Shirley Murphy - Murphy_Shirley_Rousseau_Cat_Coming_Home_BookFi

JOE LOOKED IN through the bulletproof glass door of Molena Point PD, but hesitated. He didn’t demand to be let in, didn’t yowl as he always did to attract the daytime dispatcher. Night dispatcher June Alpine might be young and pretty, but she wasn’t half as enamored of cats as was their friend Mabel Farthy. Now, instead of drawing June’s possible ire, maybe turning her cranky enough to chase him away, he scorched up the oak tree that sheltered the front of the building. Bracing himself on the tiled roof, he pawed open the small window that looked down into the holding cell. With the heavy bars welded across, the glass was usually cracked open—some of these arrestees could smell pretty strong.

This single cell, facing the main entry and the dispatcher’s desk, was intended to detain prisoners for only a short time, until they were fingerprinted and their identifying information recorded, before they were taken back to the jail that occupied its own small, fenced building just behind the two-story main building that housed the PD, the court and related offices.

Slipping in between the thick bars, through the open window, Joe dropped down to the cot suspended from the wall below, landing just at the edge to keep the flat springs from squeaking. The thin mattress smelled of throw-up and unwashed human bodies. Padding out through the door’s confining bars, he slipped along close to the base of the dispatcher’s counter where June might not see him as he headed for the hall. He glanced back twice, but both times she was turned away. Except for the lighted conference room, where three officers sat at the big table with laptops, typing up reports, all the offices were dark, the open doors revealed only blackness. Quickly he vanished through Max’s door, into the faint scent of horses that lingered on from years of contact with the chief’s western boots.

If Max had been there, Joe might have slipped beneath the credenza, out of sight, until he got a taste of what was going on. Now, with the room to himself, he leaped to Max’s desk among the perennial stacks of paperwork, scheduling lists, budget requests, collaterals—enough paper to make the tomcat glad all over again that he wasn’t human.

The computer stood dark and lifeless, harboring who knew what secrets, making him wish he were as adept at its use as Dulcie, who’d be able to pull up all kinds of secured information. She’d learned in the library, where she was the official library cat, though an often absent one. Wilma was a reference librarian, often sharing her office computer with Dulcie. When she worked late at night she would walk Dulcie through some fascinating bits of research, often exploring the cats’ own history, tied to Welsh and Irish mythology. Dulcie had learned a good deal about their ancestors in this way, though the subject didn’t much interest Joe. He was what he was. A speaking cat with a talent for spying. He didn’t give a damn about his ancestral heritage.

Now, looking at the dark monitor, he lifted a tentative paw over the keyboard. If he was to really try, could he learn to bring up police reports? Run fingerprints through AFIS? Access mug shots? Oh, right. And get caught in here alone using Max’s computer, and wouldn’t that tear it? Turning away from temptation, into Max’s bookcase, he curled up in a vacant space between copies of the California Penal Code, hoping the chief or one of the detectives would come dragging back in the small hours with some new information. Snuggled between the heavy books, he was soon warm and yawning; soon sleep eased around him like a huge hand offering comfort and safe harbor, all the security of home.

JOE WAS JERKED awake when the office lights blazed on. He sat up in the bookcase, slitting his eyes against the glare, watched Max toss his Levi’s jacket on the couch. The desk phone was flashing red. The chief sat down in his swivel chair, put his feet on the desk, leaning so far back that his brown, short-cropped, thinning hair was right in Joe’s face. He picked up the headset, didn’t turn on the speaker.

Leaning out from the bookshelf, Joe eased so close to the chief that his whiskers were only inches from Harper’s ear. It took him a minute to realize that Max was talking with the LAPD. Detective Sam Lakey’s voice was gravelly, he sounded like he had a few years on him, and maybe a bit of extra flesh, as well. “You have our BOL on Pearl Toola?”

“We have,” Max said. “So far, no line on her. What’s up?”

“You’ve talked with homicide, here?” Lakey said. “On the murder of her ex-husband and his wife?”

“Several times.”

“What we have now might be related, or might not. We’re looking at her in an embezzlement, a new case that just came in. Homicide’s thinking this might be connected, the thefts a possible motive for the Toola murders in San Bernardino County.

“Beckman Heavy Equipment,” Lakey said. “It’s a contractor’s rental service. Eight hundred thousand dollars missing. Pearl was their bookkeeper, she and Caroline Toola both worked there. They were neighbors, Caroline helped her get the job there some five years ago. Both were still employed there when Caroline died. Pearl left the firm shortly after the murders, told them she needed to get away for a while, too much stress after her ex-husband was shot.” There was amusement in his voice.

Max said, “And the company’s just now reporting the discrepancy?”

“They just now found it,” Lakey said. “When Pearl left, they were without a full-time bookkeeper; it was a make-do situation for a while, utilizing other office help. When they finally found a new bookkeeper, she not only uncovered the bogus withdrawals, she’s certain it was Pearl. Said most likely Pearl would have kept a second set of books, said you couldn’t pull off that kind of manipulation and keep things straight without your own written record. And of course there’s no way Pearl would have the second set of figures on the computer. Even if she’d erased it, it would still be on the hard drive, could still be found by a pro.”

“So Pearl rips them off,” Max said, “Caroline finds out, but in some way tips her hand that she knows.”

“Possible,” Lakey said.

Then Pearl killed Caroline not only out of jealousy, the tomcat thought, but to silence her, keep her from blowing the whistle? Joe was frowning down at Max’s notes when he heard Kathleen’s voice from up at the front desk, and immediately eased back between the hard volumes. He was curled up again pretending to nap when Kathleen’s footsteps came down the hall. She stopped in the doorway, looking in. Max motioned her on in, motioned for her to pull up a chair, and turned the speaker on.

Lakey was saying, “Beckman’s new bookkeeper spent several days going over the books, to familiarize herself with how the company operated and to get a jump on tax season. When she began to find the discrepancies, she called in Mr. Beckman. He took one look, and they got in a second accountant to help her. They traced the problem backward, contacted a number of customers to have a look at their statements—which didn’t match the copies in the Beckman files. The thefts, and the bogus entries, stopped after the murders. Six weeks later, Pearl left the company.

“She told Homicide she was moving down to San Diego for a while because of the stress, that she’d be staying with a friend. When Jimmie Beckman was sure the books had been doctored, he called us, called in his lawyer, and filed charges.

“San Diego said Pearl never arrived at the address she gave, and didn’t contact the friend. That was late June. Then when Maudie moved to Molena Point, homicide thought Pearl might follow her up there. You’re the best lead we have,” Lakey said. “You have a file on her?”