Cat Seeing Double (22 page)

“Not at all,” Max said, looking him over.

Landeau waited coolly for Harper to state his business, his expression one of tolerance with which he might regard a slow bank teller or inept service-station attendant.

“Perhaps I should be speaking with an estate manager,” Max said. “Someone who would be familiar with your employees.”

“I am familiar with my employees.”

“I'm looking for information about Hurlie Farger, I'd like some idea of his work record, what kind of service he's given you, how long he's been with you.”

Landeau looked puzzled. “I'm afraid I don't know the name. Are you sure this person worked here? When would that have been? We've had the estate only three
years. In what capacity would he have been employed?”

“My information is that he works here now, part-time, odd jobs on the grounds crew and filling in as a mechanic.”

Landeau shook his head. “We don't have a
Farger
. You had better speak with my estate foreman. He's working east of here about four miles, up that back, dirt road. They're cutting timber.” He glanced at his watch. “But of course they'll have quit for the day.”

Max slipped a mug shot of Gerrard Farger from his pocket. The brothers so closely resembled each other that a person would have to know them very well to see a difference. “You may not recall his name, but as owner of the estate you would remember the faces of those who serve you.” Max smiled. “I see he looks familiar.”

Landeau had let down his guard for an instant, lowering his eyes as if deciding which way to play his response.

“My information,” Max said, “is that he's worked for you for several years.”

“The face, yes,” Landeau said smoothly. “I believe I recognize this man. If I'm correct, if I have the right man, I believe he was fired six months ago. Something, as I recall, about an arrest, which I won't tolerate. I believe he got into some kind of trouble down in San Andreas. Burglary or shoplifting, or maybe it was something to do with a woman, I don't recall.” Landeau looked levelly at Harper. “We don't condone that kind of behavior, it leads to trouble for the estate. Has he been into more trouble? I hope nothing too serious. But it must be serious,” Landeau added, “for a chief of police from the coast to come all the way up here.”

“Not at all,” Harper said. “We're on vacation, heading home. Thought it expedient to collect what information we could, not lay more work on your sheriff.” He had no way to know whether Landeau was aware of the bombing in Molena Point. “You say Hurlie Farger hasn't worked for you in six months.”

“To the best of my knowledge.”

“Would you say that if we show otherwise, you would be open to a charge of obstructing justice?”

“I certainly wouldn't want that,” Landeau said. “It may have been less than six months.”

“Or perhaps you only considered firing him? Perhaps you changed your mind and let him stay on?”

Landeau shook his head. “It's possible my wife may have done so, in a fit of charity. You know how women are.”

“What can you tell me about Farger?”

“If you would care to come into my study, I'll see what I can remember.”

Harper moved with Landeau through a vast sitting area whose windows overlooked the top of the darkening pine forest. The mirrored walls reflected chrome-framed chairs, chrome-surfaced tables, and chrome-framed couches upholstered in silver-dyed leather, all straight from some futuristic space movie. The white marble fireplace boasted a huge gas log that either had never been lit, or was scrubbed clean after each use. The black marble floors were unadorned except where the furniture formed “seating areas,” each set off by an ice-blue shag rug that made the chrome above it look blue.

“This is my wife's part of the house,” Landeau said, watching Harper. “The portion reserved for entertain
ing.” He led Max into a cypress-walled study furnished with natural-toned leather couches, framed antique maps, and a dark oriental carpet, a room that seemed to Max equally posed and out of character, planned for effect, not for any personal preferences. There were no papers on the desk, nothing of a personal or business nature visible, no photographs, no books, no shelves to put books on. Even Landeau's offer of brandy seemed a tired line from a tired old movie. Declining a drink, Max couldn't decide what kind of man Landeau might be. Everything about him seemed studied and timed for effect.

Stepping to a walnut credenza below the window, Landeau poured himself a Scotch and water, and turned to regard Max. And as the two men faced each other, outside on the large parking apron Charlie sat in the pickup studying the house and listening for any smallest sound from within. To her right stood five tennis courts, the heat from their green paving rippling across their chain-link barriers. She could see behind them a pool and ornate pool house in the Grecian style, set against the heavy pines in an idyllic tableau. She could imagine bathers there, beautiful women with figures as sculptured and polished as marble themselves, each woman's skimpy bikini costing more than her entire wardrobe. In the dimming afternoon, the carefully trimmed lawns and precisely shaped bushes seemed as artificial as the house. The six-foot concrete wall that encircled the acreage gave her not a feeling of security but of confinement. Far to her left stood ten dog runs with a kennel at the back of each. The three dogs she could see pacing behind their fences were German
shepherds. Maybe the guard dogs had been acquired after the break-ins the sheriff had mentioned to Max.

