He guffawed, his laugh so loud that Dulcie backed away. But her voice was sweet and smooth as cream. "Honey, are you the handsome one?"
"You bet I am, baby. That's me." The guy bellowed a rasping laugh. "Handsome as a hound pup. Who is this? Where you calling from, honey?"
"My name's Chantelle. What's yours?"
"Baby, this is Big Buck Brewer. You calling from near here? Why don't you come on up? Have us a little conjugal visit."
Dulcie rolled her eyes at Joe. "I'm just a few blocks away, honey. Maybe if I come up there, we could party?"
"Baby, if you can figure out how to get in here, I guarantee you'll have a party."
The loudspeaker went again. "Waaalll pr-boom-boom- boom-out of the… yar-yar-yard…" And the phone clicked and went dead. Dulcie looked at Joe, her green eyes huge.
"A prison," Joe said softly.
Dulcie nodded. "Prison loudspeaker. 'All prisoners out… out of the exercise yard'?" Her eyes were wide and gleaming, her ears sharp forward. "A prison, Joe? How could we call inside a prison? What prison?"
"There's only one prison in that area code." And Joe Grey thanked the great cat god-or the great phone god-that Pacific Bell was so explicit in its billing, listing each city along with its long-distance number. "San Rafael, Dulcie. San Quentin State Prison." He showed his teeth in a wicked feline grin. "San Quentin, temporary home of every serious felon and convicted murderer in the state of California."
"But… how could we phone into a prison? Were those inmates-how could inmates answer the phone? What am I missing here? They're locked up, they're supposed to… They wouldn't have telephones."
"Right. And I don't have claws and whiskers."
She only looked at him, her green eyes wide with shock-and with growing excitement.
The kit gaped at them both. She was beyond her depth.
And Joe Grey looked like he'd swallowed a whole nest of mice. "This is from the horse's mouth, Dulcie. Straight from Harper's men, at the poker table. There are pay phones all over San Quentin. Maximum security prison, but the inmates can make a call to anyone, any time they please."
"You're putting me on."
"Not a bit. They can call out, and can receive incoming calls if they stand around and wait for them. Like, say, their outside contact calls at a prearranged time."
Dulcie shook her whiskers, her green eyes narrowed with disgust. "What's the point of putting them in prison? I thought it was to get them out of circulation. What good, if they have all that contact with the outside?"
"Exactly. But the phones are only part of it. Those prisoners have computers, e-mail, the Web, you name it."
Dulcie sighed.
"The Justice Department wants to crack down on the phones, though. Justice thinks the prisoners are making too many drug deals and orchestrating too many murders from behind bars."
"Now you're kidding."
"Dead serious."
"Too many drug deals? And just how many is too many? Too many murders?" Her tail lashed with rage. "What's happening to the world?"
"You have to make allowances. You're dealing here with humans."
"Oh, right."
"Bottom line-the state earns a lot of money from those pay phones. Harper said the take in California alone last year was something like twenty-three million bucks from prison pay phones."
"Come on, Joe."
"Knight Ridder Newspapers-the wire service," Joe said authoritatively. "Harper was so angry about it, he clipped the article to show Clyde. It gave statistics for Illinois and Florida, too. Said in Illinois, in one year, inmates placed over three million longdistance calls-and the deal with the phone company is, the state gets half the take."
Dulcie's ears went back; her eyes darkened with anger. "Why do we even bother to try to catch a killer, if that's all it means? He gets free room and board, free computers, free phones so he can do his dirty drug deals-and the state of California rakes in twenty-three million dollars." She was so worked up she growled at Joe and the kit both. "Those cons sit inside like some Mafia family in its Manhattan penthouse arranging drug sales and murdering people by remote control."
"That's about it," Joe said. "Used to be, prisoners were allowed maybe one call every three months-and those were likely monitored. Now they can use the phone all day. That's who you talked to, Dulcie, some inmate waiting for a call."
And Joe Grey smiled. "Lee Wark escaped from San Quentin, but his accomplice in the Beckwhite murder is still there-and Osborne is not on death row. Osborne's serving life. He'd have unlimited phone privileges. And he isn't the only no-good that Harper helped put in Quentin. Kendrick Mahl's there, too."
