Patricia Fry - Klepto Cat 04 - Undercover Cat

by Patricia Fry

  She walked toward the porch, but before she could reach the steps, she became aware that she wasn’t alone. She started to turn toward the sound she heard coming from her left when she felt someone grab her. The tote bag flew from her arms as she struggled to get free, but her assailant was much larger than she was and he easily overtook her by brute strength. Not one to give up easily, she continued to fight, kicking at the legs behind her, wriggling to get free of the grip, and screaming as loudly as she could. Suddenly she felt a damp cloth cover her mouth and nose. There was a pungent smell and then blackness. She wasn’t aware of anything until she woke up in the dark, dank room in what appeared to be a basement.

  Chapter Two

  “Jackson, sorry to call you so early, but I’m trying to get in touch with Stanton. Do you know where she is? She’s not answering her phone.”

  “Uh, hi boss. What time is it?”

  “After eight.”

  “In the morning?” Damon raised off his pillow and looked at the clock next to his twin bed.

  “Yeah,” Sterling Boggs responded. “Did you work late again last night?”

  “Yes. And I know that Colbi was on a deadline with you. What happened? Didn’t she meet it? That’s not like her.”

  “No it’s not. Do you know where she lives? Do you think you could find out what’s going on? I need that story.”

  “Uh, sure, boss. I know where she lives. I’ll go out there and check on things. She may have just fallen asleep before getting the story to you.”

  Damon recalled being out at Colbi’s place twice before—once when he picked her up for a special meeting at the newspaper office on a weekend, and another time he gave her a ride home from work when her car broke down.

  “Jackson, before you go…if she doesn’t have the story, do you have something we can run in its place? I’m desperate here.”

  “I guess…yeah… I think I can put something together for you. But I’m sure Colbi is working on her story. Don’t jump to conclusions yet. I’ll call you in a few.”

  “Mornin’, Son,” Iris said when she saw Damon step into the kitchen dressed in jeans and a tan long-sleeved tee. “Coffee?” she asked.

  “Yes, to go, if you don’t mind,” he said, tossing the jacket he was carrying across a chair.

  She stared at the young man before her.

  “What?” he questioned suspiciously.

  “Oh nothing,” she said, reaching out to briefly touch his curly red hair. “I’m just happy to have you back.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he said, giving her the crooked smile she had yearned for years to see again. “Me, too.”

  She cocked her head and said, “I’m proud of you, you know.”

  “Sure, Mom. That’s a mother’s job—to be proud of her kids.” Ready to change the subject of his life as a druggie and his incarceration, he said, “You must work this morning, huh?”

  “Yeah, I get the lunch shift.” She faced the kitchen counter and reached for a travel mug, pouring it full of coffee. “Where are you off to so early? A hot story?”

  “I hope not—Boggs is sending me out to check on Colbi.”

  Iris spun toward Damon, her brows creased, a red ringlet brushing alongside one cheek. “Colbi, why? What’s happened?” Iris asked hesitantly.

  “Well, nothing, I’m sure. She didn’t get a story in when the boss thought she should and he can’t reach her, so he wants me to find out why—rattle her cage.”

  “Oh dear—I hope she’s okay,” Iris said, pressing the lid onto the mug.

  “I’m sure she is—she probably just fell asleep.” He grinned. “Boy, wait until I razz her about that.” He slipped on his jacket, walked through the living room with the travel mug, and opened the door to leave. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll see you later,” he called out as he closed the door behind him.

  “Yeah, she’s just sleeping in,” Damon said to himself as he pulled up to the old Stanton place. Both her cars are here. It’ll be fun waking her up. She’ll be freaked that she didn’t make deadline. And I’ll get to see what she looks like first thing in the morning…I imagine as pretty as she does during the day at work. He chuckled to himself as he thought about how hard he had to concentrate on not concentrating on her at work, lest he become distracted. She is one good-lookin’ gal with that cute figure, those gorgeous eyes, and that lush, long hair. How many times he had longed to run his hands through her hair. Someday, maybe, someday. Yeah, I know she’s a little older than me, but I guess we can’t help who we’re attracted to.

