He sat before the screen watching Garza and Davis, in the interrogation room, grilling Stubby Baker, their exchange fed to him through a camera mounted high on the interrogation room wall. Garza let Davis do most of the talking.
"You were with Crystal Ryder tonight in her apartment?"
"No. I was not."
"When were you last in her apartment?"
"I don't remember."
"When were you last within a block of her apartment?"
"Tonight. I followed Harper there. I saw Captain Harper go into her apartment."
"Did she let him in?"
"I don't think so. Looked to me like he used some kind of lock pick. You know? Fiddling around with the lock."
"Did he see you?"
"Don't think so. I'd got out of my car, left it around the corner. I was-ah, in the bushes."
"What time was this?"
"Maybe ten."
"Why did you follow him?"
"I thought he'd be looking for the kid. To do her, you know?"
"Why would he want to do her?"
"Because she saw him kill those women."
"What made you think the child was at Crystal's?"
"I'd been watching."
"Watching what?"
"Watching Crystal come and go. I thought she had someone staying there."
"Why did you think that?"
"She was bringing home a lot of groceries."
"What did you do when Harper went in her apartment?"
"I sat down in the bushes and watched."
"Was Crystal there?"
"The garage door was shut. I didn't see her at the windows."
"Was Crystal there?"
"I guess. She came out later, drove off fast after Harper, after he took the kid."
"How long were you there?"
"Until Harper went off with the kid. When Harper took off, I followed. Afraid he would kill her."
"What time was this?"
"I guess about an hour ago."
"Why did Crystal have her there?"
He looked surprised. Looked right into the camera. "To save her-keep Harper from doing her."
"And what was your interest in the matter?"
"She's just a little kid. I read the papers, I watch the news. A cop gone bad is a terrible thing."
Detective Davis snorted. Garza's expression didn't change. Clyde was glad he wasn't in the room; it would be hard to hold his temper.
"And so you followed Harper?" Davis said.
"I followed him, then that other car came. That old Plymouth. Harper pulled up beside it and got out, and they talked."
"And?"
"There was a lot of moving around, doors opening and closing. I thought he put the kid in the Plymouth."
"Go on."
"I followed it. Driver kept dodging me. I tried to head it over here, toward the station. You know? To get help."
Baker gave Davis that boyish smile. "Well, guess I did get some help. But then I didn't see the kid. Plymouth rammed the station. Well, you saw. And I didn't see the kid. Did you get the kid? Is she safe?"
Talk about chutzpah. Clyde's fists were balled, itching to punch Baker. He waited for Baker to finish, then went back to a conference room with Garza and Davis, and gave his own statement, sipping coffee that tasted like burnt shoes.
"Harper's staying with me, he was there all night, playing poker. We went to bed around ten. Harper snores so loud he rocks the guest room-no way he could have slipped out, even if he'd do such a thing.
"Phone rang, woke me up. It was Charlie. Said she had Dillon. That she was just south of Wilma's house, and Crystal and Baker were shooting at them. Said to meet her at the shop, if she could give them the slip. The back door, up the alley. That maybe we could switch cars and get Dillon away. I woke Harper and we took off."
Davis was recording it all. Somewhere down the line she'd type it up and expect him to sign it.
"I kept wondering, when you questioned Baker, if he and Crystal were the only ones involved. Or if there could be a second man. A man still out there, riding with Crystal, following Harper and Charlie and Dillon."
Davis turned a dark brown, Latin stare on him. "It's possible. Six cars are out looking. Where are they?"
"Try the Pamillon place."
Davis dialed the dispatcher, gave the instructions, then fixed again on Clyde. "I asked you earlier where they were. You didn't know."
"Didn't want to talk in front of Wendell. I don't trust Wendell."
Her response was noncommittal. Garza didn't blink, sat unmoving, watching Clyde. The interview was soon terminated, Clyde none the wiser about what the officers thought. He was heading for the door when a call that stopped him came in. Harper's voice, crackling with static. He moved toward the dispatcher's desk to hear better.
"Code two. I have Dillon Thurwell. The old…" Harper went silent, and they heard three shots pop. Clyde didn't wait; he ran for his car, then remembered it was wrecked. Garza was behind him, and Davis. He swung into the backseat of a black-and-white, Garza behind the wheel. The detective spun a U and headed up Ocean, the siren blasting. Clyde was cold with fear for Harper and Charlie and Dillon-but weak, thinking of the cats up there in the middle of the confusion and gunfire, three small cats soon to be surrounded by wheeling squad cars and running officers-three little cats who had saved Dillon Thurwell and now were in danger for their own lives.
And no one knew to care. No one but Charlie would think of protecting them; no one knew how special they were.
25
IN THE TIDES and eddies of night, among the broken walls and fallen trees, a figure dressed in dark clothes moved silently and quick, pausing to investigate the two cars parked among the rubble, then slipping toward the ruined house, seeming to know well the layout of the gardens and the abandoned mansion. The time was 5 A.M., some four and a half hours after the three cars left the back door of the automotive shop; the winter night was still black.
Beneath the estate's sprawling trees, no faint gleam shone across the figure's chin or hair, no glint of light fingered the gun that nestled in a furtive hand, nor could one hear the smallest hush of a footstep. The prowler was as silent as the hunter who followed behind on stealthy paws watching with curiosity every move, sniffing at the rank human smell.
As the figure moved into the derelict house through the open parlor and toward the kitchen and stairs, the feline hunter padded closer. Only the cougar was aware of a second two-leg, standing behind them out by the road at the edge of the overgrown gardens. The big cat did not feel threatened. Cocking an ear, he listened behind him, then honed his attention again on the thin figure approaching the stairwell, the black cave down into the earth.
When another hunter entered the scene, slipping up from the earthen caverns below, the cougar caught the scent without interest. The small domestic cat didn't distract him. All his attention was on the two-leg, where it wandered with its back to him, a position that excited him and drew him ever closer-that retreating back enticed him beyond curiosity, to a desire to grab and kill.
Beside the cave-hole, the two-leg paused and seemed to be listening. The cougar paused. And from deep in the shadows, Joe Grey watched the little drama. The four players were positioned as in a game of chess, but this game was played by scent and sound, as rook and knights and king pursued their opposing objectives.
And only one among the players understood the worlds of both his four-footed and two-footed opponents. Only one had the keener senses of the big, four-footed cat, yet the sophisticated mental skills of the two-legs.
Crouched beneath a massy bush of Mexican sage, some fifty feet from the stairs that led down to the cellar, Joe Grey watched the puma slide through the ruined house, stalking the dark-dressed figure, the big cat relaxed and easy, strolling along as if he owned the Pamillon estate. And certainly in his cougar mind, he did own it.