Cat Deck the Halls (21 page)

“I'll do that, and take the kid,” Davis said. “She seems to like pretty clothes, as much as you can tell what the silent little thing likes. She might recognize something of her own, a favorite little dress, and go for it.”

“Good idea,” Dallas said. “Gotta go, I've got Max on…”

As Davis turned back toward her office, Joe Grey yawned and rose. Davis's idea, to try to pick up the little girl's clothes, hoping to find trace material from the victim, was fine. The kid might go for her own clothes. But to find the dead man's clothes, mixed with all the others on the rack, would be harder. Davis would have to find out when recently donated clothes of the right size had been brought in, if the volunteer on duty even knew. And once she'd narrowed the search to the right size and time frame, she'd still be working in the dark.

While all a cat had to do was walk along the rack, sniffing.

Joe looked at Kit. She was the only one who had been near the dead man, who would know his scent. He twitched an ear. Dulcie and Kit came fully alert, and the three cats
leaped down mewling at Mabel until she opened the heavy glass door.

“You cats come to visit, just get settled, and you're gone again—fickle as all cats, no sense of loyalty to old friends,” she said, smiling.

But even as Mabel turned back to her phones and radio, up on the roof above her head, the tortoiseshell kit looked at Joe, wide-eyed and uncertain. “What?” she said. “Why are you…What did I do?”

“You're going to find the dead man's clothes. If we hit the charity shops before Davis…”

“But…” Dulcie said.

“I…The only scent I caught from the roof,” Kit said, “was death. Nothing else, Joe. How could I smell anything else, over that stink?”

“He'd only just died,” Joe said stubbornly. “Try to remember, Kit. Or maybe the scent of the killer is on those clothes, too.”

“The dead man will be hard enough. But I was trying to track the little girl among the geranium smells and all the cops' scents. I didn't have time to sort out the killer's scent. I wouldn't know the smell of the killer if I stumbled over him.”

Kit smoothed her long fur with a rough tongue. “The child's scent, yes. I could pick out her clothes from the racks of castoffs, but…
Oh!
” she said, lashing her tail with excitement. “Of course I can find the victim's clothes!
His
scent will be on the little girl's clothes—and her scent will be on his. She was in his arms, she was hugging him.” And Kit's yellow eyes blazed with challenge. “I can do that, Joe. I can find both scents!”

T
HE WOODS BEHIND
the high school were dense, not much used except by students skipping class or crowding in at night to party. The narrow road that wound between the scraggly pines was littered with empty drink cans and debris of a less appealing nature. The old tramp wouldn't ordinarily camp up here, but now, wanting to avoid the village, and never liking the homeless camps down by the river where things could get dicey, he found the woods inviting. After the cops picked him up yesterday, he'd slept in here last night, moving deep in behind a bushy stand of poison ivy where no one would see him, and high school kids weren't likely to invade. Poison ivy didn't bother him, he could roll in the stuff and never itch. He was sipping coffee, thinking to open a can of beans for his supper, and congratulating himself on not having encountered a living soul, when he heard a car coming. Breaking branches and crunching rocks.

Beyond the bushes, he watched a van pull in, heading toward him along the narrow dirt road, brushing overhang
ing limbs and side branches, a blue Chevy van. And a big tan SUV right behind it. Well, hell. Person didn't have no privacy, nowhere.

Real fast, he scraped dirt over his little fire and rolled up his blanket, did up his kit preparing to move out. But then he hunkered down again, watching the Suburban as it backed around on the narrow road with a lot of hustle and fuss, until it was heading out. He knew he ought to get out of there, but he was too interested.

The Suburban parked with its tail just a few feet from the rear of the van. A tall woman swung out of the van and moved around to open the rear doors at the same time as a muscular guy stepped out of the Suburban and opened the tailgate. Then a smaller man slid down out of the Suburban and, at the woman's direction, walked back a ways up the dirt road and stood as she told him, watching the street beyond the high school for cop cars.

When the big man and the woman began to transfer the van's load into the SUV, pulling out panels that stood upright in the van but, going into the Suburban, had to lay flat, the old man was way too curious to leave, too interested in what they had there.

The big panels were pictures—blue, green, glimpses of a stormy sky. The woman was cranky and bad-tempered, the exact same scowling kind of female he'd never cared for. Like the women in his own family when he was a kid, loud and bossy and you couldn't never trust 'em. She snapped at her partner the whole time as they lifted the panels. She'd pause between loading each, though, to stuff blankets between. Like they was real valuable.

When they closed the doors of both vehicles, real quiet,
and got in and headed back the way they'd come, he decided he wouldn't have to move along after all. It sure didn't look like they meant to come back. The woman handled the van real nifty among the dense trees. She stopped by their lookout, the little guy. She stepped out, got in the SUV, left the little guy to drive the van.

