The killer's eyes spoke to Dillon, too, the dark, mesmerizing eyes of Stubby Baker. Dillon rose from her chair and drew close, looking up at Baker, then stepped back quickly, swallowing.
"That man. It was that man who killed Helen Marner."
"Are you sure?" Garza asked her.
"Yes. That man, riding the captain's horse." She had gone pale, looking at Baker. Baker's eyes on Dillon burned with such rage that Joe Grey feared for the child. And as he was led away, he cut a look at Harper, standing in the lineup, a fierce and promising stare that chilled Joe.
But Baker would be locked up now, where he couldn't reach Harper or Dillon. And before anyone left the room, the cats had slipped out and raced down the hall, and out to the courthouse lawn, to roll over, purring.
They had contributed in a major way to Max Harper's exoneration. They had discovered Crystal's purchase of Helen's duplex and had found Crystal's phone tapes and gotten them to Garza. The kit had found the barrette, by which Officer Wendell helped to incriminate himself when he didn't report it. They had, most important of all, found Dillon and called in the troops, who had gotten her to safety.
"And," Dulcie whispered, "you very likely prevented Crystal from sneaking down into the Pamillon cellar-from surprising Harper and Charlie.
"You were wonderful," she said. "I was so worried when you left the cellar. But if Crystal had come down there, who knows what might have happened?" She rubbed her whiskers against his. "If Harper hadn't seen you streaking up the steps, he wouldn't have been there to fire those shots and scare away the cougar."
Joe Grey smiled. He felt pretty good about life. And he would far rather see Crystal stand trial than see the puma kill her, if only for the sake of her testimony.
But also, because a cougar who kills a human is in deep trouble. And while he feared the big cat, Joe respected him.
The cats had visited Crystal, over in the women's wing, before settling down to spy on Baker. She'd been in a worse mood than Baker. And she looked like hell, Dulcie had observed with satisfaction.
The bandages on her shoulder and arm were clearly visible now under her loose prison smock, her honey-colored hair was limp and oily, her dimpled smile replaced by a scowl. Her orange prison jumpsuit made her skin sallow. While they watched her, she spoke to none of her neighbors in the adjoining cells, and no one came to see her. They had grown bored at last and headed for Baker's cell, but they were not the only eavesdroppers.
Attached to the cell window, in a position where it could not be spotted by the inmate, was a tiny tape recorder, the smallest model Joe had ever seen. Property of Molena Point PD, it had been in position when they arrived on the windowsill. It appeared to be the kind of machine activated by sound, that would stop recording during periods of silence. The grid for its microphone was directed downward toward the cell. The recorder smelled of hand lotion, the brand worn by Detective Kathleen Ray. Joe was shocked at Kathleen, and highly amused.
There was nothing illegal about a police department installing such a recorder on its own premises. Once a citizen was arrested, the privilege of privacy ceased to exist. The cops had every right- except for the present meeting.
Conversations between a client and his attorney were privileged information-could not legally be recorded.
Kathleen had to know that, Joe had thought, studying the small machine.
But he needn't have worried about Detective Ray's intentions. The conversation between Baker and his attorney was not recorded; the machine didn't activate. Joe thought Kathleen Ray must have been watching for the attorney, and must have a remote control in the station. When the lawyer left, Joe hissed into the machine, and the tape started rolling. It stopped when he stopped. He wondered what Kathleen had taped, what would be added to Dallas Garza's report.
Baker had been formally charged with murder, and Crystal Ryder with three counts of conspiracy to commit murder, and with kidnapping.
Lee Wark was languishing once again in San Quentin, nursing his wounds-about which Joe and Dulcie had done considerable speculation. Wark was facing, as well as the state's charge of escape, a charge of murder in the first degree. Wark's blood had been found on Ruthie Marner, and fibers from his sweater on her clothes.
And Joe Grey felt warm and smug. Three no-goods were about to receive the benefits of the American legal system, the system they had tried to manipulate.
The cats had come to the jail directly from the courthouse, from a gathering in Lowell Gedding's office in which they had again assumed the roles of unseen observers, behind the curtain of the bay window.
The city attorney had called the small group together to ease tension among those involved, to clear the air and set matters to rights before the trial began. Those present had included Molena Point Chief of Police Max Harper, duly reinstated; his officers and detectives; San Francisco detective Dallas Garza; Dillon Thurwell and her parents and a few of their close friends; four members of the Marner family; the mayor and five members of the city council; and Clyde Damen, Charlie Getz, and Wilma Getz, who had sat with their backs to the bay window, effectively blocking any chance glimpse of its occupants.
Gedding had made no accusations as to possible collusion among the city council and the offenders. No innuendos slipped into his statement, yet the cats observed a coolness on Gedding's part, as if perhaps in the next election he might do some heavy campaigning against certain council members. Joe Grey had watched the proceedings with a more-than-relieved air.
The night before, he'd had a nightmare that left him mewling like a terrified kitten. He'd dreamed he was in Judge Wesley's courtroom, that Max Harper stood before the bench facing the judge not as a police officer called to testify, but to be sentenced himself for first-degree murder. The nightmare had been so real that Joe had waked fighting the blanket, growling and hissing with rage.
"Stop it, Joe! What's wrong?" Clyde had poked him hard. "What's the matter with you!"
He'd awakened fully, to find himself lashing out at Clyde. Shocked, he'd stared confused at Clyde's lacerated hand.
"Wake up, you idiot cat! Are you awake? Are you having a fit? You clawed me! What's wrong with you!"
From the angle of the moonlight seeping in under the window shade, he'd guessed the time at about 2:30. Rising up among the rumpled blankets, he was still seeing the Molena Point courtroom, watching Max Harper sentenced to life in prison.
A dream.
It had been only a dream.
He'd tried to explain to Clyde how real the vision had been. His distress must have gotten to Clyde, because Clyde got up, went down the hall to the kitchen, and fixed him a bowl of warm milk. Carrying it back to the bedroom, Clyde let him drink it on the Persian throw rug, one of the few really nice furnishings in their rough-hewn bachelor pad.
"That was very nice," Joe had said, licking his whiskers and yawning.
"You didn't spill on the rug?"
"I didn't spill on the rug," he snapped. "Why can't you ever do anything nice without hassling me?"
"Because you spill, Joe. You slop your food, and I have to clean it up. Shut up and come back to bed. Go to sleep. And don't dream anymore-you don't need bad dreams. Harper's been cleared. He's back home, back at work, and all is well with the world. Go to sleep."