"You're not starving, Kit," Dulcie said. She leaped to a bench beside a potted euryops tree, and stretched out beneath its yellow flowers. Above the tree, the stars burned like the eyes of a million cat spirits. "You found Augor Prey," she said, watching Joe, amused by his smug look.
Joe Grey smiled. "Fits the description. Fresh scar on his forehead. Driver's license in the name of Lenny Wells. Revolver under his pillow, that's been fired recently." He looked intently at Dulcie. "It's time to call Harper. Time to find a phone," he said shortly.
Since he'd grown dependent on placing a call for certain matters, and since every human he knew had a cell phone, the inability to access a phone anywhere, at any time, had begun to make him irritable-instant phone access was now the norm. He didn't like being left behind.
Right. And he was going to subscribe to Ma Bell Cellular? Walk around wearing a phone strapped to his back like some kind of service cat all duded up in a red harness? Though he had to admit, phones were getting smaller all the time. Who knew, maybe the day of Dick Tracy's wrist radio wasn't far in the future. Maybe he could wear one on a collar, designed to look like a license tag.
Though the electronic wonder that concerned him most at the moment was caller ID. How long would it be until Harper sprang for caller ID on his cell phone? That was going to complicate life. As would this new system that would give police the originating location of all cell phone calls via satellite. That would be more than inconvenient.
Wilma had subscribed to caller ID blocking, and so had Clyde, in both cases to give Joe and Dulcie some anonymity. But it didn't work very well. Whether the phone company didn't bother to maintain the service, or whether there was some electronic problem, the cats didn't know. But the fear of identification by telephone deeply bothered Joe and Dulcie, and these new developments presented a constant threat of discovery.
"Maybe Prey shot Fern," Dulcie said. "And maybe Casselrod killed her. If she knew about the letter that Casselrod found, would he try to silence her? Or hire Prey to do it?"
"For a letter worth ten thousand bucks? Not likely. Maybe for ten or twenty letters." Joe looked hard at her. "In all of this, Dulcie, there's still something missing. Something right in front of our noses. Don't you sense it? I can't leave that idea alone. Some obvious fact that's the key to everything else."
He began to pace. "Nothing's going to fit, nothing's going to make sense until we find it, or the department does." He stopped prowling to irritably wash his paw, then paced again. At the far end of the alley he turned to look back at her. "Let's go, Dulcie. Let's make that call-let's nudge Harper, and see what we can stir up."
24
As the courthouse clock struck 4:30, its chimes ringing sharply across the dark and silent village, the three cats galloped up Wilma's drive and in through Dulcie's cat door, their backs wet with dew from Wilma's flowers and splotched with primrose petals.
The dark kitchen smelled of last night's roast chicken. Hurrying across the slick, chill linoleum and through to the living room, Joe leaped to Wilma's desk. He felt shaky suddenly, and uncertain.
With this phone call, he'd be playing on pure hunch. No shred of proof, no real information. He'd fingered Susan's burglar, he was pretty sure-or had fingered one of them. But did this information point to Fern's killer as well? So far, all circumstantial.
And as to the other matter he meant to bring up with Harper, that might be all smoke dreams. He could, Joe knew too well, be dead wrong in his suspicions.
Glancing to the hall, he locked eyes with Dulcie, where she sat listening outside the bedroom door to make sure Wilma didn't wake. Wilma knew they used the phone; she wouldn't be surprised that he was calling Harper. It was the second call that would be the touchy one, that he would just as soon she didn't know about.
For a moment he wanted to back down, his bold tomcat chutzpah deserted him.
But he'd made up his mind to do this. And when Dulcie gave him a tail-up all clear and an impatient look to get on with it, he swallowed back his misgivings and reached a paw to knock the phone from its cradle.
Dialing Harper's number, he was glad Cora Lee hadn't been released from the hospital yet, that he didn't have to worry about her overhearing him from the guest room. A surgery patient, who would surely be in some pain, probably wouldn't sleep too well. While tossing and turning, in the small hours, he wouldn't want her to discover more than she needed to know.
Harper answered crossly, on the second ring, irritable at being awakened. Joe knew from past calls, and from prowling Harper's ranch house up in the hills, that at night, the captain kept his cell phone on the bedside stand next to the house phone-Joe liked to think that might be because Harper had come to respect and value his two unidentified snitches, who preferred the cell phone number.
"Captain Harper, I can tell you where to find the tan infinity, license 2ZJZ417, the one I called you about last night."
Harper was quiet.
"And I can describe better now the man who drives it. I believe you'll recognize him." He gave Harper the location of the cottage and described the occupant of the rented room. "He carries a driver's license in the name of Lenny Wells." He could hear Harper breathing. Once in a while, Joe thought, he'd like to hear more than silence to the gems he passed on, would like to hear something besides Harper's smoker's cough and his gruff, one-syllable responses.
"Prey has a gun. A revolver, I don't know what caliber. It has been recently fired and not cleaned. He was asleep an hour ago, with the gun under his pillow."
He knew that this information would generate some hard questions with Harper. How had the informant gotten into Prey's room? How had he been able to look under Prey's pillow and not wake him?
He couldn't help that. Harper had to take him on faith. He had done that, so far, and had benefited from the exchange.
"Captain Harper, do you have the feeling there's something we're not seeing? Some piece of information that would tie all the pieces together? Something so obvious that we're blind to it?"
"Such as?"
"I wish I knew. I'd be happy to share it. This gut feeling I have, maybe it involves the Traynors."
Harper remained silent.
"Captain?"
Nothing.
Joe pressed the disconnect, keeping his paw on it to prevent triggering that annoying little voice that said, If you want to make a call, please hang up and dial again. If you need help…
He knew from his past calls that Harper's lack of response was usually positive. But this silence had seemed somehow heavily weighted.
Was Harper having the same nibble of unease that he himself was experiencing?
Call it cop sense or feline intuition. Didn't matter what you called it, those little irritating nibbles, for both Joe and Harper, had turned out more than once to be of value. He stared at the phone, trying to steel himself for the next call.
Beyond the window, the sky was beginning to lighten. The time on the East Coast would be about 7:40. He glanced out to the hall toward Dulcie where she lay relaxed, washing her shoulder, giving no indication that Wilma had stirred. He had no idea whether the number he had memorized would be the agent's office number or her residence. Or if, indeed, she worked out of her home.
If he were a New York literary agent, that would be the lifestyle he'd choose. No office rent and no commute. He'd watched a miniseries once on writers' agents. A lot of stress there. But with an office at home, you could get up at three in the morning, if you felt like it, to take care of your paperwork. Plenty of time during the day to hit the street for lunches with editors. And then on other days, one might want to just schlep around ungroomed or unshaven with no one but the occasional delivery person to know any different.