Let Sleeping Cats Lie: The 9 Lives Cozy Mystery Series, Book Four

by Louise Clark

  At the other end of the breezeway, Quinn’s car zipped past at breakneck speed.

  “I’m going to give the keys to that nice hotel employee there,” Sledge said. He winked as he tossed the keys to a concierge who had been gawking at the back of the crowd. The woman reached up, cupping her hands, and caught the keys. “And the nice lady is going to take very good care of my car when she parks it.” He grinned at her. “Isn’t she?”

  The woman clutched the keys, swallowed hard, and nodded.

  It was nice to know he hadn’t lost his touch. Sledge raised his brows as he surveyed the reporters and paparazzi, still snapping pictures. “Now I’m going to take my good friend to lunch.”

  He tugged Christy’s hand. Lunch was an improvisation. He wanted to give Quinn plenty of time to get away. But honestly? Christy deserved a reward after participating in this stunt.

  The least he could do was treat her to a meal out.

  Chapter 12

  “Mary and her mom just got home,” Noelle said. Her eyes were bright and she fairly vibrated with excitement. She and Christy were sitting on the steps of their front porch. “Can I go up and see her, Mom? Please?”

  It was Tuesday, one of Rebecca Petrofsky’s work days, so Mary had been in after school care. Normally, Noelle would have been doing her homework at this point in the afternoon, but with school ending in a couple of weeks even the tough Mrs. Morton, Noelle’s teacher, had given up on sending homework home. Christy had come out with Noelle to play hopscotch and savor a little mom and daughter time.

  Now she resisted the urge to laugh at her daughter’s big-eyed, innocent expression. Instead, she said sternly, “You can, but no coaxing an invitation to dinner from Mrs. Petrofsky. You were over at their house last night.”

  “I wouldn’t!” Noelle said, a horrified tone added to the still innocent expression.

  “Of course you wouldn’t,” Christy said.

  Noelle giggled, then headed up the street, skipping as she went. At the Petrofsky’s, Mary barreled out of the car and ran toward Noelle. The two of them met closer to Mary’s than Noelle’s and hugged like they hadn’t seen each other in months, when they’d actually been together in their classroom at school only a few hours before.

  Rebecca Petrofsky waved and shouted, “I’ve got them.”

  “Thanks!” Christy called back. “She can stay till dinner time, but don’t let her con you into providing another meal.”

  “Got it,” Rebecca said. “Come on, girls, you can help me put the groceries away.”

  Noelle and Mary each picked up a small bag, while Rebecca hefted the larger ones, and they all disappeared into the Petrofsky house. Christy thought she should go into her own house and start dinner prep, but instead she sat and brooded over her last few days.

  She’d agreed to Sledge’s crazy hotel stunt because she had a sneaking empathy for what Tamara Ahern was dealing with. Her memories of the media camped outside the Jamieson mansion after Frank disappeared were vivid and painful. She had felt besieged, at times terrified, overwhelmed by the unwanted attention. As the pressure from the media attention increased, she’d also started to question her own innocence. Oh, she’d known she hadn’t embezzled from the Jamieson Trust, but she second-guessed every action, wondered if she’d somehow precipitated Frank’s decision to steal away his fortune. When Detective Patterson questioned her, she’d found it difficult to stand behind her innocence and defend herself. She’d done it, but it had been hard.

  Her situation had been uncomfortable, even lonely, but it was nowhere near as precarious as Tamara’s was. The crime she was being investigated for was murder. Even worse, it was the murder of a prominent government official. If Tamara crumbled under the pressure, she could be in a danger that far surpassed anything Christy had faced.

  So she’d agreed to participate in the scheme so Quinn could get Tamara out of the glare of the media. It had worked beautifully. The press had focused on Christy and Sledge, while Quinn rescued Tamara and brought her here to Burnaby, without any of them being the wiser.

  And Christy and Sledge ended up on the front page of the newspaper, with the caption, Sledge’s New Woman?

  She sighed and put her chin on her hand.

  Stormy the Cat emerged from the bushes on the other side of the street and trotted over to her. He came to an abrupt stop at the bottom of the stairs, then sat primly, tail curled around his paws. Where’s Noelle?

  “Mary’s house.” Christy straightened. “I should go in and start dinner.”

