Cat Breaking Free (18 page)

M
ax Harper was headed downstairs to the department's
indoor firing range when the dispatcher came out from behind her counter and called down the hall to him. “You might want to take this, Captain. Caller won't give her name.” Mabel smiled; she knew that voice. She didn't know who it belonged to, no one did, but this was a caller the chief always found of interest. “I tried to take the message,” she said, amused. “She wasn't about to do that.”

Harper turned into his office and pushed the door closed, shutting out the joking and laughing of several officers heading downstairs. As he sat down at his cluttered desk, he could hear through the floor the faint, random popping of the first group as they fired at the moving targets. With his usual wariness at talking with this particular snitch, he picked up the phone.

“Captain Harper, I watched that woman again. She was making notes about the shopkeepers again early this morning before opening time. Just after seven. The
Gucci shop, and Hanni Coon's studio. Maybe it isn't important, but…”

“I'm always interested,” Harper said softly. She sounded hesitant this morning, as if she thought he might not like her calling. “I always welcome your calls.” He sure didn't want to lose her; this snitch and her partner had been responsible for a considerable number of arrests and prosecutions. Hitting the
RECORD
button, he snatched up a pen and pad. Harper liked to hedge his bets, not rely totally on electronic equipment.

“That same blond woman, writing down when people get to their shops or when they close up, if they open the door early to sweep or take deliveries. This morning she wrote down that Mrs. Harkins swept the front walk and watered the flowers then locked the front door again and went down the street for a cup of coffee at Ronnie's Bakery. She wrote down the time that she left, and how long she was gone.”

Where had the snitch been, to see all that
and
to see what Chichi had written? He burned to ask her how she'd done that, ask her some details of her own movements, but she'd hung up on him.

She told him she had seen Charlie and Ryan inside Hanni's studio, looking at rugs, and that made him smile. Charlie would be high just looking at those rugs—the soul of an artist, he thought. Same kind of kick
he
got from locking up some skuzzy felon.

When the snitch had hung up, he sat at his desk trying to put down the uneasy feeling her calls gave him.

Yet every one of these calls, though they made him squirm, had supplied the department with valuable leads. Facts and evidence they might otherwise never
have uncovered; or would have done so only after a long and expensive, drawn-out series of searches. Dallas called it uncanny. Max didn't like the word “uncanny.”

Pouring the last of his cold, overcooked coffee into a mug, he sipped the bitter brew, studying the notes he had made, taking advantage of a moment of seclusion that his private space and closed door offered.

This kind of solitude had been unavailable when the department was one big open squad room with its clatter and bantering officers and constantly ringing phones. He didn't miss the busy friction and din. His new, well-organized space added up to a welcome sense of ease. The tall oak bookcases, Charlie's drawings of Bucky on the paneled walls, the leather couch and chair and the handsome Oriental rug—Charlie had combined the furnishings to create a comfortable retreat where he could enjoy a few moments of peace—except for, as at the moment, whatever edgy feeling he brought in with him.

Chewing over his notes, he at last gave up wondering how she'd gotten the information, and rose to head downstairs. He stopped when Mabel put through another call. “It's your wife, Captain. It's Charlie.”

He returned to his office, picking up the phone to Charlie's excited voice.

“I think I found the second car, the brown truck. Toyota pickup, maybe 1980 or so. No back bumper, and a dented tailgate.” She gave him the address up in the north hills, described the house and how the car was parked.

“How close are you? Get away from it, Charlie. Did you see the plate?”

“I couldn't see the plate for bushes. I didn't want to get out and be seen from the house. I drove on past.”

“Good. We'll take a look. Don't go back there, for any reason.”

When they'd hung up, he called for two cars to meet him several blocks away from where the truck was parked. As he headed out, Dallas met him by the front desk.

 

Joe and Dulcie crouched beside the metal cage describing for the three captives how Charlie had freed the brindled tom from the humane trap. “That's Stone Eye,” Coyote said, narrowing his ringed eyes and flattening his long, tufted ears. “Stone Eye, our self-appointed leader. Your friend should have let him rot. How did
he
get himself caught?”

