Shirley Murphy: Cat Pay the Devil

Joe tried to think how long ago two thousand years really was, how many generations of ordinary cats that would be, but the magnitude of that many lifetimes made his head feel woozy. He knew that Dulcie could think in those terms more easily, at least when it had to do with their own mythical history. And the kit…She had grown up on ancient tales. Kit looked at ancient history as just yesterday. Joe watched the tortoiseshell as she peered down from a low branch of the maple behind Max, studying the pictures that had been faxed to him by Interpol. And Joe dropped to the bench beside Clyde where he, too, could see.

One picture seemed identical to the gold pendant he had hidden on the roof. There was a handwritten note in the margin, placing its value at over four thousand dollars. That little bit of gold…If Cage had stolen as much as would fill the floor safe in his basement, the value would be considerable. No wonder he’d been in a swivet when the pieces vanished.

He watched Kit, staring down from the branch at the pictures. Was she thinking that those gold huacas were very like ancient Celtic relics? Like the primitive gold jewelry and shields from Ireland and Wales that were so entwined with the myths about their own strange race of cats? But that stuff made Joe shiver; their own strange, mythical past made him unbearably nervous.

“The 2003 theft,” Max said, “had to be an inside job. No employee was supposed to have both the key and the combination, to any single display case. Obviously someone, or several people, did have them. One guard who had recently been employed, had a long record. He was out on bail when they hired him, waiting on appeal for an earlier job.”

“And they hired him?” Charlie said.

“This is Central America,” Max said. “Interesting that the theft occurred a month before they were to install a new security system.

“The museum had been hit a year earlier, and there was a theft in 1982. And that’s where we think this haul may have come from.” Max reached for another O’Doul’s. “Cage was in Panama in the eighties, as well as more recently.” He looked across at Wilma. “And Greeley Urzey was there in the eighties.”

Wilma said, “I don’t think Greeley, alone, has the skill to pull off that kind of job. But he and Cage might.”

Max nodded. “There were several illegal collections of pre-Columbian artifacts in Panama, held by wealthy individuals. Ownership is legal only for the museums. Interpol thinks those collectors bought huacas stolen from the museums, and that then, over the years, some of those collections were burglarized. That kind of theft, Cage and Greeley might have pulled off. And those thefts, of course, would never be reported.”

“How would they get them out of the country?” Lucinda asked.

“A lot of ways,” Max said. “Customs can’t check everything. They might have been sealed in moving containers, in those big overseas crates. Packed up by a mover in Panama or the Canal Zone and put on shipboard for transport to the U.S. Before 9/11, it would have been far easier to slip contraband through. But,” Max continued, “there’s a kicker to this. Late last night, we had a call from Seattle PD.

“Five stolen huacas have turned up there, sold by a San Francisco fence about a month ago.” He settled back, sipping his beer. “They were sold three days after Greeley’s flight got in from Panama-the day after Cage Jones was released from Terminal Island. We’re guessing Greeley flew into SFO, maybe under an assumed name. Cage meets him there, or maybe Greeley rents a car and picks Cage up at T.I. And Cage takes him to the San Francisco fence.”

The eyes of all three cats glowed. They glanced sideways at one another and found it hard to keep from grinning.

“But,” Mandell said, “if Cage sold his take in the city, what was he looking for at the Molena Point house? What disappeared from there, that he thought Wilma and I took?” He frowned, his dark eyes narrowing. “If Cage and Greeley made a large haul together and got it out of Panama, and then split it, that could have been Greeley’s half that they sold in the city.”

Max nodded. “That’s what we think.”

“And then,” Mandell said, “Greeley came after Cage’s half, which he hadn’t yet sold.”

“But why sell Greeley’s share so near the time that Cage got out of prison?” Wilma said. But then she smiled. “Greeley waited for Cage to get out, to make the contact for him. Greeley isn’t very sophisticated when it comes to that kind of thing, it’s Cage who knows the high-powered fences.”

Pedric said, “If they sold Greeley’s share, and Cage’s half was still in the house, did Greeley find and take it?”

Max shook his head. “We don’t think so. Greeley was in there after the kidnappings, snooping around. If he’d already found and taken it, why would he go back?”

“And what about the three murders?” Lucinda said. “They weren’t connected to this, at all? You arrested one man, the husband?” she said with distaste.

“Two,” Max said. “Tucker and Keating. We had enough evidence on both to make good cases. And in the Milner death, we have the murder weapon. We were able to lift one print that he missed when he wiped it.”

“Then-” Lucinda began.

“Milner’s skipped,” Max said. “Parked his car at San Jose airport, made a plane reservation, but we don’t think he boarded. He’ll be picked up-we hope he will. He’s not too sophisticated.”

Max said no more, nor did Dallas. Neither officer mentioned the plastered-over and painted baseboard in the Milner case, the paintbrush, the caulking tube found in the neighbor’s garbage. Until the trial, it was best to keep such information to themselves, even among those close to the department. The fewer who knew, the fewer slips could be made. The cats glanced at one another, Dulcie twitched a whisker, and again Joe Grey smiled.

“And there never was a burglar,” Lucinda said.

“None.” Max grinned. “You’re safe in your bed, Lucinda.” He looked around at Clyde. “I’m starved. One more toast to the three guests of honor, then let’s eat.”

But before Max raised his glass, Charlie said, “I think there’s another guest of honor who helped stop Cage Jones.”

The cats went rigid, staring at Charlie.

“Seems to me,” Charlie said, “that a toast to Rock is in order. The poor guy ran his tail off tracking me.” Joe and Dulcie and Kit went limp. Charlie’s eyes met theirs, laughing, then moved on, her look noticed only by those who knew the whole story. And as Charlie knelt to hug Rock and give him a treat of shrimp, the cats knew he deserved every morsel. Joe smugly washed his whiskers, and Dulcie rolled over on her back, purring. And soon everyone gathered around the table, filling their plates with the good shrimp and crab, Jolly’s seafood so fresh it might be still swimming, the salads crisp and well seasoned, the French bread freshly baked, the desserts rich, just as the cats liked them. Rock and the cats, the household cats, too, all had their own plates; Kit ate so much, ending with a lovely bowl of crème brulée, that Lucinda and Pedric were sure she’d be sick before they got her home.

But Kit wasn’t sick, she reveled in the evening, loved having all her friends around her, cat and human; after her lonely, bullied kittenhood, she loved being part of this warm human world. When late that evening the friends parted, heading for their cars, and Ryan lingered for a last drink with Clyde, Kit sat on the seat, between the old couple, talking nonstop; she wanted all the answers that had not yet come to light, she wanted it all at once.

She wanted not only to know all the final resolutions to the several cases in question, which no one on earth could yet tell her, but also she worried over her wild friends who had so courageously helped Charlie and Wilma. She worried about Willow and Cotton and Coyote living wild, and she envied them, too. She knew they would choose no other way. Wound tight, Kit talked nonstop until the old couple had tucked her into bed between them and turned out the light, and then she fell asleep all at once, purring.