Shirley Murphy - Murphy_Shirley_Rousseau_Cat_Coming_Home_BookFi

Joe, concealed within the leather tote that Ryan carried, could see only the high, raftered ceiling as they entered the meeting room. Ryan tucked the bag on the seat of the wooden pew beside her, where he listened to the reading of the minutes; he yawned and dozed off during a tedious discussion of city business. He came wide awake when members of the audience began to file up, one at a time, to the little side podium that featured its own microphone. Each citizen speaker stood at the side of the room facing both the audience and the council that sat behind the polished wood barrier: a council of three men and one woman, and the woman mayor, her white hair knotted at the nape of her neck, her navy blazer well cut over a white silk blouse. Each citizen to come forward talked about the home invasions, venting considerable anger toward the police. It was amazing to Joe that the speakers would rant so vehemently about the department’s incompetence when Chief Harper sat not three feet from them, just beside their small podium.

Max wasn’t there to make a rebuttal, this was a traditional part of the chief’s job. The city charter required his presence to keep order, though there’d never been a fistfight in a Molena Point meeting. Max, in uniform and wearing a sidearm, listened without expression, an enforcer of the law, a guardian against some outbreak of unbridled rage. Hard to imagine, Joe thought, in this small village. In San Francisco or Detroit, matters might deteriorate as had indeed happened in several large cities, one even evolving into a near-fatal shooting. In most Molena Point council meetings, the tomcat suspected, one was more likely to die from boredom.

But not this afternoon. Despite Max’s disinterested expression, the tomcat would give a year’s supply of deli takeout to know what the chief was thinking as a dozen misinformed and angry diatribes were laid on the council members and audience, and on the chief. Peering discreetly over the top of the bag, he watched the tiny crease at the side of Max’s mouth, just the ghost of a smile. As each speaker questioned the competence of MPPD, the male council members maintained suitably blank expressions; only Pansy Nitonski, her thin face framed by straight, chin-length brown hair, smirked with ill-concealed pleasure at the insults, making Joe want to slash her smug face.

Well, but nothing would be decided at this meeting, no decision would be made here about whether Max was competent in his job. That issue would be resolved in private session; this display was all smoke and mirrors, because the city council had no final authority in the matter. They were advisors; they couldn’t directly fire Max though they certainly had input with the city manager. He was the one responsible for hiring and firing the chief, often advised by a board of experts that could include police chiefs from other central coast cities—but these accusations were so trumped up they were laughable. Joe burned to leap to the podium and have his own say, tell these airheads just how wrong they were.

He also would have liked to see how the audience was responding, he could see nothing from the bottom of the damned bag. He’d like to know whether Phelps Leibert was in the crowd, too. Leibert was head of security at the local college and was the man the Gazette was pushing, in its editorials, as a replacement for Harper: a harsh, controlling, egocentric man who would be bad news indeed for MPPD, for the whole village. Most likely, Leibert had had the good sense to stay away from the meeting, not telegraph his punches, not let anyone think he cared what happened. How would it look for him to be there watching Max and the department deliberately trashed, when everyone knew he hoped to replace Max in the near future.

Natty Bowen had come to the podium, and she sounded nervous as hell. Joe eased up out of the bag for a quick look. The thin, worn woman had dressed for the occasion in a lavender velvet jogging suit that she’d accessorized with enough gold jewelry to serve her as workout weights—gold necklaces, gold choker, gold earrings. Her slim feet were encased in lavender and pink glitter-encrusted sports shoes that looked as if they’d never been out of the box before this very afternoon. Her delivery was nervous but pushy, and she stuck closely to an apparently rehearsed agenda, as did the other speakers: The invasions were terrifying, people were being injured, traumatized, no telling what the lasting effects would be on these poor women, and many thousands of dollars’ worth of property had been damaged. Why were the police looking the other way, not putting a stop to these atrocities? And though Natty might have stammered through her presentation, the next speaker did not.

Having returned to the bottom of the bag, Joe slipped up again when he heard Arlie Risso introduced. He was straining to see over the top of the seat in front of them when Ryan’s hand forced him back down. Holding him out of sight, she gave him the faintest headshake, as if someone were watching. Subsiding irritably under Ryan’s confining hand, he listened to Risso explain that, being a new resident, he’d been shocked and disappointed when, after buying a home in the village, these terrible invasions began, even right there in his own neighborhood. So disappointed he’d almost decided to sell and move on, find a more amenable environment in which to enjoy his retirement—his tone, and his expensive cashmere sport coat, white silk shirt, and silk tie implied a more amenable environment in which to spend his considerable retirement income. His polished delivery was as fake as that of a telephone solicitor asking for your Social Security number. Peering up again when Ryan glanced away, Joe watched Risso make eye contact with each council member, his penetrating look bringing color to Pansy’s cheeks. Risso ended his two minutes with a plea for the law to “Step in and lock up the miscreants and save our lovely village,” making Joe want to upchuck his breakfast. When Risso left the podium, and Ryan let go of Joe’s neck, he slid up for another quick look. Yes, Arlie Risso was the guy in the motel room, slick black hair, neatly trimmed black beard. Before Joe ducked down again, he caught a glimpse of Max Harper’s face, too. Max’s flash of surprised recognition, quickly hidden, made the tomcat smile. The chief had quickly stripped away the black hair and black beard, replaced them with handsomely styled silver hair. This man’s skin was tanned to a darker shade, and even his black-dyed eyebrows sharply changed his appearance. But both Joe and Max knew him as Dorriss: con artist, master chameleon, the slick investor and thief whom Joe had helped Max put in prison a couple of years back. He’d be willing to bet this was the first time Max had seen Dorriss since Dorriss arrived in the village. Dorriss had probably taken great pains to stay out of the way of the cops, either remaining indoors or hiding behind the tinted glass of the Caddy or the Toyota, keeping a low profile, avoiding anyone who might know him. Joe wondered if Dulcie and Kit had gotten a look at Risso/Dorriss from where they crouched outside among the limbs of the oak that overhung the main entry. Risso, standing at the side podium with its auxiliary microphone, appeared totally unaware of Max, as if the chief might be just any rookie cop, even though Risso had had extensive dealings with Max.

Only after Risso had his say and took his seat again did two speakers point out that if citizens weren’t prepared, if they had no alarm system or did not call 911, then patrol units could only arrive after the fact, after the harm was done. While Joe was grateful for these sensible folks, what he wondered was, after the meeting, would Max Harper arrest Risso? Did he have enough evidence to hold him? Or would he put a tail on the man, wait to apprehend him at the next invasion attempt and, in Risso’s words, Step in and lock up the miscreants?