Maria had made fresh coffee and had baked empanadas for the two of them. It was nice when Luis and Tommie didn't eat with them. Maria didn't like to cook properly for Tommie and her brothers, she bought things in cans and packages. How would they know the difference when they washed everything down with beer?
Estrella said grace with Maria, and she said to herself a little prayer of her own, regarding Maria's fate. But her prayer for Maria's brothers was a different matter, a different kind of fate. Maria didn't need to hear that.
When the old woman had left the room, Joe and Dulcie returned to the windowsill to press against the glass, studying the cage and the three cats. The cats had waked when the old woman came to the window; they looked steadily back at them through the bars, with an intelligence and pleading that left no doubt of their true nature.
With swift claws Joe ripped a hole in the screen. Reaching through, catching his fur along the torn wire, he flipped the screen's latch free of its little ring. Pulling the screen out a few inches and slipping underneath, he and Dulcie clawed and pushed at the double-hung window. It stuck so hard they thought it must be nailed.
"More!" Joe hissed. "Push harder!" She pushed, they fought the double-hung panel until at last they were able to slide it up a few inches-but no farther. Something was stopping it; when they examined the molding, they could see where nails had been driven in to prevent it from rising higher. No human could get through, but fresh air could blow in.
Slipping under, they hit the floor as softly as they could, and leaped to the table that held the cage. They stood nose to nose with the three captives.
None of the three cringed away in fear or charged the bars with territorial rage as an ordinary cat might do, on first meeting. No one made a sound; no hiss, no threatening yowl. No claws or teeth bared in confrontation. But no one spoke. The three captives glanced toward the partially open door where at any moment the old woman or Luis might appear.
The one male was as white as snow, his long fur surprisingly fluffed and clean despite the crowded conditions. His blue eyes stared back at Joe with challenge, but it was only a good-natured tomcat challenge. The tabby male was darker than Dulcie, and long-furred, with a huge, fluffy tail. His ears were as tall and erect as those of a coyote. A strange cat, with eyes that were black-rimmed and then circled with palest cream. The female did not approach Joe and Dulcie, but pressed away against the bars as if she was afraid. She was a lovely, faded calico with a long face and a questioning look in her green eyes, the look of a cat who trusts no one.
For a long time, the three feral cats stood silently assessing Joe and Dulcie, taking their measure. The look in their eyes was a hunger for freedom, as powerful as that of three convicts on death row. It was Joe who spoke.
"Where is the key?" he said softly. "Tell me quickly." They could hear the two women talking out in the kitchen, could hear their cups clink on their saucers.
"He keeps the key in his pocket," the white tom said. "I am Cotton. I would kill him, if I could get my claws on him. The key is always there in his pocket. Maria says he puts his pants under his pillow when he goes to bed." The cat sneezed with disgust. "Can you get the key? Or get the lock open?" Intently, he studied Joe. "Would you dare to free us?"
The tabby tom said, "I hear them talking late at night, Maria and the old woman. They would free us, if Maria wasn't so afraid of her brother."
Joe and Dulcie circled the cage, examining the lock and hinges, and how the bars were set in place. Every joint was securely soldered, and there was no way those strong, thin bars could be bent or broken. Not without human hands and the right tools. There was no way to separate the barred walls at the corners; the hinges were soldered or welded, just as was the hasp. No way out of that prison, except with the key.
"Bolt cutters?" Dulcie said.
"If we had a pair of bolt cutters, how do you propose to lift them?" Joe snapped. "Let alone put enough pressure on them!" He stared in frustration at his paws. It wasn't fair, this human ability to use tools, while a clever and intelligent cat was so cruelly hampered.
"Maybe there's a second key," Dulcie said. She had that determined, stubborn look. "If there isn't, then we have to toss Luis's bedroom, slip his pants out from under the pillow."
Joe looked at her. "Is Luis someone you'd want to catch you while you're stealing his pants?"
Dulcie flicked a nonchalant whisker. "Bring him on, I'll shred him." But her green eyes reflected fear. The truth was, this Luis Rivas, with his interest in speaking cats, left her chilled and cringing.