  That’s odd, he thought. Looks like one of Colbi’s shoes—the clogs she wore yesterday. I can never understand how she keeps those things on and why she wears them when she’s going to be on her feet all day. They look uncomfortable to me. He got out of his car and walked over to where the shoe lay just to the left of the porch. He picked it up. Why would she take her shoes off on such a chilly night before going in? And if she did, where’s the other shoe?

  He looked around and didn’t see the mate. I guess a varmint could have made off with it—this is kind of wild country out here. He recalled Colbi talking about seeing all kinds of wildlife out there—raccoons, possums, and such.

  What’s this? Damon wondered. He walked toward a puddle and retrieved a piece of paper. Guess it rained some last night, he thought. He turned the paper over and read, “Cat Hoarders—a Hindrance or a Help?” Hmmm, is this from the big story she was working on? What’s it doing out here? He looked around the area again. Finding nothing else, he walked boldly up the porch steps, placed the items on an old wooden chair and knocked on the door. When there was no answer, he used the horseshoe knocker, striking it several times. He opened the screen door and knocked again.

  Just then, he spotted something out the corner of his eye. He glanced quickly, just in time to see a cat disappear under the porch. Oh yeah, she feeds a bunch of cats out here. Scraggly beasts! He turned back toward the door and knocked again and again.

  He walked along the porch to a window and attempted to peer in. All he could see was a small slice of the room. No movement. Nothing seemingly out of place.

  “Mew.”

  Damon looked toward the sound. There, just at the edge of the porch, were two round green eyes staring at him. “What do you want me to do? I’m doing my best to find her.” He shook his head. What the hell is the matter with me? I’m talking to a stupid cat. He glanced in the cat’s direction. That’s a small cat—maybe a kitten. And it’s still staring. “I wish you’d stop that,” he said as he turned to walk toward the back of the house.

  It’s strange that she’s not responding, but I guess she could be in an upstairs bedroom and doesn’t hear the knocking. “Colbi!” he called. Nothing.

  He walked back up the front porch steps and tried the doorknob. Locked. Beginning to feel a bit panicked, Damon took out his cell phone and called her number. It went to voicemail. He left a message. He then walked down the steps to the driveway and called Sterling Boggs. He paced as he spoke. “Hey Boss, I’m out here at Colbi’s house and I can’t find her. Her cars are here—both of them. But I can’t raise her.” Something caught Damon’s eye. He stopped pacing…hesitated and then said into the phone, “Hey wait a minute—keys. There’s a set of keys on the ground…let me see if one works on the front door.” Shortly, he reported, “I’m inside. Hold on and let me see what I can find.”

  “Colbi!” he called out loudly. When there was no response, he walked through the ground floor calling and then took the stairs two at a time and checked all of the bedrooms and the bathroom. “That’s odd,” he said into the phone. “She’s not here. Her cars are here and I found one shoe outside.”

  “What about her purse—her laptop, are they there?”

  Damon looked around in what he thought was probably her bedroom. He then walked back downstairs, stood in the middle of a small dining room, and glanced in every direction—into the small kitchen and the living room. “I don’t see any of that stuff.” His eyes wandered
over to a coat tree and he added, “…or the jacket she wore last night.” Damon felt as if he would explode. His voice quivered a little as he said, “Boss, something’s wrong. I’m sure of it. I’m going to call Craig Sledge.”

  “Okay, whatever you think—you don’t suppose she just went for a walk, do you?”

  He frowned, contemplating the question. “I kinda doubt it—I think something has happened to her. Boss, I’m worried. Let me get Detective Sledge out here and I’ll call you later.”

  Before Damon could end the call, he heard Boggs say, “About your backup story, Jackson…”

  He hesitated before responding. “Yes, I’ll get something to you before noon. You can count on it.”

