By the chimes of the courthouse clock, it was nearly 7:00. During the fifteen hours he'd been on the roof, with only a few short breaks down to the garden, he'd followed Prey to breakfast and then to lunch, shadowing him from above. After lunch he had watched Prey as he sprawled on the bed entertained by a series of mindless sitcoms, snacking on candy bars and a Coke. He couldn't figure out why Prey was hanging around; why, if he killed Fern, he hadn't skipped.
And if Prey hadn't killed her, Joe didn't know who to look at next, among the several candidates. Besides Prey, who had attacked Cora Lee and whose scent was all over the charity shop, Vivi had been in the shop, sucking on frozen cherries. And quite possibly others. Scent detection in that medley of furniture and old clothes and shoes was no easy matter.
When Prey headed out again, likely for dinner this time, Joe tucked the cell phone deeper under the overhang, and followed across the roofs to the same restaurant where Prey had enjoyed his previous repasts, a plain box of an eatery that looked like it belonged not in Molena Point but beside some central California freeway catering to the camper trade. Prey's restaurant of choice had no garden blooming in front, no murals or elegant paintings on the walls, no potted plants inside. The harsh lighting illuminated a plain room with bad acoustics, chrome-and-plastic furniture, and the thick smell of a menu heavy on fried foods. No light California fare of the interesting combinations that Dulcie loved, but that, in Joe's opinion, was like mixing the garden flowers with the mousemeat.
Across the street and half a block away, the rookie cop who was following Prey stood huddled in a doorway trying to keep out of the wind. Joe, from his own high vantage, wondered who was watching the back door. Likely no one; Prey's shadow had him in plain sight.
Dropping to a low overhang above an art gallery, Joe hit the sidewalk, crossed the street among the feet of wandering tourists, and galloped half a block down to the alley behind the restaurant.
The kitchen door was ajar to let in fresh air amidst the hot smell of onions and frying meats. Trying not to drool as he pawed the screen open, he slipped in past the cook's heels, across the kitchen, and under an empty booth at the back.
At a front table, Prey was just ordering, glancing repeatedly toward the window. Did he know he had a tail? Watching him, Joe tried to figure out where he'd hidden the packet of letters that he snatched from Cora Lee. Earlier in the day, while Prey ordered his lunch, Joe had returned to his room to toss it again, checking all his pockets, slipping a paw between the mattresses and crawling in as far as he could reach without smothering himself. He had fought the dresser drawers open again and climbed in behind them, and peered up at the undersides of the drawers. He'd found nothing more valuable than a rusted bobby pin and an old gum wrapper.
So maybe Prey had the letters on him. Maybe they'd been under the pillow along with the gun, and he'd missed them. There was a limit to how familiar the searcher could get without waking the searchee and getting one's tail in a knot.
Or had Prey given the letters to Richard Casselrod, maybe to sell and split the take? Joe was yawning with boredom by the time Prey paid his bill and rose to leave. Jerking awake, Joe rose to follow. Slipping beneath the tables and around assorted pant cuffs and stockinged ankles, he left the restaurant by the front door directly behind Prey's heels; but dropped back when the rookie fell into line.
Prey stopped at the market to pick up a six-pack, then headed back to his room. Could he be waiting for someone? Was that why Harper was watching him and not making an arrest? Back at their mutual destination, as Joe scorched up the nearest pine tree to the roof, Prey's room light and the TV came on. Joe watched him pop a beer and settle down on the bed, again not bothering to remove his shoes or to pull the shade. Joe could still taste the meaty cooking smells from the cheap cafe. Crouched in the wind, his stomach rumbling with hunger, he began to worry about Dulcie. He kept peering over the edge of the roof to the sidewalk below and to the scruffy patch of garden that ran between the houses, but there was no sign of her. Every time he glanced up into Prey's dismal room, he felt like he was peering in at a captive. Prey had, for all intents and purposes, made himself a prisoner, or nearly so-watching him had become as boring and tedious as watching paint flake from a rusting car.
Joe thought about the comfort of his own home, about his soft easy chair clawed to furry perfection, and the big, well-stocked refrigerator, and the wide, warm bed he shared with Clyde-but then his fear of Clyde's selling the house returned to haunt him. The idea of abandoning his home and going to live somewhere unfamiliar was totally depressing, the idea of a strange house filled with the unfamiliar smells of departed strangers and departed animals, where nothing fit just right or smelled right. The thought of moving and of starting over dropped him right down into a black well of dejection.
"You look limp as a fur rug."
He jumped, startled. Dulcie stood behind him dangling a paper bag from her teeth. He could smell pot roast, he could tell that it was still warm and succulent. She dropped the bag on the shingles, nosed it open, and clawed out a Styrofoam dish. It took her a moment to undo the little clasp, revealing a heap of sliced roast beef, crisp string beans, and au gratin potatoes.
"Hot from Wilma's microwave. Dig in. I had my share, didn't want to carry it all."
"Wilma puts up the best leftovers in the village."
"Not leftovers, really. She cooks a big roast, all the fixings, then portions it out for future meals."
"The blessings of a woman's touch."
"That's very sexist. Is that why you want Clyde to get married?"
"It couldn't hurt," Joe said with his mouth full. And when he came up for air, slurping and purring, he said, "Frozen suppers, ready for the microwave. We could do that when the rabbits are out by the hundreds, bring home a brace, portion them out into little dishes…"
Laughing, she lay down on the shingles, soaking up warmth from the vanished sun. "Not even Wilma and Clyde would dedicate their freezer to our hunting kill."
"Does Wilma know why she fixed supper for me? Does she know I'm up here?"
"Of course. I had to tell her something. She didn't say a word, except did you have Clyde's cell phone up on the roof because Clyde's pitching a fit, trying to find it. He thought maybe he'd left it at her house." Curled up in the shadows of the overhang, she began to wash her paws. "You could call Clyde and put his mind at rest-so he won't think he lost it and someone's going to run up a big bill."
"He doesn't need the phone."
"So call him. He's not going to come up here on the roof to get his phone back."
"I wouldn't count on it. He's been so grouchy lately-and nosy. But what's happening at the station? What did you find out? Did you get in all right?"
Dulcie smiled. "I'm a permanent fixture. The day dispatcher's just as much a cat person as the lady on second watch. She made all kinds of fuss over me, made a bed for me on her sweater. All the officers stopped to scratch my ears and chuck me under the chin like some hound dog. They're so funny. Don't they know how to pet a cat?"
"Harper doesn't think it strange we're suddenly showing up there?"
"He gave me a look or two. Said maybe I was getting bored with being the library cat. But what would he suspect? A cat could shout obscenities in his face, and Harper wouldn't want to believe it."
Joe shrugged and licked the Styrofoam one more time in case he'd missed a drop of gravy.
"Clyde stopped by the department," she said. "Asking Harper about Fern's murder. Didn't even wait until they went out for coffee, just started asking questions. I think he's worried about you- about us. Maybe it's all this business of trying to decide whether to sell the house, maybe he's feeling insecure."