“But why doesn’t he go and live there?”
“Because Max is one of those cats who’s got it made. He’s his human’s favorite, isn’t he? Odelia gives him everything he needs. The best food, the best home, the best cuddles. And when you’re not looking she gives him all that and more. But he doesn’t tell you that, does he?”
“Max gets special treatment?”
“Of course he does. When you’re not around the liverwurst comes out, and the gold-crusted chicken nuggets, and the hand-caught lobster and the Arenkha caviar and the crab!”
“Oh, my god!”
“Exactly! I’m not jealous, Brutus. I’ve lived at the pound, and I’ve sampled all these delicious foods myself. In fact I’ve eaten so much lobster that I can’t stand the taste anymore. But you? You shouldn’t be denied this nectar of the gods, my friend.”
“Max!” Brutus said between gritted teeth.
“You get the crumbs from his table. And for what? So you can be at his every beck and call. Do as he pleases. Follow his orders and cater to his every whim. Do you really want that for yourself, Brutus? Or do you want to live like a king yourself for a change?”
“I want to live like a king,” said Brutus decidedly.
“Of course you do. And you deserve to. But is Odelia going to give you the kind of life you deserve? No, she’s not. For some strange reason she’s determined to keep Max on as her favorite pet, while she treats the rest of you like mere serfs. Underlings. Max’s minions.”
“I don’t want to be Max’s minion any more, Milo.”
“I commend the sentiment, Brutus. You have nothing to lose but your chains.”
Brutus growled something to himself, then a thought occurred to him. “But what about Harriet? And what about Dooley?”
“They’ll have to choose, too. If you convince them to join you, all the better.”
“I might be able to convince Harriet. She loves me. Dooley? He’s loyal to Max.”
“His loss,” said Milo. “Some of us are born to be slaves, Brutus. And some are born to be emperors—masters of our own fate.” He placed a hand on Brutus’s chest. “I think you know, deep inside, what you want to be, don’t you?”
“An emperor,” he growled, the fire of desire burning bright now.
“So convince Harriet that she can be an empress or stay on as Max’s slave. The choice shouldn’t be too hard.”
He turned to Milo, suddenly overcome with emotion. It was very rare that he felt this strongly about another cat. “Milo,” he said with a quiver in his voice.
“I know, Brutus,” said Milo magnanimously. “I know.”
“You are my savior. My hero. My messiah.”
Milo sighed. “It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it, Brutus.”
“Is that why you left that pound—that paradise—to save the rest of us?”
“Yes, indeed. I could have stayed there forever—basking in the kind of life only the richest cats on earth ever get to experience. Instead I chose to take up the noble quest to free my fellow cat. To be a beacon of light and hope for the downtrodden and the oppressed. Cats like you, Brutus, and Harriet. Even Dooley,” he added after a pause.
“Thank you,” said Brutus, from the bottom of his heart. A tear stole across his furry cheek. He was deeply moved.
“Don’t cry for me, Brutus,” said Milo, touched.
“They are tears of joy, Milo. Tears of gratitude. Tears for you.”
“Thank you, Brutus,” said Milo with a gentle wave of the hand. “Now go forth and spread the word, my child.”
Chapter 34
Once again, Odelia’s cats were awfully quiet on the ride back into town. She didn’t mind. She had a lot to think about after the interview with the former secretary. Obviously Dick Dickerson hadn’t exactly been a choir boy. He’d made a lot of people very angry over the course of his career as a tabloid publisher. Chase was thinking, too, judging from the thought wrinkle creasing his brow, and so were the cats. A whole lot of thinking going on.
Max hadn’t discovered anything of significance, so that was a disappointment.
As they rode into town, Max piped up, “Can you drop us off here, Odelia?”
She directed Chase to stop the car, and Max and Dooley hopped out. Harriet and Brutus and Milo preferred to ride along with her and Chase for some reason. So they dropped the three cats off at the house and Chase took her to the office before he cruised off in the direction of the police station to write up a report on the Brenda Berish interview.
And as she stepped into the Gazette office, ready to write up some of her notes, she saw that a visitor was in Dan’s office. It was a man she’d never seen before, but then that wasn’t so unusual. Dan knew pretty much everyone who was anyone and a lot of someones who were no ones, so he was bound to know people Odelia didn’t.
She popped her head into his office. The aged editor was puffing from a nice cigar and sipping from what looked like a glass of port, his white beard waggling happily and his short frame relaxing on the wingback chair he’d installed in his office for when he needed a think.
His guest was a stocky man with a shiny round face and an equally shiny bald dome. He looked like a cartoon of a Wall Street banker, complete with stubby cigar and beady little eyes.
“Hey, there, Odelia,” said Dan jovially. His cheeks were red and this was obviously not his first glass of port. “I want you to meet an old friend of mine. This is Olaf Brettin. Olaf runs the Daily Inquirer. Just about the nastiest tabloid on the East Coast.”
“Not the nastiest,” said the tabloid editor good-naturedly.
“No, the National Star got you licked in that department.”
“The National Star got us licked in every department,” said Brettin. “Not just nastiness but political clout, too. Not to mention circulation, of course.” He didn’t seem bothered by this fact too much, though, judging from his indulgent smile.
“That will probably all change now that Dickerson is dead,” said Dan.
“I don’t think so,” said Brettin. “Except maybe for the political thing. The Star’s owners never liked the direction Dickerson took the paper. They’ll probably hire an editor who’ll return to its core business: digging up dirt on celebrities and exposing scandals.”
“Did you know Dickerson well, Mr. Brettin?” asked Odelia.
“We met occasionally. Dinner parties, galas, conferences, industry events, that sort of thing. We didn’t socialize, though. We weren’t exactly chummy.” His face sagged. “Dick Dickerson had a ruthless streak, Miss Poole. I know you’ll probably say that we were like peas in a pod—publishing the same sort of tabloid muck—but I never set out to damage anyone’s reputation or even use blackmail to further my own ends.”
“And he did.”
“And he did,” Brettin confirmed.
“It probably got him killed, too,” said Dan. “People will only take so much abuse.”
“Did he ever try to damage your reputation?” asked Odelia.
Brettin pursed his lips. “Oh, he tried. There was a time our publications were neck and neck, and he used his full barrage of dirty trickery on me. But then he pulled ahead of the Daily Inquirer and he stopped bothering. Didn’t think I was worth the trouble.”
Dan’s eyes were gleaming. “Odelia works with the police, Olaf. So you probably should be careful what you tell her.”
“You work with the police?” asked Brettin, surprised.
“Occasionally,” she said. “My uncle is Chief of Police.”
“And her boyfriend is a detective,” Dan added, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “So if you confess now, you wouldn’t merely give me the biggest scoop in my career, Odelia would probably bring out the handcuffs and arrest you on the spot—isn’t that right, Odelia?”