"Joe, Cara Ray left her purse, they'll be coming back."
Joe paid no attention. Pawing open the phone, listening for the dial tone, he punched in the number. The phone's small buttons made it hard for a cat to hit the right digit. These manufacturers that called their products user-friendly didn't have a clue.
Lieutenant Brennan answered, evidently relieving the dispatcher. Brennan didn't want to put the call through; he said Harper could not be reached.
"This is really urgent. There's no time-"
"He's on a missing person call-possibly a drowning. That is extremely urgent," Brennan said coldly, and he again refused to contact Harper.
Well, he needn't be so surly. But maybe he'd had a bad night. Maybe he had stomach gas, with all the fried food he ate. Hanging up, Joe dialed Harper's cell phone. He hadn't memorized Harper's several phone numbers for nothing; though sometimes the connection on the cell phone wasn't too good.
Harper answered; he sounded gruffer than usual, short-tempered and preoccupied. Joe described the papers and ledger they had found that linked Fulman to Shamas Greenlaw's scams and maybe to his death. "Most of the papers are in a hole behind his closet, you have to pull the wallboard off. But the ledger and the most important letters, Fulman put in a plastic bag- meaning to take them with him. He'll be back here any minute, to get them."
"What do you mean, linked to Shamas Greenlaw's death?"
"Fulman and Cara Ray Crisp pushed Shamas overboard; I heard them talking about it. And with Cara Ray's help, Fulman killed Raul Torres-caused the accident that killed him."
"You'll have to give me some facts," Harper snapped. Joe could picture the captain in his squad car, scowling at the phone as he drove. Joe would not, at one time, have made so bold as to expect the police captain to act on his word alone, without proof. But since the first murder that the cats had been involved with, all the information they had passed to Harper had resulted in arrests and convictions. Every phone call Joe had made had helped the department; he and Dulcie had furnished Harper with information from conversations that the police would not be in a position to hear, discussions the police had no reason to listen to, and for which they would have had no legal right to employ sophisticated electronic equipment-yet conversations that held the key to solving the crimes in question.
"I can't give you any proof, Captain. From what I overheard tonight, Shamas Greenlaw didn't pitch over the boat's rail unassisted. Fulman and Cara Ray did the job; then, because Raul Torres grew suspicious, Fulman set Torres up to die. Fulman stabbed George Chambers and left him for dead. He killed Newlon Greenlaw-hit Newlon with a rock, and he injured Pedric Greenlaw, went away thinking he'd killed Pedric."
"That's a long list. Who is this? I can't run an investigation on anonymous tips like this," Harper said irritably.
"My tips have been useful in the past, Captain."
"Will you give me your name, give me a number where I can reach you?"
"You know I can't do that. Never have, never will. But I just witnessed, in Sam Fulman's trailer, a direct confession that incriminates both Fulman and Cara Ray Crisp. You'll have to take my word.
"However," Joe said, loving to play Harper along slowly, "there is a bit of proof. Fulman's shirt, a red-and-brown plaid flannel, that is wadded up in his laundry on the closet shelf, is spotted with tiny flecks of dried blood. I'm willing to bet it'll turn out to be Newlon Greenlaw's blood.
"Right now, Fulman and Cara Ray are searching Pedric's trailer, looking for hidden money that they think was lifted from under the Greenlaw house. Two dogs-those dogs that Clyde Damen keeps-dug out an empty bag this afternoon, evidently found it just after the quake, in the cracked foundation.
"Fulman is convinced that it had contained money buried by Shamas. He told Cara Ray that Shamas always buried money, that Shamas called it his tax-free account."
Harper was silent for so long that Joe thought he'd lost the connection. But then, in a dry, tight voice, "I'm on my way up there. Why don't you hang around?"
"I'm taking the grocery bag with me, Captain, before Fulman comes back. But the laundry is in the closet, the plaid shirt and, under it, one sample letter and one receipt.
"The bag I'm taking contains ten year's worth just like them. I'll leave it in the cave, say, twenty feet back from the entrance, in whatever crevice is handy. White-plastic grocery bag. Should be easy to spot."
Joe hung up before Harper could accuse him of tampering with the evidence. He stiffened as a ripping noise exploded in the bathroom.
"They're coming," Dulcie hissed. "We can't use the front door. Come on-I ripped the screen off."
He started to drag the bag toward the bathroom, then leaped back to the bed, took the phone clumsily in his mouth, nearly unhinging his jaws, and shoved it in with the letters. Hauling the heavy bag toward the bathroom, he left it in the hall long enough to slip into the closet and rub his shoulder back and forth across the dusty plywood panel where their pawprints were incised. It was possible Harper would send forensics up here to get fingerprints, depending on what came down. If the officers picked up pawprints, so be it-but he hoped they didn't. That had been a professional hazard as long as he and Dulcie had been at this clandestine business.
Dragging the bag into the bathroom, he saw that Dulcie had gotten the glass open. It was a tiny little window. Pulling the plastic bag between them, up onto the sink, they barely got it through. As they squeezed through after it, Dulcie caught her breath.
"Look," she breathed, staring away down the hill.
Down on the highway, two black-and-whites were parked along the shoulder. The cats could see officers moving along the lower cliff. "What are they doing?" Dulcie said softly. "They can't be here already to answer your call. What's happening?"
But Joe's mind was on the package. On the ground below them, its stark white plastic reflected light where there was no light. If Fulman came around behind the trailer, he couldn't help but see it.
They heard, behind them, the trailer door open. They flew out the window as Cara Ray's soft tread came down the hall. Landing hard in the darkness, grabbing the bag, they hauled it underneath the trailer, against a rear wheel.
They were crouched beside the wheel, trying to punch in the number for North Carolina information, when Joe saw, standing between two trailers, a dark figure nearly hidden: a tall, slim man, his dark jacket and pants fitting neat and trim-a uniform. A cop. And the man's lean, easy stance was unmistakable.
Every hair down Joe's spine stood at attention. Harper couldn't be here so soon-he had barely hung up the phone from talking to Harper. "Dulcie, Harper's out there-"
But Dulcie was busy speaking to an operator three thousand miles away. He listened to her make several calls, then she looked up at him, her green eyes wide and dark. "I got a disconnect for Bernside Tool and Die. No such number."
"Shh. Keep your voice down. Dulcie…"
"The special operator couldn't tell me how long it might have been since that was a good number, if ever." She licked her paw. "Those Bernside Tool and Die invoices were dated just a few months ago."
"Dulcie, Harper's here." Joe crouched, watching Harper's feet coming toward them, up the brick walk, the police captain moving swiftly and silently in the shadows. But Dulcie was dialing again, speaking in a whisper, asking information for the number of Valencia Home for the Elderly.