A Box Full of Trouble

by Carolyn Haines

  Something hard whacked him on the back of his head and he collapsed to the sidewalk, his cell phone spinning out of his hand.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  What a lot of tosh this is. Victor has me shut up in his tiny house. You’d think he would understand my keen detective skills are best utilized when I’m not restrained inside locked rooms, but am left to my own considerable resources.

  He’s in the other room, dressing up in some kinky outfit, when I decide to make my break. It doesn’t take me long to find an opened transom over a side door, and, narrow as it is, out I go. Fortunately, I have a keen sense of direction and personal stamina, and I’m off at a run, heading for Abby’s house.

  No one tries to bother me as I pad along the sidewalk. For a moment, I put aside my pique at Victor for not offering to take me with him—he’s sure to botch whatever he’s doing without my help—and I think of those nice china bowls of water and nibbles that Abby keeps in the kitchen for me.

  Yet, as soon as I reach her house, my keen cat sense tells me something is amiss. Rather than parade up her walkway, I skulk along in the bushes. Nothing is obviously awry in the front of her house, but something is setting off my internal alarms.

  I sneak around the side of the house, keeping to the lush bushes, and poke my nose out to stare at her back door. It’s standing wide open. Part of me wants to think she left it open for me, but the woman is not stupid. She would not leave her back door wide open under the circumstances.

  With great care, I check things out. I sniff and catch a whiff of something faint, but familiar. For the briefest of seconds, I hope Layla has returned here. After I stand and inhale deeply trying to snag a stronger scent, I reluctantly decide this is not Layla’s smell that’s teasing me. Approaching the opened doorway, I sniff again, but still, this tantalizing trace eludes me.

  Eyeing the door, I see no evidence of a break-in and Abby has deadbolt locks. Once more, hope that Layla has returned leaps in my heart and I dash into the living room. Where I stop dead in my tracks and stare.

  Obviously the would-be burglar from last night returned—and this time he or she managed to get inside. Someone has completely trashed Abby’s living room. Her potted plants, which she clearly cherishes, are knocked down and the dirt is scattered about. Worse, the aquarium has been tilted over and someone has tossed the gravel and rocks on the bottom as if looking for something. Aquatic plants have been uprooted from the fish tank and thrown on the floor. I see a couple of small fish on the tile and edge over and sniff. Dead. Abby will be so upset. However, most of the fish are still swimming around in the tank, though half the water has been sloshed out.

  As there is nothing I can do to help the surviving fish or the potted plants, my best move is to make sure no one is still lurking in Abby’s house. I pad from room to room, discovering each room has been ransacked. In the back bedroom, a window screen is punched out and the window wide open. Someone wanted something bad enough to break in through a window in daylight, and he or she was savage in the search. Layla’s room is a complete, horrible mess—even the sheets have been pulled off the bed and her pillows slashed.

  Though I neither see nor hear anything that suggests the burglar yet lurks in the house, somehow I feel that the miscreant is still here. I catch a whiff of that tantalizing scent again. This time, the fragrance is strong enough that I can place it—that same spicy fragrance I smelled my first night here when I chased a person around the corner of Abby’s house.

  Even if the miscreant is still in the house, I can’t just hide till Abby returns. I need to find him—or her—and get a good look at this person. Despite my misgivings, I head back toward the kitchen. The refrigerator door is standing open, and I don’t want Abby’s supply of cod and salmon to spoil. It takes me a bit of effort, but I finally get the door pushed shut by slamming my body sideways against it. Her canisters of flour, rice, and beans have all been poured out and even her sugar bowl has been dumped on her table.

  Whoever searched the house missed one thing. My dish of cat food appears untouched. I poke through the dried kibbles with my paw, making sure Abby or Layla didn’t hide something in my food. Nothing but cat food. I much prefer fresh fish, but it’s been a long and difficult day so far. I take a brief repose to drink and eat before I hurry to Abby’s bedroom.

