Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter And The Canary

His voice trailed away as he stopped and turned around.

I was about twenty feet back, still standing at the corner of the house with one hand raised limply in front of me, pointing in the direction of the lanai.

“Dixie, what are you doing?”

I whispered, “I can’t leave.”

“Why the hell not?”

“There’s a rabbit.”

“A what?”

“Gigi. Caroline’s rabbit. I told you. He’s still in there. He was just out by the pool, but when he saw me he ran back inside. There’s a pet door that leads to his cage. Franklin’s probably hiding, but I can’t leave Gigi in there all by himself.”

He frowned. “Franklin?”

“Caroline’s cat.”

He put his hands on his hips and cocked his head to one side. Without even looking at the pained expression on his face, I knew he was thinking I was a complete idiot. I also knew there was no way he was letting me inside that house until he knew it was safe. Not to mention the fact that every square foot of the property and every single thing inside was potential evidence—including, unfortunately, Gigi and Franklin—and I knew Morgan didn’t want me disturbing anything until an investigator was on the scene.

He took a deep breath. “Listen, I guarantee you the moment we determine it’s okay, you can go in and get your animals, but for now you’re coming with me … by force if necessary.”

I frowned. There was certainly no need for that kind of attitude, but then again anybody who knows me knows I can be a little stubborn when I want to. Charlie was standing at my feet, panting, and I realized I must have scared the poor guy to death when I screamed. He’d been searching my face for answers, but now he glanced over at Morgan and whimpered.

I said, “Okay. Let’s go.”

I picked Charlie up and followed Morgan alongside the house and down the driveway. When we got to the sidewalk, I paused, expecting him to turn right and lead me down the block to wait around the corner, but instead he stopped at his green-and-white police cruiser and opened up the back passenger door.

I said, “No, it’s okay. I’ll just take Charlie and go down the street until backup arrives.”

“Like hell you will. Get in.”

I’d probably spent thousands of hours inside a squad car just like Morgan’s, but always in the driver’s seat, never in the back, trapped behind the steel mesh and bulletproof glass like a caged animal. The thought occurred to me that anyone watching from one of the neighboring houses would think I’d been arrested.

Morgan cleared his throat. “Dixie. Get in the car. Now. ”

I held Charlie tight as I got in, and as soon as Morgan shut the door and looked up at the house, I knew what he was thinking. I’d been through the same six-week deputy training program he had, although probably a decade earlier, but I knew the basic rules couldn’t have changed that much. Standard protocol dictates that in the event of a possible homicide, as long as there’s no imminent danger or pressing reason to search the premises, all first-responding officers should wait on-scene until an investigative team arrives. It’s a safety measure, but it also minimizes the very real risk of contaminating evidence.

But I also knew no decent officer would respond to the report of a dead body without first confirming beyond a shadow of a doubt that there was no chance of resuscitation. I could have described the porcine cast of the man’s skin, or the odd angle of his thin arm stretched out next to his body, or the absolute stillness of the silk scarf laid over his face, but it would have been a waste of time.

We both knew he’d be a fool to take my word for it.

Morgan was still standing next to the squad car, looking slightly hesitant, and I wondered if he wasn’t considering getting behind the wheel and backing down the block so he could go inside without my knowing he was bending the rules a bit.

He was just about to make a move when I tapped lightly on the window. “Deputy Morgan?”

He turned and glared. “What now?”

“It’s locked,” I said.

He glanced down at the car’s handle. “Yes. I’m aware of that. It’s for your own safety. I’ll let you out as soon as I know the house is clear.”

I shook my head and held up my ring of keys. “No. I mean the front door.”

He blinked. “Oh.”

He opened the door and took the keys, nodding silently and mumbling something that sounded like, thanks, and then shut the door again after I showed him which key was Caroline’s. After that, I slumped down in my seat and put Charlie in my lap. He was trembling slightly, so I tried to rock him like you might comfort a baby. We both watched Morgan as he retraced our path back up the driveway to the front porch. At the big picture window by the front door, he paused and peered inside. Just then a woman’s voice cut the silence. It was the dispatch operator coming through on the police radio in the front seat.

Her voice was a thin wail, almost like a siren. “Deputy Morgan, backup en route, ETA is three minutes.”

I glanced up at Morgan. He pulled his radio out and then seconds later I heard his voice. “Ten-four. Standing by.”

He took another step past the window as he clipped the radio back on his belt and withdrew his gun. Then, in one swift motion, he unlocked the front door and disappeared inside. Less than twenty seconds later he came backing out with his radio in his hand again.

His voice was softer now. “Lorraine, this is Deputy Morgan. Possible Signal 5 here. We’re gonna need a 10-93. I repeat, 10-93.”

I had forgotten most of the technical jargon and law-enforcement terms within three or four months of leaving the sheriff’s department, but a few of them had stuck in my brain like mice in a glue trap. “Signal 5” is police code for homicide, and “10-93” means “send detective.”

There was a burst of static from the radio and then a couple more voices on top of each other, both talking so fast I couldn’t understand a thing, but finally the dispatch operator said, “Deputy Morgan, please describe the victim.”

“Approximately a hundred forty pounds, five foot nine inches. Caucasian.”

“Age?”

“Midthirties.”

“Male or female?”

There was a pause, filled with nothing but blank space, and then I heard what at first I thought was more static, but then realized it was Morgan taking a deep breath. I glanced up at the porch again. He was leaning with one arm braced against one of the big pillars, his legs at a wide stance, his head hanging down.

He said, “Female.”

7

I was still sitting in the back of the squad car, trying to keep myself calm, while the night sky all around me was ablaze with the flashing red-and-blue lights of emergency vehicles. I counted at least three deputy cruisers, an ambulance, a Sarasota police van, and two unmarked cars. A line of traffic cones had been set up at both ends of the street to keep the gawkers and local reporters at bay, but there must have been at least a dozen deputies and crime technicians milling around in front of Caroline’s house.

Despite all that, Charlie was sound asleep, curled up on the black vinyl seat next to me, and if I hadn’t thought people would think I’d finally lost my marbles, I would have curled up right next to him. In the thirty minutes or so we’d been waiting, he had completely exhausted himself, barking at every single person that got within ten feet of the car, and I had completely exhausted myself going over every conversation I’d had with Caroline leading up to her departure, trying to remember if she’d said anything … anything that might shed light on what had happened.

The first thing I remembered was a phone call I’d gotten from her about two weeks earlier. She’d recently started seeing a man, an ophthalmologist, who was currently separated from his wife of twenty years, although Caroline didn’t know all the details yet. They’d only been dating for about a month and a half, but he was, in Caroline’s words, a catch —not particularly handsome, but kind, smart, and extremely successful. He had talked a lot about a small schooner he’d bought last summer and how he never had time enough to enjoy it, and on their last date he had suggested they take it out and sail down the coast together.