Cat Breaking Free (20 page)

Dulcie looked at him uncertainly. She didn't like to split up. And she was afraid of Chichi.

But what was the woman going to do if she saw her? She was a cat, totally innocent; and she was faster and more agile than Chichi. Not liking to act the coward in front of Joe, she slipped quickly away following Chichi, padding down the shadowed hall toward the stairs with only a small shiver, only a few beads of sweat on her paws.

D
allas Garza was preparing to release Dufio Rivas.
The detective had sent three men up the hills to watch the old house where Charlie had spotted the brown pickup. Two officers were wearing gray fatigues marked with Molena Point Gas Service logos, and were driving a gas company truck. The third officer, stationed just down the block, was dressed in greasy jeans and was changing the tire on an old car he had pulled to the curb. Dallas had a fourth man waiting near the jail to follow Dufio when he left.

He had checked the ownership of the hillside house, and knew it belonged to an Estrella Nava, an eighty-two-year-old village resident who had lived there alone since her husband died twenty years before. The detective had run the Washington state plates of the truck Charlie spotted, and had run the Nevada plates of the car they picked up the night of the burglary. That night, the truck's plate had not been visible. Both plates came up stolen. Neither belonged to the vehicle to which it
was affixed. Dallas had some concern that when they released Dufio, he would spot the tails they had on him. Max didn't think so. “We could probably send him home with a chaperone, he wouldn't catch on.”

“He's stayed out of jail better than his brothers,” Dallas said. “Just hope he hightails it for the Nava house, gives us reason to get a search warrant. Charlie's pretty sure that was the truck?”

“I've never known Charlie to be wrong about what she's seen. She's an artist, she looks and she remembers.”

“Let's get Dufio moving, maybe we'll see some action.”

Harper rose, grinning at Garza's unrest, and they headed down the hall and out the back door. Crossing the officers' parking lot within its chain-link fence, they entered the small village jail.

Molena Point jail was a holding facility for short-term detainees and for prisoners awaiting trial or being tried. Once a sentence was imposed, those sentenced were moved to the county jail or to a state facility. There were four small cells, two on either side of the concrete hall. Four bunks to each cell. Down at the end were two large tanks, one on either side, each built to accommodate ten prisoners. The right-hand tank was empty except for Dufio. Its other three occupants had been released an hour earlier, when they had sobered up sufficiently and been bailed out by their wives. Dufio Rivas lay stretched out on his back on a top bunk under a rough prison blanket, his face turned slightly to the wall. Maybe the drunks had kept him awake all night, maybe now in the welcome silence he was trying to catch up on his sleep. Dallas unlocked the door.

“Come on, Dufio. You're free to go home.”

Dufio didn't stir.

“Wake up Dufio,” Garza said. “Get the hell out of here.” When Dufio didn't move, Dallas drew his weapon and stepped over to shake the prisoner's shoulder. Before reaching him, he swung around.

“Call the medics!” He rolled Dufio over fast, generating a last few spurts of blood. The man's face and neck were torn, a mass of blood. Dallas reached uselessly for the carotid artery; he couldn't be breathing.

There was a bullet hole through Dufio's neck, and two in his head. Small holes, as if from a .22—but big enough for the purpose. Max, having called for medical assistance, glanced up at the cell window studying the bars.

The bars were all in place. He looked at the branches of the oak tree outside, but nothing seemed different. Activating his radio again, he put out an arrest order for the three sobered-up drunks who had, an hour earlier, been released to their wives. In seconds, they heard the back door open, heard officers running out to their units and taking off. The same action would be occurring at the front of the building. The emergency van came screaming through the chain-link gate, and two medics ran in with their emergency packs.

Climbing up to stand on the lower bunk, they began to work on Dufio, stanching the last trickle of blood and checking for a heartbeat. But soon they turned away, shaking their heads. “You call the coroner, Captain?”

