Cat's Claw

by Susan Wittig Albert

  So she’d slept badly, in her dreams turning over the events of the previous day as if they were pieces of a puzzle, trying and failing to fit them together into something recognizable. A dead man and a missing man, Larry Kirk and George Timms: two separate puzzles or one larger, interlocking puzzle? She and Bartlett: a good partnership or a bad mistake that she would live to regret? She and Blackie, growing closer or pulling apart, separated by wants and needs that the other couldn’t fulfill? In her dream, she had only a few hours to find the answers, solve the puzzles, or—

  Or what? That was a puzzle, too.

  She woke before the dream brought her any meaningful answers and lay, frustrated and wakeful, in the blackness. Rambo slept in his bed on the floor beside her, his breathing rhythmic and easy. After a while, she fell back asleep, lulled by the gentle sound as she was often lulled by Blackie’s breathing.

  She was up at four thirty and out for a longer-than-usual run through the dark, cool morning, she and the dog taking the street that led up the hill above her house, tackling the steep part first, then leveling off across the wooded ridge, coming downhill as she cooled off, four miles altogether. The asphalt pavement was still wet, although the drizzle had almost stopped. She loved running while the houses were still dark, the people asleep, just herself and Rambo, all alone, moving together through the silent, empty morning.

  Usually, the running silenced her busy thoughts and filled her with a flowing energy that was all muscle, all body, no mind. But this morning, she couldn’t stop thinking about Blackie, and worrying. He and McQuaid knew what they were doing, but travel in northern Mexico right now was dangerous. To locate the missing child, they’d have to ask questions of people who wouldn’t want the questions answered. They could run into some serious trouble.

  By five thirty, she was home again and in the shower. By six, she was dressed, not in her uniform but in uniformlike civvies: a dark blue open-collared blouse, burgundy blazer, dark blue pants, black half-boots, her blond hair snugged back out of the way. On days when she dressed in street clothes, she left her duty weapon locked up and wore her personal gun, a Glock 27, in a paddle holster that fitted into the back of her pants or skirt. That’s where it was now, the solid heft of it smooth and cool in the hollow of her back.

  It was still dark when she went down to the kitchen, where she fed Rambo and poured a cup of fresh coffee from the coffeemaker. Then she fixed a bowl of corn flakes and milk, booted up her laptop on the table in the dining nook, and settled down to work, spooning up cereal while she logged into her secure office network and went rapidly through as many emails as possible. Connie Page, her assistant, didn’t get in until eight, but Sheila left a message on Connie’s answering machine, asking her to clear the morning’s calendar. She’d be working away from the office, reachable by cell.

  Then she phoned Bartlett, catching him before he had his coffee and his first cigarette. With her notebook in front of her, she reported on her interview with Richie Potts, on her phone conversations with Dana Kirk and China, and the strike-out with Hatch at both the trailer park and the address on Pecos Street that she’d gotten from the trailer park manager.

  “Oh, and Hatch has two priors,” she added. “Misdemeanor bad check and felony possession. He could be in AFIS.” The national Automated Fingerprint Identification System provided automated fingerprint and latent search capabilities, as well as corresponding criminal histories and mug shots. It contained data for more than sixty six million subjects in the criminal master file, much of the information submitted voluntarily by state, local, and federal law enforcement agencies.

  “Good,” Bartlett said. “We’ll pull his prints from AFIS and compare them against whatever prints Butch can lift from Timms’ computer. I’ll get that done ASAP.”

  Bartlett hadn’t found Dennis Martin at home the previous evening, so that was his first stop this morning. He had worked late setting up the homicide book and was ready to start going through the store files. He would pull Hatch’s last batch of job tickets and assign the shop computer to Annetta Blount, to check for anything suspicious. With luck, they’d have the forensic report by noon, the autopsy by tomorrow.

  “I checked with Dispatch a couple of minutes ago,” he added. “Nothing on the Timms APB yet. We’ve checked his house—nothing there. He’s got a cabin out west of town somewhere, but we don’t have a location on it yet. The longer it takes to find him the more I think he’s our man.” He paused. “When will you be in?”

