How To Tail a Cat (24 page)

Chapter 65

THE VOTE

THE PRESIDENT OF
the Board of Supervisors stared wearily across the supervisors’ chambers. Everyone in the room was exhausted, board members and audience alike, but having seen the process play out this far, no one was willing to leave until the final vote was completed.

Supervisor Hernandez drained his sixth paper coffee cup and added it to a growing pyramid tower on a side table beside the center dais.

After all these many hours, they were about to vote on the most ridiculous nominee of the night. In his opinion, this was a complete waste of time, but the rules of procedure dictated he go through the motions.

With a glance at the upper section of the audience, where the person in the chicken costume had been performing the moonwalk, Hernandez pounded his gavel.

“We will proceed to take the vote,” he announced dubiously.

“The supervisor from the Marina district?”

“Aye.”

Not surprising, Hernandez thought with a shrug. He was the one who’d made this oddball nomination.

“From the Richmond?”

“Aye.”

This, too, Hernandez dismissed. The supervisor who had seconded the nomination was practically obliged to carry on with this charade.

“The supervisor from Union Square and the Tenderloin.”

“Aye.”

Hernandez snorted out a short laugh. Always a comic, that one. He probably thinks of this as one big joke.

“From the Mission?”

“Aye.”

Now, Hernandez was starting to get concerned. What was going on here? He stuttered, confused, as he summoned the next vote.

“Uh . . . ah . . . Chinatown?”

“Aye.”

Hernandez cleared his throat. This could not be happening. He leaned forward in his chair and issued his sternest, most serious stare at the next representative.

“The supervisor representing the Castro?”

“Aye.”

The word echoed through the chamber. That was enough. Six votes made a majority. The rest was merely procedural. Hernandez’s face flattened with awe as he completed the tally.

“Aye . . . Aye . . . Aye . . . Aye.”

He was down to the last vote—his own. He gulped, tugged at his tie, and hoarsely spoke his name into the microphone.

“Supervisor Hernandez, on behalf of the Excelsior district.”

He paused, licked his lips, and with a punch-drunk grin gave his assent.

“Aye.”

Chapter 66

A RECOUNT

AS THE BOARD
of supervisors cast their final vote of the evening, Monty steered the white cargo van into the dimly lit parking lot for Mountain Lake.

The fog had settled over the landscape, blotting out all but the nearest features: a small jungle gym with peeling paint set up in a sandy playground and a narrow path winding toward the lake’s south shore.

The niece looked out through the front passenger-side window, trying to see into the mist. She could sense more than see the lake, which lay, dark and brooding, beyond a row of scrubby trees.

Securing the brake, Monty leaped from the driver’s seat and began jogging a victory lap around the van. His high-pitched holler echoed through the foggy night.

“I am the mayor! I am the mayor!”

“I demand a recount,” the niece muttered.

From the rear cargo area, Isabella offered her own thoughts on the matter.

“
Mrao
,” she opined dubiously.

Chapter 67

THE NOTE

WITH THE FINAL,
stunning vote completed, City Hall quickly emptied out. The supervisors and the audience members spilled down the central marble staircase, through the rotunda, and out onto Civic Center Plaza. Television news crews filmed quick summation clips and then wrapped up their gear and headed home.

Hoxton Fin sat in the chambers long after everyone else had left, still pondering how the supervisors had arrived at this bizarre result, contemplating what it would mean for the city’s future, and wondering whether the missing-alligator saga had distracted him from doing his best reporting on the interim-mayor story.

• • •

ONE LONE OCCUPANT
of City Hall continued to work, his progress unabated by the selection of the new mayor, whose identity he had known for almost twenty-four hours.

A lone lamp was lit in the basement cubicle where Spider Jones sat at his desk, reviewing the documents he planned to present to the Previous Mayor at their late-night dinner meeting.

Spider glanced at his watch. He would need to leave soon if he didn’t want to be late. He gathered up the selected pile, tapped the edge of the papers against his desk so that they were neatly aligned, and slid the documents into his backpack. He wanted to have everything perfectly laid out when he presented his discovery to the PM.

He was about to reach for his bike when the night-shift janitor shuffled into the basement office area.