  Abby’s jewelry is flung about on top of her dresser, and all the drawers have been rudely yanked open, their contents scattered. Just as I start to sniff around, I hear footsteps coming inside the house from the garage. I freeze. The steps are too heavy for Abby or Layla’s tread as both women are light and graceful.

  These, I decide at once, are a man’s footsteps. I back up under the bed, out of sight. Maybe it’s Victor? Or the police?

  But I hear a drawn-out cuss word in a voice I do not recognize as the footsteps come closer.

  And I smell that spicy scent—this time, strong and clear.

  * * *

  Exhausted, Abby pulled into her garage, so fatigued that steering took extra concentration. She couldn’t believe it was already night and Layla was still missing. Though she’d called Lucas Kelly six times, she learned absolutely nothing. He’d assured her they were doing all that could be done and he would personally call her with any news. The last time she’d called him, he’d been downright snippy. Well, it wasn’t his insulin-dependent roommate that was missing. That’s what she’d told him in equally snippy tones.

  Earlier Abby had searched anywhere at the law firm that Layla might have stashed her collection of flash drives. The police had already been through Layla’s office, and so, no doubt, had Emmett when he moved in. Still, Abby had managed to find one, tucked away in the cubbyhole in the kitchen where Layla kept her snacks she used to keep her blood sugar from crashing too low. There in a box of Glucerna bars, a bright pink flash drive had caught Abby’s eye at once.

  A quick run-through of the materials on the flash drive didn’t seem the least bit helpful as they were all law review related. All Abby had really learned was that despite being outwardly messy—after all, she’d left a flash drive in a box of food—Layla was fiercely organized with the law review materials.

  Not surprisingly, Layla had been working on a law review article on the long history of offshore oil exploration in Florida and the Gulf of Mexico. Yet nothing in the rough and partial drafts of Layla’s article seemed to suggest a reason she should be kidnapped—or worse. Between Detective Kelly’s dismissive, snippy tone and the fact the drive contained only school work, Abby hadn’t bothered to turn it over to the police.

  Still, Abby was bringing the flash drive home with her—along with a laptop she borrowed from the law office. Since Rizzo still had her PC and laptop, she felt oddly vulnerable without an Internet connection, and Delphine had given her the okay to use one of the firm’s. She planned to take another, closer look at Layla’s pink flash drive on the borrowed laptop. If she found anything of interest, then she’d call Lucas Kelly—again.

  Abby pulled into her garage with a sense of profound relief, turned off her car’s engine, and got out, cradling her purse and the borrowed laptop. When she opened the garage door and stepped inside her house, she was surprised when Trouble rushed up to her.

  “How’d you get back in?” Victor had assured her that he would keep Trouble at his house until Abby was home. And Victor did not have a key to her house.

  Trouble battered her leg with his head, bellowing a distressed sound.

  “What’s wrong, sweetie?” Abby tried to soothe Trouble, but the cat spun away from her and stared scratching at the door to the garage. He practically yowled.

  He wanted out, that was clear enough.

  But when Trouble darted back to her, wrapped his paws around her leg, and pulled—yes, pulled—she realized he was trying to make her leave too.

  Warily, Abby looked around. The entrance from the garage led through the laundry room and nothing amiss jumped out at her. With Trouble yowling and pawing at her legs, she step
ped into the kitchen, flipped on the light, and cried out. The place was a total wreck.

  Pulling away from Trouble’s paws, she dropped the laptop and her purse on the kitchen table and ran into the living room. “Oh, no, oh, no,” she cried out and fell to her knees in front of the two black mollies on the floor. She picked them up and dashed to the aquarium, tilted as it was on its side and half-emptied of its waters. She dipped the two mollies gently in the remaining waters, but they did not revive.

  “My mollies, oh no.” She felt a tear, then another roll down her cheeks.

  Trouble head butted her with some vengeance. He meowed and pawed her, then ran to the front door. As she watched him, she saw with horror that all of her plants had been dumped too. Dirt and exposed roots were everywhere. Still on her knees, Abby looked around at all the damage, anxiety and anger rising in her simultaneously.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Trouble dragging something from the kitchen and turned to see what he was doing. Trouble maneuvered her purse toward her. When he had it near her, he pawed it open and kicked out her cell phone.

