Wilma called twenty minutes later. She got Ryan, who was fully awake, dressed, and downstairs in the kitchen. Wilma told her about the breakin.
“That bastard,” Ryan said. “What does he want? Of course you’ll stay here.”
“Dulcie will make the kittens behave. Max says—”
“It’s a treat to have all of you. The kittens will be a blast. Have you had breakfast? Can I help you move?”
“In fact, you can pick me up. Max wants me to leave my car in the drive. So it won’t look like I have moved out. This is so … unnecessary. If anyone else told me to leave, I’d …” Wilma sighed. “Max is so stubborn.”
Ryan laughed. “That’s why he’s a good chief. You’re all packed?”
“What little I’m bringing. An overnight bag, and kitten food.”
“I’ll be right over. Clyde can get breakfast.”
While Wilma stood at the kitchen window waiting for Ryan’s king cab, Joe Grey, headed across the rooftops toward the station, had no notion that his family was moving in with the Damens’, that his home would be wild with his own mischievous kittens. He slipped into MPPD behind two arriving officers, shortly before Max got to work. Easing down the hall into Max’s office, he leaped to the desk where he could read quite handily the reports neatly arranged on the blotter, watching the door and listening for footsteps as he flipped each page with a practiced paw.
One stack was printouts regarding the car gang working up the coast in Cupertino. One stack was copies of Max’s officers’ reports about Molena Point’s breakins and thefts. Joe was stretching out for a better look at Max’s handwritten notes on Barbara Conley’s rental when he heard the chief coming down the hall, talking with Detectives Garza and Davis. Immediately he slipped into the in-box, curled up, and closed his eyes in deep sleep.
He heard Juana Davis pause by the credenza to start a fresh pot of coffee. Luckily the maintenance crew cleaned the pot every night, or they’d be brewing road tar. He barely slit his eyes open as Max settled into his desk chair, hardly glancing at Joe.
Dallas, carrying a printout, tossed his tweed blazer on the back of the couch and sat down. His jeans were freshly creased; he wore a white T-shirt, bright against his fresh Latino coloring; his short black hair was neatly trimmed. Davis, at the other end of the couch, was as usual in uniform, Joe seldom saw her in anything but black skirt and jacket, black hose, black shoes. Her square build, square face, and short dark hair seemed right for the regulation attire—but Joe preferred Juana in something less formal, the jeans and sweatshirt she wore on a hasty night call.
Max reached underneath Joe, into the in-box, to retrieve a sheaf of papers. It had been years since he’d been careful handling Joe, wondering if he’d get scratched; now he glanced down, amused. “Looks like you have houseguests, tomcat. Looks like your family’s moving in with you.”
His words shocked Joe. Had Wilma kicked Dulcie and the kittens out? What could they have done that she would evict them? He was unsettled, too, that Harper talked directly to him. He seldom did that, sounding as if he expected an answer. But why not? Max talked to his dogs that way, and to his buckskin gelding. What pet owner didn’t carry on a conversation with his animals?
But what was this eviction about?
Max looked at the two detectives. “A common breakin is one thing. But the trace evidence in Wilma’s living room—same as that from the salon and from Barbara Conley’s house.”
Joe Grey kept his eyes closed, trying to hide his alarm. Someone had broken into Wilma’s? Were Dulcie and the kittens all right? He’d seldom burned so fiercely to speak up and ask Max for the details.
“I want foot patrol, all three shifts,” Max said. “Wilma’s taking her cats and moving in with the Damens until we corral this guy.
“He broke the living room window around 3 a.m., was going through her desk when Wilma came out. When she drew on him he took one look at the gun, bolted out the door, and was gone. She chased him—a pale Subaru SUV, but she only got the first three numbers.”
Davis said, “And you found the same trace evidence as from the murder scene?”
“McFarland did. Apparently the same flecks of Styrofoam, same as from Barbara’s house.”
Davis sat frowning, Joe could feel her eagerness to compare the evidence from the three sources.
“Ryan’s picking Wilma up,” Max said. “They’ll leave Wilma’s car in the drive. I’m sending McFarland to stay there, turn the lights on and off, the TV, the fireplace, let this guy think she’s home. Either he’s looking for something special or, after he tosses the place, he means to harm Wilma.” Max looked at the papers Dallas held. “Is that from the lab?”
Dallas nodded. “Just came in—on some of the trace evidence from the Conley house.” The detective smiled. “Looks like Langston Prince was in Barbara Conley’s bed, maybe that same night.”
Dallas took a sip of coffee. “And also in bed with her, fairly recently, was the man who killed them. The same dark hairs, other than Langston’s, that we bagged near the bodies at the salon. Looks like all the Styrofoam flecks are the same, too. The lab is comparing them. And,” he said, “they’re comparing the blond hairs we found in both houses. Not all were Barbara’s. Hers were dyed, long and everywhere in the house. The others were shorter, like a man’s hair. But none of those were in her bed,” he said, grinning.
Two men in her bed the same night, Joe thought, isn’t that enough? Maybe the car thief was there earlier that same evening. And, he thought smiling, she didn’t even bother to change the sheets? Tomcats weren’t that fastidious, but Joe Grey found this particular situation disgusting.
“Strange about that neighbor’s call,” Max said. “Just a young girl, but she was as secretive as our snitches.”
“Maybe some teenager,” Dallas said. “Sneaked out with her boyfriend, didn’t want her folks to know.”
Davis said, “What about the fingerprints at Wilma’s? Did they come up a match for those at Barbara Conley’s? When do we get the word back on Rick Alderson, see if we have a match?”
Max leaned back in his chair. “We have Alderson’s prints, from his records. The prints we got from Barbara Conley’s match those we picked up at Wilma’s—we got a quick answer on that. AFIS says there’s no record on them. Nothing. This guy is not Rick Alderson.”
“They’re sure?” Dallas said. “Wilma says he’s a dead ringer.”
Max shrugged. “They’re sure. No record. The prints from Wilma’s match those at the Conley house and no record on them. AFIS ran both, to be certain—but there were smears, too, as with rubber gloves. A few partials where a glove was torn, but not much to go on.”
This was all news to Joe. Pretending sleep, he tried to put it together. The trouble was he couldn’t be in two places at once, he’d missed too much.
“I picked up a call when I came in,” Davis said. “Jerry, the bartender over at Binnie’s.” Binnie’s Italian was one of Davis’s favorites, she and the bartender sometimes dated casually.
“He said Barbara Conley had been in the bar a number of times with a guy who looked like a muscle builder. Dark hair, black leather jacket. They’d come in late, stay sometimes until closing. But this was some weeks back, he hasn’t seen the guy recently. He said she’d been in for an early dinner with Langston Prince a couple of times.”
I guess, Joe thought, there’s nothing wrong with Barbara dating her boss—until the wrong guy sees him in her bed.
Joe Grey didn’t linger long over thoughts of human digression; he was soon out of Max’s office, dropping quietly down behind the chief, slipping out then racing down the hall and out on the heels of a pair of attorneys, then up to the roofs and home. He wanted to be there when his kittens arrived, he wanted to be sure they were all right, after the breakin. Wanted to be sure they behaved. And, maybe he’d like to see his family happily settled, in his home.