"Clyde's feeling insecure, so he takes it out worrying about us."
"Maybe, for humans, that's the way it works. Life gets uncertain, and every little frustration becomes a big problem. But listen to this," she said, her green eyes gleaming. "Garza brought the Traynors in."
"On what charge?"
"No charge. Just to talk to them. He couldn't hold them. Elliott was totally silent, didn't even complain about the inconvenience. You'd think he'd pitch a fit. You can bet Vivi whined; she said this would throw Elliott behind schedule, that he had to finish his book. She ranted on while Elliott sat there saying not a word and looking miserable."
"So how did the questioning go?"
Dulcie looked abashed. "I tried, Joe. I thought it would be a snap, that I could sit on the dispatcher's counter and watch the interrogation on her monitor, but I should have known better. Garza just took them into his office. And shut the door. Practically in my face. I lay down on my back against the door playing with my tail, but I got only part of it. Those doors are thick, maybe bulletproof. Garza asked about their leaving New York, about their movements just before their flight. Vivi sounded surprised, but then she got really mad."
Joe smiled. "Sounds like Adele McElroy did talk to the New York detectives. But why would Garza ask questions and alert Vivi? If there is anything to my theory, they'll pack up and skip."
"My thought exactly. But I really didn't hear enough to make sense of it. Garza drove them back to their cottage himself.
"But he put a tail on them," she said, grinning. "So maybe that's his idea, too, to catch them skipping."
"Who did he send?"
"Davis. She's good, but I can find out more than she can. I can look in the windows to see if they're packing, and I can slip inside."
"Watch yourself, Dulcie. Don't forget Elliott has that 'target pistol' as he calls it."
"I don't think he'll use that again." She gave him a whisker kiss, and left him, leaping into the pine tree and scrambling backward down the rough trunk carrying the empty Styrofoam dish in its paper bag. She dropped it beside the steps of Prey's landlord, next to the trash can.
Prey had turned the light off; only the glow of the TV remained. Across his windows the evening sky reflected in a glut of slow-moving clouds. Joe could smell rain. He hoped it would hold off. Even under the two-foot overhang, a sudden downpour would splash up from the shingles, drenching him and playing hell with Clyde's cell phone.
He watched Prey pop another beer, sitting on the bed leaning against the pillows. Playing with the remote, Prey began to channel-hop, producing a staccato of jolting squawks and flashing light. As the evening deepened, the pine tree that rose beside the roof turned from separate green needles to a black and shapeless mass, and the house walls darkened to nondescript shadows blending with the ragged bushes. Only the pale sidewalk directly below retained its sharp edges, the concrete empty now except for a scattering of dead leaves skittering in the wind. Stretching out, Joe rested his chin on the metal roof gutter, looking down, half dozing, his bored gaze fixed on Prey.
He stiffened.
Something dark was sliding among the bushes; a figure was approaching Prey's windows noiselessly from the street, Joe caught a glimpse of jeans and a dark shirt. Was it the rookie that Garza had sent to tail Prey? Had he pulled a heavier shirt on over his pale T-shirt, and put on a black cap? The man moved along beside the shrubs below the window, making no sound at all.
At nearly the same moment, Prey flicked the overhead light on again. As the harsh glow struck the bushes like a searchlight, the guy ducked away. Joe picked him out of the blackest shadows, crouching, watching the window above him. He looked bigger than the young cop. Inside the room, the glow of the single bulb shattered across the dresser's oval mirror, picking out Prey as he opened a third beer, the scar across his forehead angry in the artificial light. Staring at himself in the mirror, he moved to the bathroom and rinsed out a washcloth.
Returning to the TV, he lay down and folded the cool compress across the healing wound. Outside the window the silent watcher waited. Above the dark treetops, the clouds lowered and extended, cutting away the last of the fading daylight, casting the village into darkness. The watcher moved closer, peering in through the glass.
Snap, his shoe broke a dead twig. He crouched, frozen, as Prey swung up from the bed and switched off the light.
Prey stood for some time peering out, picking nervously at the scar, glancing behind him around the room.
When he pulled the blind, Joe could hear him moving, could hear drawers opening. Nipping across the roof, Joe dropped to the branch outside the bathroom window.
In the lighted bathroom, Prey was sweeping razor and toiletries into his jacket pockets, along with a pair of socks that he snatched from the shower rod where apparently he had hung his laundry. When he left the bathroom, Joe slid the window open. In a moment he heard Prey punch the phone, and listened to him ordering a cab.
Leaping back across branches to his own roof, Joe pawed at Clyde's phone, hitting the on button and the redial, the way he had set it up. In seconds he was speaking to the dispatcher.
"Augor Prey is getting ready to split, packing clothes and shaving gear in his jacket. He just called a cab."
"Will you repeat your message?"
"Prey's ready to skip. Tell Detective Garza, now! I don't know where the tail is. There's a guy watching him, but I don't think it's your man." Joe watched Prey lift the mattress, shouldering it up high enough to reach clear to the middle, deeper than Joe had been able to search without smothering himself. "Well, I'll be damned," Joe said. "I think-tell Garza that I think Prey has the letters."
He watched Prey carefully stuff a little packet wrapped in clear plastic, into his inside pocket. It looked like letters; he thought he could see a ribbon wrapped around the small bundle.
Garza came on the line. He was as matter-of-fact as Harper had been lately. As if maybe Harper had talked to him about this snitch, had told him this informant was eccentric but reliable. "Is Prey's car still there?"
"It's there," Joe said. "He's called a cab. Guess he means to leave the car, and leave his bag in the room, just walk away as if he's coming back. He's armed. If that is your man right outside Prey's window, he's too close for you to risk your calling him."
"There is no officer on duty."
"You've had a tail on him all day."
Garza hesitated as if not sure how much to trust this stranger.
"That officer is back at the station," he said at last. "We have not sent a replacement. You say someone is watching Prey?" Garza's voice was sharp.
Joe leaned over the gutter, peering down. The guy was still there. "You have no tail on him now?"
"No tail. If you'd give me your name…"
Joe watched the squarely built, darkly dressed figure, caught a glimpse of a pock-marked cheek.
"That's Richard Casselrod," he hissed suddenly. "Casselrod's tailing him-black sweatshirt, black cap and shoes."
Prey left his room and in a moment came out the back door of the house, looked around him, and quickly crossed the side yard.
"He's making for the back street," Joe said softly. "He's standing in the shadows of a cypress tree. I can hardly see him under the low branches. Casselrod's following him, moving in behind him."
Casselrod made not a sound. Nor did Garza. The phone sounded like it had gone dead.
"Are you there?" Joe whispered.
No one answered; Garza was gone. Joe watched a cab turn into the street, its lights reflecting across darkened house windows. As Prey started toward the taxi, Casselrod lurched out of the night and grabbed him, swinging Prey around and shoving a gun in his face.