Кроха - Dedication

Sam felt tenderly at his bandaged forehead. “Same jacket, same clothes,” he repeated. “Running away. I shouted at him to stop, shouted his name.”

Again he was quiet, fingering his bandaged arm. Then, “Why would that boy do such a thing? What did he want? It was then, as I fell, that Tekla came around the corner, saw me tipped over.Tekla saw him, too, Captain Harper.” Sam’s fists clenched in anger. “Tekla knew him. He raced away—up the brick alley and into the next street. Tekla started to pick me up, to pick up the wheelchair, but I told her to go on, try to catch him.

“But he was gone,” Sam said shakily. “Just like those other attacks.” He put his head down on his hands as if he felt dizzy or was still very frightened.

Max glanced at his watch. “And then what happened?”

“I told Tekla to leave me be, in case anything was broken, and she called 911.” He did look pale. But, in truth, this was no more than a hoax, no more than a vicious lie.

“The siren came right away,” Sam said, “the medics’ van. Then more cops while the medics were looking me over, poking and prodding, and one of the cops—that tall one, the first one here, he started taking pictures. The medics kept arguing with me to let them put me in the van, but I didn’t want to go to a hospital, I’ve had enough of that. And then,” Sam said, “you got here, your pickup pulled in to the curb.”

“You’re sure it was Billy Young,” Max said coldly.

“Looked exactly like him. I only glimpsed the side of his face—high, thin cheekbones, brown hair, tan Windbreaker. Same clothes he usually wears,” Sam said, “same Windbreaker, same old, battered boots.”

“I’d like you to come into the station, you’ll need to fill out a report.”

Sam’s frown turned uncertain. He glanced across to where Tekla was deep in conversation with Kathleen Ray, as the detective recorded Tekla’s version on her phone, so the two interviews could be compared.

“If you file a complaint,” Max told Sam, “if you can identify him clearly, you can bring charges. If the boy has attacked others, it’s your responsibility to tell us what you can.”

Above in the cypress tree, Joe and Kit smiled at how cool Max was. The Bleaks had to know that Billy was the chief’s ward, or at least that he lived with the Harpers. So why would they set Billy up? For what possible reason? Simply because Tekla didn’t like Ryan, to get at Ryan through Billy, make them both look bad to Harper?

That didn’t make any sense. And now, as Max pushed Sam with questions, was Sam indeed getting nervous?

Could this all be Tekla’s setup? Had she forced Sam along with it, and now he was losing his resolve?

But then, what was Sam’s anger about? Was that all fake, too?

Whatever the answer, Joe thought, the Bleaks will find out soon enough what the chief already knows. This was a crime Billy couldn’t have committed, Billy was safe at the station when Sam was mugged; a dozen cops had seen him, including Max and all three detectives. The Bleaks, in a moment of misguided inspiration, had backed themselves into a corner, and didn’t that make Joe and Kit smile.

Most likely Tekla had tipped over the wheelchair herself, maybe eased it over gently so Sam wouldn’t in fact break any bones and create a real problem.

But they did manage to scrape his forehead and arm, Joe thought. Maybe they didn’t mean to do that, maybe that part was an accident as they performed their little charade. And that made him smile all the more.

The question is, why would they go to such lengths to get Billy in trouble? Oh, but Tekla would, Joe thought, just out of meanness. Or, he wondered, did they do this as some sort of diversion?

“Did you and Tekla walk down from your apartment?” Max said, glancing back along the street. “From the little guesthouse you’re renting?”

“Yes,” Tekla said coolly. “So that Sam could get some air. It isn’t good to always be riding around in the van.”

Kathleen said, “I can give you a ride to the station, if you like. So you can file your complaint.”

Tekla drew herself up. She said nothing. Sam smiled weakly. Kathleen and the chief stood over them waiting for a response, both officers so stern and severe that the Bleaks might find it hard to refuse. At last Sam allowed Kathleen to help him into the wheelchair, careful of his painful arm, and she wheeled him to her squad car, Tekla walking like an angry guard dog beside him. Kathleen settled them in the backseat and folded Sam’s chair into the trunk.

As they pulled away, leaving Max talking with Officer Crowley, Joe and Kit left the cypress tree praying Billy was still at the station. They didn’t want to miss this confrontation. Joe wished Dulcie were there. He’d give her a blow-by-blow account, just as he would lay it all out later for Misto and for Pan. Misto needed to be kept in the loop; the old cat needed to see and feel as much as he could of these last, waning days, Joe thought sadly.

But as he and Kit galloped away across the roofs toward the station, he looked slyly at her. “You found shoes! Did Dallas get them?”

Kit smiled. “I watched him fish them out from under my porch. He lifted each one with a stick inside so he didn’t smear any prints. I hope I didn’t smear any.”

“Your porch?” He stopped and looked at her, and was getting ready to scold her. But she looked at him so contritely that he swallowed back his words.

What the hell, she’d gotten the shoes, hadn’t she? That could be the key, if they could find a matching shoe, one with a good set of fingerprints. That could be the evidence they needed; and he looked at Kit and didn’t criticize—he wasn’t going to trash her bright-eyed joy in finding them.

As they leaped to the roof of the courthouse and raced its length, Kathleen’s squad car pulled up to the red zone below. Dallas’s Blazer was already there. He was just disappearing through the glass door carrying a cardboard box. It was filled with evidence bags, each the size and the shape of a shoe. Kit stared down at it with triumph, her ears up, the tip of her tail twitching.

Joe just hoped they’d turn out to be the right ones, belonging to the perp, not just someone’s worn-out footwear. Backing down the oak tree, they crouched in the bushes by the front entry watching Kathleen remove Sam’s wheelchair from the trunk and unfold it. As she held the glass door so Tekla could roll him through into the lobby, Joe and Kit slipped behind them into the smelly retreat of the holding cell—their retreat for as long as Evijean remained on duty. He thought of Dulcie resting at home as she’d been told, and wished she were there to enjoy the coming performance.

22

Though it was just mid-morning, a warming fire burned on the Firettis’ hearth, its blaze reflected in the fog-frosted windows. Firelight brightened the flowered couch where Misto lay tucked up in a quilt between Dulcie and Pan. Mary Firetti and Wilma sat on the matching couch sipping coffee. Wilma had brought a gift for Misto, a big tray of custards. The three cats had promptly lapped up three small bowls before they snuggled close.

At home earlier, Dulcie had paced from room to room wanting to be outside, wanting to roam but having promised to stay in, not to run the roofs but to rest. She had paced and glared at Wilma, who sat at her desk paying bills. She’d wanted to be at the station, wanted to find Joe Grey, wanted in on the action. Whenever she’d trotted out into the garden for a few minutes she felt Wilma at the window watching her. It was all very well to be quiet and protect the kittens, but she’d begun to feel like a caged wildcat. But when the custards were ready to take to Misto, getting in the car, Wilma said, “You need only be idle for a little while, the kittens will arrive soon. I don’t need to tell you how important this is, these are the most precious of babies.”