Shirley Murphy - Murphy_Shirley_Rousseau_Cat_Coming_Home_BookFi

He had stepped into his truck and started the engine when a white BMW convertible pulled up, double-parking beside a patrol car. Reporter Nancyanne Prewitt got out carrying a camcorder, which was all the small village paper could supply, no in-your-face camera crew to back her up. Maybe no one had called the local TV station up the coast. Or maybe they were on their way. She was dressed as if for a party in a tight, low-cut black T-shirt, voluminous gold pants, and spike-heeled gold sandals. Talk about professional. Her shoulder-length, square-cut brown hair swung in time with her dangling, gold hoop earrings. Her high heels tap-tapped across the sidewalk, and a little gold purse swung from her shoulder on a long chain as she hurried up to his truck. “Captain Harper, can I have a word?” Her smile was as fake as that of a two-bit public defender sucking up to the judge. When Max didn’t respond, she said, “Can you tell me why you had no patrol cars on the streets when these two restaurants were broken into and vandalized?”

Max just looked at her.

“I’ll want to photograph both restaurants,” she said. “Why weren’t there patrols on the street?”

There had in fact been patrols, three of them, the closest five blocks away. They had hit the Flying Galleon moments after the alarm went off, had called in four more cars to cover the area, but the vandals had vanished. No sign of a fleeing car, and no one on the street but a couple of tourists whose IDs had checked out all right. Both said there had been no moving car in the area, that they’d glimpsed two men running away, no description except that they wore black clothes, black caps. Four officers were, at present, canvassing the hotel and motels.

“This is the middle of town, Captain Harper. Why didn’t your officers see and arrest these people? They couldn’t have missed them. It seems strange that there is never a patrol when one of these shocking—”

Max opened the truck door, gently forcing her hand off the window, and obliging her to step back. “You have my permission to take pictures, Ms. Prewitt. You are not to enter either crime scene. You’ll be able to identify the area that’s off limits by the yellow police tape that is strung to cordon it off. Now if you’ll excuse me …” He revved the engine so that she stepped farther back, bristling at his sarcasm. At the intersection he glanced back. She was mincing along the sidewalk with her camcorder, busily recording the broken windows and broken door. Not only would stills be used for the newspaper, the camcorder footage would be on local TV—maybe for the late news tonight and probably prime-time news tomorrow. So far the TV station, which was short-staffed, had been far more eager to enjoy contributions from the Gazette than to cover the crimes themselves. Or to see that they gave the department fair coverage. Heading for the Blue Bistro, Max didn’t see, above him, the three snitches watching from the rooftops, nor did he see another small shadow slip stiffly away—didn’t see the three snitches turn, catching sight of the yellow tomcat, and hurry to follow him as he left the scene.

25

THE YELLOW TOMCAT seemed to know where he was going, moving swiftly away across the roofs above a street of galleries, little restaurants, a bookstore. At the Kestrel Inn, he headed along one wing of the U-shaped building toward the back, where he stood looking down into the motel patio. The courtyard was lit by ground-level lamps at the edge of the brick paving, their soft glow illuminating beds of geraniums and cyclamens. Where a bougainvillea vine climbed to the roof, he scrambled down it and under a flowering camellia bush beside a sliding glass door. From the shingles above, Joe, Dulcie, and Kit could just make out the pale curve of his back beneath the dark, concealing leaves. He peered in through the open glass slider through open draperies, only the screen barring his entry.

One lamp burned near the windows, where a man stood with his back to them. The rear of the room was in shadow. They could hear a woman talking softly but couldn’t see her, couldn’t make out what she was saying. Was the cat with these people, traveling with them? Then surely they knew his talents. No one traveling with an ordinary cat would let him go outside in a strange town and expect him not to wander off lured by his own curiosity and become lost. Only a speaking cat could be left to roam responsibly, at his own pleasure.

Deep within the room the woman appeared, moving toward the front where she sat down on the bed. She was tall and thin, her short blond hair fluffed around her face. She wore shapeless black jeans, a black T-shirt, black boots. Their voices were so soft that from the roof, even with the door open, the cats had to listen closely, cocking their ears, peering over. As the man turned to the dresser, a towel in his hand, they could see that he wore gloves, tightly fitting and flesh colored. Picking up a billfold from the dresser, he slipped it in his pocket and then carefully polished the dresser’s glass top with the towel.

“That went well,” he said. “No delays, no hitches.” His voice was so smug it made Dulcie and Kit angrily lash their tails; Kit hung over the edge, intently watching him.

“This is the last one,” the woman said. “I don’t like this. This isn’t why I came here.”

“It’s them,” Kit whispered, scrambling back from the edge. “Two of them. The man in the car, that’s his voice. And the woman—I thought she was a thin man, in that long black coat and hard shoes.”

The man was saying, “What about the kid? He thinks you’re—”

“That’s all he is. A kid. He’s had a crush on me for years, ever since he was twelve. He thinks he’s a great lover,” she said, laughing. “For the moment, he’s useful enough.”

The man was squarely built. His coal-black hair was collar length but neatly trimmed, his short black beard squarely clipped. Turning away from the dresser, he gripped her shoulders. “If you didn’t come to help me out, why did you come? Why did you want to come here, right under her nose? What the hell are you planning?”

“I came to get what’s mine,” she said sweetly. “And,” she said, laughing, “maybe to deal the last hand.” Moving away from him, she picked up the black raincoat that lay across the chair, shrugged it on. Pulling a dark cap from the pocket, she occupied herself at the mirror, tucking in her hair until not one blond strand was visible. The man approached the door, slid the screen back. Stepping out to the patio, he stood looking around him. He was only steps from the yellow cat concealed among the shrubs. He glanced up once at the roof, seemingly straight at the cats, but they were still, and their eyes slitted nearly closed—surely, in the dark, they were invisible to human sight. His gaze was compelling, his eyes so familiar that Dulcie eased lower against the shingles and slowly backed away. He glanced several times to the left, to a walkway between the rooms that led from the patio to a small parking area. The cats could see a few cars parked back there, one covered with a tarp. After a long while he turned back into the room. Sliding the glass door closed and clicking the lock, he disappeared into the shadows at the back.

The woman moved to join him, switched on a closet light, and removed a small satchel. When he opened the door to the hall, in the sudden wash of light the cats caught a glimpse of a patterned red carpet and of the closed door across the hall. And then the two were gone, closing the door behind them with a double click of the latch and lock. When the cats looked down again at the bushes there was no hint of the yellow tom, no gleam of pale fur beneath the dark foliage.