Clyde kept his hands still, tried to keep his face bland.
"It's the informant that troubles me," Harper said. "We don't get many informants calling in cold, without previous contact. You know it takes time to develop a good snitch, and this woman-I don't know what to make of her."
Clyde eased himself deeper into the soft leather of the booth, wishing he were somewhere else.
"She has a quiet voice, but with a strange little tinge of sarcasm." Harper sipped his beer. "A peculiarly soft way of speaking, and yet that little nudging edge to it.
"Her first calls seemed to have nothing to do with the Lake trial. She called to tell me she'd slipped a list under the station door, and to explain about it. I had the list on my desk when she called." With his thumbnail he began to press on the wet beer label he'd stuck to the table, pressing at its edges. "It was her list that led us to that burglary up on Cypress.
"We made two arrests, caught them red-handed, impounded a truck full of stolen TVs, videos, some antiques and jewelry, ski equipment, a mink coat.
"The list of residences to be hit was very detailed, showed the times each householder left for work, kind of car, times the kids left for school, time the school bus stops. Right down to if the family kept a dog.
"But no indication of what day the burglaries would come down. She said she didn't know, suggested I set up a stakeout, was almost bossy about it. She put me off, and I almost tossed the list." Harper looked uncomfortable, as if the room was too hot.
"But then she called back, later that same night. Gave me the hit date, said she'd just found out." Harper abandoned the label, lit a cigarette. He had shaped the O'Doul's label into a long oval with a lump at one end. "That second call came maybe an hour after that fuss up at Sicily's gallery, the night those cats got locked inside."
Clyde grinned. "The night my stupid cat got shut in. You saying this woman made the call from the gallery? That the cats got in when she entered?"
"No, I'm not saying that," Harper snapped. He stubbed out his cigarette and fingered the half-empty pack, then laid it aside, started in on the label again, working at it absently with his thumbnail. "I'm not saying that at all. Simply stating the sequence of events.
"And it was that same day," he said, "midafternoon, when the new witness turned up. The one who saw the white van in Janet's drive."
Clyde watched the beer label taking shape, Harper's thumb forming a crude, lumpy head.
Harper finished his beer, draining the glass. "You know I don't believe in coincidence. But the strange thing is-that witness who saw the white van, she turned out to be the mother of one of the burglars."
Clyde frowned, shook his head as if trying to sort that out. He had to swallow back a belly laugh. Despite Harper's obvious distress, this was the biggest joke of all time on his good friend. And he couldn't say a word.
Harper still hadn't told him about the watch. It was the watch that was really bugging Harper.
"Yesterday the informant called, asked if we'd found Janet's paintings. She seemed pleased that we had.
"She told me that when we found Kendrick Mahl's watch, that could wrap up the case. She said it was in a drainpipe up in the hills, that we'd have to dig down and cut through the pipe. She thought if we cut straight down into the pipe, we wouldn't disturb the evidence, could still photograph it before we moved it. She gave me the location of the marker where we were to dig, a little pile of rocks, up the hill from the mouth of the drain."
He looked a long time at Clyde. "The drainpipe turned out to be just up beyond the burglarized house, and not fifty yards from where we arrested James Stamps. He'd run up the hill chasing his dog. Dog bit Thompson real bad."
Harper grinned. "Thompson was crawling around in the bushes taking pictures of these two perps, and the dog jumps him.
"We got Thompson to the hospital, took the dog to the pound for observation. Don't know what it got mixed up with, but its face was one bloody mess, Thompson didn't think he did that. Long scratches down the dog's nose and ear."
Harper gave the head on the O'Doul's label two pointed ears, pushed the wet paper again, starting to form a tail. "No one," he said, "could have known what was in that drain. You couldn't see a thing from the opening, not even with a flashlight. The watch was maybe fifteen feet back inside.
"But my informant knew. Knew where the watch was, knew whose watch it was. She described the stone marker exactly. Little pile of rocks pressed into the earth in the form of an X, where the grass had been scraped away."
