It was not a new-model Jag but it was sleek and expensive. The top was down, and several celluloid kewpie dolls hung from the rearview mirror. The bucket seats were fitted out with tacky zebra-patterned covers as furry as an Angora cat. A very nice car, royally trashed.
Unlocking the driver's door, Gramps slid in and kicked the engine to life. Pulling on a tan safari hat, he tucked his long shaggy hair under, and wriggled into a khaki jacket straight out of an old B movie. The attempted disguise was so ludicrous the cats wanted to roll over laughing. This old man wasn't for real, this old man was dotty.
But, in fact, he had changed the way he looked. As the old man sat at the wheel tying a white scarf around his throat, Joe glanced tensely back toward the station, his heart thudding with urgency. The old boy would be gone in a minute, he was going to get away, and all they had was the license number. Crouching to scorch up the tree thinking to shout through the holding-cell window and alert the dispatcher, get some muscle out there, Joe paused.
If he knew where the old man was going…
The tomcat crouched, tensed to leap in. Dulcie stopped him with a swipe of her paw, ears back, eyes blazing. "Don't, Joe!"
He backed off, hissing.
Gramps put the car in gear, revving the engine like a teenager-and at the same instant, Gramps saw Joe. Staring down at Joe, his expression said this guy was not a cat lover. Joe's paws began to sweat. Gramps cut the wheels suddenly and sharply toward the tomcat and gave it the gas-and the cats were gone, scorching under the plumbing truck, the Jaguar headed straight for them. Maybe, since the aborted church bombing, Gramps Farger hated all cats.
Safe under the big yellow vehicle, but ready to run again, they cringed as, at the last instant, Gramps swung a U just missing the truck and screeched off toward me street.
Coming out shakily, they fled up the nearest oak. Staring out, they could see the Jaguar heading north and then east, up into the hills. They watched until the car disappeared over the next rise.
At least they had a general direction, and they had the make and license. Who would be dumb enough to drive such an easily identifiable vehicle? Talk about chutzpah. And the old boy might as well have driven the Jaguar right on into the station, every cop in the village was looking for him. Did he think his stupid disguise would fool anyone?
But maybe it had fooled someone. Turning out of the lot, Gramps had passed two young officers returning on foot to the station. Both had looked right at him. With the scarf tucked up around his beard, and his grisly long hair out of sight, Gramps looked like just another eccentric, another tourist. The rookies looked at him and kept walking, no change of expression, no glance at each other, no quickening of their walk to hurry into the station. Complacent, Joe Grey thought. Harper needed to talk to those guys, shake them up.
But the two cops weren't the only ones to miss something.
Though the two cats couldn't have seen her, and with Gramps's overripe scent they would never have smelled her, the kit passed within feet of them crouched on the floor of the Jaguar. They had no hint that she was huddled behind the driver in the escaping car, shivering with excitement and with fear.
The kit knew Joe and Dulcie were there. From deep in the garden she had watched the old man pull into the lot and had watched him climb to the kid's cell window, had watched the two older cats approach to listen. Downwind from them, she had listened, too, then had beat it for the Jaguar, leaping in while Gramps was still precariously descending the tree. And now she was being borne away who-knew-where, in a car racing way too fast and she couldn't jump out and she was getting pretty scared. Was regretting, not for the first time, what Wilma called her impetuous nature.
"Who from San Andreas?" Joe said, feeling defeated and cross. "Who else besides this Uncle Hurlie? Who was the old man talking about?"
"I don't… There's Ryan's pickup, just pulling in." As Ryan parked and swung out of the truck, the gray dog leaped out too, coming to heel. And Dallas stepped out of the station as if he had been waiting for them.
The detective looked the dog over. "You found this animal? How long was he running loose-five minutes?" The dog watched Dallas brightly, his yellow eyes alight as if he recognized a dog man, a kindred and understanding spirit. Only when Dallas put his arm around Ryan did the weimaraner growl.
Grinning, Dallas stepped away. "Looks like he's found his home." He looked down at Ryan. "You doing okay? You all right about what's ahead of you?"
"I guess. There's nothing I can do about it. Have you… You haven't been in touch with Harper?"
"He called, the murder's been on the San Francisco news. He and Charlie are coming back, canceling the cruise."
"Oh, damn! Because of me. Because of Rupert- and the bombing. Why does this have to spoil their honeymoon?"
Dallas squeezed her shoulder. "One of life's nasty tricks. One big, double calamity, sandwiched in with the good stuff." He knelt and beckoned the dog to him. Not until Ryan released him with a command, did Rock approach, sniffing Dallas's hand. The detective looked up at her. "You're going to keep him."
"I can't, Dallas. I don't…"
"He's pretty protective already, a little work and he could be useful."
"I don't need protection."
He just looked at her.
"Hanni-Hanni loaned me a gun."
"I don't need to know that. You could build a fence up that back hill for him, I'm sure Charlie wouldn't mind."
"Let's go in. I told Hanni I'd meet her up at the Landeau place in an hour, there's some kind of water problem. Leaky skylight, Hanni said."
"You've never installed a leaky skylight."
She tugged on his arm, heading for the station. "I'm losing my nerve. I'm not looking forward to this."
By the time they entered through the bulletproof glass doors, the cats were high in the oak outside the boy's window. Hidden among the leaves, they listened to the scritch of metal against metal as the cell door swung open.
No one spoke. They heard a sudden intake of breath and a doggy huff, then the scrabbling of claws on concrete. Warily they peered down through the bars.
Ryan sat alone on the end of the boy's cot. The boy stood rigid, his back to the wall, staring at her with rage as he held up an arm halfheartedly fending off the dog who, wild with joy, was leaping and pressing against him, his whine soft, his short tail madly wagging. Ignoring him, Curtis's cheek was touched with shine. Was the kid crying-or was that dog spit?
Ryan watched him evenly. "What's his real name, besides Rock?"
"How would I know? He's a stray. Why did you bring him here? What do you mean, his real name?"
"He rode down in the truck with you."
"So he got in the truck. What was I supposed to do, shove him out? And what difference? He don't belong to no one-he don't belong to you."
"He's a beautiful dog. I can see he's your buddy."
"Do I look like he's my buddy? What do you want?"
"He rode down with you, so I figure you're responsible for him. You want him running the streets, hit by a car on the highway? That would be ugly, Curtis."
"So take him home with you."
"I can't keep him. I live in a small apartment, I have no yard for a dog."