  As upset as she was, Abby could not help but be amazed. Trouble was telling her in no uncertain terms to call 9-1-1. She picked up the cell phone just as Trouble let out a pronounced yowl.

  Before she could hit the nine, someone put a big hand on her shoulder.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  With his eyes shut tight, Victor rubbed his head and moaned.

  “Hangover’s the least of your troubles,” someone said. The voice seemed to hover high over Victor’s head, vaguely threatening and yet diffused somehow.

  Somebody nudged him in the side with the point of a shoe. “Open your eyes and get up. Now,” another voice said. No mistaking the order and tone of voice.

  Victor fluttered opened his eyes despite the fact his lids seemed glued together. Two uniformed police were standing over him. He pulled himself up, conscious of the rollicking pain inside his skull, which was compounded by the flashlight one of the cops pointed at his eyes.

  “Been drinking, I see. Got into a fight with your buddy, cut him up and dumped him and passed out. That’s how I read it,” Cop One said to Cop Two.

  In a nauseating rush, it all came back to Victor—the ratty clothes, the beer he’d splashed on himself, and, worst of all, the dead man in the dumpster. “It’s not what you think.” Victor shifted his right hand toward his pocket to reach for his billfold and ID, smelling as he did the robust aroma of beer and the stink of the man in the dumpster. Even over the powerful scent of death, the smell of the extra beer someone had poured over him was strong.

  “Get your hands up and away from your pocket and put ‘em where I can see them.” The police officer without the flashlight rested his hand on his Taser.

  “I just want to get my ID.”

  “We looked already. You don’t have any ID. But you did have a real fine switchblade, right there by your hand. Had a bit of blood on it too. Want to tell us how that happened?”

  Victor inhaled, forcing himself to focus. He didn’t panic. He knew he’d eventually establish his identity and that anyone—especially these street cops—could tell the body in the dumpster was not fresh. He’d been set up. That was easy to see. Maybe harder to explain.

  “While we’re waiting for the detectives and the coroner, you want to tell us about your buddy in the dumpster?” The cop with the flashlight kept it on Victor’s face while he spoke.

  “No, sir. I don’t want to tell you anything except that my name is Victor Rutledge, I’m a third-year law student, and I was a Master of Arms in the Navy. If you call Joe Rizzo or Lucas Kelly, they’ll identify me.” Victor rubbed his head, feeling a distinct and painful lump. When he brought his hand forward and looked at it in the glare of the officer’s flashlight, he saw blood. “I’ve been injured, hit on the head from behind.” Victor held his hand up so the police officer could see the blood.

  “We’ll see a paramedic looks you over,” one of the cops said, his voice a little less guarded.

  “For sure, this body’s been dead a while,” the other office said to his partner.

  Ignoring the golden rule of keeping your mouth shut when facing arrest, Victor couldn’t help himself. “I’ve been set up. Bet you got an anonymous phone call directing you here. Right after someone knocked me out.”

  “How come you’re dressed like that? And smell like beer?”

  “I was trying to locate that man in the dumpster and—”

  “Looks like you found him,” the one cop said.

  “So, like, you were what? Pretending to be a cop and working undercover or something?” The other cop’s tone of voice was sarcastic and snide.

  Victor decided to shut up.

  A tense moment later, an unmarked car arrived, followed by a long, dark van which Victor assumed was from the coroner’s office. He never thought he’d be hoping to see Joe Rizzo again, but he was. At least the detective knew he wasn’t a murderous street drunk.

  “Well, well, well.” A plain-clothes officer who was not Rizzo looked down at Victor. “What have we got here?”

  “The man in the dumpster is implicated in the kidnapping of Layla Freemont. It’s Joe Rizzo’s case.” Victor stood up slowly, conscious of the closeness and the glare of both uniform cops, especially the one who earlier had fingered his Taser. “His street name is Dogman. Two nights ago he mugged Ms. Freemont outside the law office of Kirkus and Draper. The next night, she was kidnapped from the basement of the law school.”