  Twenty minutes later, Damon greeted the detective—the man who was at least partially responsible for Damon’s successful reentry into society. It wasn’t clear why Craig had chosen to mentor the young man while he was in prison—perhaps because he was sweet on Iris, he saw promise in Damon, or he wanted to make up for losing his own son to drugs, but both mother and son were extremely grateful. “Thanks for coming out, Craig,” Damon said while rubbing one hand over his head.

  “Sure, buddy. Now what do you think is going on?”

  “Man, I don’t know. It’s as if Colbi has just disappeared. I had coffee with her last night. She was coming home to finish a piece for the paper on deadline. But it doesn’t look like she even went inside.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring of keys. “I found these out here on the ground. The door was locked.”

  “So you went in using these keys?”

  “Yes, I had to make sure she wasn’t hurt or…” Damon looked down and shook his head. “Where the hell is she?” he asked, not expecting an answer.

  “Try to stay calm, Damon. We’ll figure this out. Generally, as you may know, we don’t investigate a missing-person report until they’ve been gone for a period of time, unless there’s evidence of foul play.” He looked at Damon as if waiting for a response.

  “Heck, I don’t know what evidence you need, Craig. But what girl would take off her shoes on a cold, rainy night before stepping up on the porch?”

  “What shoe?” Craig asked.

  “I found one of the shoes she wore last night right there where you’re standing,” Damon explained.

  “Maybe she took them off on the porch and left them there because they were muddy. A stray dog or maybe a wild animal might have found them interesting and knocked them around.”

  Damon frowned and rubbed his chin.

  “Just playing devil’s advocate, kid. It’s sometimes useful in a situation like this.” The detective stood in place and looked around at the scene before him, taking in the automobiles and considering the placement of the lone shoe. “Where did you find the keys?” he asked absently.

  Damon pointed. “About here—halfway between the truck and the house.” Then he remembered something else. He walked over to the porch and picked up the piece of muddy, water-logged paper. He held it up. “I found this over there in that puddle.”

  When Craig scratched his head and looked puzzled, Damon said, “I imagine it’s a page from some of the research she’s been doing for a story that was due this morning.” He looked at the page again and said, “I think she’s been investigating something to do with cat abuse.”

  “You don’t know?” Craig asked, taking the paper from him. “She didn’t tell you when you were together last night?”

  “Naw, we sometimes have this friendly rivalry thing going on and she wanted to keep it a secret until the story broke.”

  Craig studied Damon’s face. He looked down at the paper. “Cat hoarders? Why would anyone hoard cats and why is it worth writing about?”

  Damon shook his head. “Well, I’m not exactly sure. She’s been doing a series on cats, abuse, and stuff and this last piece was supposed to be a real eye-opener for a lot of people and maybe cause some other people a lot of trouble, I guess. There are laws against animal abuse, you know.”

  “Well sure, but…” Craig started. He then looked pensive for a moment, cocked his head, narrowed his eyes, and walked forward several steps. “What’s this?” he asked bending down for a closer look at something that was barely visible from under one of the shrubs.

  Damon walked over to where Craig stood. “Looks like a man’s handkerchief—a muddy handkerchief. Probably was her dad’s. This was his place until he died.”

  Craig pulled a plastic bag out of his jacket pocket and, using the point of his pen, scooted the piece of cloth into it. He sealed the bag, took another look at it, and slipped it into his pocket saying, “I’ll hand it over to the lab.”

  Damon’s voice raised an octave. “So you think something has happened to her?”

  “I didn’t say that, kid. But it won’t hurt to have this checked out—just in case.”

  The two men started to leave the home, when Damon remembered something. He walked back over to the porch and looked around the area. “Here kitty,” he said, chuckling a little, thinking he’d never in a million years hear himself say those words. He walked along the side of the house, looking around the yard, behind bushes, up in the trees, and finally he walked back over to the porch and peered underneath. He saw a variety of bowls; some of them still held a smattering of cat kibbles. There were two nearly empty water bowls. He found a hose and filled the water bowls. Then he leaned down as far as he could without his knees resting on the damp, rain-soaked ground and spotted eyes—several pairs of little round eyes—staring out at him. “Okay guys, if she doesn’t come back pretty soon, I’ll bring you all something to eat.” Stupid cats. Why am I talking to stupid cats? he thought. They don’t understand what I’m saying. But they’re Colbi’s cats and I know she likes them, so I will take care of them for her.