  “An hour, maybe a little longer,” Sheila said. “I’m headed over to Kirk’s place now. But first I’ll check Hatch’s residence again. Maybe I’ll catch him at home.”

  There was a moment’s silence, then “Give me the address,” Bartlett said. “Meet you there in ten.”

  “Right,” Sheila said. Under the circumstances, she was glad for the backup. She clicked off the phone, checked the doors to be sure that the house was locked, and picked up her briefcase, whistling for Rambo. The Rotti trotted eagerly toward the squad car, head up, ears alert, ready for whatever the day was going to bring. But she put him in his kennel with a hug and an apology. She wasn’t going to the station just yet, and there was no telling how the day was going to turn out. He gave her a disappointed look, then lay down, nose on paws, watching as she went to the car. Rambo was the most patient creature she had ever met, she thought. Far more patient than she was.

  Ten minutes later, Bartlett joined her on the street in front of Hatch’s house on Pecos, and they went up to the front door together. But repeated peals of the doorbell brought only silence, and after a few minutes they gave it up.

  “I’m headed to Martin’s,” Bartlett said, back at the cars. “I’ll phone the station and get Butch to run Hatch’s prints from AFIS and compare them against anything he finds on Timms’ computer. If we get a match, I’ll put out an alert for Hatch. You’re headed for the Kirk place?”

  “On my way,” Sheila said. “I’ll be back for the nine a.m. briefing.”

  On the way to Kirk’s, she tried calling Blackie, feeling the need to connect with him and smooth some of the ragged feelings left from their conversation the night before. But her call went to the voice mail box. Blackie wasn’t picking up. Where was he? What was he doing? Would he wait for McQuaid to arrive, so they could go across the border together?

  She bit her lip. Too many questions, no answers. “Just me,” she said to the phone. “Let me know you’re okay.” She paused. “Love you,” she said, before she clicked off.

  When she parked in the driveway at the Kirk house, she radioed her location to Dispatch—Dick Brice was on the desk this morning—and asked for a rundown on the night’s police activities. Three routine traffic stops, an injury accident at I-35 and the frontage road, south of the mall. One domestic dispute, a couple of DWIs, a break-in on the east side, a prowler south, a stolen GPS unit, two false alarms. A quiet night in Pecan Springs.

  The crime-scene tape was still in place. She ducked under it and unlocked the door. Inside, she set down her briefcase, opened it, and took out a pair of latex gloves. Pulling them on, she went down the hall to the kitchen and flicked on the lights. Everything was just as it had been when she saw it last. The chair on its side, the dark chalk outlining the position of the body on the floor beside the spill of blood and beer, the empty takeout boxes on the counter. She took out her notebook and jotted down the name and address on the side of the box—Wong’s, Fourth and Brazoria—then went through the top layer in the trash can, looking for evidence that Kirk might have shared the food with someone. All she found was the cash register receipt, stamped with the date and time of purchase (yesterday, 12:30 p.m.). She stuck it in her notebook.

  Then, methodically, she opened all the kitchen drawers and cupboards, noticing that there were more culinary tools—forks, knives, a blender, a food processor, a pasta maker, even a flour sifter—than she would expect a single guy to have. She guessed that Dana Kirk had not yet claimed the stuff she had wan
ted to take away from her failed marriage, like the bed linens the woman had asked about the day before. She wondered if Larry Kirk had held on to the things with the hope that the rift might be mended, or if Dana Kirk—feeling the guilt of the affair with Glen Vance—had been reluctant to ask for her share of the property. Somehow, this reminder of their broken relationship saddened her, as if there had been more than one death here.

  She righted the chair and put it in its place at the table, then stood for a moment, looking around, letting herself feel the somber presence of ghosts, the ghost of the dead man, the ghost of a dead marriage, the ghost of a couple’s hopes and dreams and plans. A deep sadness seemed to fill the room and settle on her shoulders. Alone in the house, without the distractions of the forensics team, of Bartlett in the other room, she could see Kirk sitting at the table with his laptop. He’s finished eating, she thought, and he’s put the containers on the counter, out of the way. He’s online, checking his email, doing other work. He hears a knock at the back door, or maybe there’s just a push and the door opens.

