Joe considered several menu options while Clyde retreated to the master bath and turned on the shower. “Damn cat! Damn rotten spoiled tomcat!”
Grinning, Joe padded down the stairs, slipped out through his cat door, and stood looking up and down the street. When he saw no neighbors about, and no one looking out a window, he took the morning paper in his teeth and hauled it through his cat door. Dragged it through to the kitchen and with some difficulty wrestled it up onto the kitchen table. The paper was getting heavier every day. If they didn’t solicit all that unnecessary advertising to bulk it up…Unfolding it as he waited for Clyde, he scanned the front page.
There was nothing about Wilma’s or Charlie’s kidnapping, or about the arrest of Cage Jones. Max and Dallas had been adept, indeed, at keeping things quiet. There were still a lot of loose ends in this case, and it didn’t need to go public yet.
The front page covered the third break-in murder, though, recapping how Peggy Milner had been killed in her kitchen. How a neighbor had seen her in there, but when she went to Peggy’s door, and knocked and called out to her and Peggy didn’t answer, the neighbor had called 911. Peggy had been fixing a late supper for one, as her husband was working late. She had been stabbed. The neighbor said the sight sickened her. There were, so far, no other witnesses. The article followed up with recaps of the Linda Tucker and Elaine Keating killings, pointing out similarities between the three incidents. The byline on the article said “Jim Barker.”
Barker was a tall, neatly groomed, sensible guy with three little girls and a keen sympathy for the problems the police faced when information was aired too soon. He covered the police blotter with common sense and real interest, not with a chip on his shoulder like some egocentric newsmen. Joe remembered some very snide articles by other reporters questioning the conduct of Max’s officers, and, more than once, claiming it would be foolish to spend city money on drug dogs and working police dogs, for whom Joe had the highest respect.
He wondered sometimes if Molena Point would ever get a police dog. That would be a fine addition to the force-except that a canine officer could sure destroy Joe’s rapport with the law, could mess up his investigations and totally destroy his clandestine surveillance. A trained evidence dog would pick up the faintest cat scent at a crime scene, and might single him or Dulcie or Kit out as having been there, might come down really hard on them. And a dog would know the minute a cat entered the PD, would know where they were, under which desk, behind which chair. No, dogs would be a problem in Harper’s department. Anywhere else, they’d be an asset.
Clyde came down the stairs and turned on the coffeepot. “And what is your royal highness’s pleasure this morning?” Rudely, he picked Joe up from atop the front page. “Do you have to hog the entire paper?” Setting Joe on his own side of the table, Clyde laid out a place mat and silverware for himself. “Omelet? What do you want in it? Ham? Bacon? Mushrooms? Cheese?”
“That would be fine.”
“That what would be fine?”
“What you just said. You can hold the mushrooms if you want, if you’re really-”
Clyde sighed and jerked open the refrigerator.
“That door gasket isn’t going to last another six months if you-”
“Can it, Joe. I haven’t had a lot of sleep.”
Joe yawned in Clyde’s face to demonstrate that he had missed just as much sleep.
“You slept all the way home,” Clyde said, cracking eggs into a bowl.
“I merely had my eyes closed. I was thinking.” The tomcat returned to the front page, perusing the article that pointed out the similarities among the three murders. It left out only those sensitive facts that Harper would not have wanted published, such as the identification of fingerprints and the list of suspects-of which, Joe knew, there were few. Jim Barker said that at this point the police were looking at no single burglary suspect who might be involved in all three cases. The paper went on to say, in a sidebar, that the Molena Point police kept a current list of the names and addresses of all calls for domestic disturbance or abuse.
An accompanying human-interest article at the bottom of the page dealt with the plight of abused women. It quoted a psychologist’s assessment of the fears of such women, and their reluctance to make a fresh start. It suggested steps they might take to separate themselves from their abusers if they chose to do so, including agency, shelter, and private foundation names and phone numbers. Jim Barker had done an admirable job for Max in helping to alert other women before it was too late. He had, at the same time, as was surely Harper’s intent, alerted other possible wife killers that the department was aware of their brutal tendencies.
As Clyde dished up their omelets, Joe pushed the paper around, facing Clyde’s plate. Far be it from him to hog the morning news. Twitching an ear at Clyde by way of thanks for an elegant omelet, he glanced down at Rube’s empty place on the floor, as he had done every morning since they’d had to put the old Lab down. And, as he did every morning, before he started to eat he said a little cat prayer for Rube that he supposed was just as valid for dogs.
Then he set to on the omelet, as ravenous as if he couldn’t remember his last meal. He ate slurping and enjoying, then at last gave his whiskers and paws a hasty wash, another flick of the ears for Clyde, and he was off-up the stairs, onto Clyde’s desk, up onto the rafter and out through his rooftop cat door. He paused in his tower for a hasty drink where the water was cool from sitting out all night; then he was out his tower window and across the roofs heading for Molena Point PD.
32
F ollowing the smell of sugar doughnuts, Joe padded silently into Molena Point PD on the heels of Mabel Farthy, who was carrying a bakery box. Behind the dispatch counter, a thin, redheaded young officer Joe didn’t know looked over at the tomcat and raised an eyebrow.
“It’s all right,” Mabel told him. “The cat has clearance.” The officer laughed and rose to leave, going off shift, turning the electronic domain back to Mabel. He reached out tentatively to pet Joe, stood stroking him as he filled Mabel in on late night’s events.
Last night’s excitement had all happened on Mabel’s eight-to-twelve shift. The after-midnight calls had been tamer: a few drunks, a loud teenage party, and two domestic disturbances that made Joe prick up his ears, though both had been settled peaceably. When the officer left, Mabel sorted through the faxes, yawning. Her dyed blond hair wasn’t quite as neat as usual, and her uniform was a little mussed. She hadn’t had much sleep, having been on duty last night and then doubling back this morning. She yawned again, came out from behind the counter, and went down the hall with the doughnut box. Joe could hear her filling the big coffee urn. From the counter, he watched her move on to Max’s office, heard her fill his smaller coffeepot from the bottle of water on the credenza, and the special brand of coffee he liked. Outside the glass front door, cars were pulling into the parking area that the PD shared with the courthouse offices. Soon, among other arriving officers, Harper and Dallas came in, heading down the hall, and turned into Max’s office.
Dropping soundlessly off the counter, Joe slipped along behind them and inside, under the credenza. Maybe they knew he was there, maybe they didn’t. Harper poured two mugs of freshly brewed coffee, handed one to Garza, and sat down at his desk. He turned on the computer, then opened the three hard-copy files that lay on his blotter. Garza sat down on the leather couch and removed a clipboard and file from his briefcase. Beneath the credenza, on the Oriental rug, Joe curled up, so full of omelet he didn’t even hunger for a doughnut.