Max Harper had helped see Mahl convicted for the murder of Janet Jeannot.
Joe and Dulcie had also helped-though only two people in the world knew that.
Joe sat down on the blotter. "This could be not one felon setting up Harper, but a partnership. A whole squirming nest of rats."
"Fine," Dulcie said. "Our source of department information dried up. Harper knows no more than we do. And when we can't pass on the tiniest little tip without implicating Harper."
Joe said nothing. Pacing back and forth across the desk, his ears and whiskers were back, his scowl deep, pulling the white splotch down his face into washboard lines.
The fascinated kit lay belly-down on a stack of bills, looking from one to the other as if watching them bat a mouse back and forth.
"So how are we going to play it?" Dulcie asked. "How are we going to lay this on the new detective? Clyde's right about the phone tips. We try an anonymous tip with Garza, he thinks Harper's trying to manipulate him.
"Still," she said, "when the tip proves to be true…"
Joe rubbed his whiskers against hers. "We don't want to blow this, Dulcie. I want to think about this."
He gave her a broad grin. "I could move in with Garza."
"Oh, right. Play lost kitty, as well fed as you look?"
Joe dropped his ears, sucked in his gut, and crouched as if terrified, creeping across the desk as though someone had beaten him.
"Not bad."
"Add a little roll in the dirt, scruff up my fur, and I'm as pitiful as any homeless. You're not the only one who can play abandoned kitty."
"But you can't play stray kitty for Garza. His niece, Hanni, knows us from when she gave us a ride to Charlie's apartment. Hanni knows you're not a stray."
Joe looked sheepish. He didn't often forget such important matters.
He had to get hold of himself. This worry over Harper was fogging his tomcat brain.
"So I stroll in the front door, look Garza in the eye. Don't offer up an excuse. Make myself at home. Demand food, lodging, and respect. I think Garza could relate to that."
"I think Garza would boot you out on your furry behind."
"Or Kate can grease the wheels. She can say Clyde asked her to keep me for a few days, until the demolition is finished. Say I'm a bundle of nerves from all the noise. That I've gone off my feed. Twitching in my sleep."
Dulcie smiled.
"Once I get inside, I make friends with Garza, and I have free access. I can figure out how to let him in on the Quentin connection, if he doesn't already know."
"And what if he does know? What if he's part of it?"
He only looked at her.
"Joe, this is beginning to scare me."
"Hey, we're only cats. Who's to know any different?"
"Lee Wark would know different."
"Lee Wark isn't here. Wark wouldn't dare show his face in this village."
"So when are you moving in with this high-powered San Francisco detective?"
"Soon as I can set it up with Kate-and with Clyde," Joe said, thinking how unreasonable Clyde could be.
"Clyde's going to pitch a fit. You know how he-"
"I don't need Clyde's permission. I'm a cat, Dulcie. A free spirit. A four-legged unencumbered citizen. I don't need to answer to Clyde Damen. I'll tell him what I'm going to do, and d
o it. If I want to freeload on Garza, that's my business. It's none of Clyde's affair."
"You're getting very defensive, when you haven't even talked to Clyde yet."
Joe only looked at her. Then he dropped off the desk, beat it through the house and out the cat door.
And Dulcie sat listening to the plastic flap swinging back and forth in its little metal frame. Pretty touchy, she thought, feeling bad for Joe.
It wasn't easy to have his best line of communication dried up-and the source of that information, the man he admired so deeply, the brunt of a plot that would destroy that man. Couldn't the city attorney see this? Couldn't the movers and shakers of the city make a few allowances?
But she guessed that was part of being human-humans ideally had to stay within the law. Once they'd made the rules, the point was to follow them.
