Dillon said nothing. She stared back at Ryan, her jaw set, deeply scowling.
But something was changed. Charlie could see it; deep down, something was different.
Ryan said no more. Dillon moved away and out the door, swung on her bike, and took off up the lane. Charlie watched her pedal away alone. But maybe her shoulders were less hunched, her back not quite so stiff. Ryan glanced at her watch and rolled up the plans. "I'll leave one set. If you can go over them with Max tonight, if you're happy with everything, call me and I'll be at the building department first thing Monday morning." She gave Charlie a twisted smile. "To start the permit process rolling." They both knew that the county building department was hell to work with, that weeks of officiousness might be involved, enough unnecessary bureaucratic red tape to break the spirit of a marine sergeant.
Ryan shrugged. "I can only hope we get a good inspector, hope he doesn't find some trumped-up excuse to trash the whole plan." She grinned at Charlie. "It'll be okay, I'll sweet-talk him, as disgusted as that makes me. I can hardly wait to get started, I'm as excited as a kid-as enthusiastic as a kid should be," she said, glancing toward the lane. She slipped an elastic around the blueprints. Charlie unplugged the coffeepot, and they walked out to the pasture gate, discussing the work schedule and where the building materials should be stacked. At the gate, the three dogs came bounding. The big silver weimaraner weighed eighty pounds and stood over two feet at the shoulder, but he was dwarfed by the Harpers' half-breed Great Danes. The three dogs charged the gate like wild mustangs, but Ryan and Charlie, with fast footwork and sharp commands, got them sorted out, got Rock through the gate without the pups following. Ryan loaded Rock into the passenger seat of her pickup. "You still planning on a groundbreaking party?"
"The minute we have the permit. Max needs some diversion."
Ryan grinned, gave Charlie a thumbs-up, and took off up the lane. Charlie stood by the pasture gate petting the pups and scratching behind Redwing's ears, thinking about Dillon, about the building project, about the several commissions she'd promised, including the Doberman studies; and about the two recent deaths in the village. All the fragments that touched her life, both bright and ugly, seemed muddled together like the contents of a grab bag: You pay your money and you take your chance. Or, as Joe Grey would put it, whatever crawls out of the mouse hole, that's your catch of the day.
11
The only luggage the black tomcat required was a canvas tote containing a dozen assorted cans of albacore and white chicken, and a box of fish-flavored kibble. A little something to snack on, between room service. His traveling companion, by contrast, had packed three suitcases, effectively filling the entire trunk of her pale blue Corvette.
Consuela hadn't been thrilled about him coming along on this little jaunt. He had prevailed, however, having more plans than he had mentioned to her-far more than cleaning out Kate Osborne's safe deposit box.
Traveling north from Molena Point, Consuela preferred Highway 101 to the coast route, despite the heavy traffic and the preponderance of large tractor-trailers. She was a fast driver with flash-quick reactions and a competitive take on life. Azrael studied her with interest.
She no longer looked like the bawdy young woman who had hung out with those younger girls; her transformation was, as always, remarkable. She looked her true age now, of twenty-some. Without the frizzed-out hair and theatrical makeup, her sleek, fine-boned beauty was startling; and the transformation hadn't taken long. She had scrubbed her face and now wore very little makeup, just a touch of pink lipstick. He had watched her dampen her dark hair, twist it tightly around her head, and cover it with the sassy blond wig that she had styled like Kate Osborne's hair. She was wearing a tailored beige suit, much as Kate might wear. She looked serious and businesslike, and in fact far more interesting than the painted child who had run with Dillon and her friends. She had wanted to make reservations at the St. Francis, on Union Square, but Azrael had quashed that notion. The Garden House on Stockton was just a block from Kate Osborne's apartment.
He slept during much of the two-hour drive, waking in San Jose, where Consuela stopped at a Burger King. She ordered orange juice and coffee for herself, and a double cheeseburger for him, hold the pickles. That would tide him over until they hit the city and had visited Kate's bank-though as it turned out, their errand didn't take long.
The branch that Kate frequented was old, with round marble pillars in front, its floors and walls done all in marble. Azrael, not trusting Consuela, rode into the bank in her carryall. No one questioned her when she presented the safe deposit box key, read off the number, and waited to sign in.
But when the clerk gave her the signature card, a hot rage hit Azrael, and Consuela went pale.
The card had been signed just an hour earlier by Kate herself.
"Forgot something," Consuela told the clerk, smiling and shaking her head at her own pretended inefficiency. The bank clerk looked hard at her but accepted the signature card.
Playing dumb, Consuela followed the clerk into the vault.
This was apparently not the same teller who had helped Kate an hour earlier; that clerk would have remembered her, or at least remembered what Kate was wearing. Azrael watched the other clerks warily, looking for some trap; his paws began to sweat. These tellers might, for all he knew, know Kate personally. It was a small branch, and Kate did work right in the building. He'd considered that before but had thought, what were the odds? You couldn't cover every contingent.
Moving into the vault, waiting for the teller to open up the little drawer, both Azrael and Consuela were strung with nerves. Before they were alone in the locked room he'd nearly smothered in the damn bag.
Opening the metal box, Consuela stared into the empty container. Not a scrap of paper, not a paperclip or a speck of dust.
"Nothing," she said, having expected as much. "Nothing. What did you do! How did you tip her! This is your fault," she hissed, her face close to his. "You stupid beast. You drag me all the way up here for this, for nothing. Either you tipped her or… What did you hear last night, that made you think… You'd better start explaining."
"Keep your voice down! You're supposed to be alone in here! Kate said the jewels were here. Plain as day."
She just looked at him.
He raised his paw, wanting to slash her. She might look like a refined lady now, but she was still little more than a streetwalker. "Are you calling me a liar?"
"If they were here, she's cleared them out. An hour ago, you stupid beast. Did she burn rubber getting here before us? And why? Who tipped her? Is there another name on the box? Did she call someone here in the city?"
"You were looking at the card. I was inside the damn bag."
"They don't keep that information on the sign-in card. I looked." She stared hard at him. "How the hell did she know! What did you do when you took that key, leave black cat hair all over her room? Paw prints on the dresser?"
He extended his claws until she backed away. She closed the box, and held the carryall open, looking at him until he hopped in. Well, screw her, he thought hunkering down in the dark bag. And they did not speak again until they hit the Garden House and Consuela turned into the parking lot.
The place was so typically San Francisco it made him retch, all this Victorian garbage to impress the tourists. And he was hungry again. A bad gig always made him hungry. He waited in the car while she signed the register, then rode in her carryall up the elevator. They did not learn until later that the hotel allowed pets, that he would have been welcome, that catering to domestic animals was their specialty. Though one might have known from the smell of the room. It stunk like poodle poop.