Ник Сайнт - Purrfectly Hidden. Purrfect Kill. Purrfect Boy Toy

“Once we pull this off, you can have all the Rolexes in the world,” said Jerry, who was also in buoyant mood. It was the adrenaline, and the excitement of a job well-planned and about to be well-executed. He never got tired of that zippy sensation.

“I just hope there’s no security,” said Johnny, returning to his favorite theme.

“I told you a million times already, Johnny. All the bodyguards will be downstairs with the people they’re supposed to be guarding with their bodies, not upstairs.”

“And I hope they didn’t use the hotel safe. I hate it when they do that. So unfair. But even if they did, I’m going to crack that safe, Jer. I’m gonna crack it open like a coconut.”

“That’s the spirit, Johnny,” said Jerry. “That’s that will to win right there.”

They’d arrived at the fire escape and now climbed the metal stairs to the fourth floor, where the rooms of the Weskits and that twerp pop singer and his girl were located.

“First the Weskits,” Jerry said.

“And then the twerp,” Johnny cheerfully sang.

It took Johnny only a couple of seconds of fiddling with the lock to open the fire exit door and then they were in. They jogged along the corridor in search of the Weskits’ room and once they’d found it, it was only a few moments before that lock too, yielded to the power of Johnny’s toolkit and experience. They quickly burst in and closed the door.

“Let’s do this!” Jerry whispered.

“Hallelujah!” Johnny yodeled.

Chapter 23

“Trespassers,” said the eyes that glowed in the dark. Or at least the creature to whom the eyes belonged. As a rule, eyes rarely burst into speech.

“No, visitors,” I corrected the feline. “Friendly visitors that come in peace.”

The cat was silent for a brief moment, then finally emerged from the shadows so I could see it whole. It was one of those hairless cats—the ones without any fur—and for a moment I couldn’t help but stare at it. Next to me, Dooley had also materialized, attracted by the voices, and was gripped by the same sudden fascination with this rare creature, for the cat grunted, “Cat got your tongue? Never seen a hairless cat before?”

“Um, as a matter of fact I haven’t,” I confessed. “This is a first for me.”

“Oh, you poor cat,” said Dooley, perhaps not striking the right tone. “Did it hurt?”

“Did what hurt?” the cat growled, its eyes narrowing dangerously.

“When they shaved you. It must have hurt. What did they use? A razor blade or an electric razor? And who did it? Your humans or a professional? A professional, probably. At one of those pet salons. I don’t see any shaving nicks. When Chase shaves in the morning he always manages to cut himself. Odelia’s told him several times he should use an electric razor but he insists they don’t produce the same smooth finish as his trusty Gillette. To each their own, I guess, though I think Odelia’s right, to be honest—you’re probably wondering who Odelia is. She’s our human, and she would never, ever shave us. Except if we asked her, of course, which we never will. Which isn’t to say I don’t approve of your personal life choice, sir or ma’am. Like I said, to each their own.”

The cat was producing a low growling sound at the back of its throat, and I quickly nudged Dooley in the ribs. “You’re blabbing, Dooley. Maybe now is a good time to zip it.” I understood where he was coming from, of course. Seeing your first hairless cat in the flesh, so to speak, tends to produce a bit of a shock. That certainly was my experience.

“First of all, nobody shaves me,” said the cat now. “Secondly, this is what I’ve always looked like. I don’t have the advantage of fur, which is why I would prefer it if you didn’t make any cracks about it. Now back to my question: why are you trespassing?”

“Like I said, we’re not trespassing,” I said. “Well, technically perhaps we are, but it’s for a good cause. You see, a, um, good friend of our humans died this morning—she was murdered, in fact—and now we’re trying to figure out who could have done that to her.”

Dooley was still eyeing the cat with undiminished fascination. “Can I…” He approached the cat. “Can I touch it?”

“ It? I’m a person, not a thing,” said the cat icily.

“I know, but I’ve never seen a cat like you. What’s your name? Are you a he or a she?”

“My name is Cleo,” said the cat, giving Dooley a nasty look, “and I’m a female, can’t you tell?”

“Well, no, actually I can’t,” said Dooley. “You look like no cat I’ve ever seen. Does she look like any cat you’ve ever seen, Max?”

“Look, it doesn’t matter, Dooley,” I said, “and frankly I think you’re getting on Cleo’s nerves, so let’s just tone it down a little, shall we?”

“No, I like his candor,” said Cleo. “Most cats I meet act very snootily, figuring they need to make a big impression on me or something. So I find your honesty refreshing, cat. What are your names, by the way?”

“Dooley,” said Dooley, “and this is my best friend Max.”

“Well, nice to make your acquaintance, Dooley and Max,” said Cleo, losing some of her earlier frostiness. “So this person who got killed, what’s their name?”

“Chickie Hay,” I said. “We’re trying to find out who killed her and why.”

“Chickie is dead? Oh, that’s such a pity. My humans really liked her, and so did those next door.”

“Charlie Dieber and Jamie Borowiak,” I said, nodding.

“Wait, I thought your humans hated Chickie Hay?” said Dooley.

“Yeah, that’s the information we got,” I said.

“Not true. There was bad blood between them, sure, but that was all business related. As a person they liked her and admired her for the career she built. I liked her, too. Nice songs. Though to be honest I’m more of a jazz cat myself.”

“Then you’ll like our human’s dad,” said Dooley. “He’s a musician and he plays jazz.”

“What kind of jazz?” asked Cleo, her interest piqued.

“Um…” I stared at Dooley and Dooley stared at me. “No idea, actually,” I said.

“Big band, bebop, contemporary, free jazz, ragtime, Latin jazz?”

“Is that all… music?” asked Dooley.

“Types of jazz music, yeah.”

“How come you know so much about this stuff?” I asked.

“That’s what you get when you live with a true music fan,” said Cleo with a deferential little smile.

“Laron likes jazz?” I asked.

“Loves jazz. He plays a little jazz himself. So what kind of music are you guys into?”

But unfortunately—or fortunately—our musical preference would remain a secret to Cleo, for the door to the room had suddenly opened and two men walked in. One was big and burly and the other thin and scrawny and as they stood illuminated against the backdrop of the hallway lights, I thought for a moment I’d seen them both before.

“Hey, I think I’ve seen these guys before,” Dooley said, confirming my suspicions.

Then again, in our line of work you meet so many people it’s hard to keep track.

“More intruders,” said Cleo with a sad shake of the head.

“Maybe they’re visitors, like us,” said Dooley as he watched the men close the door and enter the room. They were both carrying big empty gym bags.

“Doubtful,” said Cleo. “They look like a bunch of crooks to me, and trust me, I know the difference. If humans are as rich as mine, a lot of people want to share in that wealth, usually without asking permission first.”

“I’ll look in here,” said the skinny one. “You try the bedroom. And focus on high-value items only, Johnny. I’ll bet these rich bozos got plenty of gold and jewels lying around.”