Cat Breaking Free (16 page)

I
n her cozy living room, Wilma paused from serving
drinks, set her tray on the desk, and placed three saucers of milk on the blotter. Beyond the open shutters sunset stained the sky, as bright red as the rooftops in the painting hanging above the fireplace behind her. A reflection of sunset played faintly across her long, silver hair. As she passed drinks to Lucinda and Pedric, the three cats set to lapping warm milk, their own version of before-dinner cocktails.

Charlie had brought Wilma home at midmorning and ordered her to rest. Wilma, after a half-hour nap, had grown so restless she began to call her friends to tell them she was home and on the mend, ready to go back to work. Now, this evening, an impromptu dinner to celebrate her homecoming, as if she'd been gone for months. The Greenlaws had brought a salad, and Clyde was picking up takeout on his way to get Ryan. Charlie had promised a dessert.

Joe Grey had left the station before Harper did, gal
loping across the rooftops burning with information on the Rivas brothers, with statistics from arrest sheets and reports that had just come in by fax. He was tense with news to share; but with Kit so excited, he hadn't been able to get in a word.

“It's a real tree house, it was a child's tree house and it's so beautiful all hidden in the tree and it's mine! Wait until you see!” She was lapping milk and talking so fast that she spluttered most of the milk across the blotter and on Dulcie's ears. Joe waited patiently. With Kit's nonstop narration, Dulcie and Joe and Wilma soon knew more about the Greenlaws' new house than the real estate agent who had sold it.

“There will be cushions,” Lucinda said. “And a water bowl on the windowsill that Kit can easily reach. We thought maybe Lori or Dillon would take the pillows up, with a sturdy ladder. That is,” she said, “if they understand that the tree house belongs to Kit.”

Kit purred with contentment. Life was indeed wonderful. But beside her Joe Grey fidgeted and laid his ears back until at last she paid attention and shut up and let him talk before he exploded like a wildcat.

“Faxes are coming in, on the Rivas brothers,” Joe said, twitching an ear. “Twenty-seven burglaries and street robberies in two years, and those are just the arrests. Who knows how many when they weren't caught? Luis has a rap sheet long enough to paper this room, and so did Hernando.

“Most of the time, Luis and Hernando worked together, apparently kept Dufio out of the way.” Joe licked his paw. “Poor Dufio. By the time Dallas finished reading off the details of his arrests, half the department was standing around the fax machine, grin
ning. I had to crawl under Mabel's counter to keep from breaking up laughing.

“Dufio's full name's Delfino. I guess he's been clumsy like this all his life. Last year he robbed an Arby's in Arcadia, two o'clock in the afternoon, got out with the money okay. But for the second time, he locked his keys in the car. Can't the poor guy learn? When he couldn't get in, he dropped the paper bag full of money and took off running.

“Two blocks from Arby's, three patrol cars were on him, bundled him off to jail. But, as they recovered the money, the judge went easy on him. He did seven months, got out, his brothers wouldn't have anything to do with him. On his own again, he broke the padlock on a storage locker in Anaheim, backed his truck up to it, and somehow in the process he set off the alarm. Chain-link gate swung closed, and he was trapped.”

Lucinda and Pedric looked a bit sorry for Dufio, but Wilma was laughing. Whatever embarrassment Dufio Rivas had suffered at his own mistakes, the entertainment he afforded those in law enforcement was deeply satisfying.

“When he got out of L.A. County jail,” Joe said, “he pulled a holdup on a 7-Eleven. He had his keys in his pocket this time. But he flashed a holdup note at the guy. He got away all right, for six blocks, then a customer ID'd his car. A patrol car stopped him, asked for identification and registration.” Joe purred, twitching a whisker. “I love when humans do this stuff. He opened the glove compartment, handed them all the papers in it, including the holdup note.”

This made Lucinda and Pedric chuckle, too. They were still smiling when Clyde and Ryan pulled to the
curb out front, Clyde's yellow Model A roadster gleaming in the falling evening. Charlie's new, red SUV parked behind them, then Max's truck. They all crowded in through the back door, setting their bags of takeout on the kichen table.

