcie dropped softly to the floor-then they heard Dulcie's cat door slap, banging against its metal frame.

"Anyone home?"

Dulcie relaxed. Her fur went flat, her claws drew back into their sheaths. Wilma sighed, and laughed as Joe Grey came swaggering down the hall, his silver coat soaked dark, dripping on the Persian runner. "I was around back, came down the hill, saw the bedroom light. Are those cookies I smell?"