  ***

  Several hours later, Damon looked at the wall clock to the left of his cubical: three o’clock. He tried Colbi’s cell phone again. No answer. The next number he called was Detective Craig Sledge’s. “Craig, what did you find out about that handkerchief, anything?”

  “A homemade form of chloroform, buddy. It may have been used to subdue Colbi. We’re treating her place as a crime scene. My guys are out there going over everything now.”

  Damon jumped to his feet. “Oh my gosh! Somebody took her? Who would do this?” he said.

  “We don’t have any answers yet.” Craig hesitated, then added, “Damon, you know we’ll find your prints inside.”

  Damon settled back down in his chair. “Well, yeah,” he said. “I went in the house this morning.”

  “Did you touch anything while you were in there?”

  He thought for a moment. “I suppose so—doorknobs, stairway banister, maybe…but Craig, I don’t think whoever took her went inside, do you? There’s nothing out of order in there. She didn’t even have her laptop set up or her research papers spread around. She had all that stuff with her when I saw her after work. I don’t think she even got inside the house with it, do you?”

  “It’s a probability,” Craig said. “Damon, which vehicle was she driving last night, do you know?”

  “Uh, the old truck.”

  “Thanks. Now we didn’t find her laptop or any paperwork in either the truck or the car.” He hesitated. “I just hope someone left a good clue somewhere.”

  “Footprints?” Damon suggested.

  “It rained, remember. We did see possible evidence of a scuffle; even found a bare toe print—probably hers. But no clear shoe prints.”

  “Damn. Who would want to hurt her?” Damon started. “She’s so…”

  “We’ll find her, kid. Just do this for me…”

  Damon listened intently. “What?”

  “Think hard about your conversation last night and let us know if anything—anything at all—comes to mind that might help us find her.”

  “You can bet I will. Thank you, Craig.”

  ***

  It was nearly six that evening when Damon entered the k
itchen of his mother’s home.

  “Hi there, Son,” Iris said. “You’re a little late.”

  “Yeah, been feeding cats,” he said off-handedly.

  His younger stepbrothers were both seated at the kitchen table eating spaghetti. Chris looked up at Damon as he took a bite of French bread. “Cats?” he asked, sounding all mush-mouthed.

  “Why were you feeding cats?” Brett asked, watching his brother remove his jacket.

  Damon tossed the jacket toward a chair in the living room and turned to face his family, who were all staring at him, waiting for an explanation. “Colbi’s cats,” he said.

  “Oh no,” Iris whispered. “They haven’t found her? Craig told me she was missing, but I thought by now…”

  “No.” He placed his hands on the back of an empty kitchen chair and stared down into the seat. “She’s missing, Mom,” he said, his voice cracking.

  “Oh my God, honey. Do they think she’s been kidnapped or what?”

  “No one knows, yet. Looks like it could have been a kidnapping. But why?” He spun around as if searching the room for answers. “Why would someone want to hurt her?”

  “I don’t know, Damon. She’s such a sweet girl. It doesn’t make sense that someone would want to hurt her, unless…”

  “Unless what?” he asked, his eyes intent on his mother’s face.

  “Well, a pervert might have targeted her. She’s awfully pretty. Maybe she’s been stalked by someone who wanted to…”

  “Stop, Mom!” he shouted, rubbing his hands forcefully over his head. “I can’t handle these what-ifs. It’s just too stressful!”

  “Damon,” Iris said sternly, “I want you to go see your counselor. Or call your sponsor. You need to talk to someone before you drive yourself crazy. It’s stressful situations like this that can put you at risk of slipping, Son. You need tools to help you handle it.”