"Pretty strange," Clyde said. "Makes you wonder. You don't think she's a psychic or something?"
"You know I don't believe in that stuff. It was some job digging down into the drainpipe, and I didn't believe for a minute we'd find anything. I thought this would end up a big department joke."
"Then why did you do it?"
"There's always that chance. Better to be the butt of a joke than miss something. We dug down seven feet to the metal pipe, then cut through the metal with an acetylene torch, kept the flame small as we could.
"Broke down into the pipe two feet above the skeleton of a dead cat."
Clyde wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"The cat had a collar around its neck with Janet Jeannot's name on it." Harper was very still, looking at Clyde. "Kendrick Mahl's watch was buckled to the collar."
Clyde shook his head, did his best to look amazed. He'd had to listen half the night to Joe bragging about the damned watch, and about the paintings.
"We photographed the watch and got it and the skeleton to the lab. Lab found Mahl's prints on the watch, underneath Janet's prints.
"We have photographs of Mahl wearing the watch a week before Janet was killed. And a shot of him the night of the museum opening wearing a different watch, a new Rolex.
"We found the store where he bought the Rolex, a place on the other side of San Francisco from the St. Francis, little hole in the wall. They sold it the day of the opening. The customer fit Mahl's description. He paid cash." Harper grew still as the waiter brought another round of beers, the round little man moving quietly, leaving quickly.
"After we arrested Mahl we searched his apartment. Found the bolt cutters he used to cut the lock off at the storage complex. Found the keys to Janet's studio and to her van, under the liner of his overnight bag. And he had a set of keys to Rob's Suburban. The way we see Mahl's moves, he had already brought the substitute paintings down to Molena Point, sometime before that weekend, and put them in the locker. On Saturday he checks into the St. Francis and puts his car in the underground parking.
"Saturday night he uses his parking ticket to take out Janet's van-he knew she was out to dinner with friends, probably had a good idea she'd make an early evening of it. He drives down to the village, gets the fake paintings, switches them for Janet's, rigs Janet's oxygen tank, and drops some aspirin in her coffeemaker. Stashes her paintings in the locker and hightails it back to the city before daylight.
"He puts Janet's van back in the parking garage, uses that entry ticket later to retrieve his own car. He'd have had to put the van back in the same slot. Probably he pulled his own car into her slot, to reserve it while he was gone. Counted on Janet's not coming down at some late hour; he knew she didn't like to party.
"Who knows when he missed his watch? We're guessing he didn't miss it until he was back in the city, and then it was too late to turn around and go back. He had to be seen at the St. Francis for breakfast, be seen around town that weekend, and, of course, at the opening Sunday night.
"But when he gets back to Molena Point after the opening late Sunday night he takes Rob's Suburban while Rob's asleep, goes to get his watch."
"But he's too late," Clyde said. "Janet's already up in the studio. And no one saw him switch the paintings, no one saw him around the locker?"
"Caretaker says there were two men nosing around outside the fence a couple of nights earlier. He didn't see them clearly, didn't see their car." Harper o
pened his menu, looked it over. "There were some pieces of sculpture in the locker with the paintings, probably he'd put them in some time before. Early work that, Sicily said, Janet hadn't liked much, that she'd left behind when she split from Mahl and moved out. Maybe Mahl thought they'd be worth something now."
He closed the menu. "Think I'll have the filet and fries."
Clyde grinned. This was Max's standard order, filet medium rare, fries crisp, no salad. "It's a weird story, Max. Don't know what to make of it."
Max shaped the wet label more carefully, its front paws tucked under, its long tail curved. "Informant sees a watch where it's impossible to see it. Night watchman hears voices, but no one there. Call comes over a unit radio, and no trace of the caller.
"But we've got a positive ID of the handwriting on the locker file card and lifted a nice set of Mahl's prints from it."
"Then you've wrapped up the case," Clyde said. "Mahl's in jail. You have solid evidence. And you told me Marritt is off the case and in a bad light with the mayor."
"You bet he is."
