“She pulled the curtains about nine. I left at 9:30; the tower clock had just struck the half hour. I couldn’t see in any more, but the movie was still playing, I could hear it and could see the lights moving across the curtains. I guess she could have gone out.
“After she pulled the curtains, I was ready to give it up and drop off the roof, when I saw Larry Cruz standing across the street looking up, watching the Mannings’ windows. Dark clothes, standing in the shadows. I don’t know how long he’d been there. I guess he could see right in, before they pulled the drapes, it’s only the third floor, and they were right by the window. When he turned away, I followed him over the roofs.
“He stopped in the deli, got a sandwich, ate it walking around. He was all over the village. He met Gail near the courthouse, she was waiting for him-I guess it was Gail,” Dulcie said, her green eyes widening. “She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. She gave him a package, he tucked it in his shirt, under his jacket, and they went in the bar.”
Joe said, “Charles, Ltd. was robbed tonight. I was in there, I thought I followed Azrael in, but I couldn’t smell him. It might have been the shop cat. Found no one downstairs, and nothing looked disturbed. No sign of Greeley.”
“Don’t you think it’s strange that we haven’t seen him?”
He sat looking at her. “You saw Alice in her room from 8:30 to 9:00. After that, you thought she was there. At 9:30 you left, and followed Larry. He meets Gail-you think it was Gail-about 10:00. They go in the bar.” Joe frowned, his ears back, his yellow eyes narrowing. “Say Larry has partnered up with Greeley, planning to lay the blame on Alice. Say he was watching Alice ’s room to be sure there were no witnesses to where she was, when the burglary came down.”
“But…”
“I wonder if room service saw her when they delivered their dinner. They could testify she was there, not ripping off the men’s store.”
“Dinner was in paper bags,” Dulcie said. “Takeout Chinese. Smelled good.” She licked her whiskers. “Maybe they got tired of fancy hotel food. So there was no room service. Manning picked up their order himself, was coming in when I got there.”
Dulcie rolled over, her tabby stripes blending with the shadows. “And there’s something else. This afternoon, on the inn’s patio, I was waiting for Larry. I thought I might learn something, the way you said. He came in from his car, that red Acura, carrying a black duffel bag, like divers use for their wet suits and equipment, and he smelled of the sea. His shoes were sandy, and when I sniffed around his tires they smelled of little dead sea creatures and tar, and there was sand in the treads.”
“So, the guy’s a diver.”
“And the corpse’s feet were wet from the sea.”
“What are you saying? We should take up diving, slip on a couple of wet suits and…”
Dulcie pressed against him, warm and sleek and purring. “I think we should follow him next time he goes to dive. Who knows what we’ll find?”
Chapter Seven
In Moreno’s Grill, beneath the table in a shadowed corner booth, the two cats pressed as far away from the shoes of Joe Grey’s human housemate, and of police chief Max Harper, as they could squeeze. The carpet smelled of stale French fries. It was the afternoon after the burglary at Charles, Ltd.
Harper and Clyde Damen liked to wind down at Moreno ’s after work, isolated in the far corner of the quiet bar where they could speak privately, no nosy idlers to overhear. Clyde was the only civilian with whom the police chief talked freely. The two men, having grown up together, were as close as brothers.
“Burglar alarm was disconnected,” Harper said. “No one knew about the break-in until Chuck Connover went back to the store that night, some time before 10, to pick up some papers he’d meant to work on. He started to turn off the alarm, then saw that it was off. Found the cash register open and empty. Went on into the back room, which was foolish. Said he was relieved when he found the safe locked. He didn’t open it until we got there, didn’t know until then that it had been cleaned out. The burglary could have happened anywhere between 8, when he left the store, and 10. We found no prints.”
“You pick up any fibers or hairs, or anything dropped?”
“The usual dust and lint, sent off to the lab. Found some hairs on the desk beside the safe-black animal hairs. Likely from Chuck’s old cat, she’s all over the shop.”
Under the table, Joe and Dulcie looked at each other. Chuck Connover’s old cat? Or Azrael? But bigger puzzles than the identity of a black cat filled their thoughts.
They had spent the early dawn on the rocky cliffs south of the village, watching Larry Cruz suit up beside the tailgate of his red Acura. Larry had met no one, and had hardly spoken to the other divers. Watching him pull on his flippers and back into the water, they could see him for a while through the clear blue swells before he vanished, where the sea went black along the cliffs. He came out an hour later, and did not have any fish or shellfish. But he seemed to have done nothing different than any of the other divers.
Above their heads, Harper said, “I don’t like to lay this stuff on you, Clyde. You’re the only one I’d tell how uneasy it makes me. I laugh about it, in the squad room.”
“What stuff?”
“The phantom snitch is back. The messenger who leaves evidence in my car and at the back door of the station. Same guy who tipped us where the weapon was hidden that killed Samuel Beckwhite, and has been phoning me ever since. Same voice, same turns of speech.”
Beneath the table, Clyde shifted his feet with unease. “You told me it was a man and a woman. And that their information is reliable,” he said testily.
“A hundred percent,” Harper said. “But still they make me nervous. Last night, someone left a plastic bag on my desk, at about the time the commercial burglary report came in. Bag contained a pair of woman’s gloves. Black suede. Sent them to the lab this morning.”
The men were silent. Someone set down his glass. “I can’t discount these tips,” Harper said. “They’ve helped us in past cases. But they’re mighty hard to explain to the court-I’ve never seen these two, I have no information about them. Usually, I know my snitches.”
“The gloves had something to do with the burglary?” Clyde asked innocently. “Or maybe with the death of Frances Farrow? But you keep the station doors locked at night, keep that back door locked all the time. It would have to be one of your own people, to leave evidence there on your desk.”
“Don’t you think I asked!”
In the shadows, Dulcie’s green eyes shone with amusement. Clyde said nothing more, and soon, when Harper turned the conversation to his horses, Joe nudged Dulcie and they moved swiftly through the shadows beneath the tables, streaked past the bar and through the kitchen and out the screen door, into the narrow alley.
“There’s something I didn’t tell you,” Joe said, crouching beside the garbage cans. “Something that might explain why we haven’t seen old Greeley with the black tomcat. Come on.” And, ignoring the heady scent of raw fish and meat wrappers, he headed fast up Ocean Avenue, dodging around the feet of tourists.
“What? Where are we going?” Dulcie hissed, galloping beside him.
He didn’t answer, but lowered his head and ran, swerving down a side street-stopping suddenly when a black cat loomed out of the shadows, blocking their path.
Azrael, black as sin, his tail lashing, his amber eyes narrowed and cold. He drew himself taller, bowing his neck, looking down at Joe. “So, little gray kitty. You are still following me? Still playing detective? What, you poor creature, do you imagine I’ve done now?”
Joe Grey smiled, his yellow eyes assessing Azrael, his sleek gray coat rippling over hard muscle. “I had no thought of following you, you pitiful mouser. Though I see you are still playing at your mindless games, stealing money that only your whiskey-sodden partner can make use of.”