And Ryan had told her that the Landeaus entertained some high-powered investors up here too, that apparently they had bought the mansion to accommodate Sullivan's real-estate clients. The timbering and whatever else the estate was involved in, Ryan had thought, was secondary to its prime purpose as an elegant business write-off.

Max said the Landeaus had had more than break-ins. That there'd been some trouble from local groups who didn't want them to raise and cut timber, that they had in fact suffered considerable loss from arson. Charlie supposed if she were rich and someone burned her property, she'd have guard dogs too. As she idly studied the kennels, two rottweilers appeared pacing inside their runs, their blunt heads down like bulls ready to charge. All five dogs watched her more intently than she liked. She'd feel easier when Max was out of there, when, safe together in the truck, they were headed back to the inn to a nice private supper before the fire, to a night of lovemaking and let the rest of the world go hang. She was watching for Max, watching for the black-lacquered front door to open, when behind the pool house a white van appeared moving along a service road or drive, parking behind the house.

At that distance, in the falling light, she couldn't read its logo; she could see a crown, with dark lettering beneath. They had passed two vans as they came up the narrow country road, both heading down, one belonging to a dry cleaner, one to a catering service, both seeming out of place in the backwoods setting.
Max had handed her the field book to jot down company names and license numbers. She had a sudden desire, now, to slip out of the car and take a look at this vehicle.

But something stopped her. She wasn't sure what Max would want her to do. This was not the kind of home where one was welcome to wander about the gardens for a friendly assessment of the flower beds. She imagined walking along the side of the mansion setting off some kind of electric eye that would open the kennel gates and bring that brace of hungry mutts charging out in a timed race to see who got the juiciest supper. She heard car doors open, and in a few minutes close again, and she watched the van head away, up a back road into the woods until soon it was lost from view. She sat looking after it, disgusted at her own hesitancy.

She wouldn't tell Max she'd been afraid and uncertain. She hadn't spent time with a dozen police wives, at various backyard cookouts and parties, hadn't seen how laid-back and cool those women were, not to be ashamed of her sudden timidity—surely there was nothing that would so seriously cool their romance, as to let fear intervene.

Though Max was the most monogamous and straightforward of all possible husbands, she knew that. She knew a lot, from Clyde and from the people in the department, about Max and Millie's marriage, which had ended with Millie's death. She knew enough to be certain that she had a lot to live up to, in that hard-shelled and loving lady detective.

She could never replace Millie. But she could give
Millie the compliment and respect of trying, and in so doing maybe she could make Max happy.

A figure moved behind the house where the van had disappeared. Charlie, turning the key that Max had left in the ignition, hit the window button and rolled down the glass, to listen.

There was no sound. The early evening air was heavy with the scent of pine and with a less pleasant smell from the kennels. Somewhere behind the house a car started, she heard it move away, the scrunch of tires on gravel and the engine hum soon fading. She thought of Hurlie Farger and his old truck, but this vehicle was newer, purring softly. Anyway, this wasn't her business. This was department business. She was a civilian, she needed to behave like a civilian. Max had collected some valuable information today concerning large sales of bleach, fertilizers, iodine, antifreeze, glass bottles and jars and propane, among the local stores. She didn't need to do anything to distract him or to complicate his work.

But,
Come on, Max. Come out of there. I want you safe. I want you to myself for a little while, and safe.

The brick-paved
patio of Burger Basher was lit by lanterns placed along the perimeter and by shifting washes of moonlight beneath fast-running clouds. Though the sea wind was brisk, the forty-by-forty-foot space was comfortably warm, heated by six outdoor gas burners suspended on poles overhead. Joe Grey, sitting beneath Ryan's table, tried not to lick his whiskers at the scent of broiling burgers. Though he'd had filet for supper, who could resist a Basher's double? Encouraged by Ryan's petting, he stood up on his hind paws, looking as plaintive as a begging beagle into her amused eyes.

“Come on, Joe Grey. You want to sit up here? We have an empty chair.”

Larn Williams looked disgusted. But Joe was aware of other diners watching him and smiling. Beneath a nearby table, a springer spaniel whined with interest. Leaping into the chair, Joe watched appalled as Williams slopped on mustard, ruining a fine piece of meat. Ryan, sensibly waving away the condiments, cut off a quarter of her burger and dissected it carefully into cat-sized bites. Placing these on a folded paper napkin,
she set the offering on the chair before him. “There you go, big boy. See what you can do with that.”

Rewarding Ryan with a purr and a finger-lick, Joe sampled the char-grilled confection. This was the way surveillance should be conducted, in plain sight of the subjects while one enjoyed life's finer pleasures. He tried to eat slowly but he didn't come up for air until every morsel had vanished. Yawning and stretching, again he fixed his gaze on Ryan, licking his whiskers.

