Cat Breaking Free (29 page)

Leaving the store, the gray-haired couple wandered away into the crowd apparently confident they hadn't been noticed. A half block behind them, Eleanor Sand and her companion wandered aimlessly in the same direction. All around the village, similar break-ins were occurring in small, unnoticed corners, and similar teams of officers followed their progress, then made their arrests in other isolated retreats. The cats missed the action at Marineau's Jewelry.

So did the Greenlaws, though Lucinda and Pedric were sitting on their terrace enjoying the tangled mélange of music and watching the crowds below. Neither noticed a darkly dressed Latino man slip down the alley next to Marineau's, open the shop's metal-sheathed side door with a key, and slip inside. No smallest light shone. Nothing could be seen through the boarded-up windows. The Greenlaws did
not see him leave, five minutes later, the pockets of his trench coat bulging with items taken from the safe for which he also had keys. Neither Lucinda nor Pedric was aware that, while the jazz group down the street at Bailey's Fish House played the gutteral, funky music of the old Preservation Hall group, Marineau's was being cleaned out a second time, with keys whose patterns had been taken the first time around. And meanwhile, four blocks away, the cats were intent on redheaded Tommie McCord and his Latino partner, as they strolled away from the last jewelry store on the list, walking along laughing and swilling cans of beer.

Neither man realized that Officers Brennan, who had already made one arrest, and Julie Wade, dressed as a frowzy pair of tourists, followed half a block behind, pawing each other and peering into shop windows, Brennan's big belly and firearm covered by his loose shirt printed with palm trees. Wade was on loan from Santa Cruz PD. She wore a long, smock-like blouse and long, full skirt; very likely the officers' garments concealed not only regulation automatics but radios, cell phones, handcuffs, and belly chains.

As Tommie McCord and his friend turned away into a dark residential street, leaving the scene, and headed up toward the crowded hillside cottages, the cats followed them over the rooftops. The cats watched as they were arrested. No shot was fired. Tommie tried to run, and got pepper spray in his face, which made him double up, choking. His friend got a dose of the taser that put him on the sidewalk, for trying to take down Offi
cer Wade. Cuffed and helped into a squad car, they would be, as Kit said, “Locked in a cage themselves. Let's see how they like that.” This kit was not big on forgiveness.

T
he cells of Molena Point jail were indeed satisfyingly
overcrowded. Men were stacked in the bunks and sleeping on pads on the concrete floor. The department's evidence room was equally full, its safe filled with sufficient small, sealed bags of jewelry and valuables to convict an army of thieves. The detectives' reports had gone to the DA. All arrestees had been denied bail. It would be some weeks after the Greenlaws moved into their new house before the town would be treated to the full details of the sting—or to that part of the story that could be told, and that those in the department knew. Some facts would remain unrevealed even to the chief—forever, the three cats hoped.

The Greenlaws' housewarming was impromptu but satisfying in its camaraderie and good cheer. The hodgepodge of treasures with which the old couple had furnished their new home formed an amazing collection, gleaned from used-furniture stores, garage sales,
and the most exclusive shops. On a three-day shopping trip to the city with Hanni Coon, to the exclusive designer showrooms, they had purchased the last pieces; except for the bright primitive rugs, which had come from Hanni's own showroom. Among their purchases was a large box marked “Kit,” destined for the tree house.

The night after the last deliveries were made and in place, George Jolly's team arrived bearing trays of delicious selections; the Greenlaws' front door was propped open, the department brought the wine and beer, and cops and civilians crowded the bright rooms. While out in the tree house, Dulcie and Joe and Kit reclined among a tangle of exotic new pillows.

Lori Reed and Dillon Thurwell had been eager to carry the pillows and the cats' loaded plates up a ladder. The girls had wanted to have their own supper there, but Lucinda made it clear this was Kit's exclusive property. Both girls had, however, begun dreaming of tree houses of their own, plotting how to accomplish that endeavor.

The cats, full of delicacies, sleepily watched the party from their cushions, through Kit's open window, and listened to conversations and laughter too tangled together to make sense. Cop talk; woman talk; talk of children and clothes and cooking; cop jokes and excessive high spirits. The Rivas trial was scheduled for two days hence. The eighteen prisoners had decided on one group trial, perhaps because their sleazy L.A. attorney might charge them less—if they were paying him at all. Who knew what kind of favors Luis was calling in? Certainly the single trial would cost the county far less. Though Roman Slayter would stand trial alone for the
murders of Frank Cozzino and Delfino Rivas. The evidence in both cases was solid. Ballistics showed that one of Slayter's several guns had killed both men. Three other firearms were found in the trunk of his car, including a .22 revolver. Chichi thought Slayter had killed Dufio because Dufio alone had seen Slayter kill Frank. Certainly Dufio had been near when Frank went down.

“And the gun that I found under Abuela's dryer,” Dulcie said, “that didn't kill anyone.”

