Cat Breaking Free

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Now the two cats lay comfortably on a warm, tarred rooftop across the street from the Gardenview Inn, scanning the windows and balconies hoping to spot Slayter. Kit had not heard which room. They knew better than to call and ask for a guest's room number; no respectable hotel would divulge that information. The building was a creamy stucco of Mediterranean style, three stories high, topped by a low, red clay roof and a dozen chimneys, implying that each large room boasted a fireplace. In the center of the long building three steps led up to an entry that opened directly into a small, bright lobby-they could see through it to glass doors at the back, opening out again to a garden and terrace between beds of roses. "You want to do the diversion?" Joe said. "Or shall I?"

  Dulcie sighed. "You do it. I'll slip up on the desk, see if I can find the room number."

  "Dulcie, if you don't quit worrying about the kit, I swear…"

  "She could be in trouble."

  "And if she is? How do you propose we find her out on a thousand acres of open land?"

  "Lucinda and Pedric have gone looking."

  "Lucinda and Pedric have a car."

  "We could…"

  Joe sat back down on the warming black rooftop, looking hard at her. "She's a big cat now. She is not a kitten anymore."

  "But that Stone Eye… If she… I'm sorry, Joe. I just can't get it out of my mind that she needs us."

  "That's the mothering instinct. If you want to go look for her, fine. Maybe you can find Lucinda and Pedric, join up with them. I'm going to find that gun or whatever Chichi's looking for."

  Dulcie sighed again, and followed Joe as he dropped down onto a copper awning, then to a raised planter, and to the street and across on the heels of a half dozen tourists.

  Earlier this morning, coming from home, she had detoured by the Greenlaws' second-floor terrace, had stood pressed against the glass door, looking in. The old couple's apartment had been dark and empty. Wilma had said they were out searching. And Wilma would be, too, Dulcie thought, except that she was the only reference librarian on duty this morning. Trotting with Joe across the street, she paused beneath a little bench. She watched him strut into the lobby and on through, bold as brass, and out the back to the patio. In a moment, his tomcat yells and blood-curdling screams filled the hotel, the street, the block.

  Joe himself couldn't be seen among the roses; but with creative mimicking and plenty of pizzazz, he produced a fight between two tomcats that was so real, it was all she could do not to run before the two beasts found her. Gathering her wits, she watched the clerk and two more women hurry out into the patio with rolled-up newspapers, and one with a plastic wastebasket, which she filled with water at an outdoor tap.

  The minute the lobby was empty she raced in and leaped to the desk, landing practically on top the guest register. She was pawing through, wondering how long ago Slayter had registered, how far back she'd have to turn the pages-and was keeping an eye on Joe in case those three women grabbed him- when Slayter himself appeared in the doorway, coming in from the street. Swallowing a hiss, Dulcie dropped behind the desk, then wondered why she'd done that. She was a cat, a dumb and simple cat!

  In a moment she hopped casually up onto a file cabinet among untidy stacks of papers and books. Crouching where she could see through the window to the back garden, she pretended to pay no attention to Slayter. How could someone so handsome make her so uneasy?

  He was dressed in pale slacks, sleek dark loafers, a dark shirt and a tan suede blazer. Pausing in the small lobby, looking out the window, he watched with amusement the scene in the garden. The three women had chased Joe up out of their reach onto a high wall. There the tomcat crouched among a tangle of ivy, licking angrily at his drenched coat. Slayter's grin had turned sly and, she thought, cruel-his amusement made Dulcie's fur crawl.

  She hadn't yet found his room number; as Slayter moved on toward the hall, she came out from behind the desk and sat down where she could see the elevator. She watched him enter, then watched the dial; when its swinging arm stopped on three, she fled for the stairs that peeked out from behind the elevator's confining walls.

  Racing up the two carpeted flights, she heard the elevator stop above her, heard the door open and close. As she hit the last step panting, she heard a door slam down the hall to her left. Peering around the corner, she scanned the hall in both directions.

  Empty to her left, a maid's cart far down to her right. No maid in sight, but near it the door to one room stood open. Turning away toward the sound of Slayter's slamming door, she scented along the thick carpet, her nose and taste filled with the freshly laid smell of good leather and expensive, musky aftershave, the same aroma that had accompanied Slayter through the lobby. The trail ended at 307. On down the hall a narrow, carved table supported a potted plant beneath a large mirror with an old, hand-carved frame such as she had seen in the expensive antiques shops. Padding into the shadow beneath the table, she sat down, considering Slayter's closed door.