24
Hanni Coon's Interiors occupied a handsome, used brick storefront two blocks off Ocean, the shop's softly tinted windows displaying unique and intriguing fabrics and accessories. This week Hanni had arranged a lush tangle of hand-woven cottons and carved furniture from the coast of Africa. Some weeks, it was all silks and damasks and period pieces; other times, an esoteric collection from Italy or Latin America. As flamboyant and self-assured as Hanni herself, the shop could exhibit any number of elegant personas.
It was barely seven in the morning when Charlie and Ryan parked Ryan's truck in front of the design studio. Approaching the elegant entry with its potted trees and theatrical displays, the two women looked out of place indeed dressed in their old, worn jeans and wrinkled boots; but neither cared, nor did Hanni. Peering in through the leaded-glass door, Ryan grinned at her sister. Hanni unlocked the door and opened it to the wonderful smells of freshly brewed coffee, something with onions and cheese, and the warm French rolls for which the corner bakery was famous. She was dressed in persimmon silk pants and flowing tunic, and sandals, with dangling gold circle earrings setting off her vivid complexion and short white hair. Ryan and Charlie moved quickly to the blazing fire and stood rubbing their cold hands.
Locking the door behind them, Hanni sat down at the end of the couch to pour coffee from a silver carafe into flowered porcelain mugs.
"You are a gem!" Ryan said. "I'm starved."
"You're always starved. Come sit." Hanni flipped back a lock of white hair, and passed them plates of miniature quiches, of fresh mango and papaya with lime wedges, and the basket of warm French rolls cosseted in a linen napkin. "You can't pick out rugs on an empty stomach."
"You sure you want to do this?" Charlie said. "Sell me rugs with no markup? Your rugs…"
"It's a fair trade. I take no markup. You let me ride Redwing whenever you don't have the time. Now, while you two fill your tummies, I'll just flip through the rack, find a few pieces you can study while you're eating." Rising, she began to slowly swing the metal arms of the ceiling-high rack that occupied the far wall, bringing the handmade rugs into view one at a time. Charlie could hardly eat for admiring the bright, primitive patterns. She wanted them all; she was asking Hanni the prices of several when she glanced out through the shop window and grew still.
"What?" Ryan and Hanni said together, craning to look.
"Don't turn around, Ryan. She's looking right in here. I can't believe this."
"Who?" they chorused. Ryan paused with her cup raised, glancing up sideways. Hanni stood unmoving beside the hanging rugs.
"Chichi Barbi," Charlie said. "Across the street in front of the drugstore, sitting on that bench. Staring right across at us, bold as brass. Staring right in! How much can she see, in here?"
"Can't see much, with no lights," Hanni said. "That blonde? Oh, of course-that woman who barged up to our table…"
Charlie nodded. "I… We think… Wilma and I think she's casing the shops for burglaries. We… My God, Hanni. With this new line of imported rugs, you have one of the most expensive inventories in the village."
Hanni looked alarmed for only a moment, then she grinned and shook her head.
"What?" Charlie said.
Hanni laughed. "I'm not a cop's kid for nothing. I won't show you, in case she can see in. I just had this baby installed, when I ordered the rugs and new rack. I can slide metal doors out from behind the walls, acr
oss the rack, and lock them. That, and the sophisticated alarm system… Someone could break a window, but they won't get the rugs." Leaving one of the most beautiful weavings facing Charlie, Hanni returned to the table, helped herself to breakfast, and sat down where she had a clear view of Chichi. "Does she always dress like a streetwalker?"
Ryan said, "She's making notes." She looked up at her sister. "Dallas and Max have gotten a call, one of those anonymous calls, that she's casing the more expensive shops. They think she might be part of the jewelry store bunch, that they could be planning one big hit, multiple stores all at one time."
"Chichi Barbi is part of that?" Hanni said. "I've been gone so much, I haven't talked with Dallas."
"They're working on backup," Ryan said. "Contacting other districts, to borrow officers. You know Uncle Dallas and Max! They'll have more men than they need, never doubt it."
