"Maybe at us." Joe leaped to the roof, away from the branch and Baker's windows. "Maybe she's a cat lover."
"Oh, right." She joined Joe and the kit on the roof, her green eyes glowing. "Could she be checking on Baker? Is there a connection between Crystal and Baker?"
"I don't-" Joe began. But Dulcie was gone, streaking across the rooftops, following Crystal's convertible as it crept in the line of slow-moving cars. Joe saw her disappear over the edge and reappear on the roofs of the next block, lashing her tail with annoyance-very likely after dodging too close to slow-moving wheels. He wished she wouldn't do that. The village's daytime streets, though crowded and slow, belonged to the cars of upscale tourists. That, he had pointed out to Dulcie, was why they used the rooftops.
The early-morning village streets, before the tourists were out of their beds, boasted more careful drivers. Those streets smelled better, too. Smelled of the sea and of newly watered gardens, while the midday village smelled, to a cat, of exhaust fumes-deodorants-shaving lotion-perfume-chewing gum-restaurant cooking and too many human bodies.
Joe caught up to Dulcie, the kit crowding close, and they followed the black Mercedes for eight blocks, crossing the streets twice among the feet of the tourists, enduring endless remarks about the cute kitties and constant attempts to pet them, dodging away from reaching hands.
But when Crystal's car turned right, traffic moved swiftly again and the cats couldn't keep up; they ran until they were panting. Standing on the sidewalk, Joe stared after the Mercedes, frustrated. Joe and Dulcie didn't see the black SL again until the following week.
But the kit saw Crystal's car later that evening and followed it, alone. Galloping along the sidewalk, dodging between tourists' feet, she was wildly excited to be on a trail that the two big cats had lost.
The time was just dusk. She had been out for a prowl through Jolly's alley, because no matter how well Wilma fed her, she could never get filled up, and Jolly's had such delicious offerings, all that lovely smoked salmon.
Leaving the alley licking her whiskers, she saw the open Mercedes go by, saw Crystal's tawny hair blowing and smelled Crystal's perfume. She followed, running seven blocks after the car but careful about crossing streets, followed until Crystal pulled into a drive and parked before a closed garage door.
Crystal hurried up the wooden stairs, the kit following so close on her heels that when Crystal pushed in through the front door it slammed in the little cat's face. Backing away, the kit leaped to the windowsill, pressing her nose to the glass. There was a curtain drawn across.
Rearing up, she couldn't see over it.
Taking the direct approach she mewled at the door, her cries ever louder and more desperate, in the age-old classic plea: I am abandoned, I am starving, I am so terribly hungry and cold. She worked herself into a such a frenzy, convinced herself so well of her plight, that she was all a-tremble when Crystal flung open the door and dumped a pan of water in her face.
The kit fled for Wilma's house.
13
DALLAS GARZA arrived in Molena Point at 8 A.M., the morning after the three cats spied on Stubby Baker. He was a big, broad-shouldered man dressed in civilian clothes-faded jeans, a tan shirt, charcoal V-necked sweater, and a tan corduroy sport coat, clothes that blended well into the milieu of Molena Point, comfortable layers to be removed as the fog burned off and the day turned warm. Garza's thick black hair was trimmed short, in a well-styled, no-nonsense haircut. His chiseled, square face, brown as oak, seemed carved into lines that were all business-a look that won immediate confidence from law enforcement and nervous reluctance from those who would screw with him.
During his twenty-three-year career he had been put on loan three times to other departments when their internal affairs got into a tangle, carrying out investigations of fellow officers-once in Redding on a drug-related case, and twice in southern California on charges of moral misconduct. This was the first time he had been called in to investigate a murder.
He had never met Max Harper. Garza didn't socialize on his vacation time; he kept to himself. He didn't like the fact that his case was Molena Point's chief of police, an officer well thought of in the village and among other law enforcement agencies in the state.
But he owed Lionel Gedding. And Garza was rigid about paying his debts.
He was uncomfortable, too, that Hanni was here and had opened the cottage, as if they were down for a family vacation.
He didn't stop at the cottage to drop off his bag, but drove directly to Molena Point PD. In the police lot behind the station, he swung a U and backed into a slot against the back wall. Sitting in his car, he took in the blank, two-story brick wall on his right where the jail was housed, and the single-story police station on his left. The station was connected to the courtrooms and city offices behind him by an enclosed passageway.
Garza had worked in San Francisco for ten years. Before that, he had put in five years on a SWAT team in Oakland. He would be forced to retire at age fifty-seven because his work was considered hazardous duty. He had no idea what he would do after that. He was four years younger than Molena Point Police Chief Max Harper. He had read the file on Harper the night before.
Leaving the police parking lot, he walked two blocks toward Ocean to have breakfast at a favorite small cafe. Sitting in the patio with his back to the restaurant wall, he ordered three eggs over easy, ham, biscuits, and coffee. He ate slowly and neatly, watching the village street. A lot of the locals out this time of morning were dog walkers. And the tourists were walking mutts, too. Several hotels in the village catered to pets. Folks liked to bring their dogs along where the little poodles and spaniels-and a few big dogs-could run on the beach, show off up and down Ocean-four-legged conversation pieces-and sit with their masters at the outdoor cafes.
It amazed him that people with money, people who drove expensive foreign cars, had mongrels instead of well-bred animals. Mutts. Absently he counted nineteen dogs; only two of them were purebred, and neither of real good breeding.
If Garza was a snob in any way, it was in the matter of canines.
A well-bred pointer or setter, a handsome big Chesapeake or Weimaraner of really good bloodlines was one of the finest accomplishments of mankind.
A far finer accomplishment, in many respects, than man himself.
But that was a cop's view.
Paying the bill, tucking the tip under the sugar bowl, he walked to Molena Point PD, entering by the unlocked front door into the big open squad room. His first look at the department didn't please him.
In the big open room, all functions seemed to be carried out with little thought to privacy or security. And certainly minimal attention to neatness. This surprised him. Harper had a reputation for running an orderly shop, but these officers' desks were piled with papers; a case of soft drinks had been left by the front door; several officers had hung their jackets over the backs of their chairs; two had laid their guns atop their desks; a pair of field boots stood next to an overflowing wastebasket. They didn't use shredders? Even the dispatcher's area contained stacks of papers that he would never have allowed. He did not, as he began to make the rounds of the room, find much to admire in Max Harper's department.
Joe Grey and Dulcie spotted Garza leaving the restaurant as they stepped out of Jolly's alley after a leisurely post-hunting snack. The man's solid build and his military walk and air of authority drew their gaze. Dulcie's green eyes widened; her dark, striped tail twitched with interest. "Who's that?" The broad-shouldered, dark-haired Latino was an imposing figure.
"Either a full bird colonel or some kind of law enforcement. My guess would be our detective from San Francisco. Garza's due to arrive this morning."