“Hey, Spider,” the man said, handing him a piece of paper. “Someone wants to see you upstairs.”

Spider read the writing on the paper and grinned. The PM must be trying to get out of the restaurant Spider had selected for their dinner. Leaving his bike propped against the cubicle, he slung his backpack across his shoulders and headed for the stairs.

Chapter 68

ALL THINGS IN MODERATION

THE PREVIOUS MAYOR
exited a cab on Columbus Avenue near a busy bistro toward the south end of North Beach’s busy restaurant scene. He stood on the sidewalk, wincing as he stared at the black-painted storefront. The kitchen had been cooking at full capacity for several hours now. Even on the street outside the dining area, the scent of roasted garlic was overwhelming his senses.

“Touché, my young friend.” The PM sighed as he pulled a water bottle out of his coat pocket, unscrewed the lid, and took a long sip.

Reluctantly, he walked through the entrance and approached the hostess’s station for a table. A couple at a nearby booth pointed him out, waved, and clicked his picture with their cell phones.

He would have some explaining to do in his next column, he mused ruefully. The sacrifice was worth it, he told himself. He was becoming more and more worried about what Spider might have gotten himself into.

The hostess hurried up. Her face flashed a mixture of recognition and confusion as she showed the PM to a front-window booth. While she was ushering him to his seat, a waiter walked past carrying a platter of garlic mashed potatoes.

With a smile, the PM pointed at the plate.

“I think my friend would like one of those when he gets here.”

Chapter 69

THE CEREMONIAL ROTUNDA

SPIDER JOGGED UP
a narrow flight of stairs to City Hall’s main floor, his loaded backpack sliding down his shoulders, the note from the janitor clutched in his left hand.

He emerged from the stairwell to find the building’s primary lighting system had been switched off. With the completion of the supervisors’ meeting, the security staff had resumed their regular after-hours routine. The dimmer secondary lighting reflected off the many polished stone surfaces, throwing shadows across the expansive interior.

Spider continued, unfazed. The rubber soles of his sneakers squeaked as he hurried across the pink marble floor beneath the rotunda. He’d worked late into the night more times than he could count in the last several months. He was accustomed to the building’s spooky evening glow.

Halfway up the central staircase, however, the spring in his step deadened at the sight of a darkened figure—not that of the Previous Mayor—standing on the landing above.

Spider stopped on the stairs and glanced around the rotunda area. Hundreds of feet of open space stretched above him, the hallways that ringed the upper levels were empty, and the floor below was vacant. He was alone with this stranger.

The man crossed through a patch of light and Spider relaxed, breathing out a sigh of relief at the chiseled face of Hoxton Fin. The reporter grunted a greeting as he passed the young staffer on the steps.

• • •

LAUGHING AT HIS
moment of panic, Spider reached the landing at the top of the staircase. It was silly to have been scared, he thought as he held up the piece of paper and unfolded it to reread the writing.

Yes, he confirmed, scanning the area, this is where the message had instructed him to meet the Previous Mayor. He noted the bust of Harvey Milk positioned off to the side of the smaller ceremonial rotunda.

A second nervous sensation crept over Spider as he looked up at the round balcony right above the rotunda. He must be imagining things, he told himself, shifting his backpack from his shoulders to the ground. He couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was hiding in the shadows.

“Hello?” he called out, his voice pitching with anxiety.

In that odd, eerie moment, Spider remembered his previous trips to the second floor. He’d stood in just this spot, wearing the janitor’s coveralls, sweeping the mop across the floor, spying on the building’s occupants while hiding in plain sight.

Suddenly, he didn’t feel quite so invisible.

Chapter 70

CURIOSITY KILLED THE . . .

“EASY BREEZY—THAT’S
WHAT
this is going to be,” Monty called out from behind the van, where he was struggling into his wet suit.

The niece stood a discreet distance away, holding leash handles attached to her two cats. She’d fitted both felines with body harnesses to ensure they didn’t inadvertently escape. Isabella had slipped easily into her equipment, but the woman had had to make some widening adjustments to Rupert’s.

“So, what is your plan, exactly?” the niece asked skeptically. Charging into the lake in a wet suit didn’t appear to be the wisest course of action.