Hanni took another quiche and wolfed it. "That's the kind of thing that makes me think about sleeping in the shop for a few nights, even with my new security."
"Dallas would have your hide," Ryan said. "Putting yourself in that kind of danger."
"We're not Dallas and Scotty's little girls anymore." Hanni reached for a second helping of mangoes.
"I wouldn't be too sure about that," Ryan told her. "Can you imagine their rage, or Dad's, if they caught you hiding out in your own shop waiting for armed robbers-or if you got shot?" But as the two talked, Charlie's attention was no longer on Chichi but on the dark little shadow crouched on the roof above her as Chichi made her mysterious notes.
Kit had been sitting on the roof for some time, intent on Chichi, who, in turn, was intent on the shops across the street, particularly on Hanni Coon's Interiors. Kit had seen Charlie and Ryan go in, and guessed they were shopping for Charlie's rugs. Next door to Hanni's, the owner of the antique shop had the front door open, and the round, elderly woman was sweeping the entry and sidewalk. Next to her at the Tweed Shop, the driver of a brown UPS truck was unloading several large brown boxes. On down the street at the Gucci shop with its diamond-paned windows and small, elegant garden, the tall, slim, bald owner was watering his miniature roses and ferns. Chichi, making notes behind a newspaper that she pretended to be reading, was watching them all. And she was making the same kind of cryptic notes in her spiral-bound notebook as she had before. Kit wished she'd spell it all out; that stuff was hard to remember. Occasionally Chichi glanced at her watch as if recording the time of each occurrence. Kit did her best to commit the entries to memory-that seemed easier since Lucinda had written out the first batch for her last night, when she'd spied on Chichi in the Patio Cafe. Now Chichi's scribbles made sense; now all she had to do was call the station.
In Hanni's firelit shop, the three women polished off breakfast while they watched Chichi.
"I wonder if that's her real name," Hanni said. She glanced at Ryan. "Have you seen her around the village with anyone, any strangers? Has Clyde? She's living right next door to Clyde."
Ryan shrugged, and said nothing.
"Well, she has your back up," Hanni said, grinning. She glanced at Charlie. "Could she be a writer? Doing some kind of research? Why did she move in next to Clyde? She was so friendly, that night at Lupe's." But then Hanni frowned. "Wanting to get friendly with Dallas and Max? To get on their good side? Or to draw their attention away from someone or something?" Her eyes widened. "Distract them from the burglary that night?"
Charlie said, "It was more than an hour between dinner and the burglary. But… she makes me uneasy, too." She studied Ryan, her dark-lashed green eyes, her clear tan and bouncy dark hair. "You needn't be jealous over Clyde, certainly not jealous of the likes of her."
Charlie left the shop with Ryan, having selected three beautiful primitive rugs that would set her back a bundle, even at wholesale prices. Picking up her own car, she headed up the hills to inspect a new job and a new cleaning crew. Pulling out into light village traffic and turning up into the north hills, she was glad she'd have little, wizened Mavity Flowers to oversee the two new crew members.
This was the fourth year for Charlie's Fix It, Clean It, and the business she'd built had grown to be nearly more than she could handle. But she was proud of what she had created, and it was too successful to let go; she didn't want to sell. For one thing, her customers had come to depend on her. Hers was the only service in the village where the same crew would clean the house, make all the minor household repairs, even fix fences and roofs, run errands and feed the dog.
She would feel ashamed at discontinuing the service, at letting down her regulars-to say nothing of the very nice income. She was helping to pay for the new construction on their house, and would, in turn, take a tax write-off on her new office-studio. What she badly needed was a manager for the cleaning business; so far she'd found no one she trusted who wanted to take on the extra work and responsibility.
Winding up into the hills, checking her map to make sure of the address, she was a block from the new job when she hit the brakes. Stopping dead in the empty residential street, she stared up a long, steep driveway.
But then hastily she pulled on past; she didn't stop again until she'd parked a block away, pulling in behind her old blue van with CHARLIE'S FIX IT, CLEAN IT lettered on the side. She sat a moment behind the wheel, smiling, then flipped open her cell phone.