Max nodded, looking up as the coroner arrived, stepping into the long hall and heading for the back cell. John Bern was a slight, balding man with glasses. He glanced at Max and Dallas, stepped up on the bot
tom bunk as the medics had, and began to examine Dufio.

“Shot from the back,” he said, turning to look down at Max. He glanced around the cell, then up at the window as the other officers had done. He asked about the position of the body before the officers moved it, then he readied his camera and began to take pictures.

He ended with several close-ups of the hole in the mattress and, once the body was removed, he employed forceps to carefully pick out the one bullet he could locate, from the thick cotton padding.

“Twenty-two,” Bern said. “Guess the other slugs are still in him.” The overhead light reflected off Bern's glasses, off his bald spot, and off the fragment of lead he held in his forceps. “Good shooting, to kill him with a twenty-two.” He glanced up again at the barred window. “Like hunting deer from a tree stand, the way they do in the South. Only this was more like shooting fish in a barrel. Quarry can't run, can't get away. Was probably sound asleep, never knew what hit him.”

They searched the cell but found no casing. They heard two more squad cars leave. Garza sent Brennan to search the yard, meaning to join him. He wanted to get up in that tree, maybe lift some fiber samples. Max turned and was gone, they heard him double-timing across the parking lot and into the building, heading for the control center.

Garza remained with Bern until Dufio, tucked into a body bag, was taken away to the morgue. Strange, Garza thought, watching the medics carry Dufio away. He had an almost tender feeling for the poor sucker with his long list of screwups. Strange, too, that it
wasn't a screwup that finally got him. Not directly, anyway.

But who would want to kill the poor guy? He watched Bern collecting lint and hair samples, giving the cell and bunk a thorough but probably fruitless going-over. This cell housed a vast turnover of men, all of whom would have left traces of themselves. But John Bern was more than meticulous. At last Dallas turned away, his square, tanned face pulled into unhappy lines, his black-brown eyes dark with annoyance that someone had committed a murder in their jail.

 

With Maria gone in Chichi's car, Chichi herself downstairs, and Luis and Tommie asleep, Joe approached Abuela's room, the key clutched uncomfortably between his incisors, making him drool. Crouching beside the bedroom door, he looked across at Abuela. Sound asleep in her rocking chair, softly huffing. Her cane leaned against the chair arm. The window was closed now, and the shades pulled down to soften the harsh morning light.

The three cats looked down at him through the bars so forlornly they made Joe's stomach flip. But then Coyote saw the key, and his yellow eyes blazed. At once the other two pushed against the bars, in their terrible hunger for freedom. He only hoped he could manage this. He had never yet been able to manipulate a key; not that he hadn't tried. This time, he had to pull it off.

Shouldering the bedroom door nearly closed, hoping no one would hear the tiny squeak of its hinges, he
waited, listening. No sound from the hall. Abuela slept on. He leaped to the table beside the cage, the metal key and chain dangling from his teeth like the intestines of a metal mouse.

All three captives nosed against the bars sniffing at the key, their eyes wide and expectant. None of the three spoke.

Bending his head, Joe placed a paw on the dangling key fob and fumbled the key into position between his front teeth. He had the key in position—but when he guided the key into the hole in the dangling padlock, immediately the lock swung away.

He looked at his three silent observers. But how could they help? The bars of the cage door were too close together to allow even a paw through, to steady the lock. And the way the lock dangled, every tiny movement sent it shifting.

Rolling down onto his shoulder, on the four-inch strip of table, he peered up from that angle, hoping he didn't swallow the key. Reaching up with careful paws, humping up as close as he could get, he tried to line up the key.

Voilà! It was in position! Carefully he eased the key in, his heart pounding. He was starting to turn the key when it fell out, fell into his mouth and nearly into his throat, scaring him so badly he flipped over, coughing and hacking.

Spitting the key out, he sat trying to calm his shattered nerves. But he took the key up again, tried again. Again it fell, again he nearly choked. Again and again, a half dozen frightening failures before, on the seventh try, slowly, carefully twisting his head with the key in place in the lock, it turned!