15
MID MORNING SUN washed the village with gold, laying warm fingers into Joe Grey's fur as he galloped through the streets, dodging dogs and tourists' feet. Sliding in through his cat door, he heard the washer going. The time was ten-fifteen. Maybe Harper, who had moved in last night, was getting domestic. Strolling into the laundry, he found Clyde was still home, sorting clothes, tossing the whites onto the top bunk, which belonged to the cats, and his colored shirts onto the lower bunk. The fact that the dirty clothes were picking up animal hair was of no importance in this household.
"What're you doing home?" he said softly, glancing in the direction of the spare bedroom. "Harper's not still asleep? You feeling okay? You take the day off?"
"Took the morning off. Harper's riding with one of the search groups."
Joe leaped into the bottom bunk, onto old Rube's blanket, and began to lick dust from his paws. "Has he heard anything more about the case? Anything from his officers?"
Clyde didn't answer. Continued to sort clothes.
"Well? What? You don't need to act like I'm the enemy."
"You know how I feel about your meddling."
"I'm meddling? Harper's career is on the line, his whole life is on the line, and I'm meddling? And what about the evidence we've already found?"
"What evidence? What are you talking about?"
"The barrette, Wilma's barrette. Didn't Harper…" Joe stared at Clyde. "Didn't anyone tell Harper about the barrette? The one that Wilma gave Dillon? We found it up at the Pamillon place-the kit found it."
Clyde looked blank.
"I can't believe Harper wouldn't tell you-that someone in the department wouldn't tell him. His own men…"
Clyde laid down the shirt he was clutching. "How do you know this? How do you know it was the barrette Wilma gave her? And that she was wearing it Saturday? If it was the same barrette, she could have lost it anytime. Where on the Pamillon place? She could have been up there weeks ago, fooling around, she-"
"She was wearing it that day, that was in the paper, Clyde. With a description of it-silver, with turquoise bars. Her mother said she was wearing it that morning when she dropped her at Harper's place. And Dillon had it on when she and the Marners met Harper for lunch. The waitress in the cafe remembered it. That was in the paper."
Clyde looked hard at him. "And you found the barrette. After the detectives went over that place three times."
"So?"
"They need to know that, Joe! What did you do with it? You shouldn't move evidence. Why didn't you call the department? You could at least have told me!"
"We didn't move it. We didn't touch it. The department knows about it. What do you think we are, idiots? Why in the world would we move it? Why would we disturb evidence?"
"Cut to the chase, Joe. Did you call the station? Who did you talk to? An anonymous tip right now could really mess Harper up. When was this?"
Joe glared.
Clyde sat down on the bottom bunk, ducking under the top rail. "You didn't call Garza?" He fixed Joe with a cold glare. "You didn't lay one of your anonymous phone tips on Garza. If you start this stuff with Garza…"
"Start what stuff?"
"Start these insane, unwanted, disruptive, and probably illegal telephone calls. If you start that with Garza-"
"If you really need to know, we found the barrette on Tuesday. Garza wasn't here yet. And it wasn't me who informed the department. Nor was it Dulcie."
Rising abruptly, narrowly missing a crack on the head, Clyde snatched a wad of shorts and socks from the top bunk, flung them in the washer, and turned back to scowl at Joe. "Not the kit! You didn't teach that innocent kitten to use the telephone." His face had begun to flush. "Tell me you have not laid your despicable and alarming habits on that little innocent kitten."
"It wasn't the kit. The kit is afraid of phones. She thinks telephones transmit voices from another world."
Clyde let that one go by. "Who, then? Who called the station? Not Wilma. You haven't laid your dirty work on Wilma."
"If you must know, it was Kate. We found the barrette upstairs in the nursery. Kate pretended she found it, and she reported it- told them where to find it. Do you really want to put those red T-shirts in with the white stuff? You have a sudden yearning for pink Jockey shorts?"
Clyde snatched out the offending shirts. For a long moment, both were silent. Then, "You laid that stuff on Kate?"
"For all intents and purposes, Kate found the barrette. She went directly to Molena Point PD, as any law-abiding citizen would do. I'm surprised no one at the station told you or Harper."
"They're not supposed to tell me. They're working a murder case. This is serious business. The department's not supposed to talk to Harper, either."
"Who made that rule? He ought to be able to step back without being completely cut off."