How often did this happen? She could hardly believe what she'd seen.
The house she had passed was a tall, old stucco badly in need of paint, two stories in front, one story behind, old-fashioned lace curtains at the windows, unpainted picket fence along the steep drive. Halfway up the drive, pulled to the side into some concealing bushes, or perhaps so another car could go past into the closed garage, stood a brown Toyota pickup.
It was maybe ten years old, dull and battered and with a dented tailgate and a missing back bumper. It was without doubt one of the two getaway cars the department had ID'd. Glancing in her rearview mirror, she hit the button for the station.
25
Max Harper was headed downstairs to the department's indoor firing range when the dispatcher came out from behind her counter and called down the hall to him. "You might want to take this, Captain. Caller won't give her name." Mabel smiled; she knew that voice. She didn't know who it belonged to, no one did, but this was a caller the chief always found of interest. "I tried to take the message," she said, amused. "She wasn't about to do that."
Harper turned into his office and pushed the door closed, shutting out the joking and laughing of several officers heading downstairs. As he sat down at his cluttered desk, he could hear through the floor the faint, random popping of the first group as they fired at the moving targets. With his usual wariness at talking with this particular snitch, he picked up the phone.
"Captain Harper, I watched that woman again. She was making notes about the shopkeepers again early this morning before opening time. Just after seven. The Gucci shop, and Hanni Coon's studio. Maybe it isn't important, but…"
"I'm always interested," Harper said softly. She sounded hesitant this morning, as if she thought he might not like her calling. "I always welcome your calls." He sure didn't want to lose her; this snitch and her partner had been responsible for a considerable number of arrests and prosecutions. Hitting the RECORD button, he snatched up a pen and pad. Harper liked to hedge his bets, not rely totally on electronic equipment.
"That same blond woman, writing down when people get to their shops or when they close up, if they open the door early to sweep or take deliveries. This morning she wrote down that Mrs. Harkins swept the front walk and watered the flowers then locked the front door again and went down the street for a cup of coffee at Ronnie's Bakery. She wrote down the time that she left, and how long she was gone."
Where had the snitch been, to see all that and to see what Chichi had written? He burned to ask her how she'd done that, ask her some details of her own movements, but she'd hung up on him.
She told him she had seen Charl
ie and Ryan inside Hanni's studio, looking at rugs, and that made him smile. Charlie would be high just looking at those rugs-the soul of an artist, he thought. Same kind of kick he got from locking up some skuzzy felon.
When the snitch had hung up, he sat at his desk trying to put down the uneasy feeling her calls gave him.
Yet every one of these calls, though they made him squirm, had supplied the department with valuable leads. Facts and evidence they might otherwise never have uncovered; or would have done so only after a long and expensive, drawn-out series of searches. Dallas called it uncanny. Max didn't like the word "uncanny."
Pouring the last of his cold, overcooked coffee into a mug, he sipped the bitter brew, studying the notes he had made, taking advantage of a moment of seclusion that his private space and closed door offered.
This kind of solitude had been unavailable when the department was one big open squad room with its clatter and bantering officers and constantly ringing phones. He didn't miss the busy friction and din. His new, well-organized space added up to a welcome sense of ease. The tall oak bookcases, Charlie's drawings of Bucky on the paneled walls, the leather couch and chair and the handsome Oriental rug-Charlie had combined the furnishings to create a comfortable retreat where he could enjoy a few moments of peace-except for, as at the moment, whatever edgy feeling he brought in with him.
Chewing over his notes, he at last gave up wondering how she'd gotten the information, and rose to head downstairs. He stopped when Mabel put through another call. "It's your wife, Captain. It's Charlie."
He returned to his office, picking up the phone to Charlie's excited voice.
"I think I found the second car, the brown truck. Toyota pickup, maybe 1980 or so. No back bumper, and a dented tailgate." She gave him the address up in the north hills, described the house and how the car was parked.
"How close are you? Get away from it, Charlie. Did you see the plate?"
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