  After giving Victor a hard look, the detective headed over to the dumpster. He slipped on gloves and began poking around. When he turned back to the uniformed cops, he said, “Get the crime techs out here. Call Rizzo and tell him to meet us back at the station.” He jerked a thumb at Victor. “Read him his rights and take him in.”

  “How’d he die?” Victor stepped toward the detective and the dumpster but the two uniformed cops cut him off. One of them said, “Like you don’t know.”

  “Look,” Victor said, “I didn’t kill that man. He’s been dead for some time. I’ve got a lump on my head where somebody hit me. My wallet with my ID has been stolen. I’ve been set up and anybody can see that.”

  The detective shook his head, his expression impassive. “Might could be, son. But those are a lawyer’s arguments, and we’re police officers with a dead body and a pretty good suspect with a possible murder weapon and no ID.” Turning away from Victor, he repeated, “Read him his rights and take him in.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  A man I do not know has his hand on Abby.

  Didn’t I try to warn her? But, no, she wouldn’t listen. Now here she is, in a trashed-out house alone with some man who probably wrecked her house. I am totally prepared to launch myself at this man’s face, only something holds me back. Something in the way I can see Abby is not afraid. She knows this man.

  Knowing him doesn’t mean he isn’t dangerous though and I jump on his feet, closer to his face if I need to attack.

  He takes his hand off of Abby’s shoulder, glances at me with a puzzled look on his face. “You have a cat now too?”

  Somewhat off point, I’d say, and I yowl my most menacing sound.

  “Yes, he’s the one who saved Layla. The night of the mugging.” Abby speaks as if the two of them are sharing tea and crumpets.

  The man looks at me through oddly serene and somewhat vague eyes. “Oh, yes, now I remember hearing about him.” He reaches down and pets me. “Nice looking fellow, isn’t he?”

  Hello. This is not a Sunday Social. This is a crime scene. This man has been hovering in Layla’s bedroom and Abby is home alone with him—except for me. I meow once more in protest and hop from his foot to the cell phone Abby dropped on the floor when he touched her. I paw the phone toward her. In my most plaintive meow, I say 9-1-1.

  “I was just about to call the police.” Abby glances at the man, then at the phone, as if waiting to see if he protests or something. Once more I prep
are to attack his face—or something else—if he lifts a finger to hurt her.

  “I’d say that’s a very good idea.” He pauses, looks around the room, his eyes lighting for a moment on the fish tank. “Would you like for me to call?”

  No! I meow it as clearly as I can.

  Abby shakes her head and punches in 9-1-1. She reports a break-in with extensive property damage and asks that a detective by the name of Lucas Kelly be notified as this relates to the kidnapping of Layla Freemont. The 9-1-1 operator asks if anyone is hurt, and Abby says, “Just the mollies. They’re dead.”

  This sets the 9-1-1 operator off in a tizzy fit until Abby manages to explain the mollies are fish. Dead fish, as it were. Told to stay on the line, Abby holds her phone to her ear but paces around the room.

  “Maybe we should step outside. We might be damaging evidence. Crime scene and all that.” The man steps toward Abby, his face weary and benign.

  Nonetheless, I hop between him and Abby. I arch my back and hiss.

  “Not so friendly, is he?”

  “Just protective.” Abby gives me a look that seems to say I should calm down. “Let me introduce you two.” With that she picks me up and carries me toward the man. “Trouble, this is Phillip Draper, the managing partner at my law firm. Phillip, this is Trouble.”

  Phillip pets me. But since I had earlier been hiding under Layla’s bed while the man searched through her books and luggage, I’m not much inclined toward purring. From the street outside, I hear a siren. Abby and Phillip turn to the sound, and then head toward the front door. Abby has her arms around me, and I’m eyeing Phillip with a deep sense of concern.

  Within minutes, three uniformed police officers bust into the living room. One of them exclaims “Holy crap, what a mess.” Another asks if anyone is hurt.

  “No person is harmed.” Abby sighs heavily, no doubt thinking of the mollies.