She cut her eyes at him as she devoured her own burger. “No more. You'll get fat, lose your handsome tomcat figure.”

Williams watched this exchange coldly. “I didn't ask you out to dinner—such as it is—to watch you feed some alley cat.”

“He's not an alley cat, I know him very well.”

“When did you get home? I swung by the Jakeses' place up there but you'd already left. I didn't know you were leaving. One of your carpenters was still there, that old redheaded guy with the beard.”

“I don't consider Scotty old. I consider him handsome and capable. I got home Saturday night, in time to go to a wedding on Sunday, and start a new job this morning.”

Williams nodded more amiably, seeming actually aware of his surliness. “Seems like, if you're gone a few weeks, everything piles up, the laundry, the junk mail.”

When she didn't respond, he began asking questions about the new job she had started. Her answers were as vague as she could politely make them; Joe hid a pleased smile. Somewhere in the conversation, Williams edged his way back to his primary interest.

“It's that backlog of paperwork I really hate. Every
real-estate sale—a landslide of forms to be filed. I don't have to tell you, the paperwork gets worse every year. That, and the billing. And then it's time for taxes.”

If, Joe thought, the evening was to be filled with such gems as this, he might as well be home eradicating the front lawn of gophers. Stretched out across the chair, he yawned so deeply that he almost dislocated his jaw; and he lay observing Williams. The guy had a face as bland as yogurt, his pale brown eyes soft-looking and seeming without guile. Gentle, submissive eyes—as if there was no way this good soul could bear to swat a fly. The kind of expression that made any sensible cat uneasy.

And when Joe glanced at Ryan, she was watching Larn with the same distaste, her dislike thinly veiled—though she appeared to take the bait. “At least,” she said, sipping her beer, “I caught up with my billing, and got it in the mail. Didn't have any choice. No money coming in, the creditors will be at my throat.”

Williams didn't turn a hair. “The building-supply people in San Andreas are pretty good about letting a contractor ride over a month or two.”

“That's nice, but I don't do that, I don't work that way. And the Jakeses are good about paying, they were very prompt on the two San Francisco jobs that Dannizer Construction did for them. I expect I'll see their check before the end of the week.”

No change of expression from Williams. “I never quite trust people who
always
pay
all
their bills on time. Makes me wonder why they're so careful.”

Ryan made no reply. Was he trying to be funny? Joe had never heard any of Clyde's friends talk that way.
Certainly not Clyde himself, Clyde valued his prompt-paying customers, and he let them know it.

“Did you say your father was on the East Coast? I imagine you miss him just now, with this unfortunate murder to deal with. I was sorry to hear about your husband's death, in that ugly way. I hope things have—not been too rocky.”

“He's on the East Coast, yes,” Ryan said, smiling. “I'm doing fine. Thanks for asking.” She was trying hard to be nice to Larn. Joe wondered that Williams didn't detect her veiled effort—or didn't seem to.

“Hot weather back there just now. I hope he took something light. Cotton's best, in the humidity. But I suppose he knows all about that.”

Joe narrowed his eyes, studying Williams. This guy was strange.

“Do the police have any line on a suspect? On who would do such a thing?”

Ryan just looked at him.

“I don't understand much about the circumstances, but I hope they've made some progress in locating the killer. What a terrible shock, to find…Well, I am sorry.”

And you
are
going on about it, Joe thought, curling up with his back to Williams.

“I hope they have enough evidence so you are no longer a suspect. I would hate to be suspected of a murder, even though everyone knows better. It would be so…demeaning.” Williams was not keeping his voice down. People at the nearby tables had begun to watch them. Ryan looked increasingly uncomfortable.

“Do they have fingerprints, or anything on the weapon? That would certainly make you feel easier.”

“I really can't discuss these matters, Larn. And we're attracting attention.”

“I only meant…” He looked suitably stricken. “I only thought…You know, hoping there was something to ease your mind, to take the pressure off,” he said, lowering his voice. “Hoping you're able to feel more comfortable about this ugly mess.”

“I was told not to discuss it.”

“Well, if there's anything I can do to be of help, I just want you to know you can call on me.”

“Nothing that I know of.”

“When will your father be home?”

This guy was so damned nosy Joe wanted to claw him. Or, he wasn't quite steady in the attic.

“I really don't know, Larn.” Her voice was decidedly cooler, as if she were sorry she had come tonight.

But Larn didn't seem to get the drift. “He has a good reputation in the city. I don't know many folks in law enforcement, but people say he does a good job.
I
certainly don't believe the gossip, I don't pay attention to that kind of thing.”

Ryan had stopped eating. “What gossip?” she said softly. “What are you talking about?”