The lock snapped open. He wanted to yowl with triumph. Employing his claws in a far more natural operation, he hooked the padlock, lifted it, and twisted it out. It fell with a thud, the key still in it. Six round eyes stared at it, and stared at him with wonder. Eagerly they pressed against the door, as Joe clawed to free the hasp.

A sound in the hall; a shuffle behind him. The bedroom door flew open, banging against the wall. Hands grabbed him, big, hard hands. He flipped over fast and sank his teeth and twenty claws into Luis Rivas's arm, biting, raking, tearing him, tasting Luis's blood.

 

Dulcie padded soundlessly behind Chichi down the stairs to the lower floor. She watched the blonde in her tight sweater and tight jeans stretch up to the highest bookshelves and closet shelves, searching, then crouch to peer under chairs and dressers, to feel beneath cushions and to open drawers. What was she looking for? If Chichi's job was to help Luis and Tommie scope out their hits, to assess the number of staff and the best times to make those hits, then what was this stealthy search? Chichi seemed most interested in small niches, small drawers, cubbyholes. Not until Chichi had entered the small laundry room did Dulcie catch a whiff of what she might be seeking.

Dulcie did not want to go into the laundry and be trapped in that tiny space with only one way out. She crouched in the shadows beside the door. The concrete room stank of dirty laundry from the overflowing hamper that stood beside the washer, and of laundry soap and a whiff of bleach. But Dulcie caught, as well, an
other scent. A pungent oil, a smell she knew. She sniffed deeply.

As sure as she had whiskers, that was gun oil. The same as Wilma used to clean her .38, the same smell that was always present around the PD, the smell of well-oiled handguns.

The smell came from beneath the washer. Chichi was crouched on the concrete floor looking under, pressing her face against the washer, squinting into the dark; she was bound to smell it.

But apparently not, with the other stinks in the room, and with Chichi's own sweet perfume, which carried considerable heft. Dulcie waited, tensed to race away. Chichi squinted and looked, but at last she rose and left the room, heading down the hall. Slipping into the laundry behind her, Dulcie peered under washer and dryer into the same shadows Chichi had scanned.

The gun lay far back beneath the washer, where maybe only a cat would be able to make out its dim shape. So far back that a human, even if he found it with a flashlight or knew it was there, could only fish it out with a stick.

Slipping behind the dryer, pressed in between it and the wall, she crept back behind the washer. Making sure the gun was pointed away from her, she lay down and reached a paw in, and gingerly fished it out by the grip, careful not to turn it toward her or touch the trigger.

There it lay, under her nose, in the dusty dark space between the wall and the washer. A blue-black revolver with a roughly textured wooden grip and, on the side of the grip, a round embossed metal seal that showed a rearing horse and read
Colt
. A revolver very like Wilma's Colt .38 special.

This had to be what Chichi was searching for. What crime had the revolver been used for? How did she know, or suspect, that it was here in this house? And what had she intended to do with it? Or, after all, was she searching for something else, and not the gun?

Carefully pushing it out of sight again, as far under as she could, she backed out of the tight space, shook off the dust, and hurried to catch up with Chichi.

Like two mimes, one silently mimicking the other, she followed the young woman in her futile search. Padding unseen through the dim rooms, Dulcie was Chichi's shadow.

Only when the blonde had exhausted every crevice, or thought she had, did she head back upstairs. She was halfway up when shouting erupted from above: Luis's enraged yells coming from Abuela's bedroom, accompanied by furious tomcat yowls as if Joe was being strangled.

S
treaking past Chichi up the stairs, Dulcie fled for
Abuela's bedroom, which rang with Joe's yowls and Luis's screams. She burst through the open door into a storm of swinging arms, flying fur, and Spanish swearing. Pausing for only an instant to sort out the action, she leaped straight into Luis's face, clawing, clamping her teeth on his ear, trying to make him drop Joe.

