Carole Douglas - Cat in an Alphabet Soup

Bud had been right; Temple’s desk was pocked with yellow memo forms. “While you were out—” they told her, she had missed calls from everyone but Midnight Louie, it seemed... P. E. O’Rourke, Lieutenant Molina, Emily Adcock, Lorna Fennick.

She tried O’Rourke first, and got only a ringing phone. After she hung up, Temple stared at her cluttered desk. From under the fresh messages Pennyroyal Press’s metallic-copper folder winked like an evil eye.

Bud’s advice to the contrary, she couldn’t forget about stray cats. Louie’s continuing absence had become something she simply couldn’t let go of.

She hefted the phone book from her lowest desk drawer, grunting, and looked up the City entries. “Animal Pound” led the listings. As she dialed, she eyed her watch with a surge of panic. It was nearly six. Maybe the pound was closed.

The phone rang time after time. Maybe someone was feeding the animals and would take a while to respond. Temple hung on, not really expecting to find Louie there, not really expecting an answer.

“Yeah?”

“Ah, I’m looking for a cat.”

“We’re closed, lady. I’m just cleaning up.”

Cleaning up? From what? The daily executions? “It’s important! This cat I’m looking for is... famous.”

“Yeah?” The voice sounded supremely indifferent. “Look, there’s procedures. Call back tomorrow morning.”

“It might be too late. He’s been missing for over twenty- four hours.”

“We hold ’em three days. Lady, I gotta go.”

“Wait! Maybe you noticed him. He’s a big black cat—I mean, really big, like almost twenty pounds.”

“Yeah, could be.”

“You have him!”

“Maybe. It’s not my job—”

“When can I get him?”

“Tomorrow, I told you.”

“But what if—”

“We got a lot of cats here; you lost him. You take your chances.”

Temple got suddenly desperate. “Listen, he’s a material witness. If I get the police—”

“We’re not a police agency. We got our own rules. I gotta go.”

“You’re not... killing any animals tonight?”

“Lady, we kill ’em when their time’s up, when we get the time to do it. I don’t know anything. You’re wasting my time. Look, I’ll be here until seven. I’ll let you take a look-see if you get here before I leave. But that’s it.”

The line buzzed dead.

Temple’s mouth was grim. News stories about “pets” being killed by mistake at the pound floated in her mind’s eye. She had to know that Louie was safe, but she had too damn many vital things to take care of here to go gallivanting across town in rush hour. She riffled through the memos to find Molina’s number. She might be able to tell the homicide detective a thing or two about the Royal murder, but first she wanted a squad car to go to the so-called animal shelter and make sure that Midnight Louie wasn’t there and wasn’t being executed... and if Molina wouldn’t do it, Temple would go herself, murder case be damned—! Temple found Molina’s number, right on top of another message—typed—that was much more urgent.

“GOT THE DOUGH, IF YOU WANT THOSE CATS, COME TO THE BAKER &TAYLOR SETUP AT 6:30P.M. TONIGHT. YOU BETTER BE ALONE.”

When had this arrived? Temple wondered. Had someone slipped it among her messages after everyone had left? How did the first one arrive, for that matter? Someone here, at the ABA, had left it, that was obvious.

Temple’s heart was pounding. She had to leave, to make sure that Louie was not at the shelter, or that he was safe there. Yet her first obligation was to her job, to keep the ABA free of unnecessary bad press. Rescuing Baker and Taylor had become part of that agenda. Why was the kidnapper using her for a conduit again? Keeping her occupied, away from the Royal case, maybe. Keeping her from rescuing Midnight Louie, certainly.

Temple eyed her watch as dubiously as she would an egg timer. She’d never been a fan of deadlines. Six-thirty was forty minutes away. She dialed the center security office. No answer, as expected. Cyrus Dent went home at five like everybody else. Sure, guards patrolled, but not many. Conventions hired local private security forces to police their exhibitions. The building itself was another matter, and nobody much messed with a convention center except passing graffiti artists.

So there were guards around, but where in the vast building? And she could dash out to check on Louie, but what if she didn’t get back in time to collect Baker and Taylor? Kidnappers were notoriously impatient. Once the guards had let her out after hours, they wouldn’t waltz her back in, not without explanations and interference... and that could foul up the return of Baker and Taylor.

But Louie! Temple worried more about him than Baker and Taylor. If the kidnapper was returning them, they were fine. It made sense to bring them back to the scene of the crime; the napper knew the exhibit area, or he’d never have nipped them so successfully in the first place.

Temple’s watch showed thirty minutes left to six-thirty. The phone rang.

She stared at it for a moment. Who’d be calling after hours? The catnapper? Molina?

When she lifted the receiver, she heard an open line. It forced her to say “Hello?”

“Miss Barr?”

She didn’t recognize the male voice. “Yes?”

“Eightball O’Rourke. Got some dope on who picked up the ransom.”

“I’d been wondering where you were.”

“Out trying to nail down the identity of who’s got your friend’s money. It’s taking me longer than I expected.”

“You’ll be paid for it,” Temple reassured him, wondering how much her American Express card would cover. “What happened?”

“The package stayed there for a while. Then a party comes along that acts nervous. Sure enough, one bend and the bait is gone. The trail led to the Last Vegas Hilton.”

“You saw the person who picked up the money? That’s worth every penny! Who?”

“That’s the trouble. The Las Vegas Hilton is the third-largest hotel in the world. It ain’t easy getting a make on one person scooting through their doors.”

“But you saw the person.”

“They was wearing disguising clothing.”

“How disguising can it be?”

“Hat, sunglasses. You’d be surprised how hard it is to identify somebody by their clothes.”

“Not Electra,” Temple mumbled.

“What’s wrong with your electricity?”

“Nothing. So you don’t know exactly who picked up the money, just that it was picked up.”

“Yeah. I been leaning on the Hilton staff, but so far no one can identify her.”

“Her?”

“A woman, yeah. Big hat, big gauzy scarf, big dress, not a little woman like you, kinda... big. A chubby, middle-aged woman.”

“Do you know how many women in Las Vegas fit that description?” Temple demanded, mentally making her own private list. Lorna Fennick, Mavis Davis, Rowena Novak. Electra Lark, for that matter.

“So I’m working on it. Unless you want me to stop.”

“No. I guess the kitty can underwrite a few more hours of detection.” The word “kitty” reminded Temple of her immediate dilemma.

“By the way,” she said, deciding to tell Eightball that Baker and Taylor would be back by six-thirty. Eightball could check on Louie while Temple was stuck here waiting for the B & T express to arrive!

The line died without so much as a drone.

Temple stared at the receiver incredulously. Did Eightball just hang up once he figured the conversation was over, or had someone... cut... them off? She held down the disconnect button, then let it up again. Dead silence. How would someone pull the plug on a phone system? Where was the switchboard? Just how well did the catnapper know the building?