Monty stepped from behind the van’s rear doors, his body fully encased in the black rubber wet suit. He carried a snorkel mask in one hand, a pair of flippers in the other.

“Oh, come on,” he said, pooh-poohing her concern. “Didn’t you see the pictures of Clive riding the cable car earlier today? Sam had his arm wrapped around him like a puppy dog.”

Monty bowed, waving his hands through the air as if ushering a guest through a door. “I’ll just lead him right out of the water and into the van.”

The niece’s eyes widened as Monty marched past her and started off down the path toward the lake’s south shore. Clearly, Oscar and his gang hadn’t told Monty that the alligator roaming the streets of San Francisco had been a robotic imposter.

“Uh, Monty,” the niece sputtered, trying to find the right words to correct his misconception, but he was already out of earshot, the wet suit squeaking loudly as he walked.

“Monty!”

Scooping up the two cats, the niece hurried after him.

• • •

CLIVE FLOATED IN
the murky, muddy water, about fifty feet from the shoreline, contemplating a late-night snack.

Feathers
, he thought, gumming his large mouth distastefully as a low hooting honk resonated from across the bay on the opposite side of the Presidio’s sweeping hills.

That’s my only complaint about this place, he grumbled, eying a pair of plump ducks paddling a short distance away.
Too many feathers in the food
.

His snout sank into the water as he reluctantly assumed a stealth approach on the birds. He was about to move in for the kill when he sensed a disturbance at the edge of the lake.

What’s this?
Clive mused, immediately intrigued.

• • •

THE NIECE SCANNED
her flashlight’s beam over the water’s surface, but the light did little to cut through the dense, soupy fog. She stood beside the lake’s southernmost bench, holding onto the leashes for her cats, both of whom sat on its seat.

Turning, she glanced nervously at a short rise behind the bench, where a homeless man slept in the grass, but after a puzzling stare at his snoring heap she quickly returned her attention to her wet suit–clad neighbor.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” she asked as Monty slipped his snorkel gear over his head. “I don’t think you have the right information about Clive . . .”

“You’ll see,” Monty cut in, his boast a little too confident. “He’ll be just like a puppy dog.”

“Monty,” the woman tried again as he splashed into the reeds. “You don’t understand . . .”

“
Cllliii-iive
,” he called out stubbornly. “Over here,
ally-gator
,
ally-gator
.”

The niece sighed with frustration. Shrugging, she looked down at Isabella.

“I give up.”

The cat’s face crimped dubiously, but, after a moment’s reflection, she pawed the air instructively.

“
Mrao
.”

“I suppose you’re right,” the woman conceded with a sigh. “The gator might choke on his snorkel.”

She hesitated a second longer before calling out again.

“Monty, wait!”

But her voice was drowned out by a pair of squawking ducks. Monty’s head dipped below the water as a loud grating sound ricocheted across the lake.

Chomp
.

The niece covered her mouth with her hand.

“Oh dear.”

Chapter 71

A LIFE CUT SHORT

THE MAN GASPED
with painful surprise as the first tearing slice ripped through his body, across his chest, and down his left arm. The second puncture seared his left lung. His breath whistled out of the wound.

It all happened so quickly. His attacker had appeared from out of nowhere. He spun around, trying to defend himself, but his assailant’s face was a blur.

“Why?” his voice wheezed in shock and disbelief.

The third blow brought him to his knees.

Blood gushed onto the floor. A gurgling flow filled his mouth, gagging him, choking him.

Disoriented and quickly losing consciousness, he tumbled to the hard marble floor at the foot of the Harvey Milk bust.

Spider reached out with his right arm, struggling to crawl toward the stairs, but the trauma inflicted to his body was too severe. His eyes fluttered; the brown skin on his young face began to pale and stiffen.

His blue baseball cap lay upended, teetering on its rounded crown next to his outstretched hand, where his fingers still grasped the crumpled piece of paper.

• • •

AFTER WATCHING THE
young man’s last writhing breath, a mysterious figure stealthily bent to the marble floor and, with a gloved hand, removed the note that had summoned the young staffer to his death.