"Cat Breaking Free" - читать интересную книгу автора (Murphy Shirley Rousseau)

5

Twilight lasted longer on the rooftops than among the cottages below. Down along the narrow village streets dusk settled quickly beneath the wide oaks and around the crowded shops; as night settled in, the gleam of the shop windows seemed to brighten, casting darker the concealing shadows.

But up on the roofs, the evening's silken brilliance clung to the precipitous, shingled peaks and across little leaded dormers and copper-clad domes. Twilight washing across small balconies echoed the silver sea that lapped the village shore; and in the last glow, the gray tomcat racing across the rooftops seemed to fly from peak to peak.

Leaping shadowed clefts, dodging heat vents and chimneys, Joe Grey was not running simply for pure joy tonight, nor was he chasing criminals or the little brown bats that darted among the chimneys. He was heading across the village to supper, drinking in the heady scents of roasted chili peppers, of cilantro and garlic and onions and roasting meats-food that would put down most cats. Whiskers twitching with greedy anticipation, he sailed across the open chasm of a narrow alley and headed fast for the dining patio of Lupe's Playa. It was green corn tamale night at Lupe's.

He was approaching Lupe's rooftop, licking his whiskers, when suddenly from behind a chimney something leaped on him hissing and swatting him-and the tortoiseshell kit dodged away from him again, sparring. Behind her, tabby Dulcie appeared from around a chimney, her green eyes sly with amusement.

The kit rolled over, laughing.

Dulcie rubbed her face against his; and the three cats headed eagerly for Lupe's. Green corn tamales were a delicacy available only when the corn was young.

This early in the spring, they supposed the fresh corn must be coming up from Mexico, or maybe the hotter fields of southern California. It was still far too cold to expect fresh corn from California's nearby central valley. Racing past second-floor offices, it was all the three cats could do not to yowl with greed. Set apart so singularly from their feline cousins, these three had, along with human perceptions and human speech, stomachs as versatile as those of their human friends. Cast-iron stomachs, Joe's housemate said. Clyde told Joe often enough that their veterinarian would be shocked at what Joe ate. But there was a whole world about Joe Grey, and Dulcie, and Kit that Dr. Firetti didn't know.

Flying across the last narrow oak branch to the jumbled roofs of Lupe's Playa, they peered down among the overhanging oaks into the walled and lantern-lit patio. Lupe's was constructed of three old houses joined to surround a central patio, and closed on the fourth side by a high brick wall that offered diners privacy and warmth against the chill ocean wind. Within the patio, the pierced tin lanterns swinging from the twisted oak branches cast a soft, flickering light. The brightly painted tables with their red and green and blue chairs were already full of happy diners lifting beer mugs white with frost, and merrily chatting. Guitars played a Mexican melody sweet enough to bring tears. The dishes carried by hurrying waiters steamed and bubbled. The cats, dropping down to the wall, crouched just above their friends' regular table that stood like King Arthur's round table in the patio's sheltered northeast corner. Hidden within the wall's bougainvillea vine, the cats had a wide view of both patio and street.

Beneath them at the curb, having apparently taken the last nearby parking place, stood Captain Harper's king cab pickup, smelling strongly of the sweet scent of horses. Within the patio, at the round table, Max and redheaded Charlie sipped Mexican beer with Detective Garza and his niece, Hanni. Clyde and Ryan's chairs were still empty. Harper and Garza sat with their backs to the wall, with a clear view of the patio and the dining room to their left. Max Harper was not in uniform but dressed in the clothes that suited him best-soft jeans, a frontier shirt, and well-used Western boots-which set off his tall, lean, weathered frame.

The Latino detective wore jeans and his favorite old, soft corduroy sport coat, which, on anyone less handsome than Dallas Garza, might look like it just came off the rack at the Goodwill.

Beside Max, Charlie glanced up, sensing the cats on the wall above her or hearing them stir in the vine. With a little smile, she pushed back her mop of kinky red hair and began to prepare an appetizer plate for them, tearing up a soft tortilla and dribbling it with mild, melted cheese. Max didn't miss her busy preoccupation, nor did Dallas and Hanni. Rising, Charlie set the plate atop the wall, chucking Kit under the chin and gently stroking Dulcie. The lady cats smiled and purred and rubbed their faces against her hand. Joe Grey gave her a twitch of the whiskers by way of thanks, and tucked into the rich appetizer.