Luis tried to pull Joe off his arm, but the enraged tomcat clung and slashed and bit. As Luis fought to knock him loose, Dulcie glimpsed the cage door, where the three cats pressed frantically. It was unlocked, the padlock was gone, but the hasp was still in place, held tight by the swivel eye where the lock had hung.

The three cats were so close to the swivel eye, just inches from it. But they could not reach through, no paw could fit between those tight bars. She was crouched to leap to the table when the old lady joined the fray. Estrella Nava, with a cry of dismay, rose from her rocker and flew into action, beating at Luis with
her cane, shouting Spanish expletives that sounded as vile as those Luis was yelling. Luis turned on her, lunging against the cage so it rattled and slid, and Dulcie and Joe clung to him raking flesh, bloodying Luis with claws and teeth—until the bedroom door banged open, hitting the wall, and Tommie burst into the room.

He grabbed Dulcie, tore Joe off Luis, making Luis scream with pain. Jerking open the cage door, Tommie shoved Joe and Dulcie in, forcing the captives back against the bars.

Slamming the door, Tommie turned the swivel, effectively locking it. The five of them were jammed inside like kippers in a sealed can.

But Tommie couldn't find the lock. He searched the floor and under the table and in the corners, swearing; then he ripped off his belt and stuffed it through the swivel eye.

Standing back, he smiled. Not his carefree Irish grin, but a cold leer, his red hair on end, his freckles hardly visible in his red, excited face. Tommie stared at Luis, and turned to look at Abuela.

Estrella Nava had slipped back to her rocking chair; she sat glaring at the two men, her eyes, defiant and angry, reflecting passions Dulcie wished she could read. But as the old woman turned in her chair to look out the window—as if dismissing the two men—Dulcie glimpsed a flash of metal in her hand. She saw it for only a second, then it was gone.

“Where's the lock?” Luis was shouting, crawling beneath the table. “Where's the lock and key?” He was so covered with blood he could hardly see; he looked like butcher's meat. Backing out from under the table,
he swung up to face Tommie. “Where's the damn lock? Where's the
key
? Who took my key?”

“I don't have it!” Tommie snapped. “Look under the bed, maybe it got kicked away…Wait!” He spied the padlock underneath Abuela's chair.

Following his gaze, Luis snatched it up. The key wasn't in it. He stood holding the lock, staring angrily at Abuela. “Where's the key! Give me the key!”

“I don't have your key, Luis. Leave me alone.” Her voice was quiet, cold and disdainful. From within the cage, Dulcie watched her with interest. Abuela Nava was, despite her frail age, a woman of strength and dignity. Her eyes on Luis showed plainly her hatred of her grandson. “Why would I want your key? I don't want it, or you, in my house, Luis.”

Luis was snapping the lock on the cage door when Chichi appeared behind him. Stepping into the bedroom, she took in the scene with disgust. “Get yourself cleaned up, Luis. You have bandages? Get some, and a towel and a wet washcloth.” She saw Abuela then, and went across to the old woman. “What did they do to you? Did they hurt you?”

“They hurt only the cats,” Abuela whispered. “They hurt the cats.”

Chichi's eyes widened at the sight of more cats in the cage. She stared hard at Joe—at Clyde Damen's cat—but said nothing. She laid a hand on the old woman's arm. “Maria will be back soon. I…”

“Quit messing with her!” Luis screamed. “Where's the damn
key
!”

“
I
don't have your key! I just came in! How could I have it! Get some stuff to clean yourself up!”

