"Cat Seeing Double" - читать интересную книгу автора (Murphy Shirley Rousseau)
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The parking lot of Molena Point courthouse was shaded by sprawling oak trees that rose from islands of flowering shrubs. The building, set well back from the street, was of Mediterranean style with deep porticos, white stucco walls, and tile paving. The police department occupied a long wing at the south end that ran out to meet the sidewalk. Recently, Captain Harper had remodeled the department to afford increased privacy and heightened security. The jail was in a separate building, at the back, across the small, fenced parking lot reserved for police cars. Within the station itself one holding cell was maintained, opening to the right of the locked and bulletproof glass entry. The seven-by-eight concrete room had an iron bunk, a toilet and sink and one tiny window high in the east wall secured by bars and shaded by an oak's dark foliage. The oak's three thick trunks angled up from the garden as gently as staircases. Joe Grey and Dulcie were set to race across the garden and up into the branches that covered the cell window, when whispers from above them in the tree sent them swerving away again, to crouch among the bushes.
A man clung high above, among the dark leaves, his shoes and pant cuffs just visible, his balance on the slanting trunk seeming unsteady. He wore high-topped, laced shoes, old man's shoes. Moving to a better vantage, the cats could see one gnarled hand reaching out to grip at the bars for support as he peered down through the little window. It must have been hard for the old boy to climb up, they could imagine him teetering, grabbing the surrounding limbs.
If this was Gramps Farger, he had plenty of nerve to come right to the station when every cop in the state was looking for him-or maybe he thought this was the last place they'd look. Joe wanted to shout and alert the department. His second, more studied response, was to shut up and listen.
The old man's faint quarrelsome whispers and the boy's hissing replies through the open window were so soft that even from within the police department, maybe no one would hear them, not even the dispatcher from her electronic cubicle; the whispers would be easily drowned among the noise of her radios and phones.
Slipping closer, where they could hear better, the cats began to smile.
"Them big mucky-mucks don't care," the old man rasped. "The way you muffed this one, Curtis, I'm sorry you showed up at all. You should've stayed in them mountains. Well, the deed's done-you blew it, big-time. Your pa sure ain't gonna be pleased."
The kid's reply slurred angrily against the rumble of a car engine starting in the parking lot. And not for the first time, Joe wished he had one of those tiny tape recorders, wished he was wired for sound.
"Your uncle ain't gonna like it neither. You know Hurlie don't tolerate sloppy work. And your ma…"
"None of
"Them cops're gonna ask you plenty. You see you don't mention Hurlie or them San Andreas people. You don't tell no one you was up there. Pay attention, Curtis. You don't know nothing about where Hurlie is, you don't know nothing about where your old gramps is. You understand me?"
"What you think I'm gonna do," the kid snapped. "Why would I tell the cops anything?"
Apparently, Joe thought, the old man didn't know that Curtis had hitched a ride with Detective Garza's niece. What a joke. Maybe Curtis himself didn't know who she was.
"Keep your voice down. Don't matter I'm your grampa, I cut no slack if you mess up again."
"You ain't gonna die. From a cat scratch? And you sure as hell didn't see me over at that church, no matter what they ask." The old man peered down into the cell. "I'm out of here, Curtis. Meantime, you keep your mouth shut." And Gramps started shakily down the tree snatching at branches, putting his unsteady feet in all the wrong places. Nearly falling, stumbling down the last few feet he tumbled into the geraniums so close to Joe and Dulcie that they spun around, melting deeper into the bushes.
The old man rose, apparently none the worse for the spill, and turned toward the parking lot. The cats followed him out across the blacktop, staying under parked cars when they could, slipping along in the river of his scent, which was so overripe they could have trailed him blindfolded. This old codger needed a bath, big-time. A Laundromat wouldn't hurt, either. Pausing beneath a plumbing repair truck, they looked ahead for an old pickup, as the kit had described, for some rusted-out junker. The old man was passing a black Jaguar convertible when he whipped out a key.
It was not a new-model Jag but it was sleek and expensive. The top was down, and several celluloid kewpie dolls hung from the rearview mirror. The bucket seats were fitted out with tacky zebra-patterned covers as furry as an Angora cat. A very nice car, royally trashed.
Unlocking the driver's door, Gramps slid in and kicked the engine to life. Pulling on a tan safari hat, he tucked his long shaggy hair under, and wriggled into a khaki jacket straight out of an old B movie. The attempted disguise was so ludicrous the cats wanted to roll over laughing. This old man wasn't for real, this old man was dotty.
But, in fact, he had changed the way he looked. As the old man sat at the wheel tying a white scarf around his throat, Joe glanced tensely back toward the station, his heart thudding with urgency. The old boy would be gone in a minute, he was going to get away, and all they had was the license number. Crouching to scorch up the tree thinking to shout through the holding-cell window and alert the dispatcher, get some muscle out there, Joe paused.
If he knew where the old man was going…
The tomcat crouched, tensed to leap in. Dulcie stopped him with a swipe of her paw, ears back, eyes blazing. "Don't, Joe!"
He backed off, hissing.