Joe shrugged. “Not that they know of. But it was stolen. Who knows what might turn up later, in some other case.”

“There she is,” Dulcie said, peering out the tree-house window. “Chichi. Just coming in.” The tabby cat stared, her green eyes wide. “How different she looks!”

Chichi stepped across the tile entry beside Detective Davis and Dallas Garza, just behind Ryan and Clyde. Since the department knew the whole story, since Chichi had furnished a preponderance of evidence, she was more than comfortable with the officers. She did not look hard now, not like the brittle Chichi Barbi the cats knew. She was dressed in a soft, pale, loose-fitting blouse belted over a gathered skirt, and sandals. Her pale hair was pulled back and caught at the neck with a simple clip. She wore little makeup, just a touch of lipstick.

“She's really pretty,” Joe said, gawking. “Who would have thought?”

Dulcie and Kit smiled. All females like to see a successful makeover; unless of course they are jealous.

“She told Clyde she might stay here,” Joe said, “after the trial. Look for a real job and a small apartment.
Says she likes the village.” He watched her with interest. “Since the sting, since they arrested Slayter, she hasn't come on to Clyde at all.” He yawned, full of Jolly's delicacies, and sinfully comfortable among the cushions; and for a little while, the gray tomcat dozed.

He woke when Dulcie nudged him. “Come on, people are leaving, we can clean up the plates.”

He stared at her. “You can't be serious. After what we just had to eat?” But Dulcie spun away through the window, Kit followed her, and the three cats headed across the oak branch and in through the dining-room window. They paused on the wide sill. People were shrugging on coats, carrying away little paper plates filled with leftovers. Charlie beckoned to them and as she cleared the long table, she filled clean paper plates for them.

“I don't know how you can eat so much.” She set their suppers down on the windowsill, and stroked and hugged them. “Such good work,” she whispered. Though they didn't dare answer, they let their looks warm her. From the kitchen door, Wilma watched them, smiling.

At the dining table, Pedric was saying, “…the faux jewelry, every gleaming diamond and emerald as fake as Grandma's teeth.” The thin old man laughed with pleasure.

“Yes, it was,” Harper said, sitting down across from Pedric, patting Charlie on the behind as she passed. “Even the key-locked safe at Marineau's was a set-up. We got some nice fingerprints off of it, and off the fake jewelry—some of those guys weren't a bit careful.” Harper's long, weathered face looked happier tonight than the cats had seen in a long time. “Store owners
polished the jewelry all up before it went in the cases, not a trace of their own prints.”

Wilma and Lucinda came in from the kitchen and sat down. Lori and Dillon heaped their plates for the third time, and retired to the far corner of the living room, beside the tall bookcases. At the table, Detective Davis, who had resisted earlier and had eaten little, now filled her plate. If Davis was dieting, she'd lost the battle, this night.

“And all your reports are in, to the DA,” Pedric said.

Harper nodded. “Two weeks ago. We're pleased that Judge Anderson denied all bail. And with this sleazy attorney Luis brought up from L.A…. They don't have much of a case.”

Lucinda said, “And not a civilian hurt, by the grace of God and the skilled way the department handled it.”

“Mostly by the grace of God,” Harper said. “And the information Chichi and a couple of snitches provided.”

Davis said, “We didn't have enough on Luis or Tommie to lock them up before the sting. They'd have been right out on bail…only circumstantial evidence to the first jewelry store burglary.”

“What you did,” Lucinda said, “was amazing.” She looked at Chichi, who had come out of the kitchen with Charlie. “What Chichi did was very brave.”

“Not brave at all,” Chichi said, sitting down. “I was so angry, and hurting. I never believed the cops killed Frank, they knew he was on their side. But no one…Who was going to believe me? Luis swore at the hearing that he
saw
a cop shoot Frank. He did that for Slayter, lied for Slayter.” She looked up at Lucinda, a hurt, naked look. “I did the only thing I could think of, hang in with Luis until I had the evidence. I hated that,
hated being nice to them. I was hoping to find the gun.” She looked at Harper. “But that turned out fine, that you found it.

“In L.A., when Luis ran out of the bank right behind Frank that night, I didn't see Slayter at all.” She had balled up her fist, gripping her wadded napkin. “Slayter
was
there, in the shadows. Dufio told me, a couple of days before he…Before Slayter shot him.” She shivered. “Shot him in that cell like an animal in a trap! Poor Dufio. He told me he'd seen Slayter in the shadows near the bank, but that's all he said. If he'd told me all of it, and sooner, you'd have been able to arrest Slayter, and Dufio would be alive.”

Wilma glanced across to Dulcie. No one had mentioned Slayter's scratch wounds; but the subject
had
been discussed earlier, more than Wilma and the cats cared to think about…As had the remarkably similar wounds on Hernando Rivas's body. Wilma had been in favor of the golf-shoe theory. No shoe had been found.

