Кэрол Дуглас: Cat In A Leopard Spot

Molina lowered her head until her forehead rested on the top of the steering wheel. What a comedy of counsels for the defense. All she needed was another secretive magician meddling with her cases.

Of course Leonora had her legions too, not only a high-priced attorney but some sister members of a domestic violence therapy group. Molina had not been surprised, thanks to Temple Barr tipping her off to the reason behind Leonora’s plastic surgery before they left the ranch: not vanity but violence.

The only suspect in the case who wasn’t up to his neck in defense attorneys was Osiris the leopard, who remained in custody at the Animal Oasis, and who was, like every other detainee, definitely not talking.

Molina had left the circus, the zoo, the human tragedy to her detectives. She could see the outcome now: Leonora Burkleo would get a suspended sentence; no prosecuting attorney would let a jury see that face and the reasons behind it and expect to get a conviction.

Granger was a goner. He had cared so much about his animal haven that he had ceased to care about himself. The Animal Oasis would go on, he had seen to that, but he would serve a long sentence in a compound for dangerous and displaced and often ill-served humans.

As for Rancho Exotica, from the buzz she was hearing among Leonora Burkleo, the animal-rights activists, and assorted attorneys, it would probably and ironically end up acquiring the canned-hunt property and animals.

She shook her head to jar out the ironies and went into the house.

Dolores was waiting at the door with an accusation. “You’re later than you thought.”

“No interrogations. I’ve had enough of that downtown.”

Molina marched for the kitchen, taking her paddle holster from the back of her belt and laying it on the counter while she opened cupboards scrounging something, some food, crackers, cookies, she didn’t know.

“Mariah went to bed at ten?”

Dolores shrugged. “She went into her room at ten.”

Molina’s hand patted the shelf and found the envelope of tens and fives she kept ready for Dolores. “A long evening. I’m sorry. What is it, eight and a half hours?”

Dolores nodded, skeptical and watching, as Molina counted out bills, then hissed in aggravation and counted them out again.

“You work too hard,” Dolores said.

“Yes. But tomorrow I can sleep in until noon. And I will.”

“Tomorrow is Sunday. Last mass is at eleven.”

“I didn’t forget,” Molina said, though she did add, “I went to mass already this evening.”

Disappointed at failing to catch Molina skipping church, Dolores took her money and sniffed, “Drunkard’s mass.”

“Not in my case. Unless you count”—she waved the open packet of cookies her questing hand had found in the cupboard—“an Oreo cookie addiction.”

Dolores shrugged again. “We always go to nine o’clock mass.”

“Then you’d better head home and get some rest yourself,” Molina suggested, seeing her out.

Dolores was a traditional Latina mother, herding her household to church and to distraction. Still, the method had worked for a long time, and most of Our Lady of Guadalupe’s parishioners were honest, hardworking people. The neighborhood gangs fought their wars away from home.

When she shut the door on Dolores, the house’s silence settled on her like a pall of dust.

She sat on the comfortably lived-on sofa and carefully peeled the chocolate cookie top off an Oreo.

A meow in the dining area drew her attention to Catarina, or was it Tabitha, stalking on gangly adolescent legs to the sofa to inspect the kill?

The young cat leaped up to sniff long and hard at the uncapped Oreo. With a patented feline look of disinterest, it moved down the sofa and began grooming its face and feet.

Carmen began licking off the cream filling in catlike bites.

The usually forbidden pure sugar fix was as potent as brandy.

The Rancho Exotica case would sort itself out over the next few days, but Osiris was off the hook. The leopard sleeps tonight.

Soon the lieutenant sleeps tonight. No night-crawling on the trail of the stripper killer. Not tonight at least. Not until she had figured out what to do about Rafi Nadir. And Max Kinsella.

The victim at the Kitty City parking lot had been too shaken to identify her attacker, who had come up behind her. She thought he was a dark-haired man.

He could have been Nadir. He could have been Kinsella.

Carmen opened another Oreo and began on another circle of icing, pale as a communion host but not tasting of paste.

Not a bad theory: Kinsella attacks her, she gets off a scream, he runs. Nadir, leaving the club, hears the scream as he’s about to drive away, runs to investigate (he is a professional security man, after all), and a watching Kinsella decides to come out of cover and pretend to discover the problem after Nadir.

Who did the guy think he was, anyway, acting like a cop? He had always been a suspect in her book, and he was still one. For the fact was, every time and every place that Rafi Nadir had been on the scene and easily capable of doing the crime, Max Kinsella had been there too, whether he was got up as “Vince” or as some self-appointed vigilante.

No, the suspect list for the death of Cher Smith wasn’t narrowing down. It was getting longer.

Carmen eyed her icing-free cookie and tossed it toward the wastebasket at the end of the kitchen/living room divider.

She made a basket.

“Max! I expected you to call hours ago.”

“I had some thinking to do.”

“Kirby, you mean.”

“I worked with him, Temple. He was my Birdman of the Mojave when I was doing my act. I had to figure out why he did it.”

“Killed Van Burkleo?”

“Hell, no! That’s understandable. It’s even more understandable when you realize that the Animal Oasis and Rancho Exotica touch borders. I haven’t finished looking into it, but I’ve uncovered a money trail. Cyrus had bought into a consortium that held the mortgage on the Oasis land and wanted to add it to the hunt ranch. I’ve discovered that Granger couldn’t stop a foreclosure. He owed a lot of money, especially since he stopped working with trained animals. High principles often mean no profit. Apparently, he had trouble with it philosophically. Even with my innocent cockatoo illusion. You know, animals that are trainable thrive on challenge, but more recently Kirb saw it all as exploitation. That’s what I’ve been able to figure out so far.”

“So…he killed Van Burkleo to stop the brutal acquisition of his peaceable animal kingdom for a murderous purpose.”

“I don’t think he meant to kill Van Burkleo. He went over there in a rage when he discovered what was up. I think the death was accidental. Then he began figuring out how to cover it up.”

“To save his skin.”

“No. It was always the animals’ skins he wanted to save. That’s what got him off the rails in the first place.”

“Then what haven’t you figured out? You’ve unraveled how and why.”

“Shooting at the panther was so out of character. He’d killed to protect the animals. Why kill an animal?”

“So. You tell me.”

“The panther was trained, I told you that.”

“Like the leopard. Who, by the way, is cleared of all charges, right?”

“I don’t see Molina bringing even a second-degree murder charge against a leopard. Not even Molina.”

“Your favorite long arm of the law.”

“Yeah. And not often long enough away. My theory is that the panther was trained by Kirby, long ago. It was a witness when he took the leopard inside. He got the leopard back. The panther was out there. It must have preyed on Kirby’s mind. What if the panther was sent to his facility because the ranch was sold or shut down on Van Burkleo’s death? What if his relationship with the panther was observed by somebody who could put leopard and panther together? And then him as trainer of them both?”