Smiling, the old man unrolled his blanket again, and sat down. He listened as the two vehicles moved away to Highway One, sounded like they turned right, up the coast. Scraping the dirt off the hot ashes, he fed in a few twigs, hoping to get a blaze going again. The wind was up; he shivered, and sat thinking.

This was the kind of switch, back out of sight, that the cops sure would like to know about. If a fella liked cops well enough to tell 'em.

Them cops here in the village were okay. He'd rather deal with cops, sometimes, than some of the scum he met up with. Them cops yesterday, they'd taken him right on into the chief's office, give him a cup of coffee. Keeping his shoes for evidence of some kind, they'd hustled up a fine pair to replace them. Fit him real good. And afterward that blond cop that picked him up, she'd bought him a real nice deli lunch before she sent him on his way. A real looker, that one. He wondered why she'd wanted to be a cop.

Getting the little fire going and wrapping his blanket around him, he thought about that body that was supposed to have been in the plaza, the stiff they'd lost and wanted the evidence for, wanted his shoes for—and wondered if this switch he'd just seen could have something to do with that.

He didn't see how. But who knew? He wasn't no cop.

Wondering, he covered the little fire again that he'd just got started, but didn't shoulder his pack. He buried it among the poison ivy. Then, thinking about the cold supper he'd have when he got back, he left the woods. The sky above him was gray and dull, the winter evening cold. Shrugging down into his jacket, he headed for the center of the village wondering if that tall blond cop was still on duty. Wondering, if she was there at the station, she might buy him something hot from the deli, for his supper.

 

T
HERE WERE FIVE
charity shops in the village, all providing good used clothing, often with impressive labels, to the astute shopper, and offering, as well, an occasional antique treasure that would turn out to be worth considerably more than the buyer paid for it. The senior ladies hit these shops regularly and then sold their finds on eBay, always making a nice profit.

The treasure that Kit was after had nothing to do with monetary gain—and everything to do with nailing a killer. It was late afternoon when she left Molena Point PD heading for the small SPCA resale shop just a few blocks away. She would have maybe half an hour until the stores closed.

As she raced across the roofs and down to the sidewalk, her mind was half on finding the killer's scent, and half worrying about Ryan lying unconscious in the hospital—seeing over and over again that woman and then Leroy hitting Ryan, seeing Ryan fall, seeing blood start from the wound across Ryan's forehead.

Kit crossed the last street close on the heels of a pair of
gossiping young women who were hurrying back to work in the library. When she heard someone behind her gush, “Oh, look at the cute kitty,” she ran full out, never eager to consort with tourists, certainly not anxious to endure strangers' too-personal stroking and petting—she could leave that familiarity to the canine crowd. Dogs loved that smarmy attention. Dogs loved the admiration of people they'd never seen before and would never see again. Baby talk from strangers. That stuff sent a dog right to the moon, inanely wagging and wriggling.

Leaping up three steps to the brick alley where half a dozen shops were tucked away, Kit skirted around a planter of red poinsettias, approaching the open door of the SPCA resale shop. She would have to get in and out before Davis and the child did, or the little girl's new scent would be all over everything. Fresh and old scents all mixed up, and she'd be able to find nothing.

Slipping inside, she melted behind a rack of men's sport coats, keeping low until she could spot the clerk. Charity shops weren't heavy on personnel, most of whom were volunteers. Rearing up, she saw a woman behind a far counter, and she could hear a radio playing softly in the back room, as if maybe someone was back there sorting donations. Padding along the racks, and past a display of luggage and tired-looking tennis rackets, she spotted the children's dresses.

Quickly she sniffed along the little hems, keeping out of sight, forgetting as she often did that she was only a cat, that it wouldn't matter if the clerk saw her—most shops didn't mind a cat wandering in. Reaching the end of the rack of little dresses and shirts and pants, she'd found no scent of the child.

She could see no more children's clothes, and she moved to the men's racks, again rearing up and sniffing. But, again, nothing.

She left the SPCA empty-pawed, racing for the next shop, four blocks away. She had maybe twenty minutes before the stores closed. Was Ryan still unconscious? Had she come to? What was happening to her?

Had she, upon awakening, remembered cats talking close to her face, remembered Joe Grey using her cell phone? Oh, my. Kit hoped not.

But concussions could cause visions, and a kind of dementia,
Kit thought. She didn't wish Ryan bad luck, she wanted her to be whole and well again. But if those were possible symptoms, then surely Ryan would blame such wild ideas as talking cats on the terrible wound in her head.

At Millie's Treasures, two clerks were in attendance, two elderly ladies with purple-tinted hairdos. Lurking in the shadows, Kit went through the same drill, padding along beneath tables of old books–world globes–antique radios–flowerpots–hiking boots–handbags–suitcases–rag dolls–you name it, to the rack of little girls' used clothes—almost at once, she caught the child's scent.

It was just a whiff, but enough! She was so excited she almost yowled. The child's scent right there on a little blue dress. Yes! Quickly she moved along the rack, rearing up, searching for more of that little girl's clothes.