"And a new trial pending. Sounds like you're in good shape."
"That watchman can't have heard voices."
"So if no one was there, was the old man lying?"
"One theory is, he was nosing around the lockers for his own purposes, maybe stealing. That when he looked over the wall into K20-or maybe picked the lock to K20-he realized the paintings were Janet's and knew he'd better report it to avoid trouble, so he dreamed up the voices routine.
"Good theory."
"But I don't buy it. I've known old Mr. Lent for years. That old man wouldn't steal if he was starving. And he was really upset by what he thought was a break-in.
"And there's the vent," Harper said. "Vent screen above those lockers was torn."
"A vent screen?"
"Vent about four inches by eight inches."
"So what does that mean? He hears voices through the vent and thinks they're in a locker?" Clyde thought he was getting good at this, at playing dumb-it was little different than lying. Though he didn't much like that skill in himself.
"First thing the watchman heard was a thud, when he was making his rounds. Said it sounded as if something heavy fell. He'd gone around to where he heard it, was standing beneath the vent listening, when he heard the voices, couldn't quite make out what they were saying. A man and a woman, he said, talking real soft."
Harper frowned. "That vent-Lent says the screen wasn't torn when he inspected the buildings earlier that day. Said he always looks along the roofline under the eaves, checking for any signs of leaks."
He settled back sipping a fresh O'Doul's, watching Clyde. "There were hairs clinging to the torn screen. Dark gray hairs, very short. And some white hairs and some pale orange."
"Whose hair was it?"
"It was cat hair."
"Cat hair? I thought you were going to say you had a make on someone besides Mahl. Why would a cat go into a storage locker? Mice? Remind me not to store anything up there. And how could a cat-how high was the vent?"
The waiter brought their napkins and silverware, and the condiments, and a complimentary bowl of french friend onions, and took their order. When he had gone, the two men sat quietly, looking at each other.
Max said, "Millie told me once, a couple of years before she died, 'Don't fool around with the far-out stuff, Max. It can put you right around the bend.'"
Max's wife Millie had been a special investigator. She had spent much of her time checking out odd reports, saucer sightings, nutcases, relatives returned from the dead. Once in a while she'd get one that wouldn't add up, that didn't seem to be a nutcase, and that upset her.
"That stuff she worked on, it always did give me the creeps."
A police officer's training made it hard to deal with the unexplainable. Cops were trained to remember every fact, see and remember every small detail, trained to smell a scam a mile away. A cop was totally fact-oriented, a good officer didn't go for the crazy stuff. So when the facts added up to the impossible, that could really be upsetting.
Harper wiped beer rings from the table with a paper napkin, wiped away the misshapen O'Doul's label from the oak surface. "Now I know how she felt. How easy it could be, given certain circumstances, to wander right over the edge."
"I don't know anything that would put you over the edge," Clyde said. "Hell, Max, be happy with what you have, a case wrapped up, solid evidence-take it and enjoy."
Harper wadded the O'Doul's label into a little ball and dropped it in the ashtray, watched the waiter approaching with their steaks.
26
The county animal pound stunk of dog doo and cat urine and strong disinfectant. Dulcie could smell it long before Wilma carried her inside. The barking and high-keyed yapping, the cacophony which had been triggered by the sound of their car pulling up in front on the gravel drive, deafened her.
The cement block building was located five miles south of Molena Point, isolated among the hills near a water treatment plant. A small patch of lawn surrounded it, neatly clipped. Beyond the lawn rose a tangle of weeds. Dulcie had never been inside an animal pound; it wasn't an experience she had anticipated with any great joy. But now, riding over Wilma's shoulder, she let herself be carried inside.
The office was small, the cement block walls painted a nauseating shade of pale green. Once the door was closed, the frenzied barking began to subside. Behind the counter a young, heavy, pear-shaped woman shook back her dark hair, looked at Wilma expectantly, and held out her hands to relieve Wilma of the cat.
