The Quilt - Leann Sweeney

I stopped at the grocery store, hoping that David the bagger could help me. I was completely surprised when he blurted out, “Michael Baca, phone number unlisted,” followed by his address. It was as if he’d memorized every name and address in Mercy.

Baca’s house wasn’t far from downtown, in a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood. He answered the door so quickly after I knocked that my heart skipped. It was like he was waiting for me to show up or something.

Oh boy. Had Candace called him?

If so, he wasn’t giving anything away. He said, “What are you doing here?”

He was wearing blue jeans and a Carolina Panthers T-shirt. Seemed fitting he’d be wearing a shirt bearing a cat—albeit a very big, snarling cat—this morning. His sandy hair wasn’t combed and he hadn’t shaved yet. This casual look made me hope he’d be less uptight—like the Mike Baca who’d talked to me at the Finest Catch.

“Can I come in?” I said. “I have a few things to run by you.”

He glanced back over his shoulder and showed no sign he was ready to invite me in. “Can’t this wait until I’m at the station on Monday?” he said.

“I don’t think so. Candace says police officers are never off duty. Is that true?”

He opened the door wider and stepped aside. “Did she send you here? Because if she did, this better be important.”

“She didn’t. I promise,” I said.

“Let’s go into my office.” He led me through a small foyer, past the living room and down a hall.

As he opened his office door, Marian Mae appeared at the end of the hall wearing a terry-cloth robe and with a towel wrapped around her head.

She said, “Honey, who are you talking—Oh. Hello, Jillian.”

“Work, Mae. Sorry,” he said.

“No problem,” she said cheerfully.

Baca practically pushed me into an office that revealed a new side of the man. What a mess. Books piled waist high, folders covering a love seat against one wall and a computer desk buried under a mass of papers with Post-it notes stuck everywhere. And here I’d taken him for a neat freak, the way his office at the police station looked.

He removed a stack of files from a padded chair so I could sit and took his desk chair, swiveling to look at me. “What’s so important?”

“Did Candace show you the photos of my cat and the poor deceased cat that belonged to Mr. Green—that man I went to see?”

“She dropped them off here last night. As I said yesterday, I’m willing to concede that the cat business the victim was running is more important than I previously believed and could have played a part in Mr. Wilkerson’s murder. I’ve received confirmation of this through a second independent source.”

He was talking about Tom’s forensic work on that hard drive, but I wasn’t about to let him know I was aware of that. I’d gotten Candace in trouble with this guy, and I didn’t want to add Tom to the list.

“I’m glad to hear that straight from you. I know you’ve been thinking I was a pain in the butt, and now I hope you realize I’ve been trying to help. I also wanted to make sure you got those pictures of my cat and Mr. Green’s. Those two Abyssinians could have been twins.”

“You came here for that? I’m not buying it, Jillian. What’s really going on?”

I felt nervous. And dumb again. He and Candace were right. This could have waited. But I was here and I might as well say what I came to tell him.

I pulled the computer-generated photos of the gray cats from my pocket. “Were you aware your friend lost a cat last year?” I handed over the picture of Marian Mae’s lost-cat flyer.

He looked at it, held it closer, then turned on a light above his computer. “What is this? Some kind of screwed-up attempt with Photoshop?”

I explained about the shredded paper from the Pink House.

He said, “How long did it take you to put this back together?”

“A long time. Do you know anything about her cat?”

He smiled, and I could tell he thought I was being ridiculous. “You think Diamond was stolen by Wilkerson?”

“It’s possible.” I handed him the other picture—of Daphne’s cat. “You recognize this cat?”

“That’s Diamond, too. I still don’t—”

“Look closer. You really think I’m showing you pictures of the same cat?” I said.

He squinted, looking back and forth between the two photos. “There’s hardly any difference. Why don’t we ask the expert?”

Before I could speak, he got up and hollered out the door. “Mae, can you come here for a sec?”

Marian Mae was dressed now, her blue jeans creased, the buttons on her turquoise sweater revealing a hint of cleavage. “What do you need, Mike?” she asked, ignoring me.

“Look what our concerned citizen Ms. Hart brought to show me.” He handed her the pictures.

She glanced back and forth between them. Her eyes rested on the flyer. “Where did you get this, and why does it look all fuzzy and wavy?”

“Doesn’t matter where she got it,” Baca said. “Tell her about Diamond, because I think she’ll listen better to you than to me.”

Marian Mae cocked her head at Baca as if to say, “What does this have to do with anything?” but then she looked at me. “I lost Diamond last year, put up a few flyers. That’s what people do when something they love disappears.”

It sure seemed like plenty of cats had disappeared around here—and Shawn was probably the only one who’d cared. “And what happened? Did you get Diamond—is it a him or a her?—back?”

“Diamond is a beautiful little girl. But she did get herself lost for a day. She came home right away, though,” she said.

“Good news,” I said. “So this is her, too?” I held out the picture of Sophie.

Marian Mae looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “No. That’s not Diamond. Can’t you tell the difference?”

“I can,” I said. “But Chief Baca didn’t seem to have the same keen eye as the two of us. Of course, I have the advantage of knowing these two are not the same cat.”

“Is this some kind of game?” Marian Mae said, her sky blue eyes darkening. “Mike tells me you keep sticking your nose in police business, but that’s for him to handle. Just don’t bring me and my cat into this.”

I plucked the pictures away from her, not sure if I was irritated with her because of her attitude or upset with myself.

Baca put a hand on her shoulder and massaged the muscles. “It’s okay, hon.” He turned to me. “When Diamond disappeared, Mae was beside herself. I guess I should have been more sympathetic to your own situation with your cat, should have recalled how Mae reacted last year. So, please, take this as an apology.”

“Apology accepted,” I said. “Thanks for your time.”

Baca walked me to the door, but before he opened it, I said, “Know who that unidentified cat belongs to?” I said.

“As Mae pointed out, this isn’t a game. Just tell me,” he said. I’d bothered him on a weekend and upset his girlfriend. He was probably past exasperation by now.

I handed him the pictures. “These are for you to keep. See, that other cat, the one that looks so much like Diamond? She belonged to Daphne—before her father stole her. This has something to do with her cat, Sophie. I’m sure of it.”

I opened the door and walked out, but as I headed to my car I heard Baca call, “Stay away from the Pink House, Jillian. That woman could be dangerous.”

Twenty-seven

As I drove away from Baca’s house, I realized that mentioning Daphne hadn’t been the smartest move, since Baca already suspected her. And then I’d gone and asked questions about Marian Mae, the woman he loved. So what if I’d pieced a shredded flyer back together and it had me wondering about Marian Mae? I wasn’t accusing her of anything. But you’d have thought I was. The chief was practically living with a woman who’d lost a cat, and her flyer had ended up in Wilkerson’s shredded pile of paper. Wasn’t that important enough to question? Maybe not. Maybe Candace was right. How many other cat flyers had Wilkerson torn down and shredded? How many other people had the man stolen from? How many other suspects were there in Mercy?