Luis hit her a glancing blow across the face. She didn't flinch, didn't step back. Stood staring at him until he backed off, then she turned and stormed out of the room. They heard the front door open and slam. Dulcie wondered if Chichi would wait outside for Maria, for her car. Or if she was so mad she'd go off without it, and come for it later. She stared at the bars trapping them, and out at the two men. Joe looked sick, his ears down, his short tail tucked under, his whiskers limp. She couldn't bear the pain and defeat in his eyes, she wanted to nuzzle him, but she would make no such show of emotion in front of this human scum. The five cats were pressed so hard against one another that Coyote and Cotton were pushed into the dirty sandbox, and Willow stood with three paws in the water dish. It wouldn't be long, they'd be hissing and striking each other, frantic with their confinement. Closing her eyes, she tried to calm herself, to get centered, to not give herself to defeat. She was so miserable she hardly heard the sound of a car in the drive, or Chichi and Maria's voices, or the car pull away again. All she could think of was their frantic need to be out of there, to be free.

 

It was noon when Charlie finished looking over the new job, near where she'd seen the brown pickup. She had reset the hinges on the sagging gate, checked on the work of the two new cleaning girls, and told them she was pleased. One of the girls had horses and needed to work to take care of them. She was a lean, strong young woman, more than used to hard work. An employee Charlie would like to keep. The young man
who was doing the yard was a musician, a bass player working to support his music, which was not yet supporting him. He did the gardening wearing heavy gloves to protect his hands. He'd last until he got a regular gig, then he'd leave her. That was the trouble with owning this kind of company—or maybe any small business, these days. That, and all the forms she had to fill out, all the details and red tape. To say nothing of the insurance rates! She thought again about selling the business.

Her best, most dependable employees were, like Mavity Flowers, past middle age. Up in their years and settled in; but the sort of folk who truly liked cleaning houses. There were not many of those anymore. All the young people wanted top-flight jobs the minute they were out of school; no climbing the ladder for them, they deserved to start at the top—or thought they did.

She hadn't grown up like that, she'd done all kinds of odd jobs to get through art school. Had come out of school glad to find any beginning art job. Her first year, she'd washed brushes in a small commercial-art studio, then done rough layouts for wastebasket designs and frozen-lemonade cans, work far more tedious than scrubbing floors. She'd had no chance to design anything. When she was “promoted” to painting finished art for a set of willow-ware canisters and metal kitchen items, that was the most tedious of all. All those tiny crosshatch lines and little details nearly drove her mad. She still couldn't stand willow ware. But she'd paid the rent, that was what mattered. Today, a kid coming out of art school expected to step right in doing layouts for major magazine advertising, or to be offered a top position with some prestigious interior design studio in
New York or San Francisco. Few got the chance. If those kids, when they were still in grammar school or high school, had had to work at menial jobs every summer, they'd take a different view. And that made her smile. Opinions like that, bemoaning the lack of work ethic in the young, sure as heck showed her age.

Well, maybe not being a kid anymore wasn't a bad thing, maybe what she knew now, about the world, served her better than the feel-good illogic of her youth. Turning into the courthouse parking lot, she swung into the red zone before the glass doors of the police station to wait for Max. Strange that he'd called her to have lunch, he seldom had time to do that. He'd said only that he and Dallas needed to get away from the shop.

She and Max had been married for not yet a year, but she'd learned a lot about being a cop's wife—how to hold back her questions, curb her curiosity, wait and bide her time until Max was ready to share with her. That was not always easy, it was not in her nature to be patient.

It hadn't been easy, either, to keep her fear for him at bay. Nor, she thought, amused, to learn to make dinners that would hold for hours.

Parked beneath the sprawling oak before the door of the PD, she sat enjoying the gardens that flanked the courthouse. Molena Point PD occupied a one-story wing at the south end of the two-story courthouse, a handsome Mediterranean complex with red tile roofs, deep windows, and flowering shrubs bright against the pale stucco walls. An island of garden filled the center of the parking area, which was shaded by live oaks. The huge tree under which she sat served not only for shade over the station
door, but also as a quick route to the roof for the department's three feline snitches. To the roof and to the small, high window that looked down into the holding cell, into the temporary lockup where arrestees were confined until they were booked and taken back to the jail or were led off to the interrogation room for questioning.