“Hitler with claws,” Cotton said, hissing. Both the white tom, and the dark, striped tom lashed their tails and kneaded their claws, crouched as if for battle.

But the bleached calico female clung in the corner of the cage looking as fearful as if she faced Stone Eye himself. “Brute,” Willow hissed. “His henchmen are just as bad. I'm not going back there. If…if we get out,” she said, with a frightened mewl.

“We'll get you out,” Dulcie whispered, pressing against the bars to nuzzle Willow. “But if Hernando's dead, why are they keeping you?” Dulcie's green eyes widened. “Do they
know
he's dead? Or do they think he's coming back?”

“They know,” Cotton said. “They saw it in the paper. They haven't told Maria and the old lady—not that there's any love lost.”

“Then why are they keeping you here?” Dulcie repeated, frowning.

“Hernando talked wild,” Coyote said. “His brothers believed him. Foolish talk about performing cats on TV and in the movies, about Hollywood and big houses and expensive cars. Tons of money, like in the newspapers and on TV we hear through people's windows. He could never make us do those things; no cat I know would want to live like that.” Coyote licked his striped shoulder, his circled eyes narrowed with rage.

“He might
make
you do those things,” Joe said.

“What, torture us?” Cotton hissed. “What kind of performers would he have, if we were half dead?”

Dulcie said, “Maybe he thought that soft beds and servants and gourmet food…”

“He wouldn't ply me with such things,” Willow mewed. She had a small little voice that didn't seem to match her elegant stature and markings. “I would not be slave to some hoodlum!”

“Luis has to know that's a foolish dream,” Joe said.

“There's more to it,” Cotton said, licking his silky white paw. “Hernando thought we knew something about them stealing cars and about two old murders, in L.A., wherever that is.”

“We don't know anything,” Willow said, growing bolder and coming to press against the bars. “We couldn't make much of what we heard. And what would we do about it? Go to the police?”

Dulcie and Joe exchanged a glance; they said nothing.

Cotton's blue eyes were filled with disgust. “They have wild ideas about us. But the truth is, we
are
different. Given their greed, and their superstitious fears that we could tell what they've done, they have no intention of letting us go.”

Coyote flicked his tall, canine-like ears at a sound
from the front of the house. They all listened. A car was pulling up the drive. Dulcie glanced toward the window, but Joe headed for the shadowed hall. Dulcie pressed close to him as he made for the front bedroom.

The unoccupied room stank of male human and stale cigarette smoke. With its little damask chair and delicately carved dresser and vanity, clearly this room belonged to the old lady. Looked as if the men had evicted her, taken it for their own. Smelling fresh cigarette smoke from outside the open window, they slipped up onto the sill.

A blue Camry stood in the drive behind an old brown Toyota truck that was pulled off into the bushes. The windows of the Camry were open; cigarette smoke drifted out, and in through the bedroom window. Luis and Tommie sat in the front seat, their voices sharp and angry.

“Those dummies,” Tommie said almost in a whisper. “Bringing the truck back here, parking it in plain sight! If the cops made that truck…”

“They didn't make the truck. No one saw the truck!” Luis snapped. “Dumb bastards. What was Anselmo thinking? Get over here and drive!”

“But if we can get it in the garage…”

“No damn room in the garage, old woman has junk in there up the wazoo.”

“If I shove everything over, I can squeeze it in. Ought to set a match to that stuff.”

“Shut up, Tommie. Go on, back the car out! Meet me over there!” Luis swung out of the car and into the truck, leaning down, apparently to fish the keys from under the seat. Tommie backed down the drive, hit the brakes, and squealed off down the street. Luis started
the truck, swung a sharp U-turn in the drive, plowing down three rosebushes, and took off after him.

From the windowsill, the cats glanced down the hall in case Maria stopped clattering dishes and came out of the kitchen. “They
were
the ones,” Dulcie said with satisfaction. “How many more men are there? Harper needs to know where they are.”

“Let's see how much more we can pick up,” Joe said, “before we call the station.” And he dropped to the floor, to search the room.