  Somebody steps into the room and he turns his head to look.

  Somebody he knows? Somebody he’s expecting? (If so, it’s not noted on the wall calendar.) Does he say something? Is he startled? Can he see what his visitor is holding in his—or her—hand? Is he afraid?

  Outside, there’s the rattle and bang and motor noise of the garbage truck, punctuated by the sharp clang of the empty cans hitting the pavement. That’s the assailant’s cue. The person steps quickly forward, no hesitation, giving Kirk no chance to get up from his chair. Lifts the gun, aims, fires directly at Kirk’s head, at close range but at a distance too great to leave visible traces of unburned powder. Kirk topples onto the floor with a heavy thud, the chair falls with him. The beer bottle? Is Kirk holding the beer bottle when the shot is fired?

  The assailant takes a deep breath, wipes the gun, or is perhaps gloved. Puts the gun into Kirk’s right hand—the wrong hand, but the person doesn’t know or doesn’t remember this—and presses the dead man’s fingers over it. Backs away, then pauses, looks at the computer. Considers for an instant, decides. Pops up an email form, types in Dana’s name on the “To” line, confident that she’s in the address book. Then types the message, fast, and hits the Send button. Then out the door and safely away. The whole thing, the whole terrible thing, could have happened in a matter of minutes. Two minutes, three, four. It doesn’t take long to end a life. The space of a breath, and it’s done.

  She stared for a moment at the empty chalk-lined shape on the floor. Kirk hadn’t shot himself, she was confident of that, and the assurance would come with the autopsy report. Not suicide, homicide. So, then. Had the shooter been George Timms, compelled to kill because Kirk had discovered an ugly secret and was blackmailing him? Or an employee or contract worker—Hatch, or even Palmer or Martin or Potts—fearful of being exposed as a blackmailer? Or the wife or her lover—or both of them together? Or the stalker Kirk had mentioned to China, who was or perhaps was not the JH whose initials Kirk had noted on the wall calendar?

  Or none of the above. Someone from Kirk’s past, someone from the neighborhood (who would know what time the garbage truck always came), someone with a grudge. Right now, there wasn’t enough information to know, only enough to speculate.

  She turned and went into the small dining room, where she stood for a moment, surveying the computer parts laid out on the table, the project Kirk was working on. Nothing caught her attention there, and she knew that Bartlett had looked it over carefully. He would have spotted anything unusual.

  Kirk’s living room contained a large leather sofa, a matching recliner, a wide-screen television and other equipment in an entertainment center. Behind the sofa, in one corner, was a small green-painted wooden desk, a computer tower and a printer on the floor beneath it, and a desktop keyboard and monitor. The message light was blinking on the answering machine that sat beside the monitor.

  She sat down at the desk and booted the computer, which was probably only a secondary machine. Kirk likely did most of his work on his laptop. As it came on, she played back the messages on the answering machine, listening as she began going through the drawers. There were four calls, all from the previous afternoon and evening.

  Time, two fifteen. Larry, Henry. Listen, we’ve got a guy here at the shop who says he’s looking for contract work. He’s been working at a couple of shops in San Antonio. You interested? Let me know and I’ll tell him to come in for an interview when you’re going to be here. It was the message that Palmer had mentioned the evening before.

  Time, two forty. A woman’s voice, light and cheerful, casual. Hey, Larry, it’s Tina. I was just wondering—like, well, maybe you’d like to take in a movie this weekend—Dutch treat? A little giggle, half-embarrassed. You’ll probably think I’m pushy, but I figure it won’t hurt to ask. You might even say yes. But if you don’t want to do a movie, let’s just have coffee. I’ve got a few things to tell you. About Jackie, I mean. I think it’s getting serious. I’m worried. Then, hastily: But don’t call me at work. You know how she feels about… well, just don’t, please. Okay? I’ll be home after six.

