Ширли Мерфи - Cat Chase The Moon

In the squad car, Green glanced in the rearview mirror at Maurita. “This isn’t exactly protocol, taking you to jail when you’ve committed no crime. But Davis will see that you’re safe. You two will get along fine, Davis has cats, too, she loves them like babies.” Green didn’t look as if he was comfortable dealing with nervous women. Maurita was still shaking, she did want to get into the station with a female detective who would care for her, who would understand. Her trauma from the grave had not left her, she was not herself again, not yet.

“Except,” she said, thinking of MPPD, “that man will find me here, the station’s so open. The bars . . .” As if the stalker wanted so badly to finish the job. As if, if she were put behind bars, he could easily see her and shoot her there, would finish her before she was securely hidden. Cops had been shot in other PDs. Prisoners had been shot in front of police stations in sudden gun battles—had been sent to their demise by their enemies while being arrested and before they could talk.

She wanted to hide somewhere secret and unobserved. The information she had for Max Harper embraced more than one well-timed robbery that her attacker planned. He and his partners had talked over a number of break-ins, all lucrative, all clearly laid out. But Maurita had, as well, evidence on newsworthy robberies in other cities and other countries, cases that distant law enforcement agencies were already working; some spectacular thefts that she had participated in and about which she might offer additional facts.

Green pulled into a red zone before the station. Mary parked a few spaces away. Both John and Mary walked in with them, Mary hugging Maurita, who in turn hugged Buffin securely in her arms. She glanced over at Green, then looked down at Buffin.

Green winked at her. “It’ll be all right.” But, entering the station through the bulletproof glass doors, Officer Green and the Firettis paused.

EvaJean was at the desk, finishing her temporary assignment of night duty. As Green guided them past her, she snapped, “Wait there, Green. What are you doing? You can’t bring a cat in here. And you have to book your prisoners in, you know that. How long have you worked for this department! Fingerprints, forms to fill out. You know the routine,” she said coldly.

Green kept walking, past the desk and down the hall, one hand lightly on Maurita’s shoulder.

“You can’t take a prisoner back there, Green. You have to have identification, fingerprints. Officer Green . . .”

Green continued to ignore her, his short brown hair catching the overhead light; his uniform had been recently getting too tight. He said it was his age, not the lunches he ate. Never glancing at EvaJean, he guided Maurita down the hall to the third door on the left.

Alerted by EvaJean, Juana Davis stepped out of her office. Her black Latin eyes were like Maurita’s. But Juana was shorter, more squarely built; black uniform, black skirt and hose, black regulation shoes. Davis seldom took liberties like the other three detectives, who might come to work in jeans and a sweatshirt. Why would Max Harper care, when he preferred jeans to his own uniform. Davis’s square face softened as she smiled at Maurita and petted Buffin. Mary, turning to leave, started to take Buffin from Maurita but the tan cat put his paws tighter around Maurita’s neck. She held him close and kissed the kitten on the head.

“Let him stay,” Juana said, “she needs him.”

Maurita looked gratefully at Davis as Officer Green and the Firettis headed out. Green, glaring at EvaJean, paused long enough to put a guard in place by Juana’s door.

In her office, when the Firettis and Green had left, Davis took a look at the thin blue scrubs Maurita was wearing, and pulled a blanket from the closet. She found a pillow, and got woman and cat settled on the love seat. “You’ve been lying in that bed a long time, and then the stress of the escape. A little more rest won’t hurt.”

Maurita was embarrassed at being so raggedly dressed in the company of a uniformed detective. She pulled the warm blanket over her as Buffin snuggled into it, and she felt a tear come. She was being treated not as some kind of abandoned refugee, but only with thoughtfulness.

Juana cracked open the door, asked the armed officer who was sitting outside if he would have someone bring them a cup of tea, then she looked back at Maurita. “Do you feel like answering some questions? You’ve told no one who attacked you?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Do you know him?”

Maurita nodded.

“And do you know who found you?”

There was a knock on the door, and a young officer poked his head in, offering two cups of tea and a sweet roll.

“That’s the strange thing,” Maurita said, accepting the tea and roll gratefully. “I was hurting so bad, and bleeding, I felt like all my insides were broken. I must have passed out. Iwoke so dizzy. It was dark but when I looked up I saw the moon, then I went dizzy again. I heard a little noise like a branch snapping then heard the man who hurt me running away, I heard a car start and recognized the sound. I tried to look around toward the street but he was gone, I didn’t see anyone.”

“You knew your attacker. Was it the same man as outside your window, the man you ran from tonight?”

“Yes. Oh, please. He’s known in the village. He has a record, enough to send him up for life. If he finds out you’re looking for him, with what I know about him, he’ll kill me before you catch him, he’ll keep looking until I’m dead.”

“He almost did kill you! How can we stop him if you won’t help us? We’ve combed the whole crime scene, not a hair, not a thread or button. His footprints all scuffed in dry grass and sand. It looked like he was wearing some kind of cloth booties over his shoes.” Juana looked at her for a long time. “You know him but you won’t tell me his name—a man who almost buried you alive. What did you do, to put him in such a rage?”

The young woman was silent. Then, “It’s what I wouldn’t do, that’s why he wanted to kill me. That, and what I know . He’ll kill me because of what I could tell. Don’t be hurt, or angry, but . . . I have to tell Captain Harper first. Do you understand that?”

“I understand,” Juana said gently. Then, “You said someone else was there, whoever found you. The crack of a branch. You heard someone else, then heard your attacker running. But you saw no one else, no one chasing him?”

“No one; and that was odd. Maybe someone heard him digging and came to look, and he saw them and ran, but I didn’t see anyone, not from down in the ditch—from in that grave,” she said, shivering. “I heard little sounds but no one was there. How can that be?”

Juana lifted a second blanket from the closet, and covered her more warmly. She turned off the overhead lights, leaving only her desk light burning. “Rest a little while, until I finish up some work. There’s a guard sitting outside the door. He can call more officers if we need to. Someone will bring fresh clothes for you, and we have a secure place for you to stay.”

Maurita nodded gratefully; she sipped her tea, set the cup down, closed her eyes and, already half asleep, pulled Buffin close against her cheek.

She had no idea how long she slept. It was daylight through the office window. She sat up, swallowed down her cold tea and ate the breakfast roll, ate the still warm breakfast that sat on the table, a pancake, bacon, and scrambled eggs, sharing them with Buffin. Were they treating her so well only to get the information about the attacker, or were these cops really that kind? She’d known others that weren’t. Latin American cops that treated you like dirt. She looked up at Juana’s back, her face reflected in the computer screen.