  Who’s that?

  Two large, black SUVs had turned onto the street and were slowly rolling their way down the hill with a ponderous menace that had Christy’s nerve endings tingling with primitive fear. “What the hell?”

  She stood up. To get a better view, the cat leapt up onto the flower box that separated her walk from her next-door neighbor’s. The SUVs kept coming, passing every house on the street, until only the final block of townhouses was left.

  The first vehicle stopped in front of the Armstrong’s walk. The second parked in front of their driveway, effectively cutting off access to the house. Doors opened and men emerged.

  The cops, Frank said. Stormy’s back arched, his tail fluffed, and he danced to one side, the picture of an upset cat. Wonder what they’re up to.

  “I expect they’re here to interrogate Tamara,” Christy muttered.

  At the sound of her voice one of the cops, dressed in a dark blue suit and wearing a white shirt with a blue tie, glanced her way. “You should be inside, Madame.”

  This must be Fortier, the head of the taskforce. Christy hadn’t met the man, but Quinn had mentioned he had an accent, which was very much in evidence today. She made a swift review of the police contingent, searching for Patterson in the hopes the Vancouver cop would be able to enlighten her as to what was going on, but she wasn’t there. Instead, Fortier had brought another detective in plain clothes and several uniforms wearing Kevlar vests and armed with lethal looking weapons.

  A SWAT team. This was bad. Very bad.

  Frank decided to do his part to make it worse. Stormy, still arched and fluffed, hissed and flattened his ears. Who does this bozo think he is?

  Fortier’s gaze shifted to Stormy. “And take the cat with you.”

  “What are you doing here?” Christy asked.

  Fortier’s eyes narrowed and his mouth pursed. “That is none of your business, Madame.”

  She swallowed hard as his eyes skewered her, but she didn’t like the menace of the Kevlar-clad assault team. It wasn’t needed. No one was armed and dangerous in this neighborhood. “Sure it is. I’m part of the Neighborhood Watch.”

  Fortier’s eyebrows rose.

  Seriously, Chris? Neighborhood Watch? This guy is about to storm Roy’s house and that’s the best you’ve got?

  “Oh, shut up, Frank!”

  Fortier’s expression morphed in an instant from patronizing to dangerous. His eyes narrowed as he frowned. “Who are you talking to, Madame?”

  He impaled her with a look that had Christy’s heart pounding and butterflies leaping in her stomach.

  Stormy hissed again. Relieved, Christy said with complete honesty, “The cat.”

  Fortier shot Stormy a disdainful look and turned away.

  While Fortier was accosting Christy, the second plainclothes cop mounted the stairs to the Armstrongs’ front door and rang the bell. The door opened. Trevor McCullagh stood in the opening.

  “We are here for Tamara Ahern,” the cop said.

  “I am Dr. Ahern’s representative,” Trevor replied, not moving from his position. He looked out at the SWAT team, weapons raised and at the ready. His expression didn’t change, but he widened his stance and settled more firmly in place. “Dr. Ahern is willing to speak to a detective, but the bully brigade will have to stay outside.”

  Fortier abandoned Christy to stroll up the Armstrong front walk to the stairs. There was a hush of expectation as he made his unhurried, deliber
ate way.

  Stormy deserted his lookout on the flower box and followed.

  “Frank!” Christy hissed.

  Everyone ignored her except Trevor, who caught sight of the cat sliding between the legs of one of the armed men. A grim smile touched his lips.

  “Surrender Dr. Ahern, or we will storm the premises,” Fortier said. He sounded like he enjoyed the idea of wreaking havoc on this quiet suburban townhouse.

  There was an ominous ripping sound. One of the armed cops shouted, “What the hell?” and Stormy bolted for the stairs.

  Fortier was quick. As the cat passed, he reached down, caught him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him up so that he was eye-to-eye with the cat.

  “Put him down!” Christy shrieked. Without pausing to think, she dove to the rescue.

  She got as far as the SUVs. As she tried to get to Fortier, one of the armed cops caught her around the waist and anchored her to his body with a muscular arm that felt like iron and stopped her cold. She struggled, but the guy’s hold was unbreakable. All she could do was shout, “Don’t hurt him!”

