Shirley Murphy - Cat Cross Their Graves

The glass doors were closed, and there was no light within. When she tried the door, it was locked. She knocked, then put her ear to the glass.

No sound, nothing. Had Genelle gone back to sleep, maybe on a couch? Shivering, she knocked again, then moved down the terrace to the end and tried the heavy wooden door that must be the front entrance. She rang the bell first, then knocked. When no one came, she tried that door, but it, too, was locked. Lori shivered, turned, and made her way up the garden ducking under small trees and tall bushes, working her way around the house until she found a back door, and then another sliding one on the far side. Both were locked. She would not ordinarily try to get into someone's house, but something was wrong, something had happened to Genelle. Was this why Cora Lee had left so upset and not come back?

When she was certain that she couldn't get in, she returned to the terrace and curled up on Genelle's chaise under the comforter, covering herself totally, wondering what to do. She worried about Genelle and thought about her wanting a secret garden. She didn't know where else to go. Even outdoors, in the garden, she felt safer than on the street. Genelle had to come back sometime-if she was all right. Or else Cora Lee would come, she thought with a chill. But beneath the quilt she grew warm at last, deliciously warm. Waiting for Genelle, Lori slept.

Slipping into Molena Point PD on the heels of a hurrying rookie, Joe was poised to gallop down the hall to Harper's office when he was treated to sounds of revelry. Loud male laughter from the direction of the coffee room, then Detective Davis's sharp retort. His nose twitched to a medley of deli-rich scents. Hot pastrami and melted cheese, and the herbs and spices that so distinguished George Jolly's pizzas. As Harper made some remark about Detective Davis's birthday that drew laughter, Joe trotted down the hall to the coffee room.

He peered in among a forest of uniformed legs, mirror-polished black shoes, and a few dark skirts above black shoes and stockings. He was crouched to race on down the hall to Harper's office when he was snatched up, lifted into the air by strong hands. He caught the scent of dogs and gunpowder as he was swung up to Detective Garza's shoulder.

"Hold still, tomcat. I'll fix you a snack; otherwise, you'll get stepped on."

Joe was so amazed, he couldn't have moved if he'd wanted to. He even kept his claws in. Dallas Garza was not a cat person, Garza was a dog man deeply enamored of fine English pointers. Though Joe had to admit that since Garza had joined the department, the detective's attitude toward cats had undergone something of a sea change. Joe's week spent freeloading in the Garza cottage while he eavesdropped, and of course made nice with purrs and good manners, had softened the detective considerably. Now, giving Garza a friendly sidelong glance, Joe lay across his shoulder, limp and obliging, as the detective headed for the buffet table where Max Harper was talking with Davis. Several officers grinned and reached to pet Joe. He had, he thought modestly, made some real inroads in departmental attitude. For tough cops, these guys did have a soft side. Dallas had started to fill a small paper plate for Joe when Harper's cell phone buzzed.

Harper picked up, listened for a moment, and nodded. "I'll take it in my office, Mabel." He left the coffee room quickly, double-timing it down the hall. Joe glanced at the offering that Garza was so thoughtfully preparing. If he dropped down from the detective's shoulder now and followed Harper, Garza was going to wonder.

He waited impatiently as Garza prepared the plate, deliberating between roast beef with garlic or roast chicken. Come on, Joe thought, fidgeting. The detective glanced at him. "Keep your shirt on, tomcat." Finally settling on a little of each, Garza was headed across the crowded room, drawing amused glances, one hand on Joe to steady him, when his pager went off. He glanced down at it, then headed down the hall and into Harper's office, where he swung Joe unceremoniously to the floor and set down the plate. Talk about service. Right where he wanted to be, a ringside seat, complete with lunch. Harper, glancing up at Garza, switched on the speaker.

Over the speaker, Dulcie's voice was soft and clear. Whenever he heard Dulcie on the phone talking to an officer, he got the belly-dropping feeling that they'd recognize her voice, but then logic would kick in and he'd relax.

Wolfing his buffet selections, he belched delicately and stretched out on Harper's leather couch. This was just too good, this was the way an undercover type should do his work, waited on by the law, even down to a fine lunch. Lying in comfort and in plain sight listening to his partner's sweet voice as she relayed vital information, he thought that even the selection of the couch itself, and its placement, had been accomplished with his personal influence. Charlie had picked a model that stood high enough off the floor so a cat didn't have to rupture himself scrunching underneath, and she had placed it near enough to the door so he and Dulcie or Kit could scoot under with a minimum of fuss. Charlie and Joe together had worked out the furniture plan. This was the only police chief's office in the country, to Joe's knowledge, that had been designed to accommodate feline surveillance.

At the desk, the captain was very still, his lean, leathery face keen as, listening to Dulcie, he scribbled notes. When Dulcie had told him where to find the photo album, she ended with, "I'll be waiting, Captain Harper, to see how this shakes out." There was a little click that left Joe scowling. Dulcie was getting nervy, too arrogant in her attitude. Who did she think she was, Kinsey Millhone?

But it was Harper's response to the call that caused Joe to become rigid, that made him stare at Harper, wide eyed, before he caught himself and turned away to diligently wash his hind foot.

"Harold Timmons!" Harper repeated, grinning. "Harold Timmons, aka Hal Reed! What do you bet our caller has just IDed the latest body for Hyden?"

What body? Joe thought. Those were children up there. Was that what Hyden had found just before he and Dulcie raced away? An adult corpse?

Garza's square Latino face was solemn. "I'll call California State Prison, get Timmons's dental records, let Hyden know. See how soon the lab can take a look. You want to bring Jack Reed in for questioning?"

"Let's see what the lab gets. We can keep an eye on him. What I want now, with this connection to Fenner, is-"

The phone rang again. Mabel said, "You'll want this one, Captain. A woman again. Won't give her name." Mabel sounded only faintly irritated. Joe gave a little prayer of thanks that Wilma's caller-ID blocking was working. Wilma had had some trouble with it, until she raised sufficient hell with the phone company. He expected Dulcie's voice again, but it wasn't Dulcie.

"I just saw that little man again, the one who killed Patty Rose. The man who left the pictures that you got from under that house." Kit's voice was not as low or modulated as Dulcie's, she was nearly shouting into the phone. So wired that, over her feverish message, did he detect the hint of a purr? Harper and Garza stared hard at the phone.

"He was talking with Jack Reed, right there on the street. In plain sight. Arguing, and Reed was really angry. Reed said, You came up here to kill Patty! What a fool.' And he thought Fenner had hurt someone named Lori. Fenner said, 'You think I'd fool with your kid, Reed, after you blew the whistle on me?' Then Reed grabbed Fenner, shouting that he was sick, and twisted Fenner's arm behind him and shoved him in his truck, a white truck, a 'Vincent and Reed' truck."