Tenderly Joe licked her ear. "You played lost kitty after Janet Jeannot's murder."
"This feels a lot more threatening than moving in with that nice old woman and her crooked son, spending a week among her collection of China figurines trying not to knock them over. She was right there in the house, he wouldn't have dared hurt me-though I did worry about being trapped in there. It's too easy to get shut in, Joe. If those two suspect you-"
"I'm a cat, Dulcie. A stray cat. What would they suspect? That I'm a cop in cat skin, working undercover?" He nuzzled her whiskers. "Their purchase of the condo closed this morning. They're moving in this afternoon. I'll give them the day to get settled, then join them. If you want to help, you can play lookout, run surveillance for me."
Dulcie was silent.
"Are you up for this?" Joe said impatiently. "Or do you mean to let me get skinned all alone?"
Dulcie looked him over, and sighed. "If you plan to play starving kitty, you'd better start fasting. Try to drop some of the fat off your ribs." And she stalked away, her ears back, her striped tail lashing, her green eyes dark with unease.
18
DESPITE DULCIE'S DISAPPROVAL of the plan she was there the next evening waiting for Joe, crouched on the roof above the Wolf/Gibbs second-floor condo as the tomcat, sucking in his belly in a forlorn charade of starving stray, of dejected homelessness, prepared to charm his way into enemy territory.
The small, five-condo complex was tucked atop a row of village shops, the apartments surrounding a small roof garden that could be reached from the street below or from the underground parking garage by elevator, or by a stairway whose narrow steps were faced with bright, hand-decorated tiles. The views from the condos were of the village rooftops, of the small shops and cafés below and the sea beyond. The Wolf/Gibbs unit faced Ocean Avenue with a private balcony overlooking that wide, divided street and its tree-shaded median.
This evening the sliding glass doors to the balcony stood open to catch the breeze, and through them drifted the voice of a national anchor, treating pedestrians on the street below to the early evening news. Joe, padding silently across the condo roof, left Dulcie beneath the branches of an overhanging oak and dropped down to the balcony where he peered in through the sliding screen.
Ray and Ryder had made short work of moving in. The living room furniture was already in place, and the happy couple sat on the couch having a drink and watching the overwrought commentator. The entire room looked as if it had been decorated by Rent-A-Center, Ray and Ryder taking advantage of a discount for the shopworn condition of the oversize off-white upholstered pieces and the matching white coffee and end tables flamboyant in design and scarred from frequent use. A vase of artificial mauve roses graced the ornate coffee table.
The couple seemed entranced by the news, with the latest lurid details of the latest high-profile murder, this one a multibillionaire widow found dead in her Rio de Janeiro penthouse. They were drinking something pink and tall with little flowered umbrellas tilting to the sides of their glasses, a drink that was highly amusing in the big hand of sweaty Ray Gibbs with his two-day growth of beard, his black jeans, and his black T-shirt emblazoned with a skull. Holding the delicate glass in meaty fingers, he laughed at the news shots of the murdered woman's bloody body. Joe watched him with disgust and an unwelcome fear as he decided how to play this hand; crouching even this close to Gibbs made his paws sweat.
Should he finesse the sliding screen open and stroll on in, boldly treating the couple to his macho charm? He'd known several ordinary cats to handily open a screen door. Or should he push his nose at the screen and give out with the pitiful mewls, cringe, and play frightened kitty? See if a gentle stroke and a kind word were forthcoming-or a thrown shoe? He paused, debating, looking Gibbs over.
Ray Gibbs was a handsome man fast going to seed; he looked to Joe like a heavy drinker, with his cheeks starting to puff and his eyes baggy. He was maybe forty-five, about six two, well set up, but soft around the middle. His dark hair, though not excessively long, was ragged and could stand a good trim. What did young, well-turned-out, glamour-conscious Ryder Wolf see in the creep?
Money? Or maybe Gibbs was really good in bed? Whatever the case, the longer Joe watched him, the more he disliked the man-and the more certain he was that he didn't want to barge brazenly in and lock heads with that hulk.
Maybe better to win Ryder over first, try to get her on his side, though he didn't think she'd be a pushover. He glanced up at the roof, at Dulcie's dark silhouette in the shadows of the oak branches. Her green eyes were intent on him. Taking heart from her claw-quick backup, knowing his lady was a tiger in a fight, he moved into the path of light that fell through the living room sliders, dropped his ears and sucked in his gut again, and let out a weak and tremulous mewl. A faint and frightened cry that neither Gibbs nor Ryder heard, apparently, over the loud deodorant commercial that now demanded their attention.
He tried again, louder, a plea so pitiful that Joe almost felt sorry for himself.
This time Ryder heard him. She half-rose, staring toward the door. "What's that? What the hell is that?"
Gibbs turned to look. "A squirrel or something. What the hell's it doing at the door?"
When Joe mewled again, Gibbs grabbed a folded newspaper. "A damn cat!" he said and headed fast for the screen.
"Mewwwoooooww," Joe cried pitifully, crouched and subservient but tensed to run like hell. In one move Ray shoved the sliding screen back and swung the paper-but Ryder was behind him. She grabbed his arm. "Wait, Ray. Look at it, it's starving."
"It ain't starving, look at that gut."
Look at your own gut, Joe thought, primed to run as Gibbs towered over him.
"Oh, the pitiful thing." Ryder knelt and reached out to him. Which only went to prove, after all, that you couldn't always judge human character by a person's response to an animal in distress.
"Come on, kitty," Ryder said in a high, fake voice. Joe cringed and shivered. "Oh, look at him, Ray, he's pitiful. And you've scared the poor thing."
Hiding a smile, Joe rubbed against Ryder's ankles, followed her into the living room and, at her baby talk and beckoning, followed her straight through to the kitchen. Ray stood watching them, scowling and fidgeting as if he'd like to get his hands on the damned cat.
In the kitchen Ryder poured milk into a bowl and set it on the floor. Joe was not a big fan of milk, and this milk was fat free, thin, blue, and disgusting. He lapped it up as heartily as he could, trying to look grateful, making a mighty effort to purr as he choked it down.
He cleaned the bowl as a starving cat should, wanting to upchuck the disgusting liquid, then followed her back to the living room and jumped on the couch close to her, prepared to snuggle down and treat her to a session of grateful purrs.
Ray, with one hard swat, slapped him to the floor.
Ryder looked angrily at Ray, but she made no objection. "Cats on the floor," she told Joe sternly, shaking her finger at him-one minute kitty's best friend, the next minute to hell with the cat as she submissively knuckled under to her lover. Joe looked at her narrowly but, remembering his mission, switched on the pitiful again, rolled over on the carpet looking up at her-and putting himself farther away from Gibbs.
Ryder leaned down, stroked him, and gave him the baby talk. "Leave him alone, Ray, he's not hurting anything." But she didn't invite Joe back on the couch.
For the next hour Ryder was all sugar to the stray kitty, leaning down every few minutes between sips of her fresh drink to pet him as if to apologize for Ray's rude treatment. Ray looked so annoyed that Joe wondered just how much information he'd be able to collect before this guy tried to strangle him.