  “Why not, Madame? He has torn my officer’s trousers.” He shook the cat. “Deliberately, I think, eh, petit chat?”

  Stormy hissed and Frank said, F-off.

  It was a good thing Fortier seemed to be immune to Frank’s thought speak, Christy reflected, but then one of the Kevlar-clad cops looked around with a frown and said, “Who said that?”

  There was action in the doorway as Trevor stepped forward, out onto the porch. Quinn pushed past him and ran lightly down the stairs. Sledge had moved out behind Quinn. Now he stood beside his father, feet planted widely, hands in the pockets of his jeans, but thumbs out, a bad boy glower on his face. Just inside the house, Christy could see Roy standing, with Tamara hovering by his shoulder.

  “Let her go and drop the damned cat,” Quinn said as he reached the walk, a couple of feet away from Fortier.

  Apparently tired of being held like a wet, unpleasant rag, Stormy chose that moment to attempt an escape, writhing in Fortier’s hold. When that wasn’t effective, he emitted a wail of pure tomcat fury.

  Quinn made a dive for the cat, weapons were raised, and Christy screamed, “Stop!”

  Surprisingly, everyone did.

  She took a deep breath and said, “Detective Fortier—”

  “Inspector, Madame, if you please.”

  “Okay. Inspector. My daughter loves our cat and she’ll be devastated if he’s hurt. Please tell your officer to let me go. Then give me the cat and I’ll return to my house and take him inside.” Her voice shook, but only a little. She was proud of that. She didn’t like the idea of the inspector knowing how scared she really was.

  Fortier made a quick head gesture and the cop holding Christy let her go. She walked toward Fortier cautiously, making certain not to make any sudden moves. When she reached him, she held out her hands for the cat.

  Stormy howled again and Fortier opened his fingers and dropped him into Christy’s hands as if he was disposing of a sodden rag into a garbage can.

  Show some respect, you arrogant piece of—

  “Thank you,” Christy said. “Time to go home, Frank. There’s nothing we can do here.”

  “Are you okay?” Quinn asked, the tension in his body echoing in his voice.

  She met his eyes and saw anger smoldering there, as well as fear. He knew what could have happened, and what probably would happen in a few minutes, and he was mad as hell about it, particularly because he knew there was little he could do to stop it. “Yes. We’re both fine.”

  He nodded abruptly and turned his focus back to Fortier.

  Christy did too. “Inspector, this is a quiet neighborhood. Law abiding families with kids live here. Please have your men put their guns away. Make an arrest if you must, but do it peacefully.”

  Fortier raised his brows. “You speak for the local Neighborhood Watch, I suppose, Madame?”

  Stormy began to wiggle in Christy’s arms. She tightened her grip. He hissed.

  Watch your tone, you unspeakable braggart.

  “Is that the cat talking?” the cop who apparently was able to hear Frank’s mind-speak said incredulously.

  There was a moment of stunned silence, then elation brightened Quinn’s eyes and he grabbed the opportunity. “And so says a man who is carrying a lethal weapon.” He shook his head and allowed contempt to curl his lips. “You choose your storm troopers well, Fortier.” The cop who had burst out with the comment turned a dark red.

  Annoyed, the inspector said, “Madame, take your animal and be gone.” He looked past Quinn to where Trevor and Sledge stood on the porch. “As soon as Monsieur SledgeHammer and the old man make way and surrender Dr. Ahern, I will have my men lower their weapons.”

  Christy eased to one side, clutching Stormy. This was not going to end well unless someone did something to diffuse the situation. “The cat thinks he’s part of the Neighborhood Watch too. He doesn’t like violence and guns frighten him. He’s just reacting to the situation.”

  Sledge laughed. Quinn shook his head and sighed. “See, Fortier, even the bystanders have to make excuses for your bozos.”

  Fortier’s expression morphed from annoyance to impatience. “Dr. Ahern, surrender yourself, if you please.”

  “Come into the house—alone—and we can discuss this,” Trevor said.

  “He won’t do that,” Quinn said. His tone was deliberately provocative. “He doesn’t have anything on Tamara, and without his posse of thugs he doesn’t have any clout.”

  Fortier’s brows rose. “Do I not, Monsieur Armstrong?” He turned to the cop who apparently could hear Frank speak. “Arrest him.”