Now, with Ryan and Max present, the cats must remain mute; they turned their attention to supper, committing themselves fully to a dozen Oriental delicacies that Clyde and Charlie served for them on paper plates. The highlight was the golden shrimp tempura. Clyde had brought three extra servings. Kit ate so much shrimp that everyone, human and cat alike, thought she'd be sick. She slept so soundly after supper that when Pedric lifted her up into a soft blanket and carried her out to the car to head home, she didn't wiggle a whisker.

And it was not until Joe and Dulcie had wandered away to the rooftops, alone in the chill evening, that they discussed the Rivas brothers again. Then they laid out a businesslike schedule for shadowing Chichi Barbi, to discover what she found of such interest during her long, solitary vigils.

Joe could see her leave the house in the mornings, so he would follow her until noon. Dulcie would prowl the rooftops in the evenings when most of the shops were closing. Kit would be going back to Charlie's in the morning for a few more days of storytelling; she had no desire to accompany Lucinda and Pedric on a spree of furniture shopping, any more than she'd wanted to look at houses. She might revel in a velvet love seat or a silk chaise, but she didn't care for the shopping.

The Greenlaws had no furniture, they'd sold everything before they moved into their RV to travel the California coast. After the RV was wrecked and burned, the old couple, though safe, had owned little more than the sweatshirts and jeans they were dressed in; plus their ample bank accounts. The task of furnishing a whole house seemed monstrous to Kit; the only shopping that interested her was a nice trip to the deli. Besides, she was so looking forward to sharing more of her adventures with Charlie. Charlie's book about
her
was far more exciting than furniture stores and pushy salesmen.

“She's getting big-headed,” Joe told Dulcie as they wandered the rooftops. He rolled over on a patch of tarpaper that still held the heat of the day. “You think it's a good thing, for Charlie to be writing about her?”

“Charlie's not putting in anything she shouldn't. No talking cats.” Dulcie twitched her whiskers. “Kit'll calm down. How many cats have their life story written in a book for all kinds of people to read, and with such beautiful portraits of her? You wouldn't spoil that for the kit.”

“I guess I wouldn't.” Joe nuzzled Dulcie's cheek. “But you have to admit, she does get full of herself.”

Dulcie shrugged. “That's her nature.” And the two cats trotted on across the rooftops, thinking about Kit's mercurial temperament as they headed for the courthouse tower—until Joe came suddenly alert, stopping to watch below them.

Some of the restaurants and shops were still open, the drugstore, the little grocery that catered to late-shopping tourists. From the edge of a steep, shingled
roof, they looked across the street to the grocery's side door. “That's…” Joe hissed, and the next instant he was gone, scrambling backward down a thorny bougainvillea vine and racing across the empty street. Dulcie fled close behind him.

Slipping into the shadowed store, they followed the short, stocky Hispanic man along the aisles, their noses immediately confused by a hundred scents: onions-coffee-oranges-sweet rolls-raw meat-spices, a tangle of smells they had to sort through to pick out the man's personal scent—which, at last, was recorded in their scent-memories: a melange of Mexican food, sweat, and too much cheap aftershave. They flinched as an occasional tourist glanced down and reached to pet them; though the locals paid no attention. This family grocery store had cats, it was not unusual to see a cat in the aisles. Quickly down past cereal and bread they followed Luis, then down between shelves of canned vegetables and canned soup and then soft drinks. At pet food, Luis stopped. Pet food?

He began to fill his cart with the cheapest tins of cat food. He tossed in a fifty-pound bag of cat litter as if it were a little bag of peanuts. They watched him add a large bag of cheap kibble. He didn't seem to give a damn for favorite brands or flavors, for what his cats might like or what might be good for them.

His
cats? Luis Rivas did not seem to them to be a cat person. Dulcie's green eyes were wide, her voice no more than a breath. “Are you sure this is Luis Rivas?”

Joe wouldn't forget the scowling, burly Latino who had visited Chichi the morning before the burglary. And as Luis filled his rolling cart and joined the check
out line, it became more than clear that this man was, indeed, no cat lover.