People at the surrounding tables had turned away making an effort not to stare. Williams lifted his hand in embarrassment, as if he realized he'd made a blunder. But Joe could see under the table Williams's left fist on his knee beating a soft, energetic rhythm, his body language laying out all too clearly his cold deliberation.

“What gossip?” Ryan repeated, her eyes never leav
ing Williams. “You'd better explain what you're talking about.”

“Well, I
am
sorry. I thought of course you'd heard it like everyone else…. It's common…Oh, hell, I thought…Can we just drop it? Forget I said anything?”

“Of course we can't drop it,” she said raising her voice, not caring if people turned to look. “What is this about?
What
have you heard about my father?”

“It's only gossip, it doesn't mean anything. Let's forget it.”

Joe didn't need to look up into Ryan's face to see her rage. Every angle of her body was tense and rigid. She waited unmoving for Williams to explain.

“Well,” he said reluctantly. “It's just—the women…you have to know about the women.”

Her silence was like thunder, so volatile that Joe thought the air around her might explode. “
What
women?
What exactly are you talking about! And where did you hear such a thing!”

Larn sighed, his pale eyes shifting. “Don't be so loud. People are staring.” This guy was far more than a nut case.

“Well?”

“It's common gossip in the city, Ryan. I can't believe you never heard it.”

“
What, exactly,
is common gossip? You'll have to spell it out.”

He sighed again, implying that this was all very painful. “You have to know that Flannery had plenty of women.”

Ryan only looked at him.

“And that…Well,
call
it gossip, that Flannery had
affairs with more than a few of his female parolees. Most of that, the way I hear it, was before he was appointed chief. I thought of course you'd heard this. But gossip doesn't make…”

Ryan was white. “That is so patently a lie. I have never heard a hint of such a story. I certainly would have heard that from Rupert, he'd have been the first to pass on such a tale, would have been delighted to repeat that.” She was almost shouting at Williams. “This is not a story that anyone in San Francisco has ever heard. Why are you telling me this?” People around them were growing uncomfortable. Two couples, hurrying through their meals, rose to leave. “Where did this come from? What is your purpose in saying such a thing?”

Larn looked totally apologetic, really crushed. Joe was so fascinated he had to remind himself to stop staring. Turning away, he began to wash again, watching Williams with occasional sideways glances.

“I don't know where I heard it. Everywhere. And then just this week I heard it in conjunction with the murder,” Larn said embarrassedly. “The implication was that…that maybe Rupert had been talking about one of Flannery's affairs, spreading around names and details, and Flannery had—”

Ryan gaped at him then was out of her chair jerking Larn up—he came up under her grip as limp as a doll, looking shocked but making no effort to resist her. She spun him around with surprising strength, forced him between the tables and out through the patio to the street, his arm bent behind him. Forced him down the sidewalk away from the restaurant. As Joe leaped to follow them the thought did cross his mind that some
one ought to pay the bill. Well, he sure couldn't. One of the perks of being a cat, you never got stuck with the bill.

Half a block down, she shoved Williams into an alley. Joe glanced across the street where Clyde sat in the Hudson, poised as if ready to move. Joe peered around into the brick alley where Ryan had Williams backed against the building. The man was totally submissive. Was he enjoying himself? Getting it on with this woman's rage? Torn between disgust and amusement, Joe settled down between the trash cans to watch.

Ryan looked like she was about to pound Williams when the scuff of shoes made Joe spin around. Clyde stood with his fists clenched as if he wanted to pile into Williams. But Ryan's display of anger held him frozen.

The hint of a grin ticked at the corner of Clyde's mouth as he studied Williams's pallor and Ryan's businesslike grip on the man's collar. She glanced at Clyde, her face coloring.

“What was he doing?” Clyde said, amused.

She said nothing, but turned back to Williams. “If I
ever
hear that kind of talk
anywhere
, I'll know it came from you. I swear I'll pound you, Williams, then sue your pants off for slander. I have four top attorneys in the city, and I would like nothing better than to see them take you down.”

Jerking Williams away from the wall, she shoved him hard. He stumbled and half fell out onto the sidewalk. “Go home, Larn. Go back to San Andreas. I don't know what your purpose is. But you pull anything more—
anything
, and you'll be cooling your ass in the slammer.”

Larn rose from an off-balance crouch, stared at Ryan and at Clyde, his face unreadable, and headed away fast. Ryan watched until he reached his car and had driven off, then she collapsed against Clyde, her face buried against him. Her shoulders were shaking, whether shivering with nerves, or rocking with laughter, Joe couldn't tell. The gray tomcat, sitting among the garbage cans in the dark alley, was sorry that Dulcie had missed this one.