Dulcie thought Charlie looked stunning tonight; the little cat did love beautiful clothes. Charlie was wearing a simple cotton print dress splashed with all the colors of summer, a combination of shades that made her hair look even redder. She'd tied her hair back tonight, with a tangle of multicolored ribbons. Even gorgeous Hanni Coon with her premature and startling white hair and dark Latin eyes, in her flamboyant and glittering silver stole over a low-cut black T-shirt, couldn't outshine Charlie.

"Up until this morning," Dallas was saying, "sounds like you had a good trip."

The cats stopped eating, they were all pricked ears. What happened this morning? They stared, listening, until Dallas glanced up at them. Immediately they lowered their faces again over their plates-though their ears remained cocked, their tails still, every fiber rigid with interest.

"A wonderful trip," Hanni said. "Nothing as restful as a few days away from people, just the horses and the open land." Hanni's interior design studio and large clientele allowed her little time when she wasn't "on stage," when she could relax with her family or close friends. Even when she was at home with her husband, their two boys created demands that kept her on her toes, that didn't give her much downtime.

"Beautiful country," Charlie said. "Not a house, just the few ranches. So green, after the rains." The land would turn brown in the summer when the rains stopped, when it lay burned by the California sun. "Next time," Charlie said, "maybe we'll take Lori and Dillon; Lori is doing well at her riding lessons, and the two girls get along fine. Cora Lee's right, Lori needs a challenge and some real freedom."

Twelve-year-old Lori Reed had gone to live with their good friend, Cora Lee French, after Lori's father went to prison on two counts of murder, both killings of such pain and passion that no one really blamed him. It had been a hard year for Lori. Now, with the child settled in, Cora Lee was deeply aware that a twelve-year-old girl without her father needed to experience a different kind of discipline and strength than she would enjoy in a household of four older women, that she needed to be outdoors doing something bold and new and demanding. She had asked Max if he'd teach Lori to ride, as he had taught Dillon Thurwell two years ago, when she was twelve. Dillon, too, had seemed at loose ends and needed some positive challenge in her life.

Of course Max had agreed to Lori's lessons, and the Harpers had borrowed a wise, gentle pony for her. Oh, Dulcie thought, Lori did love that pony. She had seen Lori and the pony together up at the Harper ranch, and even Joe said that child and pony were a perfect match.

"I'm glad Lori wasn't with us this morning," Charlie said, "when we found the body. She doesn't need that, after all the death last year."

The cats were rigid as stones. What body? The tortoiseshell kit was so curious she began to fidget from paw to paw, and couldn't be still. And Dulcie could see in Joe's eyes exactly what he was thinking: If the riders had found a body this morning before they arrived home, Max and his whole department knew about it, had known all day. So Joe's human housemate had to know. Clyde and Max Harper were like brothers. Why the big secret? Why didn't Clyde tell me} Joe would be thinking. And when Dulcie glanced at Joe, he looked mad enough to fight a pack of Rottweilers-almost mad enough to slash the hand that fed him-the moment Clyde walked into the restaurant.

Dulcie knew why she hadn't heard: her own housemate was in the hospital. Two days ago, Wilma had some routine surgery. Wilma had had to fight like a maddened cat herself to get Charlie to go on with her trip. "You have cell phones," Wilma had pointed out. "If I need you, you'll know it. It's a simple, routine operation. With Clyde here fussing over me, to say nothing of Max and Dallas and the senior ladies, I'll be smothered in attention. Go, Charlie! A few gallstones, for heaven's sake."

Even if Wilma called it minor surgery, Dulcie hadn't slept well, worrying. If she'd had her way, she'd have sneaked into the hospital and stayed there. Instead, she'd followed Wilma's stubborn instructions and gone to stay with Kit in the second-floor apartment above Ocean Avenue, which Kit's own two humans had rented.

When the cats heard Clyde's voice from down the street, Joe's eyes narrowed. In a moment, Clyde and Ryan appeared from around the corner, their footfalls quick on the sidewalk. Ryan would have left her truck at Clyde and Joe's house, where she would have shut her big silver Weimaraner in the patio. Likely, Clyde had put old Rube in the house where the ailing dog would have some peace, away from the energetic young hunting dog. The couple passed just a few feet below the cats. If they'd not had an audience, Dulcie was sure Joe would have leaped on Clyde, all teeth and claws and a lot of swearing. Kit reached out a paw as if to snatch at Ryan's hair, but Dulcie gave her a look that made her back off. Kit sat down again, looking innocent. If Clyde glimpsed the cats above him, he gave no sign. The couple disappeared around the corner, then appeared again, coming in through the front entry. They spoke with the hostess, then crossed the crowded patio, studying their friends' serious faces.

"What?" Clyde said as they sat down. "This is supposed to be a celebration that the girls are home-no one bucked off or kicked or itching with poison oak." He fixed on Charlie and Hanni. "Ryan told me about the body. Was it that bad? You've seen bodies before."

Ryan looked at her uncle Dallas. "Do you have anything yet on the prints?"

Dallas laughed. "You expect miracles? Eight hours, and you think NCI's going to snap to with an ID?"

"But if you told them…"

"You know them better than that. We put on as much pressure as we could; you know the lab's always jammed up. Everyone wants everything ASAP. It isn't like this guy just died, he'd been down there a while."

"We know he was dead for a while," Ryan said, making a face. Ryan Flannery's fine Latino features mirrored her uncle's, though his face was more square; same expression, same faint dimples, same stern, serious look that hid a smile. Ryan's stare could be just as intimidating as detective Garza's. She had the same dark hair, but where Dallas's eyes were nearly black, often seeming unreadable, Ryan had her father's eyes, Irish eyes as green and changeable as the sea.

"Maybe by tonight," Dallas said, "we'll have something." The detective scowled comfortably at his niece. "The ID we found on the body, driver's license, social security card, belonged to a Mario Salgado. Denver resident, died some ten years back.

"Good job of forgery," Dallas added. "He even paid into social security, a couple of quarters, to make it seem legit." The detective looked around the table. "Coroner wouldn't commit as to the wounds on the face and throat. Said they might be scratches from blackberry vines, but he doesn't think so. There were heavy brambles in the ditch, but the scratches were too deep. They seemed more like wounds from some kind of weapon-but they sure looked like claw marks."

Clyde was very still. The cats could see Charlie's hands clench beneath the table. What had Charlie seen that maybe Ryan and Hanni hadn't? The cats watched her intently. Careful, Joe thought. She had gone way too tense. Careful, Charlie. Be careful. No human in the world noticed as much about a person's reactions as a cop did, no one was as perceptive to another's emotions. A good cop was nearly as keen as a cat at picking up the smallest hint of unease, the faintest change of expression.

In Joe's opinion, there was not a psychiatrist in the world who had half a cop's ability to correctly read a disturbed subject, who had the knowledge and skill to see through deception. You wouldn't catch a cat wasting his time on a psychiatrist's couch when all one really needed, for most emotional problems, was hard-headed logic, a dose of cop-style straight thinking.

Clyde would say he was inexcusably opinionated, that he didn't have a trace of compassion. Well, he was a cat! Cats weren't supposed to be socially correct. Cats could be as biased as they chose-or as right as they chose. A cat should be able to hold an unbiased opinion without fear of social censure.

But what was Charlie hiding? What had happened, up in the hills?

And what was making the kit so nervous? Beside Joe, Kit's eyes had grown huge. She looked so stricken and uneasy that Dulcie had to nudge her and lick her ears, trying to settle her down.

"No labels on the clothes," Dallas said. "No license on the bike. And those scratches…" The detective frowned. "Almost as if something leaped at him from the trail. Strange as it seems, I keep thinking he was attacked, that his bike was moving fast, something jumped on him, he swerved, lost control and went over the edge."

The detective looked at his friends. "But what? Not likely a bobcat would leap at a cyclist. Though a fast-moving bike would be a pretty tempting target, fast like a deer, and even the noise of a bike might not deter a hungry cougar if it was already used to such sounds.

"But those marks weren't made by a cougar; this was something smaller. Anyway, a cougar would have gone down into the ravine after him, would have finished him."

"Guy apparently died of a broken neck," Max said. "Forensics should have their report in a few days." He looked around the table. "Sheriff's been up there all day, going over the area."

Dallas said, "Scratches of a domestic cat? No small cat would attack a man, no small animal would be so bold."

Up on the wall, the cats glanced discreetly at each other. There was one kind of cat that might attack a grown man, if it cared enough about who the cyclist was, or what he had done. If it wanted him dead.

But what had the guy done to enrage his attacker? And where had such a cat come from? There should be no other cat like themselves anywhere near the village.

Joe wondered it the attacker could possibly be Azrael. That evil Panamanian feline had first shown up in the village nearly two years ago, with his thieving human companion, and had returned a couple of times later without the disreputable safecracker. When Azrael disappeared the last time, into a seemingly bottomless cavern, carrying an emerald bracelet in his mouth, Joe had hoped they had seen the last of him, that he had ended up too far away ever to return.

Joe was washing his whiskers, listening intently but keeping his eyes half closed as if sleepy, when he saw Chichi Barbi crossing the patio, making her way between the tables following the Latino host, the curvy young blond bimbo swiveling her hips provocatively. She was alone, accompanied by neither of the men who had visited her that morning. Swishing between the tables she played the room, giving the eye to every male within view. Max and Dallas and Clyde exchanged a glance that the cats couldn't read. Ryan and Charlie and Hanni watched her with quiet amusement. Heading for a small table beneath the farthest oak, Chichi sat down with her back to the wall and immediately raised her menu, pretending not to see Clyde, pretending not to stare across to their table.

Dallas gave her a dismissive look, and turned to his niece. "We haven't talked since you got back from the city, you ladies were out of here the next morning. How did the legal stuff go?"

"Fine," Ryan said. "It went fine. Beautiful weather in the city, the tide was in, and the coast…"

Dallas scowled impatiently, making Ryan grin. She had gone up to San Francisco to complete the sale of their house and the construction business she'd inherited from her philandering husband when he was murdered. "I wrapped up all the loose ends," she told Dallas, growing serious. "Sold the last of the furniture, cleared out the safe deposit box. Yes, deposited the checks," she said, giving him an unreadable look. Joe read her glance as a bit frightened.

Frightened of what? Of having all that money? Well, Joe had to admit, with the completed sale of the San Francisco firm, she would be rolling in cash. Maybe he'd be scared, too.

But it was money she could put into her new Molena Point construction business, and plenty left over to invest. Ryan could handle that. She should be as pleased as a kitten in the cream bowl. Yet he was sharply aware of her unease-as was everyone at the table.

"What?" Dallas said.

"Do you remember a Roman Slayter? A tall, handsome, dark-haired…"

"I remember him," Dallas said sharply. "I remember you sent him packing more than once while you and Rupert were married."

"He called me while I was in the city. Got the name of my hotel from a new secretary at the firm, who didn't know any better."

"Came on to you."

She nodded. "Wanted me to go out to dinner, then demanded to see me." Her green eyes blazed. "I blew him off, but… I don't know. He left me uneasy."

"The smell of money," Dallas said. "He knows everyone in the company, sure he knew how much you got for the business. Knew when the sale closed escrow. I thought he'd moved to L.A."

"Guess he's back. Nothing fazes him. I told him I was busy with job contracts, that I was working long hours with a new business, that I was involved with someone," she said, glancing shyly at Clyde. Clyde grinned.

"Told him I was just leaving the city, that I didn't have time for him. He knew I'd moved down here to the village. Finally told him my live-in was a weight lifter and a hot-tempered gun enthusiast."

That got a laugh. "And that shut him up?" Dallas said.

"Nothing shuts him up. Doesn't matter what you say. Showed up in the office anyway, tried to kiss me right there in the reception room. I nearly punched him. When he grew really stubborn and refused to leave, I called security.

"As they dragged him out," Ryan said, laughing, "he said he'd see me in Molena Point, that he'd just run down to the village for a few days, get reacquainted. I told him, he showed his face here I'd file charges of harassment." She was half angry, half amused. She had balled up her napkin and was stabbing it with her fork. Her uncle leaned back in his chair, grinning, but he put his arm around her.

All the while they talked, Chichi watched them from across the patio, glancing over the top of her menu; she never looked straight their way, but her full attention was on them. Surely she couldn't hear them at that distance, with so many diners in between, talking and laughing; but her rapt concentration was unsettling. Then, just after the waiter arrived with their orders, Chichi left her table and came across to theirs, all smiles and swivels. She paused beside Clyde's chair, resting her hand possessively on his shoulder.

"Dear me, I couldn't help it, I had to see what you're having, it smelled so good when your waiter passed my table." She gave Clyde a four-star smile and beamed around the table. "Hi, I'm Chichi Barbi! I just ran over for a little supper, it gets boring, eating alone. I'm living in the house next to Clyde's. You're Captain Harper! Well, I've heard great things about you! And you must be Detective Garza! It's so nice to meet you-you ladies, too." She looked down at Clyde's plate. "My goodness, is that on the menu? Green corn tamales?" She looked winsomely around the table. Clyde was still scowling.

"Well, I'll surely order the same," she gushed, waiting for an invitation to join them. When none was forthcoming, she stepped back, her hand lingering on Clyde's shoulder. "It's such an honor to meet you all. It does get lonely in that little back room, I just thought a nice dinner out, for a change…" Still she stood waiting, trying to look uncertain as she glanced from one to the other, managing the little girl act so well that even Joe began to feel sorry for her-or almost sorry.

The round table was, after all, plenty big enough if everyone slid their chairs around to make room. No one did, no one said a word. Cops in particular don't like pushy. At last Clyde rose, took Chichi by the arm, and headed her back to her table. The curvy blonde moved along close to him, brushing against him.

At her little table she sat down heavily, under what was clearly a forceful pressure. Picking up Chichi's menu, Clyde spent some moments pointing to the page as if picking out the green corn tamales and the other specials.

Beside Clyde's empty chair, Ryan sat with her fist pressed to her mouth, trying not to laugh at his predicament. Above, on the wall, the cats pushed their faces into the vine, swallowing back their own yowls of glee. When Clyde returned to their table, still scowling, Ryan nearly choked with laughter. Clyde glanced up and saw the cats' amusement, gave them a cautionary frown and began hastily to break up a tamale for them, to distract them-and everyone grew silent, giving full attention to their fine dinner.

At her own table, Chichi fidgeted, waiting for her order; when it arrived, she finished her tamales quickly, not looking again in their direction. She left the restaurant long before they did.

The cats watched her from atop the wall, heading home, Joe swallowing back a growl. That woman was more than brash. Chichi Barbi made the tomcat as jumpy as a mouse on a hot stove.

"So, what did she want?" Dulcie said, when their own party had left the restaurant, Clyde and Ryan heading down the block hand in hand, and Max, Charlie, and Dallas squeezing into Max's king cab. "This Chichi Barbi," Dulcie hissed, "what is she all about?"

Joe wished he knew what Chichi was all about, what she wanted with Clyde; though half his thoughts were on the dead man and the suspicious scratches. "More important," he said softly, "what did Charlie see that she couldn't talk about?"

But the kit knew. She looked at them intently. "Cats like us," she said, her yellow eyes huge. "They're out there, the feral band is out there again, I know they are." She shivered and pressed close against Dulcie. "Those cats I ran with when I was little, they're out there again." She looked in the direction of the wild coastal hills where Hellhag Hill rose. "But why? And why did they kill that man?

"Those few, like me," Kit said, "the gentler cats, they could never stop the mean ones. Some of us only traveled with them for safety. Cruel as they were, they were better than bobcats and coyotes."

Dulcie licked the kit's ear and glanced up at the sky, where the moon had not yet risen; and soon she and Kit headed off to the kit's own rooftop terrace. Joe watched the two cats' dark, mottled tails disappearing into the moonlit night; and not one of the three had a clue to the excitement that would soon explode across the small village. Not one of the three cats glimpsed the shadowy figures many blocks away, slipping among the shops and dark streets. Nothing seemed to disrupt the peace of the evening. Nor did Max Harper's officers in their patrol cars glimpse the perps-until it was too late.