The checker was a pretty, young brunette, probably still in high school. She looked at Luis's purchases, and gave him a sunny smile. “You must surely love your cats. How many do you have?”

“Not my cats!” Luis snapped. “Far as I'm concerned, every cat in the world should be drowned or strangled.”

In the shadowed aisle, Dulcie's eyes narrowed with rage, and Joe flexed his claws; but patiently they waited, filled with escalating excitement.

They followed as he slipped out the side door. He stood with his grocery cart, looking around, then headed up the sidewalk.

Following, they kept away from the shop lights, clinging within the black shadows of steps and curbside plantings. Two blocks away, on a narrow side street, Luis tossed the bags into the back seat of an old, white Toyota. Swinging in, he took off in a cloud of black exhaust. Phew. The car was one of the last square models, a rusted vehicle with a loose front bumper and a dent in the right front fender.

Committing the license number to memory was a no-brainer, and made them smile. Luis's plate, in the standard succession of letters and numbers issued by California DMV, read 7CAT277.

Scrambling up the nearest tree to the rooftops, they took off after him, watching his lights for as long as they were visible. Before they lost him among the hills and trees, they heard his radio come on. They followed the loud Mexican music for several blocks more, up
into the residential hills. As the brass and guitar grew fainter, they could catch an occasional glimpse of headlights high up the hill, flashing between the branches of oaks and pines. Far up the hills they caught one last flash as the car turned abruptly, and then the light was gone; the blast of trumpet stopped in midsquall.

“Ridgeview Road,” Joe said, studying the narrow ribbon that snaked along the far crest. “He turned off Ridgeview, maybe a quarter mile up, that's the only road that goes along the side of that hill.”

“Come on!” Dulcie flew from the last roof into a willow tree and dropped down to a little hiking trail. Racing along the greenbelt above the sea, the cats dodged into the bushes whenever they met a nighttime jogger or biker; and prayed they wouldn't meet anything wilder; there were coyotes up here, and bobcats.

Dallas Garza's cottage lay to the east of them, the senior ladies' house to the northeast. The houses far ahead crowded ever closer as they rose higher, half hidden among overgrown oaks and shrubs. And suddenly, Dulcie didn't like it up here.

She pushed on stubbornly, but this was not their regular hunting territory. Even in daylight the meanly crowded houses on this part of the hills seemed to her somber and forbidding; not friendly like the good-natured crowding of the village cottages, with their exuberant gardens. She slowed to catch her breath, shivering with an inexplicable fear. “We'll never find it at night, with no scent trail. If he put the car in a garage…”

“You're tired,” Joe said softly. “You feel okay?”

“I'm fine. I just…”

“Let's go home,” he said, untypically. “We'll come up in the morning. If they're cooking breakfast maybe it'll be chorizo, smell up the whole length of Ridgeview with Mexican spices.”

She leaned against him, yawning, imagining the kit at home snug and safe in her bed, and wanting to be in her own bed. Joe studied her, concerned. “We'll find the car in the morning,” he repeated, and together they headed toward home, down the long, lonely path through the chill night, then up to the roofs again, Joe's thoughts seething half with concern for Dulcie, and half with tangled questions surrounding Luis Rivas.

B
ut while Joe and Dulcie hurried home, each thinking
of a midnight nap, Kit was not in her bed at all, but out in the night on her own mission. Having left the rooftop apartment after Lucinda and Pedric slept, much too wide-awake to stay in, Kit lay on a copper awning above a little cigar shop, watching Chichi Barbi across the street in the Patio Café.

Chichi sat at an outdoor table, observing the shops that flanked the cigar store just below Kit. I'm a spy spying on a spy, Kit thought. That's what Dulcie would say. The curvy blonde, pretending to read the newspaper by the soft patio lights, glanced up every few seconds then wrote something down in the small spiral notebook half hidden beneath the sports section. Kit stretched out to see, but felt too impatient to remain still.