It seemed more than strange, to those who knew the truth, that in neither case had the coroner found any cat hairs. Surely there must have been a few. Wilma wouldn't think of broaching that subject to John Bern, though they had been friends for many years. If Bern did not care to mention cat hairs, that was fine with her. If he knew more than he should and was keeping it to himself, that was fine, too. She wasn't going to rock the boat.

Pedric looked at Chichi. “And there's no doubt that Frank Cozzino
was
furnishing information to LAPD?” Leaning forward, his elbows on the table, the thin old man looked very frail between the harder, young officers and Clyde.

Chichi nodded. “He informed LAPD for a long time.” She said no more. She did not offer an explanation as to why Frank had turned to helping the police, what had made him change his thinking, any more than she explained why she had changed.

The cats, cleaning their plates, were again so sated they could hardly keep their eyes open. Any normal cat would have been sick. Joe sat nodding on the windowsill until Clyde gathered him up, and Wilma picked up Dulcie. Kit had only to trot into the master bedroom and tuck down among the quilts—or leap out across the oak branch to slumber the night away high in her tree house.

But Kit thought it best to stay inside at night, for a while, best that the old couple would not awaken in the small hours to search among the blankets for her, then wonder if she had gone off with the wild ones again, perhaps this time forever.

I'm done with that, Kit thought.
This
is my home, with Lucinda and Pedric. Willow and Cotton and Coyote have chosen their way, they didn't want what I want. She hoped they were safe, that they'd found a place of their own far away from Stone Eye.

She thought about her three wild friends the next morning when she woke before dawn to hear the first birds chirping, and when she went to sleep the next night and heard an owl hoot outside the window. She worried about them, as Lucinda and Pedric worried about her. And then, on the night of the next full moon, she dreamed so vividly about the ferals that the following morning, when she went with Lucinda to see the finished pictures for Charlie's book, she asked Charlie.
The minute she and Lucinda were in the door, Kit asked her.

“Will you take me there? On horseback, up in the hills? I don't want to go alone. Stone Eye…I want…”

But Charlie interrupted her. “I've seen them, Kit. Not up on Hellhag Hill at all, and not off beyond it. Right up there,” she said, pointing up toward the hills that rose away behind the house and barn. “Up beyond our own pastures, where that little brook comes down. I saw them there. Ten cats, and I'm sure your three friends were among them. A dark-striped fellow with long ears, creamy circles around his eyes and a face like a coyote? A pure-white cat with long hair and blue eyes? And a lovely bleached calico, sleek and creamy?”

Kit nodded to all three descriptions; and Charlie rose, reaching for her jacket. “Come on, Kit. I'll take you, while Lucinda makes herself a nice cup of tea.”

Lucinda nodded. “I can look at the drawings again? And read a bit of the manuscript over again?”

“Of course you can.” Charlie hugged Lucinda and went to saddle her mare.

Folding a saddle blanket across the pommel of the saddle and strapping it securely, she made a comfortable perch where Kit could ride. And they were off into the hills, the mare twitching her ear as she looked around at the kit. Charlie said, “Your friends could have a home with Estrella Nava—with Maria's abuela. She might welcome a little cat, maybe all three.”

“They would never go back to that house, even if Abuela did try to help them.”

“Luis should be gone a long time,” Charlie said. “Maria is going to stay there with Abuela. She's deter
mined he won't come back there. She means to clean up the house and paint it, and get a job in the village. Maybe rent out the downstairs, for some income.” They rode for a long time, but saw no cats. Softly, Kit called to them. They rode up in the direction of the old ruined mansion, searching for the small clowder that the three must have gathered around them. Kit called and called, but no one showed themselves. It was growing late when they turned back, the kit bitterly disappointed. And suddenly there they were, crouched on the trail before them. Charlie pulled up the mare, and sat still.

Maybe they had been following them all along, maybe afraid of Charlie. Maybe taking some time to decide about her. Perhaps they decided that if she was treating Kit so well, then she, like the man who had cut the lock off, must be a friend. As the ten cats stood watching them Kit leaped from the saddle.

Three cats came to her; and slowly, one by one, the rest of their little clowder gathered around Kit. She said, “Stone Eye hasn't bothered you?”

“You know that old mansion to the north of here?” Coyote said. “That huge stone place, all fallen down?”

“The Pamillon mansion,” Kit said.

Coyote smiled. “Stone Eye is afraid to go there.”

“You made a home
there
? Where the cougar…Where I saw a cougar once?”

“We smelled the cougar,” Cotton said. “An old smell. We made a home, for now. Those cellars are full of rats. Look how fat we've grown.”

Kit laughed. They were fat. She licked the cats' ears, and they talked for a long while. Their conversation, about all manner of cattish concerns, so fascinated
Charlie that she began thinking of a second book. Kit told them that Abuela would give them a home, but of course that did not appeal. “No,” Coyote said, looking away toward the wild hills, and toward the fallen mansion. “We would not do that. This is our life.”