Wilma drew back, held Dulcie against her. "I'm not bringing her to you. I'm not giving her to you. We-I want to look at your kittens. I brought her along to see if any of the kittens appeal to her." Wilma smiled winningly. "If she's going to have a companion, I want to be sure they're compatible."
The young clerk looked amused, as if she were used to patronizing the addle-brained elderly. As she led them back into the feline portion of the facility, the barking exploded again beyond the block wall.
She left them in the cat room among the rows of wire cages, abandoning Wilma to her own devices, but cautioning her that though she could wander at her leisure, she mustn't open any of the cage doors, and she gave Wilma a stern, proprietary look to make sure she would comply.
The abandoned kittens and cats crouched on cold metal floors, some looking unwell, some dirty, some very thin. But their cages and boxes were clean, and they had food and clean water. Dulcie supposed the sick ones, which were isolated at one end, were being treated. But she didn't like peering in at the hopeless, mute beasts. She had never been in a cage, she had never had any of the experiences that these strays had encountered, and though she wasn't particularly proud of the fact, she was grateful. Once, when Joe told her she was a hothouse flower, she had belted him so hard she drew blood.
She knew that the caged kittens were better off here, where they could be fed and cared for, than starving and alone, but it hurt her to see any cat confined. And the only stray cats she was familiar with were those few who lived beneath the beachside boardwalk and wharf, surviving on fish offal from the pier above, and fed by one or two villagers. Those cats were given shots by the local vet, her own Dr. Firreti; the cats were captured, treated, and turned loose again.
As she and Wilma moved along among the cages, she saw no cat like herself and Joe, no cat who brightened unnaturally at her appraising look. Just dear, homeless cats and kittens, mute and frightened.
And though she and Wilma spent an hour at the pound, Wilma talking to the kittens and making a fuss over them, Dulcie found none that suited her. None seemed bold enough, healthy enough, pushy and strong enough for her purpose.
She felt a twisting guilt at leaving the homeless kits, and she knew Wilma would bring one or several home if she wanted, but it was a big job raising kittens, and Wilma did not seem eager to be responsible for another cat. And Dulcie herself hardly knew yet what her own life was about. As they turned
away, she prayed the youngsters would find someone to love them. It was not until they had driven back to the village and gone to see Dr. Firreti, that they found the right kitten.
The black-and-white kitten was from a litter of seven that had been left on the clinic doorstep. Too often unwanted animals were dumped on Dr. Firreti. He found homes for a surprising number of orphans.
He had already given this kitten his shots, and the little male was wildly healthy, a big, strong youngster with a black mustache beneath his nose, big floppy paws, a broad head. This was a kitten who would grow into a big, powerful cat, a cat who could hold his own against Varnie Blankenship. By the time Varnie got out of prison, the kitten would be maybe two years old and quite able to stand up for himself.
But the youngster was cuddly and sweet-tempered, too, and when Dulcie licked and snuggled him, he was delightfully huggable. She played with the kit for a long time, teasing him, testing him, learning about him. Her antics amused Dr. Firreti, but he was a tolerant man. He said animals never ceased to amaze him.
When she slapped at the kitten and prodded him, he came right up at her, spitting and snarling, sank in his teeth, showing more than enough spunk to take care of himself in the Blankenship household. She just hoped that when he got older he would remain a lap sitter and not go rampaging off on his own, leaving the old lady lonely. She was surprised at how much she had grown to care for old Mrs. Blankenship.
Leaving Dr. Firreti's, they drove straight up into the hills toward the Blankenship house. The kitten sat on the seat beside Dulcie, erect and observant, looking up through the windows at the treetops and sky with a wide, delighted gaze, lifting a paw now and then as branches whizzed past.
Wilma parked a block from the brown house and waited in the car while Dulcie directed her charge down the sidewalk beside her. He seemed thrilled with the warm wind and the fresh smells, with the blowing leaves and the tender grass, but he stayed close. Though six months was a silly, defiant age, he minded her very well. He gamboled and pranced, but he didn't bolt away on his own. She led him up to the shabby brown house, straight to the old woman's window.
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