Ширли Мерфи - Cat Chase The Moon

26

“DeWayne Luther’s back,” the caller said. “Spotted him outside Juana Davis’s condo.” Max snorted with disbelief. One more damned double. But this was his regular snitch, there was no mistaking his voice, even over the sudden gusts of rain pounding against the roof.

“He was there in front of the condo, wearing a slicker open over ragged clothes. He looked like he meant to go on up the steps but then a light went on inside. He swung into the dark between two condos, stood there waiting. Maybe,” the snitch said, “our luck is changing. You do have those five bank withdrawal thieves locked up, you have the money they stole. You’ve checked out the cash in Seaver’s safe, and that should bring up plenty of prints.” The snitch was talkative tonight, Max had never heard him go on like this.

“All that stolen cash that Davis and Garza locked in the evidence room, it has to be a fortune. And with plenty of prints and photos,” the snitch said.

Max was silent. The snitch’s comments made him more than edgy. How did he know this stuff? How did he know that one of his officers had slipped into the antiques workroom? That Bean had opened the safe, photographed the money, memorized the safe’s combination and locked it up again, leaving the cash for the detectives to bag as evidence?

Max hadn’t made any arrests. He had his reasons. He’d seen the Luther boys hanging around Seaver’s alley. He didn’t want to make waves until the next big move went down, most likely the Seavers and Luthers together. He didn’t know how the two families had made a connection, but they’d both been in town for years—crook drawn to crook.

The phone had gone dead. Max was about to call the department, send a couple of men to nail DeWayne, when his phone rang again.

But this was a woman, one he’d never heard—until she identified herself, and then he knew Maurita’s whisper, shy and hesitant, still hoarse from her injuries.

“DeWayne is back. He’s just outside Juana’s living room window, in the rain. I’m standing in the shadows in the hall. I guess he woke me working on the window lock, he has some kind of tool, I can see it flash but now I can’t hear a sound, over the rain.

“Juana’s asleep. So is Jimmie. Crowley was standing guard but fell asleep in his chair. The rain’s so loud that even Rock is snoring. When I came down the hall, DeWayne was at the window. Dark slicker, hood pulled down. I don’t think he saw me. I’ve got to get out of here.”

“Wake Juana, put her on the line.”

But Juana had heard, and was up, she had pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt. She and the two officers stood by Maurita’s side, out of sight from the window as the hooded figure worked on the lock. When Maurita shivered, Juana put her arm around the frightened girl, and took the phone from her; she turned on the speaker so softly they had to press their heads together, listening to Max order his men out on the street and to the roof. He said, “Juana, get a squad car, pull up front.

“Tell Jimmie and Crowley to take Maurita up to the ruins. Kate and Scotty will hide her. Take the calico, too, where Seaver won’t find her—though I still don’t get what that’s about, stealing a cat, all the chase and fuss.”

The lock clicked. The window slid open.

“He’s in the house,” Juana whispered as DeWayne swung in over the sill—swung straight into Jimmie’s and Crowley’s fists.

But this wasn’t DeWayne.

Jimmie had the man down punching him hard, then jerked him up, swinging him around, twisting his arm behind him so hard he yelped. Crowley grabbed him, threw him to the floor facedown, and handcuffed him. And the real DeWayne was gone, speeding away across the roofs, hood blown back, a flash of white hair, heading for the far end of the condo building, dodging its tangle of patios and jutting walls—and Juana was gone, racing across the street, using the numbers lock to retrieve one of the squad cars. Wheeling it out of the lot and across, she parked in front of her steps—while inside her apartment, Crowley rolled the man over.

DeWayne’s driver, Stope, scowled up at Crowley, his cap knocked off, revealing tangled auburn hair running into liver-colored freckles; he was drenched with rain, soaking Juana’s carpet; he twisted, fighting and swearing, as the big officer flipped him again, bent him backward, and cuffed his ankles to his wrists.

Outside in the blowing rain, cops were spilling out of the station searching the streets. Three officers, catching a glimpse of white hair, headed fast for the man racing across the far roofs. Crowley saw DeWayne double back, and was out the window chasing him—but Rock leaped past him. Racing, flying, the big dog nailed DeWayne, too, and knocked him down, his teeth in the man’s throat. Fighting and twisting, DeWayne grabbed the Weimaraner’s jaws, was just able to pull them apart so he could breathe; with one hand he managed to draw his gun. McFarland was on him, kicking him in the stomach, wrenching away the automatic—while across the roof, among the far peaks and out of sight, Joe Grey raced, searching for DeWayne, missing all the real action.

Just outside the condo in the easing rain, Rock sat as he was told but was still primed to attack as Crowley fitted DeWayne with leg irons, locked his hands and feet together, then made the emergency call for the medics. Jimmie put pressure on the bleeding, but Rock had not cut a vein. Hastily Jimmie bound DeWayne’s wound and then ignored him as they examined Rock, making sure this fine dog was all right.

Maurita wished Rock had killed DeWayne, that he lay, now, deep in the grave that he had dug for her.

Buffin hopped out the window, stood looking with disgust at the two captives, then turned away to lick Rock’s face. The medics’ van arrived as Juana called Clyde then called the vet clinic. Four medics came up the front stairs and out through the window. They examined Stope first, lifted him onto a stretcher and carried him down to the van. Before they finished with DeWayne, Maurita and her two guards were out the back door racing for the squad left parked, piling in, getting Maurita and Courtney settled. Crowley driving as they sped through the back streets heading for the Pamillon ruins.

Joe Grey saw them as he returned to the condo. He was tempted to leap down into the cop car and ride along, but somehow this moment belonged to Maurita and Courtney. He paused on the condo’s window ledge, nuzzled Davis, and he was gone, heading home. Behind him, Juana closed the window watching the squad car disappear, hugging Buffin against her and holding Rock’s collar as he fussed, wanting to follow.

In the squad car, Jimmie sat in the back, Maurita hunched down on the seat beside him out of sight, cuddling Courtney. Before they left the condo she had returned to the bedroom, pulled on a warm coat, and opened the lock of Juana’s dresser drawer that she had jimmied earlier. She reached back beneath a stack of papers, removed a small revolver, checked the load and slipped it in her pocket; it must be a spare that Juana seldom used, but it was kept clean and loaded.

If she got caught, she would put Juana in big trouble. But if she swore in courtthat she’d jimmied the lock and stolen it, that she’d sniffed at the dresser and smelled gun oil . . . would that clear the detective?

But if they found DeWayne and if she could kill him, she’d be the one in trouble.

She didn’t care, she wanted him dead.

When Crowley turned sharply up a narrow street, the careening car threw her against Jimmie’s shoulder, he put his arm around her to support her. He had to smile at the way the calico cat clutched her paws around the young woman’s neck, clinging to her fellow escapee.

They came out of the village through a tangle of twisted roads and small cottages onto Highway One and turned north, in the direction of the old Pamillon estate. The rain, which had come and gone all day, now had nearly stopped again, had turned into a drizzle and soon to a mist. High up, wind must be blowing hard, driving the clouds away. Soon they could see hints of moonlight and then a glimpse of the full moon.