The men were gone maybe ten minutes. When the blue car came scorching back and Luis and Tommie headed in the house, the cats were under the Victorian dresser, crouching at the back among the cobwebby shadows.

 

Luis hated that drive down from San Francisco. Too many damn trucks. They'd been up all night and he needed sleep. This stupidity with Anselmo and the truck didn't help his mood. Stepping out of the car, he hustled on into the house, Tommie behind him. He'd
told
Anselmo to keep the damn truck out of sight. Just because Anselmo's landlady came snooping was no excuse. Well, he'd knocked Anselmo around before, it was good for morale, let them know who was boss.

“Four men crammed in one room,” Tommie said, “they were bound to get edgy.”

“Edgy's not all they'll get.” Luis wanted his breakfast. Shouldering down the hall, he yelled for Maria, then saw the light on in the kitchen, saw the dirty plates in the sink. He picked up the coffeepot and shook it. Still hot but nearly empty. Damn woman, lounging
around in the kitchen when he was out, but never there when he wanted her. Shouting again for her, he sat down at the table and pulled a roll of bills from his pocket. Tommie had gone to wash, always had to wash when he got home, said staying up all night made him feel skuzzy. Said his hair itched. Well, red hair wasn't healthy, he ought to know that. Tommy'd said he didn't want a spicy Mexican breakfast. But he had no say in the matter. It was his choice to run with them, not theirs. If he didn't like it, he could cut out.

“Maria! Get your tail out here! Get us some breakfast.” Man was up all night, driving half the night, he needed to eat. Why didn't she think of that!

Maria came into the kitchen sullenly, scowling at him. She jerked open the refrigerator, pulled out a box of eggs, a package of chorizo, pepper sauce, tortillas. As the frying pan heated and the kitchen filled with the spicy smell of frying chorizo, Luis counted the money.

 

On the floor beside the dresser under which the cats crouched was an overflowing wastebasket. Stuffed inside, among the crumpled candy and cigarette packs, was a wad of crocheted doilies that must have covered the dresser and vanity and chair arms. The cats pawed through these and through the trash but found no gas receipts, no receipts or bills of any kind. In the closet, jeans and shirts were tossed on the floor with a tangle of men's shoes. The twin beds were unmade, the blankets half on the floor. Dulcie imagined the room as it must once have been, with the care that Maria's abuela would have given it.

She had seen in Maria's room photographs of sev
eral generations, from Abuela down to babies and small children. She imagined this house full of children and grandchildren. Maybe little Luis and his two brothers before they grew big and mean, and the child Maria still innocent. She imagined them growing up and drifting away. It seemed strange for a good Latino family to wander apart. Dulcie preferred the loud, quarreling, close and happy Latino families who lived around Molena Point. From beneath the dresser, the cats could see straight down the hall, the kitchen table in their direct line of sight.

Dulcie's eyes widened as Luis removed a large bundle of greenbacks from his jacket pocket. “That's some bundle,” she whispered to Joe. “How much has he got? There was no cash taken during the burglary.”

“You want a closer look? Ask him a few questions?” Joe whispered back dryly.

Maria stood at the stove cooking breakfast; the house was redolent of frying chorizo. She glanced at Luis several times, her eyes wide at the stash of money. As if she, too, was wondering.

“Fence,” Joe said softly. “I'll bet he fenced the jewels. Maybe he just got home.”

Tommie emerged from the bathroom and went on down the hall to the kitchen. He looked unhappily at his plate of eggs and chorizo, ignored the tortillas, and took a slice of white bread from the package Maria handed him. Luis and Maria began to argue in Spanish. The cats knew only a few words, not enough to make sense of it. Tommie replied to Luis in Spanish; but he spoke the language without grace, with a flat American accent.

Dulcie didn't like being in the house with these men.
She didn't see how they were going to get the key when it was in Luis's pocket and then under his pillow. But they had to try, they had to free the caged cats. Luis was complaining about being up all night, so maybe they
had
been to a fence, maybe in the city. Maybe, tired and full of breakfast, they'd sleep.