"Lowell Gedding made that rule."
Joe swallowed. "Harper needs to know about the barrette. He needs to know that Dillon got away-at least for a while."
"And I'm elected to tell him."
"Who else?"
"And how do I explain that I came by such information?"
"Kate told you, of course. Fill her in-but get your stories straight." He studied Clyde a moment, then curled up on Rube's blanket and closed his eyes. Let Clyde sort it out.
He hadn't told Clyde about their spying on Stubby Baker, and about Baker's connection to San Quentin. He had to think about that. If Harper knew, he might be so angry, and so hot to follow up, that he'd do something foolish, maybe blow the case himself.
Oh, right. Harper had been a cop all these years, to do something stupid now?
Still, with the pressure on, and Harper so rudely excluded from the information loop, who knew?
This whole scene, Joe thought miserably, made him feel like he was clinging to a broken branch that was about to fall, hard, on the concrete.
Clyde said, "Lowell Gedding has complete confidence in Garza."
Joe opened his eyes. "Confidence in him to do what?"
Clyde glared.
"Confidence that Garza will come up with evidence to clear Harper? Or that Garza will stack the evidence to please those guys on the city council who'd like to see Harper out of there? Who'd like a softer brand of law enforcement?"
"You're letting your imagination run overtime. Harper asked Gedding to call in an investigator. That had to be done, to put Max at arm's length. Harper knows Garza's reputation, he has confidence that Garza will clear him. And if Gedding wanted to dump Harper, why would he call in an outside investigator?"
"Why would he not} Make it look good. Make a solid case against Harper. An investigator who's in Gedding's pocket."
Clyde's brown eyes blazed with indignation, but then with uncertainty.
"Gedding was mighty quick to suggest Garza," Joe said. "He had Garza right on the tip of his tongue, primed and ready, when Harper suggested an outside man."
"How would you know that?"
"I heard him. Dulcie and I heard him."
Clyde poured soap into the washer and slammed the lid, closing his eyes as if in pain. "I don't want to know how you two were able to h
ear Lowell Gedding and Max Harper, in a private conversation, behind a closed door, inside Lowell Gedding's private office."
Joe Grey smiled. "What I'm telling you, Clyde, is that Gedding came up too fast with the name of Dallas Garza. As if he had it all planned." He sat up straighter, studying Clyde. "Your face is awfully red. You really ought to think about the damage that stress does to the human body. How long since you've had a checkup? You really shouldn't get yourself so tied in knots."
Clyde turned on his heel and left the laundry.
Alone, Joe pawed a nest into Rube's blanket, and settled down, considering his options.
Despite the dangers and drawbacks, moving in with this new detective was the only thing he knew to do, if he wanted a line into Molena Point PD.
He could make a run every day into the squad room. Spend his time underneath Garza's desk-until he got caught and pitched out on his furry ear.
And from beneath the desk, what would he learn? He could hear phone calls and conversations, but he'd get no look at department correspondence or at Garza's notes and reports. And as to interviews, Garza had arranged all his appointments away from the department.
Rolling on his back, he shoved Rube's blanket aside. Long-term surveillance beneath the detective's desk would be about as productive as hunting mice in a bathtub.
He was going to have to move in with Garza, give it a try, hope that Garza brought work home at night, away from the department and from the officers who were close buddies with Max Harper.
He imagined Garza, late in the evenings, making his notes and listening to his tapes in private. Quiet evenings in a cozy cottage, perfect to think over the facts, see how they added up; and a good time to place sensitive phone calls.
Particularly if he meant to frame Harper.
Clyde returned with an armful of sheets, tossing them practically on top of Joe. "What are you grinning about?"
He stepped atop the pile of wrinkled bedsheets. "Why would I be grinning? This situation is not a matter for levity."
Clyde began to sort through his dark shirts, dousing spot remover liberally on shirt fronts and inside collars, forcing Joe to endure a fit of sneezing.
"Tell me something, Joe. I know I'm opening a can of worms here. But what, exactly, is your take on the Marner murders? What do you think happened up there?"
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