Gramps put the car in gear, revving the engine like a teenager-and at the same instant, Gramps saw Joe. Staring down at Joe, his expression said this guy was not a cat lover. Joe's paws began to sweat. Gramps cut the wheels suddenly and sharply toward the tomcat and gave it the gas-and the cats were gone, scorching under the plumbing truck, the Jaguar headed straight for them. Maybe, since the aborted church bombing, Gramps Farger hated all cats.
Safe under the big yellow vehicle, but ready to run again, they cringed as, at the last instant, Gramps swung a U just missing the truck and screeched off toward me street.
Coming out shakily, they fled up the nearest oak. Staring out, they could see the Jaguar heading north and then east, up into the hills. They watched until the car disappeared over the next rise.
At least they had a general direction, and they had the make and license. Who would be dumb enough to drive such an easily identifiable vehicle? Talk about chutzpah. And the old boy might as well have driven the Jaguar right on into the station, every cop in the village was looking for him. Did he think his stupid disguise would fool anyone?
But maybe it had fooled someone. Turning out of the lot, Gramps had passed two young officers returning on foot to the station. Both had looked right at him. With the scarf tucked up around his beard, and his grisly long hair out of sight, Gramps looked like just another eccentric, another tourist. The rookies looked at him and kept walking, no change of expression, no glance at each other, no quickening of their walk to hurry into the station. Complacent, Joe Grey thought. Harper needed to talk to those guys, shake them up.
But the two cops weren't the only ones to miss something.
Though the two cats couldn't have seen her, and with Gramps's overripe scent they would never have smelled her, the kit passed within feet of them crouched on the floor of the Jaguar. They had no hint that she was huddled behind the driver in the escaping car, shivering with excitement and with fear.
The kit knew Joe and Dulcie were there. From deep in the garden she had watched the old man pull into the lot and had watched him climb to the kid's cell window, had watched the two older cats approach to listen. Downwind from them, she had listened, too, then had beat it for the Jaguar, leaping in while Gramps was still precariously descending the tree. And now she was being borne away who-knew-where, in a car racing way too fast and she couldn't jump out and she was getting pretty scared. Was regretting, not for the first time, what Wilma called her impetuous nature.
"Who from San Andreas?" Joe said, feeling defeated and cross. "Who else besides this Uncle Hurlie? Who was the old man talking about?"
"I don't… There's Ryan's pickup, just pulling in." As Ryan parked and swung out of the truck, the gray dog leaped out too, coming to heel. And Dallas stepped out of the station as if he had been waiting for them.
The detective looked the dog over. "You
Grinning, Dallas stepped away. "Looks like he's found his home." He looked down at Ryan. "You doing okay? You all right about what's ahead of you?"
"I guess. There's nothing I can do about it. Have you… You haven't been in touch with Harper?"
"He called, the murder's been on the San Francisco news. He and Charlie are coming back, canceling the cruise."
"Oh, damn! Because of me. Because of Rupert- and the bombing. Why does this have to spoil their honeymoon?"
Dallas squeezed her shoulder. "One of life's nasty tricks. One big, double calamity, sandwiched in with the good stuff." He knelt and beckoned the dog to him. Not until Ryan released him with a command, did Rock approach, sniffing Dallas's hand. The detective looked up at her. "You're going to keep him."
"I can't, Dallas. I don't…"
"He's pretty protective already, a little work and he could be useful."
"I don't need protection."
He just looked at her.
"Hanni-Hanni loaned me a gun."
"I don't need to know that. You could build a fence up that back hill for him, I'm sure Charlie wouldn't mind."
"Let's go in. I told Hanni I'd meet her up at the Landeau place in an hour, there's some kind of water problem. Leaky skylight, Hanni said."
"You've never installed a leaky skylight."
She tugged on his arm, heading for the station. "I'm losing my nerve. I'm not looking forward to this."
By the time they entered through the bulletproof glass doors, the cats were high in the oak outside the boy's window. Hidden among the leaves, they listened to the
No one spoke. They heard a sudden intake of breath and a doggy huff, then the scrabbling of claws on concrete. Warily they peered down through the bars.
Ryan sat alone on the end of the boy's cot. The boy stood rigid, his back to the wall, staring at her with rage as he held up an arm halfheartedly fending off the dog who, wild with joy, was leaping and pressing against him, his whine soft, his short tail madly wagging. Ignoring him, Curtis's cheek was touched with shine. Was the kid crying-or was that dog spit?
Ryan watched him evenly. "What's his real name, besides Rock?"
"How would I know? He's a stray. Why did you bring him here? What do you mean, his real name?"
"He rode down in the truck with you."
"So he got in the truck. What was I supposed to do, shove him out? And what difference? He don't belong to no one-he don't belong to
"He's a beautiful dog. I can see he's your buddy."
"Do I look like he's my buddy? What do you want?"
"He rode down with you, so I figure you're responsible for him. You want him running the streets, hit by a car on the highway? That would be ugly, Curtis."
"So take him home with you."
"I can't keep him. I live in a small apartment, I have no yard for a dog."