Joe and Dulcie and Kit could easily spy through the holding cell window, or slide the window open and drop through the bars down into the cell—then slip out through the barred door to the dispatcher's desk. Though on most occasions it was easier for the cats to simply claw at the glass front doors until the dispatcher, usually Mabel Farthy, came out from her electronic world and let them in. Mabel hadn't a clue she was admitting the department's secret informants.

Charlie was idly watching the parking lot when a white Neon pulled in, not twenty feet away. Chichi Barbi got out, dressed in tight black jeans, a low-cut pink sweater, and high heels. She stood leaning against the car, watching the street. Charlie pulled her sun visor down, hoping not to be noticed; she watched as a black Alfa Romeo turned off the side street, pulling in to park beside Chichi. Well!

Ryan hadn't mentioned that Roman Slayter and Chichi were connected. Maybe she didn't know. Chichi was from San Francisco, and Roman was, she thought, from L.A. Chichi stood leaning against his car, leaning down talking with him. They knew each other well enough to argue. Charlie's windows were down, but with the breeze rattling the oak leaves it was hard to hear much.

Roman said something that sounded like,
Not in front of the station, for Christ's sake!
Chichi's answer
was lost, but her reply made Roman laugh. She turned away to her own car, and in a moment they were both gone, the black Alfa Romeo following Chichi's Neon out between the bright gardens, surely headed somewhere together. When she turned back, Max and Dallas were coming out of the station.

“Been waiting long?” Max swung in beside her. Dallas got in the back. “Clyde and Ryan are meeting us,” Max said. “Tony's okay?”

“More than okay. What's the occasion? What are we celebrating? You make a reservation?”

“Of course I made a reservation.” He put his arm around her and blew in her ear, dangerously hindering her driving. “Have you forgotten this is our six-month anniversary?”

Charlie blushed. She loved it when he was this romantic. He was so down-to-earth, so much of the time a hard-nosed cop, that such moments were special.

“Well, it almost is,” he said. “Close enough to celebrate. There's a parking place, guy ready to pull out.”

She waited for an SUV to leave, then slipped into the space. The meter maid was just leaving, she had just missed them.

Tony's was a popular lunch place for the locals, a high-ceilinged structure of heavy timbers and glass, decorated with ferns and other lush plants in huge ceramic pots. Medleys of ferns in baskets hung from the rafters. The dining room seemed as much a garden as did the patio beyond. They followed the waiter to a table in the back patio where Ryan and Clyde waited, Rock stretched out under the table at their feet. Several other dogs lay beneath the tables, all on their best behavior, seeming hardly to notice one another. Restau
rant dogs, Charlie thought, would make a nice series of drawings. They had ordered and were talking about the Harpers' new addition, when Charlie glanced across the patio into the restaurant, and saw Chichi and Roman Slayter being seated.

“What?” Max said. Though his back was to the wall, his view in toward the dining room was partially blocked by the ferns.

“Chichi Barbi and Roman Slayter. They met in front of the courthouse while I was waiting for you. I didn't know they knew each other.”

Ryan said, “I didn't either; but they're a perfect match.”

“Maybe Slayter will keep her occupied,” Clyde said hopefully. “I wonder if she's a pickup.”

“I don't think so,” Charlie said. “They know each other well enough to be arguing, she seemed really angry.”

“How long were they there?” Dallas asked. “Could you hear any of it?”

“Only that he didn't like meeting in that particular location.” Charlie studied Dallas. He nodded offhandedly, and said no more.

Max asked for the French bread and sipped his O'Doul's. He didn't seem interested in what Chichi Barbi did or who she met. He seemed, Charlie thought, strangely miffed at Dallas for his own interest.

But he could be annoyed over anything, could have had a bad morning. Some small problem in the department. Both men seemed edgy.

“They're still arguing,” Ryan said with interest. “They do know each other well.”

“I'd like to be a fly on the wall,” Charlie said. She
thought Chichi could be really attractive with less makeup and better taste in clothes. She longed to know what they were talking about.

But even as she wondered, she saw that a spy was already on the scene.