PACING HIS CELL, Stubby Baker looked mad enough to chomp the metal bars, with the sort of rage that made men trash hotel rooms and beat their wives. Baker might be a handsome, boyish-looking fellow, Dulcie thought, with a smile to charm the ladies, but none of that was apparent at the moment. The two cats, looking down at Baker from the high open window, watched Baker's attorney leave the cell and the guard slam and lock the door.
Bars and wire mesh covered the window. The wire-reinforced glass had been cranked open to the warm afternoon. On the sill, Joe and Dulcie crouched beneath the higher branches of the oak tree that sheltered the dead-end alley, the back door of the police station, and the jail. The tree was their highway, their path to all manner of case-related information. It was huge, with rough bark, sprawling twisted limbs bigger around than a cat, and dark prickly leaves. One had only to leap from its sturdy branches to the broad sill to observe the daily lives of the duly incarcerated. A cat could eavesdrop on any conversation that might occur among the residents or between an offender and his jailer or lawyer. The discussion that had just terminated between Baker and his portly attorney had been strictly confidential. The cats grinned at each other, amply rewarded for their three-hour wait atop the hard concrete sill.
Baker was enraged that he'd been picked out of the lineup. Was furious that Crystal had double-crossed him, that she had been hiding Dillon all along. He was mad that Kendrick Mahl and Jimmie Osborne had instructed Crystal to pay him only half the agreed amount, claiming that Wark, not he, had done Ruthie Marner. He said Wark had not been part of the deal, that Wark's escape from Quentin didn't mean he had a right to horn in on a private business arrangement. The attorney, scratching his pale, stubbled cheek, couldn't have agreed more; but he reminded Baker that he had been picked out of the lineup, that morning. When the potbellied, bearded lawyer said he was considering how to deal with that little setback, Joe glanced at Dulcie and nearly yowled out a bawdy cat laugh.
The lineup, in which Dillon fingered Baker as Helen's killer, had, in the cats' opinion, been a highly entertaining occasion.
Garza had gathered seven tall, thin people into one of the station's conference rooms, all dressed alike in worn Levi's, western shirts, and boots, their identical western hats pulled low over their faces, and the collars of their jeans jackets pulled up. The subjects had included Stubby Baker, Max Harper, Crystal Ryder sans makeup and with her hair pulled up under her hat, and four strangers whom Dillon wasn't likely to know. Dillon's parents had wanted to be with the child, but Dillon had opted to view the group alone, with only Detective Garza and two attending officers present.
She had not deliberated for more than a moment.
The cats, sneaking into the station during the change of watch, slipping under officers' desks and back through the squad room, had managed to stay out of sight until they were safely concealed beneath the last row of chairs in the appointed conference room. They had peered out at the lineup fascinated. The tall figures, all dressed like the killer, were alarmingly alike, their arms hidden by the long sleeves of their jackets, only small portions of their lean faces visible beneath the broad-brimmed hats. It was hard to tell which was Max Harper-until they looked at the eyes.
The killer's eyes spoke to Dillon, too, the dark, mesmerizing eyes of Stubby Baker. Dillon rose from her chair and drew close, looking up at Baker, then stepped back quickly, swallowing.
"That man. It was that man who killed Helen Marner."
"Are you sure?" Garza asked her.
"Yes. That man, riding the captain's horse." She had gone pale, looking at Baker. Baker's eyes on Dillon burned with such rage that Joe Grey feared for the child. And as he was led away, he cut a look at Harper, standing in the lineup, a fierce and promising stare that chilled Joe.
But Baker would be locked up now, where he couldn't reach Harper or Dillon. And before anyone left the room, the cats had slipped out and raced down the hall, and out to the courthouse lawn, to roll over, purring.
They had contributed in a major way to Max Harper's exoneration. They had discovered Crystal's purchase of Helen's duplex and had found Crystal's phone tapes and gotten them to Garza. The kit had found the barrette, by which Officer Wendell helped to incriminate himself when he didn't report it. They had, most important of all, found Dillon and called in the troops, who had gotten her to safety.
"And," Dulcie whispered, "you very likely prevented Crystal from sneaking down into the Pamillon cellar-from surprising Harper and Charlie.
"You were wonderful," she said. "I was so worried when you left the cellar. But if Crystal had come down there, who knows what might have happened?" She rubbed her whiskers against his. "If Harper hadn't seen you streaking up the steps, he wouldn't have been there to fire those shots and scare away the cougar."
Joe Grey smiled. He felt pretty good about life. And he would far rather see Crystal stand trial than see the puma kill her, if only for the sake of her testimony.
But also, because a cougar who kills a human is in deep trouble. And while he feared the big cat, Joe respected him.
The cats had visited Crystal, over in the women's wing, before settling down to spy on Baker. She'd been in a worse mood than Baker. And she looked like hell, Dulcie had observed with satisfaction.
The bandages on her shoulder and arm were clearly visible now under her loose prison smock, her honey-colored hair was limp and oily, her dimpled smile replaced by a scowl. Her orange prison jumpsuit made her skin sallow. While they watched her, she spoke to none of her neighbors in the adjoining cells, and no one came to see her. They had grown bored at last and headed for Baker's cell, but they were not the only eavesdroppers.
Attached to the cell window, in a position where it could not be spotted by the inmate, was a tiny tape recorder, the smallest model Joe had ever seen. Property of Molena Point PD, it had been in position when they arrived on the windowsill. It appeared to be the kind of machine activated by sound, that would stop recording during periods of silence. The grid for its microphone was directed downward toward the cell. The recorder smelled of hand lotion, the brand worn by Detective Kathleen Ray. Joe was shocked at Kathleen, and highly amused.
