"What can happen? So I'm hunting mice. If a mouse ran in through an open window, why wouldn't I follow?"
"Not everyone loves a prowling cat. Just be careful."
"You're feeling guilty because you suggested this gig and you're not coming with me. I think it's a blast. Who knows what I'll find?"
"I had hoped the kit-"
Dulcie had flashed him a look of green-eyed impatience. "I don't know where she is. And you know she'd only make trouble. She'd be into everything, and I'm always afraid she'll start talking a mile a minute."
But Joe had parted from Dulcie with an unaccustomed fear tickling along his spine, a taut wariness that almost made him turn back. Only the urgency of Marlin Dorriss's personal papers led him on, calling to him like the sound of mice scurrying in the walls.
It would set him up big time to lay his claws on the precise evidence that Max Harper would so like to obtain, papers that Harper's officers couldn't legally search for, and without which they might never have the lead they needed-if indeed Dorriss was involved in these high-class thefts.
And if Dorriss wasn't the thief, nothing lost. A few hours' adventure.
"You're courting trouble," Dulcie had told him. "Getting too bold. That place is huge, and built like a fort. Let me come…"
"We really need to know where the stolen clothes are hidden," he'd said, and had bullied until he sent her away; and now he couldn't stop worrying about her. She had left him, scowling, her ears back, her tail lashing, her parting words, "You're going to trip on your own claws if you're not careful," ringing in his ears as he crossed the village.
But what was life for, if not to balance on the edge? He just didn't want to put Dulcie in that danger. Consuela's small house led itself to quicker escape. Anyway, he had not the faintest notion that he would fail. With sufficient tenacity and clever paw work, why should he fail? Every human had bills to pay; every human kept his paid bills stashed in some drawer or cubbyhole.
"And how," Dulcie had said, "are you going to keep from implicating Detectives Garza and Davis? You daren't make it look like one of them broke into Dorriss's. They both were there in Harper's office when he talked about the bills."
Joe had been worrying about that. He'd told Dulcie, "No problem. I'll think about that after the deed." If he could find evidence that Dorriss had been in those towns at the time of the burglaries, Harper would have something to work on. It had to be frustrating to have a multimillion-dollar case like this and not a useful bit of evidence. Harper and Dallas Garza's strong cop-sense that Dorriss could be involved was good enough, anytime, for Joe Grey.
A granite-paved parking area curved before the front of the house, between the huge pale boulders and the natural, informal gardens. Granite flagstones led to the heavily carved front door that was recessed beneath a white slab. Above the door at either side, surveillance cameras looked down on Joe. To a master of break-and-enter, the place looked like Fort Knox. He hoped to hell those cameras weren't running at the moment, closely monitoring him. Even if he was only an innocent feline, electronic surveillance made him nervous-though Dorriss ought to be happy to have a stray cat wandering the property ridding the area of unwanted moles and gophers.
Passing the entry he trotted along the side of the house to the back, into a fine mist of sea spray. Crossing the stone patio he stood looking back at the house. Only here facing the sea were there wide expanses of glass looking out at the boulders and the crashing surf. The huge windows would, from within, afford an unbroken view of the Pacific.
The patio was protected from the wind by a six-foot glass wall, its panels skillfully fitted around the mountains of granite. From this sunny shelter a stone walk led down the cliff to the sea, doubling back and forth in comfortable angles until it reached the sand far below. For a few moments Joe crouched at the edge of the cliff rocked by the sea wind, caught in the timeless dance of the violent sea; then he turned away, approaching the house through the glassed patio.
He paused, startled.
Either luck was with him, or a trap had been laid.
Of the four pairs of sliding glass doors that opened to the seaward patio, the one at the far end stood open perhaps four inches, just wide enough for a cat to slip through.
Looking along the bottom of the glass he saw where it was locked in place so no one larger could enter. Higher up where the glass door joined the wall, he saw the tiny red lights of an activated security system, a strip of lights that rose from six inches above the floor to about six feet, a barrier impossible for a human to circumvent unless he was circus-thin and agile enough to slide in on his belly, or was a skilled high jumper. Sniffing all around the open glass he could catch no animal scent, cat or otherwise, could smell only salty residue from the sea spray. He could see no one inside the room beyond the glass, but the place was huge, with angles and niches that might conceal an army.
Slipping beneath the electronic barrier ready to spin and run, he eased beyond the beam. Once inside, he expected his every move to trigger an interior beam, but no alarm sounded. Uneasily he rose to his full height, his gray ears pricked, his short stub tail erect, his yellow eyes searching every angle of the furniture, dissecting every shadow. Still no alarm-and talk about architectural bravado!
The walls of the soaring, two-story great room were hung with large and vivid action paintings from the mid-1950s. Thanks to Dulcie's coaching, he recognized several Diebenkorns, two Bischoffs, half a dozen Braden Wests. Opening from this soaring gallery were a dozen low, cavelike seating niches, cozy conversation alcoves that were tucked beneath the floor above. Each little retreat was furnished in a different style designed around some esoteric collection. One conversation area featured miniature landscapes. One was designed to set off a group of steel sculptures. In another, couch and chairs were tucked among huge six-foot-tall chess pieces. An array of carved wooden chests and small cupboards was arranged among soft velvet seating. Joe could imagine Dulcie and Kit prowling here for hours, riven with delight at every new discovery, rolling on every velvet settee and hand-woven cushion.
Keeping to the shadows, scanning every niche to make sure he was alone, he expected any second to see someone sitting among the exhibits, silent and still, watching him. Or to come face to face with whatever animal, most likely a cat, enjoyed access through the open glass door. At the back of the room, behind a vast, two-sided fireplace, was a dining room with dark blue-gray walls. The huge carved table and chairs were rubbed with white, the chair seats upholstered in white. He would not have noticed these niceties if he had not spent so many hours with Dulcie. At every break-and-enter, she had to admire, examine, and comment upon the decor.
In the left-hand wall of the dining room, a door stood open to the kitchen. Far to the left of the kitchen an entry hall led to the carved front door, and here rose a broad and angled stairway. Was Dorriss's office up there on the second floor, his desk and files? Or did Dorriss have a secretary hidden away in some village office to take care of business matters? Likely he relied on a broker in some large firm to tend to his investments, but he had to have letters, personal bills. Wouldn't a house of this size and quality have a safe? Did Dorriss keep his stocks and bonds at home, along with the valuable pieces of antique silver and jewelry that he was known to collect?
Skilled as he was with his paws, Joe's expertise did not, as yet, include safecracking. Anyway he was here for bills, not silver. Who kept their Visa bills in a locked safe? Contemplating the possible extent of Dorriss's security arrangements, and his skin rippling with nerves, he made for the wide stairway.