  Time, four thirty. Sheila recognized the voice. Larry, it’s Dana. I’ve got some numbers for you from my lawyer. I’m sorry that you haven’t seen fit to reply to her letters, so I guess I’ll have to bring you these papers and make sure you’ve seen them and understand the amount of money that we’re talking about. When I’m there, I want to pick up a few linens and some kitchen things. Look for me in about an hour. Okay?

  Time, seven twelve. A man. Hey, Larry. Just a reminder that we’re climbing at Reimer’s Ranch on Saturday. Please bring that extra rope we talked about—got a couple of newbies coming along, and we’ll need all the rope we can lay our hands on. See ya then, buddy.

  Sheila sighed. Messages on an answering machine, ghost voices, sent to a ghost, to a dead man who would never hear them, who would never again climb the cliffs along the Pedernales River. She got her briefcase, opened it, and took out a small tape recorder. She set it to record, then played the messages back one at a time, jotting down the callers’ names and numbers in her notebook. If the autopsy determined that Kirk died around two—the time when the garbage truck usually came down the street—the messages might be used to eliminate Henry Palmer, who called from the shop at two fifteen about that potential employee, and Dana Kirk, who called at four thirty.

  Thinking of the garbage truck, Sheila glanced at her watch, then reached for the telephone directory and looked up the number of the company that picked up the city’s trash. She made the call on her cell. While she was holding for an answer to her question, she opened the email program on the desktop computer and began to scan the messages—which came, apparently, to a different email address from the one on the laptop. It wasn’t unusual, she thought. Many people maintained multiple email accounts.

  The latest email in the inbox folder—a note from a rock climber asking to borrow some equipment—was dated the previous Wednesday. She clicked to the sent folder, and found that Kirk had answered it that same day. She clicked back to the inbox and began scrolling up through the emails, scanning each one. There was plenty of the usual spam, advertisements for Viagra and other enhancements, an email newsletter from Texans Against Gun Violence, a couple of severe weather alerts from KXAN-TV in Austin. And there was an email from someone named Jackie, dated October 17.

  Larry: Yes, you did sign the consent form at the same time we set up the health insurance package. It sounds like the matter has slipped your mind. Sorry for any misunderstanding, but I’m afraid it’s water under the bridge now. Still friends, I hope. I was sorry to hear about Dana (rocks in her head, if you ask me). I’d really love to get together, for old times’ sake. Could we? Soon?—Jackie

  Sheila checked the sender’s email address and the date, then clicked over to the sent file to see if Kirk had answered the email. If he had, there was no evidence of it. The folder
of deleted emails was empty.

  She turned on the printer and printed the email, then logged off and began going through the stack of mail on top of the desk. Bills, political mailings, junk mail, a brochure from the Texas Mountaineering Club with an enclosed map to rock-climbing routes at Reimers Ranch in western Travis County, and two unopened letters from Angela Binder, Attorney at Law—Dana’s lawyer. She pulled out the shallow top drawer on the right and found pens, pencils, rubber bands, paper clips, all jumbled together. She didn’t see the red leather address book that Dana had mentioned, but Bartlett had probably taken that, to do family notifications.

  The bottom drawer was deeper, a file drawer. In it, she found several manila folders, fat ones, filled with Kirk’s bank statements, credit card bills, and other bills, including paid semi-annual premium notices on the $250,000 life insurance policy that his wife had mentioned. According to his latest bank statement, his checking account had just over $1100 in it. In the previous month, two checks had bounced, costing him a total of fifty dollars in service fees. There were two credit card statements, a Mastercard and a Visa, both cards nearly maxed out. He’d been making minimum payments.

  Finally, the garbage company employee was back on the line with the information Sheila had requested. Yes, the truck was supposed to be on that particular street on Monday afternoons. Yes, the pickup time should be about two p.m., although of course this could not be guaranteed. The woman rattled off the names and phone numbers of the two men—a driver and a loader—who had been on the truck yesterday. Sheila hung up and phoned Bartlett, catching him just as he was arriving at Martin’s place. She relayed the information about the garbage pickup, and he said he’d get Matheson to try to interview the men right away.