Dropping from the awning to the low-hanging cigar sign then to a raised planter, she landed among a tangle of bright cyclamens. Choosing a pair of late shoppers,
she padded across the street behind them: a bare-legged woman in flat sandals and a man who smelled of the leather jacket he wore. Once across, she sprang atop the two-foot brick wall that defined the patio and approached Chichi from the rear.

She could not see the pages of the notebook until she was up on the next table, behind Chichi. Most of the other diners had left, their tables stacked with dirty plates waiting to be cleared. She had time only to glimpse Chichi's odd notations when a dark-haired waiter double-timed across the patio, his black, hard-soled shoes ringing on the bricks, and waved to shoo her away.

“Scat! Get down! Cats on the bricks, that's allowed! Cat on the table, bad, bad! You village cats know better!” Swiping at her with a dish towel, he picked up a plate that contained several scraps of leftover shrimp, set it under a chair, picked her up and set her down beside it, then began to gather up dishes. Laughing to herself, Kit scoffed up the shrimp.

Chichi glanced down, frowning at her, but then returned to her notebook. When the waiter left, Kit returned to the cleared table, to peer around Chichi's shoulder.

She got a good look at the page before Chichi turned and saw her. But Kit was gone, racing away up a trellis to the roofs, where she disappeared from view.

Hidden among the chimneys she closed her eyes, concentrating until she saw Chichi's scribbles again, clearly in the blackness; and she held them there, committing them to a strange kind of memory that even Joe Grey and Dulcie couldn't match.

As a kitten, her one joy and wonder in life was to
hide in the cold shadows where the wild band had gathered for the night, and listen to the old Celtic tales they told, the stories of their beginnings. To listen, and to remember so she could tell the stories later to herself when she was alone and frightened.

Now she saw sharply in memory Chichi's mysterious notes, as strange as the hieroglyphs from some ancient Celtic tomb. She needed Lucinda, Lucinda could write them down. Whatever this was, it was important. Holding that clear picture in her head, Kit bolted desperately for home.

Racing across her own terrace and into the bedroom, leaping onto the bed, she mewled at Lucinda and lashed her tail and patted at Lucinda's face. “Wake up! Wake up, Lucinda. Now! Wake up now!” Dropping down again, she raced to the living room and onto the desk to snatch a pad of paper and a pen in her mouth. Carrying them clumsily, she flew back to the bedroom.

Lucinda had flipped on the bedside lamp. She sat muzzily against the tumbled pillows. Beside her, Pedric still snored; he had heard nothing. “What, Kit!” Lucinda demanded. “What happened?”

Dropping the pad and pen in Lucinda's lap, Kit said, “Write. Write what I tell you…try to tell you…Oh, please.”

Obediently, Lucinda wrote as Kit spelled out the senseless words.

“Dn lv, dot.”

“Period?”

Kit nodded. “Then eight double dot forty, period. Next line, 2 cust. Then Bev dn shds lts off, period.” Kit had to spell it all, it was very difficult. Had to talk with her eyes closed to see it all clearly.

“Next line, nine oh four period out lock, period, then, wlk wst period. Then, Dn period. Eight double dot forty, period.

“2 cust. Bev dwn shds lts off, one sec in.

“Nine double dot oh four out lock wlk wst.

“That's all,” Kit said at last, collapsing among the covers.

“What kind of code
is
this? Where were you, Kit? Where did you get this?”

Kit told her where she'd been and how she'd watched Chichi making notes.

Lucinda frowned, then slowly began to translate. “Don. That would be Don Blake—Blake's Watch Shop? Don leaves the shop at eight-forty? Then…” Lucinda scanned the page, “then two more customers. Then fifteen minutes later, Beverly Blake pulls the shades and turns off the lights?”

Kit licked her whiskers, thinking. “Yes, that happened. I saw from the awning, I saw the lights go off, I saw the woman leave. I didn't see the man. I guess he'd already gone?”

“Bev leaves one security light on inside?” Lucinda said, frowning. “She leaves the shop at four after nine, locks the door, and walks west?”

“Yes, she did that!” the kit whispered, pleased that Lucinda was quick at these matters. To her, the little squiggles were maddening. She hoped she'd gotten them right.