She found two more dresses, and some folded jeans and T-shirts atop a table that smelled of the child. She was almost at the end of a second rack when she heard a familiar voice and she rose up to look, balancing with a forepaw against the end of the rack.

Juana Davis stood in the doorway, holding the little girl's hand. She looked frustrated, and the child looked tired, worn-out, so pale and docile that Kit wanted to pat her face with a soft paw—that little girl was like a sick little kitten.

Kit knew Juana had to put her through this, and knew the detective would make it as easy as she could. But the little girl looked so ill.
Well, if she saw her
father
die, that night,
Kit thought,
then of course she's sick. Sick deep inside herself.
Watching the pale little girl, Kit let out a tremulous sigh.
And now,
she thought,
that man's body has been found, and the department will be working all out to ID him. So strange,
she thought,
that there was no record of the prints that Dallas Garza lifted at the plaza and on the evidence they retrieved. Where in the world did that man, and the killer, come from, that there are no prints on file?

Maybe there
were
a lot of people in the world, as Joe Grey said, who had never applied for a sensitive job or a federal job, who had never been arrested, and who had never been printed in school as a child to help find them if they were lost. Maybe after all, she thought, the human world was still a bit uncontrolled, not all cataloged and accounted for. And that pleased her, that thought satisfied the independent nature of the young cat.

Kit did not like to see everything organized and made docile, she wanted to sense
some
stubborn independence among her fellow creatures.

Davis headed on into the shop, walking slowly, talking gently to the child.
Bring her here,
Kit thought.
Right here! Bring her right here! These are her clothes! These!
Besides the two dresses and the jeans, she had found two little pairs of
corduroy pants, another T-shirt, and a pair of pajamas, all smelling of that particular child. And here they came, Juana heading for the children's rack, while the little girl's attention wandered around the store—and suddenly the child came alert.

She stopped, and tried to pull her hand from Juana's, but Juana didn't let her go. The child's eyes were wide, and the hint of a smile touched her pale lips—and with sudden strength she jerked her hand free and ran across the shop straight at Kit.

Drawing back, Kit slipped under the chair. But it wasn't Kit she was after, it was the heap of stuffed animals and dolls in the far corner. The child passed Kit, never seeing her, and plunged into the little mountain of toys, reaching high among them.

At the very top sat a faded cloth doll with ragged, floppy angel wings, a handmade doll with long and tangled pale hair, a doll with a long white dress, torn and dirty, and with a dark stain on the front, like blood. One little white shoe was missing. The child, climbing to the top of the heap, tumbling animals and dolls all around her, grabbed the angel, hugging it to her, and clambered down again. Stood clutching the dingy creature tight, tears running down her face.

As Juana knelt beside the little girl, Kit drew close behind her, close enough to get a whiff of the doll—she knew a cop's awareness is as sharp as a cat's, that a cop misses very little; but Kit was quick. She inhaled one deep scent of the doll then she melted out of sight, vanishing behind a stack of baskets—and thinking hard about the additional scent that clung to the faded angel.

The scent of a man. A scent that left the tortoiseshell kit crouched shivering in the shadows, amazed, hardly able to believe what she had smelled. Not wanting to believe it.

But unable not to believe it.

 

D
ALLAS
G
ARZA SWUNG
a U-turn on Molena Valley Road and headed back fast for Highway One, turning north up the coast without sirens, where Mabel had cars moving in—two units up the hill ahead, a third coming fast and silent out of the village, its lights flashing. Two more cars coming down out of the westerly hills, no lights or siren. They'd all be visible from the highway, but there were no side roads where the perps could turn off. They had the van and Suburban in a pincer that would soon close tight. It was hard not to floorboard his unit and run down the bastards, tooling along there with the traffic in the fast lane.

The detective's usual quiet, laid-back approach was out the window. This was Ryan they'd messed with. This was his niece. Ryan was like his own daughter, and he was damn well going to nail their asses. Weaving in and out, wishing he could use his siren, he cursed the drivers who weren't watching behind or who, seeing a cop car in a hurry, didn't have the courtesy or the sense to get over.

Damn civilians probably thought he was headed for an early dinner. The blue van sure did look like Charlie's van, from a distance. It was following the tan Suburban with five cars between. Swinging into the right lane and then the bike path, he overtook seven cars on his left, swerved in at
the van, and motioned the driver onto the median. He had two units behind him now, Wendell and Hendricks. Using his speaker, he told the van's driver to stay put, that he was blocked in. Told him to get out of the van and stand in front of it, hands on his head. He took off as Wendell and Hendricks pulled up. He swung into the left lane and hit the gas, giving it the lights and siren, speeding after the Suburban. There was no nearby off-ramp. The five cars ahead, all in the left lane, slowed reluctantly and pulled over, and the Suburban took off like it had been standing still, straight into the pincer between two units.