"Feed him, he'll stay around."
"I can't let him run loose. If I knew where he lived…"
Curtis just looked at her.
"I could take him back to San Andreas, to his owners, or to the people you were staying with."
No answer. The dog licked Curtis's face then looked past him through me bars, watching someone. In a moment there was a stirring at the cell door, and the air was filled with the smell of hamburgers and fries.
The blond, matronly dispatcher, glancing in at Ryan, handed a large paper bag through the bars. Boy and dog sniffed as one, eyeing the grease-stained bag.
Tearing open the bag, Ryan spread it out on the bunk, revealing four burgers, a box of fries, a large box of onion rings and a tall paper cup that, when the boy began to drink, left a smear of chocolate across his lip. Curtis didn't wait to be asked. Gulping most of the first burger, he slipped a few bites to the dog. Ryan said, "If you can't tell me where he lives, I'll have to take him to the pound."
Curtis glanced around the tiny cell as if thinking the dog could stay there.
"I work all day, Curtis. I can't keep him. Maybe the pound will find him a home before they have to gas him."
For the first time, the boy's defiance faltered. "You looked all over up there for his owner. There's no way you'd take him to the pound."
"I have no choice, unless I can find his owner. I'd drive him back up to San Andreas, to people who'd take care of him, if you'll tell me where. Otherwise it's a cage at the pound and maybe the gas chamber."
"Try me. I can't keep him, and I don't know anyone who can. I'd rather take him home. If I have to, I'll call the weimaraner breeder's association. They'd have the name of the registered owner."
The boy nearly flew at her. "You can't! They'll kill him."
The boy reverted to glaring. Beside him, the dog's brow wrinkled as he looked from one to the other, distressed by their angry voices.
"You want to fill me in, Curtis? Tell me where he belongs?"
"The dog's a stray. I meant-the place I was staying, they… they don't like dogs. They ran him off."
"Where were you staying, Curtis? Who were you staying with?"
Curtis turned his back, and said no more. The cats were nearly bursting, wanting to shout the name Hurlie, burning to tell Ryan about the uncle that the old man wanted so badly kept secret.
Ryan stayed with the boy for perhaps half an hour more, but nothing was forthcoming. She gave up at last and left the cell. The cats could hear her talking with Dallas, out near the dispatcher's cubicle, then their voices faded as if they had headed back to his office. "Maybe," Joe said, "Ryan's cell phone is in the truck, and we can fill them in about Hurlie?"
"She'll have locked it," Dulcie said. "But she's meeting Hanni. Hanni leaves her phone in the car with the top down."
Joe Grey smiled.
Dropping from the oak tree, they crossed the parking lot running beneath parked cars and leaped into the back of Ryan's truck, settling down beneath the tarp ready for a ride up the hills.
A cat, at best, is not long on patience. Ask any sound sleeper whose cat tramps across his stomach at three in the morning demanding to be let out to hunt. Joe Grey was fidgeting irritably by the time they saw Ryan coming. Burrowing flat as pancakes beneath the folded tarp, they were glad that Rock had taken over the front seat, that he wouldn't leap into the truck bed nosing at their hiding place.
But as it turned out, it would be Rock who would nose out, for the cats, the connection between the church bomber and Rupert Dannizer's killer.
Ryan was pulling out of the parking lot when a horn honked. The cats didn't peer out from beneath the tarp, but when she slowed the truck they heard Clyde's voice over the sound of the idling antique Chevy.
"Can I do anything?" he said quietly.
"Thanks, but it's all in hand-at the moment."
"You okay?"
"So far. Just on my way over to the Landeau place to meet Hanni."
Clyde's car moved ahead a little. "Free for dinner?"
"Matter of fact, I am. That would be nice-something early? Burgers and a beer? And we can go over some last-minute details on tomorrow's work. Could I come by for you, and put this fellow in your yard?"
"Sounds good, and you can tell me about him. Around six?"
"See you then."
Clyde pulled out, shifting gears. As he drove away, and Ryan turned into the street, Joe's thoughts returned to the Farger clan, to Curtis's uncle Hurlie. Riding beside Dulcie half-smothered by the tarp, he was all twinges and prickling fur, the San Andreas connection compelling and urgent. Did Gramps get the makings for the bomb up in San Andreas with the help of Hurlie? Hurlie gave that lethal package to Curtis, and Curtis carried it down to Molena Point in the back of Ryan's truck? Curtis delivers the gunpowder or whatever in Ryan's truck, Gramps makes up the bomb, then sends Curtis up on the roof to set it off.
Of course the law would be onto it. Now that Ryan had found a connection between Curtis and San Andreas, Garza and Harper would be onto it like pointers on a covey of quail.
But was the law missing one piece of vital information? As far as Joe could tell, they had no clue yet about Hurlie Farger. Or, if they knew that Hurlie existed, they apparently didn't know that he was in San Andreas, that
But Joe forgot Hurlie as Ryan turned into the drive before the Landeau cottage. As she pulled up to park, the big dog began to lunge at the window, leaping at the half-open glass roaring and snarling, pawing to get out.
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