But Lucinda looked at Kit and stroked her. “You are quite amazing. Do you know that you are amazing?”

Kit rubbed her head against Lucinda's hand and purred and purred. She looked up at Lucinda. “Why is all that so important that she has to write it down?”

“I'm not sure. But, Kit, maybe we're both thinking the same.” Lucinda frowned. “When Beverly leaves a little later like that, she often meets Don at the grocery. They like pastrami hoagies for supper. He sometimes leaves earlier to order and pick them up. My goodness, Kit.” Lucinda touched Kit's shoulder. “Chichi? Is this from Chichi Barbi?”

Kit nodded.

Lucinda's eyes widened. “Blake's Watch Shop is known for its Rolex watches and valuable antique clocks.” She reached for her robe. “Maybe it isn't urgent enough to call, at night, but I…”

But Kit was already streaking for the living room. Leaping to the desk, she hit the phone's speaker button and punched in the station. In seconds she had Dallas Garza on the line and was describing what she had seen and what Chichi Barbi had written in her little notebook. She did not want Lucinda to call, Lucinda could never explain how she knew Chichi's secret.

 

The old stucco house stood jammed into the steep hillside as if it had been pressed into the earth by giant hands. It was two-storied in front, on the downhill side, one story at the rear where it pushed into the earth. This early in the spring the rising sun still hung in the south, casting a rich amber glow across the front of the worn stucco box, bringing to life patches of faded tan paint that had worn away to reveal the ancient gray plaster. The asphalt roof shingles were curled and mossy; the low picket fence beside the steep drive had perhaps never seen paint. But the rosebushes along the
fence were lovingly tended, heavy with huge pink and red blooms.

The basement appeared to be a bedroom, the blinds drawn down halfway to reveal the crooked hems of limp lace curtains. The windows of the upper-floor living room were dressed with lace, too, giving the house an appearance of having not changed in decades, as if its residents had been settled within its dated rooms for a lifetime. The kind of house occupied by aging folks trying to exist on an ever-shrinking income that was eaten away by inflation and rising medical costs. The kind of house where an elderly widow might be too settled in emotionally to sell for a nice profit and move on. Such a widow might have few options, when all California real estate was out of reach for a person on a fixed income.

Joe and Dulcie had already circled the dwelling, leaping from tree to tree, peering in past lace tiebacks above the shorter lace curtains that covered the lower panes. They could see an oversized velour couch and chairs, their backs draped with Mexican weavings. And a dining table of the old-fashioned waterfall style, same as the end tables, the bedroom dressers and a round-topped radio. They saw no TV. They saw no human occupant until they reached the back bedroom.

There by the window sat a lean, wrinkled old woman with graying black hair tied back severely. Her gnarled hands were folded together in her lap. A Bible lay closed on the table beside her, next to another round-topped old-fashioned radio. This room did have a TV, an ancient box set on a little table in the far corner, facing two narrow beds. Dulcie imagined the old
woman holding a rosary; though at the moment her wrinkled hands clutched only a fold of her faded apron. She sat facing the dulled glass and the backyard rose garden, but apparently was asleep in her chair. At least, she had her eyes shut. If she had spied the cats in the pepper tree, she gave no indication. Facing the bedroom door stood a cage set up on a table.

All along Dulcie had hoped it wasn't true, that there were no trapped cats. They peered in past the frilly pepper leaves and lace tiebacks at the three captives, feeling scared and sick.

The cage was made not of wire but of thin, strong bars, impenetrable as a jail cell, and was closed with a heavy padlock. The three cats slept inside huddled together, filling the small space. The white cat's tail lay across the dirty sandbox. The dark tabby with the long ears had his hind feet pressed against a dish of stale food. The bleached calico huddled miserably between them, her eyes squeezed shut.

Swallowing back a growl, Joe studied the window.

It was an old, double-hung casement. Joe's eyes widened when he saw it wasn't locked, that the round metal lock, in plain sight, was disengaged. He tried to determine if the old woman was indeed asleep. If they dropped to the sill and slipped through, would she wake and shout for Luis? She seemed, dozing in her rocker, totally unaware of them.