"They upgraded you to a suspect." He closed the suitcase and stood up, the better to scrutinize her face, perhaps looking there for tells of guilt. This is what Flynn told the judge who signed the warrant. Back in Chicago, you destroyed evidence before the cops could secure the scene of another homicide – same cause of death, same weapon he found this morning at the playground." He was staring at the contents of her suitcase. "And now it looks like murder is a hobby with you." Riker leaned down and picked up a newspaper clipping for one of the Reaper's kills. "If Flynn saw this, he'd put you in a lockup. Oh, and he knows you're not on good terms with Bunny's lawyer, but that was my lie, not yours. So just say as little as possible. Don't give him a reason to arrest you." He turned back to the gutted armoire. "Get me some stuff to put in this closet."
She understood. Her rooms should not have the appearance of hastily removed evidence, and now she helped him load in papers and items from other drawers in the kitchen and her bedroom. When they were done, the armoire had the messy look of a catchall closet that had not been recently disturbed.
"Is there anything else in this apartment? Anything Flynn shouldn't see?" He stared at her, and she wondered if he knew she was holding out on him. It was so hard to tell with Riker. Suspicion was built into the very shape of his eyes.
"Jo, there's nothing you can hide from a police search. The toilet tank, the light fixture, stuff taped behind a drawer – they know every damn hiding place."
Johanna glanced at the cat's pillow basket, a hiding place that would only be secure while the cat was loose. "No," she lied. "There's nothing else."
He looked down at the growling pet carrier that was rocking in place on the floor. "Keep Mugs locked up. Flynn might get pissed off and shoot him." The cell phone beeped in Riker's pocket. "That's Mallory. They're coming, Jo. Take a deep breath and try to act surprised, okay?" He picked up the red suitcase and crossed over the threshold.
Johanna put out one hand to prevent him from slamming the door. "Riker? Why take the risk? If you get caught with…" Her words trailed off as he passed through the fire door leading to the staircase and the elevators. He was taking her on faith and going against his old religion of a police.
Riker disappeared down the stairs as the elevator opened. Johanna quickly closed the door to her suite, then released Mugs from the pet carrier. She rushed to the cat's basket and unzipped the pillowcase. Reaching toward the back of the pillow, she retrieved a packet of letters and concealed them in her jacket pocket.
The knock at the door was a bang, bang, bang. A man's voice yelled, "Police! Open up!"
Mugs waited to greet them, scratching the rug, warming up to shed some blood. The cat had had a bad day at the animal hospital, and the next one to enter this room would pay for that. Johanna cracked the door by a few inches, and the cat's front paws slipped into that narrow opening to snag anything within reach.
Detective Flynn stared at the frenzied animal. "Let's do something about the cat, okay?"
"I have to get my gloves," said Johanna, as Mugs desperately tried to widen the crack in the door so he could maul his first pair of pant legs. "Unless – you'd rather – " "Make it fast."
She held the door shut with one shoe as she donned a pair of gloves from her pocket. She picked up the cat, minding the place along his spine that caused him pain. "You can come in now." Flynn opened the door wide, and Mugs growled. "I'll just put him in the pet carrier," said Johanna. "That can wait, Doctor." Flynn entered the room leading a parade of three men in suits and a woman in uniform.
The detective handed her a photograph, and Johanna looked down at the image of herself at the playground in the company of police.
"Bunny's social worker identified your picture," said Flynn. "She told us you were the psychiatrist who recommended Bunny's hospitalization and surgery. Odd you never mentioned that when I questioned you." "I was upset. I didn't – "
"The social worker says you used the same alias you gave us – Josephine Richards. But we couldn't find any shrinks by that name. So we pulled your prints from the playground bench. That's how we tracked you down to Chicago. Those cops remember you very well, Doctor – you and that dead FBI agent. But they call you Johanna Apollo." And now for his finale, there was a flourish of folded papers as Flynn handed her a search warrant.
She stared at this document, all too familiar from past experience with the Chicago police. "Can I put the cat away before you start?"
"Not yet." Flynn nodded to another man. "Check that thing out."
The younger man walked over to the pet carrier and turned it upside down to shake it. After a look inside, he pronounced it "Clean. No false bottom."
Mugs leaped out of Johanna's arms, but he did not attack. Perhaps the cat was overwhelmed by this embarrassment of riches, so many potential victims in one place. He stood beside her, eyeing the company of police as they spread across the room, pulling out drawers and sofa cushions. His ears flattened back, and he showed every sharp tooth in his mouth when he hissed.
"Mugs, it's all right," she said, then read the warrant with some relief. It included no search of her person, no discovery of the letters in her jacket.
"Mugs," said the female officer. "That's his name?"
"Yes." Johanna turned to look at the other woman's sensible black shoes, tightly laced and double knotted beneath the cuffs of uniform trousers. "It's short for Huggermugger." And now she looked up to the young face beneath the tricornered cap.
The police officer hunkered down for a closer look at the animal, not minding the warning of the arched back and bristling fur. This woman was definitely a cat person, for she engaged the animal's eyes, then imitated his slow blink. Mugs began to purr as he walked toward her. "Huggermugger. Cute name."
"More like a warning. Don't – "
"It's all right. Cats like me." Mugs rubbed up against the woman's thigh, then turned on her, biting her hand and drawing blood.
Johanna gathered up the cat before it could make another strike. "Sorry, so sorry."
"What the hell's wrong with him?" The policewoman was staring at the holes in her flesh as they pooled up with blood.
"Old nerve damage." Johanna pushed the cat inside the plastic pet carrier, using both gloved hands to corral the whirlwind of fur and flying claws that tried to prevent the door from closing. The cat's small face appeared at the wire window of his jail. Mugs growled as loud as any dog. Johanna glanced at the woman's injured hand. "I can fix that for you." She led the wounded officer into the bathroom. "This won't take long."
As she opened a cupboard below the sink, Johanna listened to the activity in the next room, sounds of drawers opening, objects hitting the floor, the cat alternately growling, hissing and screaming. She pulled out her first aid kit and found the bottle of antiseptic. "This might sting." She took the officer's hand in hers and irrigated the tiny holes. "These tooth marks aren't deep. There won't be any scars." When she was done with the bandaging, she reached into the back of the closet where she kept a physician's gladstone bag. Inside it she found a block of paper, each page bearing the medical icon of a caduceus beneath her name. "I'm prescribing a topical antibiotic and another one in pill form. Animal bites are easily infected." Done writing, she tore off the two sheets and handed them to the officer.
"I thought you were a shrink." The young woman stared at the prescriptions, dubious now, maybe wondering if this was illegal.
"I was a psychiatrist," said Johanna, "so I also have a medical degree. I'm sorry about the cat. I did try to warn you about the – "