Shirley Murphy: Murphy_Shirley_Rousseau_Cat_Telling_Tales_BookFi

“That’s what they think. Pathologist says the blood on the acacia roots is O positive, same as Sammie’s, though that type’s common enough. You know how long it takes to get DNA, with the lab backed up.”

Joe knew some two- and three-year-old cases were still waiting. Outside the truck he could hear folks talking and laughing as they hurried inside. “What about the cell phone Kathleen dug from under the tree?”

“It’s Sammie’s, all right,” Charlie said. “Complete with photos to add to the evidence. Kathleen printed out five shots of a tall, lean man dragging a woman’s body across the yard—that could be the first victim. From the angle of the shot, looks like Sammie might have taken them from the cottage window. Kathleen made some enlargements where you can see a portion of the woman’s face, and an old scar on her upper left arm, and it sure looks like Alain. CSI has contacted Alain’s dentist for a positive ID. The man’s face wasn’t visible, only his back. Dark hair, tall. From his haircut, and the angles of his body, looks very much like Erik Kraft. Forensics is working to lift prints from the victim’s clothes.”

“No gun?” Joe said.

“Not yet,” Charlie said.

“You want it all, right now,” Ryan said, laughing, unceremoniously picking Joe up. “Come on, we’re missing the party.” She and Charlie swung out of the truck, Ryan carrying Joe over her shoulder. Going in through the gallery door, she stopped just beneath the balcony—gave Joe a little toss, and he leaped up to the second floor, scrambling through the rail, where Dulcie and Misto sat looking down on the crowd, still eyeing the buffet, and Dulcie assessing the women’s attire with as keen an eye as any fashion model.

Joe settled down between them and, in whispers, repeated what Charlie had told him; and didn’t that make Misto smile. The old cat liked their clandestine role, he liked helping the cops. He liked the mix of human skill and electronic techniques, with the skills that only a cat could have offered.

“Where’s Kit?” Joe said. “Where’s Pan?”

“Not a clue,” Dulcie said innocently.

Misto looked at them and smiled. Beyond the windows, the evening was balmy, the sky so clear that every star shimmered. “A perfect night for a hunt in the hills,” the old cat said. “Or, for a bit of romance on the rooftops?” he said thoughtfully.

Dulcie gave the two toms a sly little smile.

“She’s a charming lady,” Misto said.

“She’s very young,” Joe said in a fatherly manner that made Dulcie laugh.

But in truth Kit and Pan weren’t preening and flirting, not at the moment. Nor were they hunting the starlit hills—though they were stalking some human game, following Erik Kraft.

Did anyone know he was back in the village? Had they spotted him before even the cops had? They had been on the roofs, wandering in the direction of the auction, when they saw lights on in Kraft’s second-floor condo; they had galloped across the roofs to the rear of his penthouse, where the little walled terrace shut away any ugly view of roof vents and heating units and of the narrow back stairs that led down to the street.

When they peered in under the low, wide arches that had been left along the bottom of the stucco wall for drainage, a soft light shone out through the wide glass doors, and the closed curtain shifted in the breeze where the slider stood open. They could see the flickering light of a television, too, and could hear its tedious recap of yesterday’s snowfall, details already far outdated, on this balmy evening.

They could see a round teak table against the terrace wall with two folding canvas chairs, and three flowerpots containing dead geraniums as dry as old hay. They saw no movement beyond the glass, no shifting shadows. “Come on,” Kit said, and bellied under, emerging to paw roofing gravel from her fur, shake gravel from her paws. The air drifting out smelled of steam and shaving soap. Kit reached her nose to push the curtain aside, sniffing at the aroma of lime soap and at the scent of male human. Carefully they peered in.

The apartment was stark, very modern and not to either cat’s taste, all done in black and chrome against cold blue walls: chrome headboard, chrome chairs with black leather slings, a glimpse of chrome kitchen cabinets beyond the bedroom. They could hear him in the bathroom, where a brighter light shone through the cracked-open door with a glimpse of black marble floor, mirrored walls, they could see his shadow moving about. Warily they pushed on into the bedroom, their paws sinking into the deep black carpet. They paused with the curtain still across their backs, listening.

The bedcovers were tumbled in a heap, white silk sheets, soft black comforter, a sleek black phone on the nightstand beneath a chrome lamp. A closed suitcase, made of expensive black leather, sat on a chrome stand near the closet doors, just below the recessed TV that was still belaboring bygone snow scenes. A pair of jeans lay dropped on the carpet beside a pair of black Italian boots, worn and dirty. Brown shirt thrown over the back of a chrome chair, black leather jacket folded across the chair’s arm. When Kit approached the clothes, they smelled of smoke and ashes, smelled exactly like the burn. As she pressed forward to look closer, Pan’s hiss stopped her; the sound of a sliding door made her dive beneath the bed.

But then they heard the shower come on, water pounding. As a cloud of steam ghosted out to them, Kit approached the clothes again, sniffing. His boots smelled of ashes, and were streaked with gray. The pounding of the shower was broken by the sluicing sounds of someone vigorously washing. She said, “He’s been at the burn, he’s been up at Hesmerra’s, so what was he looking for? The papers she stole?” Then, “Oh!” she said, as she turned. Rearing up, she peered at the top of the dresser. “Oh my, what’s this?” she said, smiling.

On the dresser stood a thin black laptop, its case open, its cord plugged into the wall, its lighted screen not as bright as the TV, writhing in an abstract pattern of purple and red squares that changed and retreated and appeared again as the screensaver did its work. Leaping up, Kit reached out a paw, then warily drew it back, looking down at Pan. “You any good with these things?” She wished she had Dulcie’s expertise.

“I never had the chance, Erik was as secretive with his computer as he was with his files and papers. I can adjust a patient’s oxygen, I can work some of the levers on a folding bed and ring the alarm for a nurse. But computers, no way—I could erase everything.”

Kit was afraid she’d do exactly that. The laptop was not at all like Pedric and Lucinda’s big computer at home, everything seemed different, there wasn’t even a proper mouse. One wrong stroke, and whatever evidence it might contain could vanish forever. She studied the keyboard. Uncertainly she reached out again, and drew back again, looking down helplessly at Pan.

But she had to do something. It wasn’t in Kit’s nature to back away. She had to make something happen.

Carefully she pressed the flat space that she thought might be the built-in mouse. The screensaver vanished, and a page of e-mails flashed at her: two short messages, the first signed by a Betty . Could that be Alain Bent’s cousin? But why . . . ? The second was signed by Alain herself, dated three days ago, long after she was murdered. Kit caught only a few words when the pounding of water stopped, “ . . . Toronto, promise to be home next week and we can . . .” They heard the shower door slide open. As the bathroom door opened, she dropped to the floor and under the bed expecting Pan to follow. He didn’t, she heard him hit the bed above her and burrow under the covers. As she peered out, Erik came out of the bathroom naked and headed for the closet as if to retrieve clean clothes. He moved quickly, tense and in a hurry.