  “With pleasure,” the cop said. He advanced on Quinn.

  Trevor stepped forward, breaking ranks with Sledge. “On what charges?” he demanded. From his tone of voice, Fortier’s order had caught him unawares.

  “I don’t like his attitude,” Fortier said, briskly.

  Roy rushed out from the house and pushed past Trevor. “You have no right!” He ran down the porch steps, heading for his son.

  The cop reached Quinn and pulled out a set of handcuffs. He grabbed Quinn’s arm, ready to snap them on. Quinn didn’t resist. He looked at Fortier and said, “You’ll regret this, Fortier.”

  Fortier shook his head. “I do not think I will. Doucet, now.”

  The other plainclothes cop, the one who had knocked on the door, had been standing quietly to one side of Trevor, largely forgotten in the midst of the action. At his boss’ command, he moved quickly, slipping in behind Trevor. Grabbing Tamara’s wrist, he hauled her out of the house.

  She screamed. Sledge nudged his father aside and pounced on Doucet, freeing Tamara. The detective went down with Sledge’s six foot plus on top of him. Trevor staggered across the porch and almost lost his balance at the top of the steps.

  It was a con! Damn it, the whole thing was one big con.

  About to snap the handcuffs on Quinn, the cop who could hear Frank hesitated. He peered at the cat, his expression suspicious. Quinn took advantage of the cop’s moment of distraction to put his shoulder against the guy’s chest and shove. The cop stumbled backward just as Roy reached him. They collided and both men went down. Quinn leapt over their squirming bodies and bounded up the stairs, passing Trevor, who had righted himself, on his way to Tamara, who was cringing in the doorway. She huddled there, shaking, her arms wrapped around her chest, her shoulders hunched, her whole attitude one of abject terror. Quinn pulled her into his arms and held her tightly.

  “Enough!” Fortier roared. His squad members raised their weapons.

  Everyone else froze.

  In the silence that followed, the sound of a door opening, then closing, followed by the click of a woman’s high heels on the wooden surface of a front porch, echoed loudly.

  As Christy turned to stare, Stormy quieted in her arms. Aunt Ellen?

  Dressed in an elegant sheath that had cost thousands and wa
s accessorized with a necklace of real diamonds, Ellen Jamieson stood straight and regal. She eyed the group at the Armstrongs’ with considerable disapproval. “I will have you know that I’ve phoned the police to report a home invasion in progress. A patrol car is on the way here and confirm they expect to arrive within three minutes. You.” She pointed at Fortier. “Leave now, or suffer the consequences.”

  Fortier goggled at her. “Mon Dieu!” he said to no one in particular. “I am surrounded by madmen!”

  Chapter 13

  “What the hell is going on?”

  Christy rarely swore. It was a measure of the impotent anger, well mixed with fear, that had kept her on edge since the taskforce had taken Quinn and Tamara away for questioning.

  “There’s not a lot I can tell you, Mrs. Jamieson,” Detective Patterson said. She paused to lean against the chain link fence that edged the cliffs on the north side of Burnaby Mountain Park where she and Christy had agreed to meet.

  Christy noted that Patterson was staring out at the gorgeous view of Indian Arm, rimmed by the lofty green North Shore Mountains and framed by a deep blue sky as she spoke. Was it a deliberate attempt to avoid meeting her gaze? Probably. The thought added fuel to her already smoldering temper. She planted herself beside Patterson, her side against the fence, facing the other woman. She was in Patterson’s space, determined to force her to make eye contact.

  “Two hours ago, I watched a good man hustled into a black SUV by a bunch of gun toting cops because he did nothing more than demand that a woman he cares for be treated with respect and given her legal rights. I’m not in the mood to play word games, Detective Patterson.”

  As Ellen had predicted, a cop car had arrived at the townhouse within a few minutes. The patrolmen had hovered at the edge of the fray, outranked by Fortier and the taskforce, badgered by an imperious Ellen. Those neighbors who were not at work emerged from their houses to watch the action. There were a lot of raised voices and some swearing, but somehow the addition of lots of civilians and a couple of patrolmen to the mix defused the dangerous tension. The SWAT team stood down, the arrests were made. The taskforce members loaded their prisoners into separate SUVs, piled in after them, then slowly, with proper decorum, drove away.