They didn't see her ring the bell. She tried the knob, glanced around again, and moved right on in. Evidently no one in the backyard noticed her, no one made a move toward the house. Maybe she belonged there. And maybe she didn't. Joe leaped to the cupola roof. Rearing tall, he studied the house, getting his bearings. Standing like a weather vane braced against the wind, he counted the streets.
"Five blocks above Janet's burned studio. Four blocks to the left."
And they fled down the trellis and across yards and sidewalks, up across the grassy park above Highway One and up the winding streets, through the high grass of the open fields, through tangles of broom and holly; across lawns and manicured flower beds, moving so swiftly that when they reached the blue hatchback- which turned out to be a late-model Honda-the motor was still ticking softly, and the tires and wheels were still warm.
Again there was dried mud smeared across the license plate. But this time, pawing together at the caked dirt, they were able to flake away enough mud to reveal California plate 3GHK499.
There was no indication of issuing county, of course. California plates did not include that information. The car could be registered anywhere in the state; only Max Harper would know, when he pulled up the number through DMV. It galled Joe that the cops had access to information the average citizen-average cat-couldn't touch.
But he guessed it had to be that way; a cop's job was tough enough. Give civilians access to the DMV files, and they'd create a ton of mischief.
Leaving the Honda, trotting on up the street to the white stucco house, they found the family still working away, lowering the burlap-wrapped roots of sturdy nursery shrubs into the earth. There the constricted bushes could stretch out their thin white roots like hundreds of hungry tongues reaching for food. A black Mercedes was parked in the drive. The cats jumped to the hood, then to the top of the car, leaving pawprints, and leaped to the garage roof, onto the rounded clay tiles.
To their left, the two-story portion of the house rose above the garage. The windows of both bedrooms were open, the sheer white curtains blowing. Within the front bedroom a figure moved, her baggy skirt and huge sweater catching the light in lumpy folds as she turned to the closet. The cats slipped closer, up across the tiles, and pressed against the wall, glancing around to look warily in through the glass.
The woman had pulled the double closet doors open and was examining the hanging garments. Her ragged gray hair was in need of a good trim and a vigorous brushing. She looked like she'd made her clothing selections from the "latest fashion" rack of the local charity outlet. Her skirt hem dipped so rakishly around her thick-stockinged ankles that one could imagine this style as the precursor of a new trend; and her shoes might soon be the "in" look, too, thick and serviceable and of a variety favored by the unfortunate homeless. Rummaging through the closet, the old lady carefully lifted a little gold lame dress dangling on its hanger.
As she turned to the mirror above the dresser, they could see clearly her reflection. Smiling with impish delight she held the slim little cocktail number up against her thick body, turning and vamping, pressing the svelte garment against her lumpy form.
Watching her, Joe choked back a laugh. But Dulcie crept closer, the tip of her tail twitching gently, her green eyes round with sympathy, with a deep female understanding. The old woman's longing filled her to her very soul; she understood like a sister the frumpy lady's hunger for that sleek little gold lame frock. Watching the dumpy old creature, Dulcie was one with her, cat and cat burglar were, in that instant, of one spirit.
"What's the matter with you?"
Dulcie jumped, stared at him as if she'd forgotten he was there. "Nothing. Nothing's the matter."
He looked at her uneasily.
"So she makes me feel sad. So all right?"
He widened his eyes, but said no more. They watched the old woman fold the gold dress into a neat little square, lift her baggy sweater, and tuck the folded garment underneath into a bag she wore against her slip. They watched, fascinated, as she searched the dresser drawers, lifting out necklaces and bracelets, stuffing them into the same bag, watched her tuck away two soft-looking sweaters, a gold tie clip, a gold belt, a tiny gold evening clutch. When she moved suddenly toward the window, coming straight at them, the cats ducked away, clinging against the wall. She flew at the open window uttering a string of hisses so violent, so like the cries of a maddened tomcat that their fur stood up. In feline language this was a grade-one kamikaze attack. This woman knew cats. This old woman knew how to communicate the most horrifying threat of feline violence, knew something deep and basic that struck straight at the heart of cat terrors, knew the deep secrets of their own murderous language. They stared at her for only an instant, then fled down the roof tiles and onto the Mercedes. Racing its length, they hit the ground running, heading straight uphill, past the white house, into a wilderness with bushes so thick that nothing could reach them.
Crouching in the dark beneath jabbing tangled branches, they watched the old woman leave the house smiling, watched her slip away up the street looking as smug as if she had swallowed the canary.
Dulcie shivered. "She scared the hell out of me." She licked her whiskers nervously. "Where did she learn to do that?"
"Wherever, she's out of business now. As soon as we call Harper with the make on that blue Honda, it's bye-bye, cat burglar."
But Dulcie's eyes grew huge, almost frightened. "Maybe we… She's just an old lady." She paused, began to fidget.
"What are you talking about?"
"Will the court… Do you think the court would go easy with her? She's so old."
"She's not that old. Just frowsy. And what difference does it make? Old or young, she's a thief."
He fixed a piercing yellow gaze on Dulcie. "This morning you were plenty hot to nail the old girl. You're the one who always wants to bring in the law. 'Call Harper, Joe. Give the facts to Captain Harper. Let the cops in on it.'
"So why the sudden change? You're really getting soft."
"But she's so… They wouldn't put her in jail for the rest of her life? How could they? To be locked up when you're old, maybe sick…"
He narrowed his eyes at her.
"Maybe we shouldn't tell Captain Harper. Maybe not just yet."
"Dulcie…"
"They wouldn't keep her in jail until she's feeble? Maybe in a wheelchair, like the old folks at Casa Capri?"
"I have no idea what the court would do. I don't see what difference." He looked at her a long time, then turned his back and crept out of the bushes. Of course they were going to tell Harper.
He heard Dulcie crawl out behind him. They crouched together, not speaking, looking down the hill where the blue Honda had driven away. Just below them, the little family was still planting their trees and bushes. Neither the two adults nor the children seemed to have any notion that their house had been burglarized. That made him smile in spite of himself. The old girl was pretty slick.
But slick or not, she was still a thief.
Dulcie didn't speak for a long time, but at last she gave him a sideways look. "I guess, with the number of burglaries that old lady has pulled off, and all the valuable things she's stolen, I guess maybe jail will be the last home she ever has."
"Can it, Dulcie. Let it rest. One look at the old lady mooning over that glittery little dress, and you sell out."
He looked her over. "Sisters under the skin, is that it? You and that old lady, two of a kind, two avaricious, thieving females."