  The room was on the west, so would overlook the garden. She wondered if Slayter had been sufficiently entertained by the tomcat's plight to be standing at the window now, looking down with that unpleasant smile. She hoped, if that was the case, that Joe got the hell out of there. How long would Slayter be in his room? If she waited until he left, and she was quick, could she slip in behind his heels?

  If she failed at that, surely she could get in when the maid came to do up the room-but who knew how soon that would be?

  Kit's notion that there was something in his room that Chichi wanted might be all wild imagination. Except that Chichi had searched Abuela's house. Was the object of her search the gun she hadn't found? Whatever, there was surely something definitely "off" about Chichi's behavior-fawning all over Clyde, her dislike and aggression toward Joe, her surveillance and partner status in Luis's crime plans. Her appearance running from the jewelry store with the black bag that later showed up in Luis's pocket, then her search of Abuela's house.

  But then she had helped Clyde to free them all from the cage, and that puzzled Dulcie; except maybe Clyde had really forced her to do that. Edging deeper into the shadows beneath the little table, she curled down, waiting for Slayter, intent on getting into his room-and hoping Joe had made his sodden escape.

  36

  Half an hour after Dulcie settled among the shadows to watch Roman Slayter's door, Joe found her there asleep on the hall carpet beneath the little table. Having waited for her in the garden as he cleaned himself up, after that fool woman threw water on him, he had at last gone looking for her. If she'd gotten into Slayter's room, she'd better be well hidden. From the garden wall, he'd seen Slayter up at a third-floor window, sitting as if at a table. Then when he'd tracked Dulcie through the lobby and up the stairs, there she was asleep in the hall. He nudged her.

  She woke at once. "Where have you been? He's in there." "I know, I saw him from the garden, sitting by the window with the TV on. What's to watch, in the daytime? The soaps? He made two phone calls, and answered three; I could just hear the phone ringing, and saw him pick up. Could you hear anything? But you were asleep."

  "I wish you'd stayed awake. I'd give a case of caviar to know what those calls were. So many pieces that don't add up."

  "They never add up until the last shoe drops, the last mouse runs out of the hole."

  Joe settled down beside her. They were softly whispering, patiently watching Slayter's door, when a door just beyond them flew open and a second maid came out, wheeling her squeaky cart. She passed by three closed doors with DO NOT DISTURB signs on them, and knocked at 307.

  "Housekeeping."

  "Come in," Slayter called. She used her passkey, then flipped down the little doorstop to hold the door open. The cats, scrunching down beside the cleaning cart, were ready to make a dash inside when they heard the elevator humming, heard it stop at the third floor. Heard its door slide open and soft footsteps coming their way along the carpet, and they smelled the sweet, flowery scent of Chichi Barbi's per
fume. Hunching smaller, they stared at each other. Joe ducked his head down to hide his white nose and chest and paws.

  Chichi hesitated beside the maid's cart; then everything happened at once: They heard Slayter inside talking with the maid, heard the closet door slide open, heard him coming. Swift as a cat herself, Chichi drew back into the recess of the door to the ice machine. She watched, unseen, as Slayter left his room and went on down the hall, carrying a newspaper. The minute he stepped into the elevator and the door closed, Chichi came out and stood listening.

  The maid was in Slayter's bathroom, running the water as she cleaned. Chichi slipped quickly in. Joe and Dulcie followed, strolling in behind her between the cart and the door. They stood watching as Chichi tossed the room. She checked beneath the mattress, which was on a solid platform, shook out the tangled bedding to glance underneath, then dropped it in a heap.

  Stepping to the open closet she did a thorough job on his suitcase that stood inside on a stand, and on the hanging clothes. Fast and efficient, she was heading across to the windows when the maid came out of the bathroom.

  "Hi!" Chichi said brightly, not missing a beat. "Roman sent me back up to find his jacket, he's waiting in the lobby. The blue one, but it isn't here. Could it be in the bathroom?"

  "There's no jacket in there," the Latino maid said suspiciously, moving toward the phone. Quickly she picked it up, but before she could call security, Chichi was gone-and so were Joe and Dulcie. Chichi out the door, the cats behind the open draperies.

  It was there they found the gun, in a hiding place so efficient that no maid would be apt to look. Maybe no one would discover it unless they were doing electrical repairs-or had their nose to the carpet.

  Except a cop. Any cop would spot the loose carpet in the corner behind the draperies-but the cats were aware of more than that. They crouched in the corner excitedly sniffing the faint, distinctive scent, trying to close their ears against the violent roar of the maid's vacuum cleaner. They stared down at the loose carpet beneath their paws; Dulcie patted at it, her green eyes wide. Joe nosed at the crack where the carpet met the wall, where the rug did not lie snugly-where it had been lifted, then secured back in place. He clawed it back to get his teeth in, and pulled with a ripping sound.

  "Double-sided tape," Dulcie whispered, and they pulled back the carpet to look at the floor beneath.

  The plywood floor had been cut into a six-inch square, as if removed and then replaced. The wall at the corner was lumpy, too, as if it had also been cut, then repaired and replastered. "Old building," Dulcie said. "Older than the wing that goes along the end of the garden. Maybe when it was built, they had to make some changes here in the wiring?"

  Together they clawed the plywood up. It fitted so snugly it was hard to remove without ripping out a claw. Beneath it, a black hole gaped, filled with wiring and with a plastic pipe running through. Concealed back beneath the old part of the floor, half hidden by wiring, lay a dark handgun, a plain blue semi-automatic with a dark grip. They could see that the clip was in. As their eyes adjusted, they could see the round silver S-and-W logo of Smith and Wesson on the grip. The cats looked at each other and smiled. Slayter had discovered an excellent hiding place-except for the nosiness of cats.

  They had no way of knowing if the gun was loaded without removing the clip, and neither was about to try that. "I told you there was a gun," Dulcie said. "That Chichi was searching for a gun. What do we do now?"

  Before Joe could answer, the loud, brassy blast of a jazz trumpet drowned even the roar of the vacuum, bursting up from the courtyard.

  "It's starting," Dulcie said. "The first bands must be set up."

  "The streets will be wall-to-wall traffic, the sidewalks a forest of feet."

  "But it's only just past noon. Luis wouldn't hit those shops this time of day?" She stared down into the hole, at the gun. "What'll we do with it? Leave it here or…?"

  "We're not handling that thing. You want to haul that over the roofs? Besides, we can't move evidence. You know that."

  "Was evidence what Chichi was looking for?"

  "Whatever, the cops need to find it right here." Slipping the plywood back into place, he pressed the carpet flat over it. Sudden silence beyond the drapery, then little rustles of fabric told them the maid was making the bed. They listened as she plumped the pillows and moved around as if straightening the folders on desk and table. At last they heard the welcome squeak of wheels as she moved the cart, the click as she snapped the doorstop up, then the door slammed closed. They heard her turn the handle, testing the lock, then blessed silence. They'd have the room to themselves until Slayter returned.

  Slipping out from behind the drapery, Joe leaped to the nightstand, pressed the phone for an outside line, and punched in Harper's private number. Quickly he gave Harper the location and told him where the gun was hidden. He wished he understood Chichi's role in this. If she was working with Luis, and apparently with Slayter, then why was she snooping? The only answer that came to mind was far too simple, and didn't seem to fit Chichi. Sure didn't fit her past behavior, ripping Clyde off. Across the room, Dulcie reared up against the door, working at the knob.

  She had turned it and was swinging on it, ready to kick it open, when the door flew violently open. Joe thought she was crushed as Slayter hurried in; but she twisted and leaped out behind him, and was gone. Joe had time only to drop into the thin space between the bed platform and the wall, a crack that had been left to allow the bedside lamps to be plugged in, a space so narrow he had to wriggle to get in at all, and then could hardly breathe. He felt trapped there, and he sure was trapped in the room with Slayter. He hoped Dulcie wouldn't linger out in the hall or try to get him out. At least he wasn't crouched in the corner on top of the gun, in case Slayter went for it.

  And Slayter did just that. Joe heard him pull the drapery back, heard the ripping sound as he pulled the carpet up, a screech as he lifted the plywood. To the accompaniment of the welcome noise, Joe slid on through to the far side of the bed nearest the door, and reared up to peer up over the bed.

  He watched Slayter remove the clip and check it, replace it, and jack one into the chamber. Watched him slide the gun into a body holster beneath his jacket. As he turned, Joe dropped down again, backing deeper into the space between bed and wall.

  This time when Slayter left the room the man moved so swiftly, barely cracking the door open, that Joe almost didn't make it. Scorching out behind Slayter's ankles without brushing against his leg, Joe followed on his heels. He meant to streak across the hall and in through the open door of the room that was marked ICE MACHINE-but Slayter headed that way, moving directly into the soft-drink room and through it, and through a door marked MAINTENANCE. He heard Slayter's hard shoes climbing the concrete stairs that would be used by maintenance to access all floors, stairs that probably led to the roof, to the vents and heating equipment. Had Dulcie gone that way? He heard the heavy door at the top slam, a door that sounded too heavy for Dulcie to have opened.

  Joe didn't like going up on the roof with Slayter, even if he could get the door open. But if Dulcie was there…

  And, he had told Harper where the gun was hidden, but now it wasn't there. