Herb exhaled. "I just had about four heart attacks."
"That must be Mr. Friskers."
"Either that or a small, furry toddler. Did you check out the diaper?"
"Yeah. Talk about pampering your pets."
I tucked my gun back under my blazer and fished a pair of latex gloves from my pocket.
"We've got an hour," I told Herb, indicating when the CSU would arrive.
Davi's bedroom was the bedroom of a typical young woman, albeit one with money. Her unmade bed had a stuffed animal infestation, over a dozen of them swarming on top of the pink comforter. A framed Nagel print hung on the far wall. The near wall was obscured by a collage of pictures, most of them Davi, snipped from magazines.
A large pile of clothing rested near the closet, and a makeup mirror -- the kind movie stars have with bare lightbulbs surrounding the frame -- hung above the dresser. Cosmetics rested on every flat surface in the room.
On the nightstand, next to the bed, a phone/answering machine combo blinked, indicating twelve messages. I scrolled through the caller ID numbers. Four of them read "blocked call," the last from 4:33 P.M. Sunday night.
I played the messages. All were from Pulitzer but one: a long-distance call from Davi's mother. The blocked calls didn't seem to correspond to any messages.
Davi's walk-in closet was so crammed full of clothing I could barely walk in. Some of it occupied hangers, but most of it rested in large heaps on the floor. Rummaging through the piles yielded nothing but an empty cat carrier.
A quick search of her drawers found more clothes, makeup, and a nickel bag of cocaine. I placed it in one of the evidence bags I always keep in my pocket. Then I pulled every drawer completely out and checked to see if anything was hidden behind them or taped under them. I'd been doing that ever since seeing a Hill Street Blues episode where a cop found a clue that way. Maybe someone somewhere saw the same episode.
No such luck today.
Under the bed I discovered two stray stuffed animals, a cat toy, and several years' worth of dust. Nothing hidden between the mattress and box spring. Nothing behind the Nagel print.
I returned to the phone and hit Redial, copying down the last number called and disconnecting before it went through. Then I copied down all of the numbers on the caller ID.
"Jack!"
I've been partners with Herb for over a decade, but had never heard such raw panic in his voice before. I rushed out of the bedroom, gun drawn.
Herb stood in the living room, stock-still. Tears ran down his cheeks.
Perched on Herb's head was Mr. Friskers, claws dug in tight.
"He leaped off the curtains. His claws are like fishhooks."
I took a step closer. Mr. Friskers hissed and arched his back.
Herb screamed.
"Get it off before he scalps me, Jack!"
"You can't pull him off?"
"His claws are stuck in my skull bone."
Only years of training and consummate professionalism prevented me from breaking down in hysterical laughter.
"You want me to call Animal Control?" I tried to say it straight, but a giggle escaped.
"No. I want you to shoot him."
"Herb . . ."
"Shoot the cat, Jack. Please. I'm begging you. It's not just the pain. There's gotta be several days' worth of cat mess in that diaper. The smell is making my eyes water."
I'd never owned a cat and had zero experience with the species. But I did recall an old TV commercial where the cat came running when it got fed. Couldn't hurt to try.
"I'll be right back."
"Don't leave me, Jack."
"I'm just going to get my camera."
"That's not even close to being funny."
I located the canned cat food in a cabinet. When I opened one of the tins, Herb screamed again. Mr. Friskers appeared in the kitchen a heartbeat later.
"You were just hungry, weren't you, kitty?"
The cat yowled at me. I set the can on the floor and watched him inhale the food.
Herb came through the doorway. His gun was out, pointing at Mr. Friskers.
"Herb, put that away."
"It's evil, Jack. It has to die."
Mr. Friskers looked at Herb, hissed, then bolted out of the room. Herb holstered his weapon.
"Am I bleeding?"
"A little." I handed him some paper towels. "Find anything?"
"Bank and credit card statements, phone bills, a few personal letters. You?"
"A few grams of cocaine."
"Give it to the cat. Maybe it will calm him down."
I gave Herb a fake smile. "Funny, for someone bleeding to death. Want to stop by the ER on the way back for your rabies shot?"
Herb narrowed his eyes, then looked past me, through the kitchen.
"The crime scene unit will be here soon."
"So?"
A yowl pierced the room, and Mr. Friskers shot past us and pounced his diaper-clad ass onto the counter. He sat there, hissing. His tail, which poked out through the center of the diaper, swished back and forth like a cobra.
"I'll try Animal Control." I took out my cell.
The news wasn't good.
"Sorry, Lieutenant. The heat wave has all of us doing triple time. Soonest we could pick it up is Monday."
"We might all be eaten by then."
"It's the best I can do. You can try the Humane Society."
I tried the Humane Society.
"Sorry, Officer. We couldn't come for at least a week. When the temperature gets this high, animals are hit hardest. We don't even have any room for another."
Herb nudged me.
"Tell them this cat is evil. If you shaved its head, you'd see a 666."
I relayed the info, but they weren't swayed. Herb suggested calling the Crocodile Hunter, but neither of us knew his number.
"We can't let him stay here, Jack."
I agreed. A cat could mess up a scene in a dozen ways. Not just by destroying evidence -- it could get in the team's way, hurt someone, or even get hurt itself if it inhaled the wrong chemical.
"You want him?" I asked.
Herb frowned and tore off another paper towel to blot his scalp.
I reached a tentative hand out to stroke the cat, and he bared claws and took a swipe at me.
"Try offering him your head," Herb suggested. "He'll jump on and we can walk him out."
I left the kitchen and went into Davi's bedroom, returning a moment later with the cat carrier and some ski gloves.
Herb raised an eyebrow. "Should I start dialing 911 now?"
"No need to worry. Animals love me, because they can sense my pure heart."
Without hesitating, I grabbed Mr. Friskers around the body. He countered by screaming louder than humanly possible and locking his fangs onto my right index finger. The gloves protected me, and I managed to get him in the carrier without losing a digit.
"So now we throw him in Lake Michigan, right?"
"I'm sure one of Davi's friends will take him."
"And in the meantime?"
I let out a big, dramatic sigh.
"I guess I'll have to keep him for a few days."
"I don't think that's a good idea, Jack. I don't want the next murder I investigate to be yours."
"He's just scared and grumpy. You'd be grumpy too if you had the same diaper on for four days. Right, little guy?"
I poked my gloved finger into the cat carrier, and Mr. Friskers pounced on it, biting and scratching.
"Try showing him your pure heart," Herb suggested.
The cat screamed for the entire ride back to the office.
Chapter 8
"My place is just up the next block."
"This isn't a very nice neighborhood."
"On purpose. My wife would never think to look for me here."
He smiles at the girl. Eileen Hutton. Young, pretty, perfect body. She knew it, too, which is why this date cost a cool thousand bucks.
She won't get the chance to spend it.
They're driving south on Kedzie, property values dropping block by block. The flophouse where he takes his women is dilapidated, filthy, and came complete with a handful of winos lounging in front. When he parks in the adjacent alley, she doesn't want to get out of the car.
"What's wrong?" He grins. His head feels ready to burst, an incessant pounding that's making his vision blur. Sweat streaks down his face in rivers. Hopefully, she'll think it's just the heat.