Кроха - Dedication

Dulcie knew that! She tried not to snap at Wilma. She tried not to sound sulky. But even a trip in the car was a treat, just to get out. Trotting up the Firetti walk through the last of Mary’s cyclamens as bright as new crayons, she had raced into the cottage to nearly pounce on Misto and Pan, she was so glad to see them—though it had only been a few hours.

Pan said, “Kit slipped away early. Restless, so restless.”

Dulcie snuggled closer and looked tenderly at Pan. “You miss Kit this morning,” she said, licking his ear. Kit might have been restless, she thought, but maybe that was a loving gesture, too, to slip away at dawn, to leave father and son alone together, just the two of them.

Mary had set Wilma’s dozen little bowls in the refrigerator to keep cool. “Misto does so love your custards. I make little stews, I make soups, but your custards are the real treat.” She looked at Misto, then back at Wilma. “We talked about Ben,” she said softly. “I told him about Ben.”

Misto lowered his ears and put out a paw to Wilma. But as she reached to stroke him she saw behind his grieving look that staunch certainty, too, in his golden eyes. “Where Ben is now,” the old cat said, “he is safe, he is beyond human cruelty.” He licked Wilma’s hand. “Ben is loved with a strength the living cannot imagine, he is free in joy now, he flies weightless.”

They talked about Ben and about the attacks, Misto stoic, in his own way removed from the deepest pain. It was nearly noon when Wilma and Dulcie left the Firetti cottage, Misto napping again, and Pan still close beside him. Riding home, Dulcie thought about the street crimes, about new police reports, new intelligence coming in, about Joe at the station, and she looked up forlornly at Wilma.

Wilma sighed. She hadn’t worked in corrections for all her career without knowing how these present crimes drew Dulcie. “You want to be with Joe, putting the pieces together.”

Dulcie sighed.

“I’ll take you to the PD if you’ll promise to wait there. To let me pick you up later, not come galloping home alone over the rooftops. You might not go full term, Dulcie, you might . . .”

“I promise,” Dulcie said.

Reluctantly Wilma dropped her off in front of the courthouse, watched her disappear into the bushes to wait for a chance to slip inside the station. Wilma lingered for a few minutes, and then a few minutes more, but no one came or went through the glass door. She could see action inside, could see Max and Detective Kathleen Ray; she could just see Joe Grey in a corner of the holding cell, and she glimpsed a fluff of tortoiseshell fur; Kit was there with him. She could see that brittle temporary clerk, Evijean, behind the counter. And was that the Bleak couple in there? That was curious, what was that about?

She watched Dulcie peering out, watching intently from the bushes. She watched the tabby move beneath a camellia, closer to the glass door where she could see in better. Wilma waited a few minutes more, got an angry scowl when the tabby reared up to look back at her. Whatever was happening had Dulcie’s full attention. At last Wilma left her. Joe Grey and Kit were there if the tabby needed someone. Dulcie had a loud yowl if she found herself in trouble. As many times as I’ve worried over her, I have learned to trust her. I’m not going to rein her in completely, even now.

It was earlier, just after Sam Bleak’s fake attack, that Joe and Kit slipped into MPPD behind Kathleen Ray and Sam and Tekla, the two cats sliding into the shadows of the holding cell. Surely Evijean hadn’t seen them, there had been no cry of outrage. Beyond the reception counter among the computers, radios, and office machines they couldn’t see even the top of Evijean’s head. When Joe reared up for a better look, he was sure no one was minding the counter—though the clerk’s area was never left unmanned.

As he watched, Detective Ray moved toward the counter, alert and wary. She had switched on her radio when Max pulled up outside, swung out of his truck and in through the glass door—and as Evijean emerged from the conference room, slipping out with a guilty look.

Max watched Evijean, frowning because she’d left her station. He looked down the hall at the door she had closed. “Are you keeping that room locked?”

Evijean set a cup of coffee on her desk. “Detective Davis moved those . . .” She glanced at the Bleaks. “That material that was on the table. She moved it to her office,” she said with more finesse than Joe would expect. “Detective Garza is with her and the boy.” Joe thought she might have the courtesy to call Billy by name.

Max looked at the Bleaks, then back at Evijean. “How long has Billy been here?”

She looked confused.

“How long has he been in the station this morning? Since what time?”

“Maybe two hours,” Evijean said. “Since Detective Ray brought him in with . . . Since around nine when she brought him back to your office.” She watched the chief, frowning. Her finesse just went so far. Over in the waiting area, Tekla and Sam had come to full attention. Both had begun to fidget.

“Evijean,” Max said, “ask Detective Davis, Detective Garza, and Billy to come up front. And hand me two complaint forms.”

Evijean frowned uncertainly and looked down into the shelves beneath the counter.

“Those forms in the box at the end,” Max said impatiently. Joe knew what he meant. These were the sheets the chief had made up for previous incidents where he wanted the complainants’ statements in their own handwriting; they were not the usual documents that an officer himself filled out. Evijean found them, inserted the forms in two clipboards, and handed them to him. Even she knew this was unorthodox, that a complaint was filed verbally to an officer and the complainant only signed the paperwork.

When Evijean had called back to Juana’s office and relayed the chief’s message, Max said, “Has Billy left the station since Kathleen brought him in this morning?”

“No, sir.”

“Not at all, for any reason? Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir, I’m sure.” Her look was sharp, keenly puzzled.

In the waiting area, Tekla had risen and stood scowling at the chief. “You would stand up for that boy. Isn’t he your ward or something? Of course you’d say he was here, you wouldn’t want—”

Max looked hard at her. “Mrs. Bleak, there’s a law against false accusation.” Whether he meant false accusation of Billy as the attacker, or false accusation of Max himself for lying to cover for Billy, his words made Tekla back off, and made Joe and Kit exchange a whiskery grin.

Max had turned to Sam. “You can have a good look at Billy Young now. If you’re sure it was Billy who attacked you, you can file the complaint and we can move on with the matter. Maybe we can put him in juvenile hall until we get this sorted out.”

Beneath the bunk, Kit’s yellow eyes widened but Joe Grey only smiled. There was no way in hell Max would do that. They heard a door open down the hall, footsteps approaching, and Billy and the two detectives came up to the front. At the sight of Billy, Tekla moved behind Sam’s wheelchair as if to remain in control, to wheel Sam on out of there to safety. Billy, looking puzzled, came to stand beside the chief. Max put his arm around him and turned him to face Sam.

“Is this the boy who attacked you, who tipped over your wheelchair?”

Billy stared at up at Max and then at Sam, uncomprehending.

Sam wouldn’t look at Billy. Nor did he look at Max Harper. “Maybe . . .” he began, “Maybe . . . maybe that boy’s jacket was gray, not tan. Maybe . . .” He frowned at Billy as if seeing him for the first time, this boy he saw nearly every day working on the remodel.