There was nothing illegal about a police department installing such a recorder on its own premises. Once a citizen was arrested, the privilege of privacy ceased to exist. The cops had every right- except for the present meeting.
Conversations between a client and his attorney were privileged information-could not legally be recorded.
Kathleen had to know that, Joe had thought, studying the small machine.
But he needn't have worried about Detective Ray's intentions. The conversation between Baker and his attorney was not recorded; the machine didn't activate. Joe thought Kathleen Ray must have been watching for the attorney, and must have a remote control in the station. When the lawyer left, Joe hissed into the machine, and the tape started rolling. It stopped when he stopped. He wondered what Kathleen had taped, what would be added to Dallas Garza's report.
Baker had been formally charged with murder, and Crystal Ryder with three counts of conspiracy to commit murder, and with kidnapping.
Lee Wark was languishing once again in San Quentin, nursing his wounds-about which Joe and Dulcie had done considerable speculation. Wark was facing, as well as the state's charge of escape, a charge of murder in the first degree. Wark's blood had been found on Ruthie Marner, and fibers from his sweater on her clothes.
And Joe Grey felt warm and smug. Three no-goods were about to receive the benefits of the American legal system, the system they had tried to manipulate.
The cats had come to the jail directly from the courthouse, from a gathering in Lowell Gedding's office in which they had again assumed the roles of unseen observers, behind the curtain of the bay window.
The city attorney had called the small group together to ease tension among those involved, to clear the air and set matters to rights before the trial began. Those present had included Molena Point Chief of Police Max Harper, duly reinstated; his officers and detectives; San Francisco detective Dallas Garza; Dillon Thurwell and her parents and a few of their close friends; four members of the Marner family; the mayor and five members of the city council; and Clyde Damen, Charlie Getz, and Wilma Getz, who had sat with their backs to the bay window, effectively blocking any chance glimpse of its occupants.
Gedding had made no accusations as to possible collusion among the city council and the offenders. No innuendos slipped into his statement, yet the cats observed a coolness on Gedding's part, as if perhaps in the next election he might do some heavy campaigning against certain council members. Joe Grey had watched the proceedings with a more-than-relieved air.
The night before, he'd had a nightmare that left him mewling like a terrified kitten. He'd dreamed he was in Judge Wesley's courtroom, that Max Harper stood before the bench facing the judge not as a police officer called to testify, but to be sentenced himself for first-degree murder. The nightmare had been so real that Joe had waked fighting the blanket, growling and hissing with rage.
"Stop it, Joe! What's wrong?" Clyde had poked him hard. "What's the matter with you!"
He'd awakened fully, to find himself lashing out at Clyde. Shocked, he'd stared confused at Clyde's lacerated hand.
"Wake up, you idiot cat! Are you awake? Are you having a fit? You clawed me! What's wrong with you!"
From the angle of the moonlight seeping in under the window shade, he'd guessed the time at about 2:30. Rising up among the rumpled blankets, he was still seeing the Molena Point courtroom, watching Max Harper sentenced to life in prison.
A dream.
It had been only a dream.
He'd tried to explain to Clyde how real the vision had been. His distress must have gotten to Clyde, because Clyde got up, went down the hall to the kitchen, and fixed him a bowl of warm milk. Carrying it back to the bedroom, Clyde let him drink it on the Persian throw rug, one of the few really nice furnishings in their rough-hewn bachelor pad.
"That was very nice," Joe had said, licking his whiskers and yawning.
"You didn't spill on the rug?"
"I didn't spill on the rug," he snapped. "Why can't you ever do anything nice without hassling me?"
"Because you spill, Joe. You slop your food, and I have to clean it up. Shut up and come back to bed. Go to sleep. And don't dream anymore-you don't need bad dreams. Harper's been cleared. He's back home, back at work, and all is well with the world. Go to sleep."
"The trial hasn't started yet. How do you know-"
"Go to sleep. With the amount of evidence the department has, what's to worry? Much of that evidence," Clyde said, reaching to lightly cuff him, "thanks to you and Dulcie and the kit."
That compliment had so pleased and surprised him that he'd curled up, purring, and drifted right off to sleep.
But then, all through the meeting in Gedding's office, which amounted mostly to friendly handshakes and smiles, and then later hearing practically a confession from Stubby Baker, he still found it hard to shake off the fear-hard to shake the feeling that this was not a good world with some bad people in it, but a world where any decency was temporal. Where any goodness was as ephemeral and short-lived as cat spit on the wind.
In the cell below them, the lawyer had left, and Joe was prodding Dulcie to do the same when Officer Wendell came along the hall, pausing at Baker's bars.
Wendell looked like he'd slept in his uniform. He spoke so softly that the cats had to strain to hear. Joe glanced at the tape. It was running.
"Mahl called," Wendell said.
"So?" Baker snarled.
"So if you involve him in this, you're dead meat. Said he has people out and around. If you make a slip, you're history."
"Oh, right. And what about you?"
"There's nothing to pin on me."
Baker smiled.
"What?"
Baker lay back on his bunk looking patently pleased with himself. Wendell turned a shade paler-making Joe and Dulcie smile.
Dallas Garza had plenty of evidence to tie Wendell to the murders and to the attempt to frame Harper: Wendell did not file Betty Eastman's report that she had seen Captain Harper the afternoon of the murder. Wendell did not file Mr. Berndt's report about Crystal's grocery-buying habits, and he did not put Dillon's barrette into evidence until Garza asked him about it. And no one even knew, yet, that Wendell had been in Crystal's apartment looking for Dillon the night that she escaped.
If there was anything Joe Grey hated, it was a cop gone bad.
But now, he thought, glancing at Kathleen's little tape recorder, now the department had additional evidence against Officer Wendell.
"Very nice," he whispered, winking at Dulcie. And they leaped into the tree and down, and went to hunt rabbits.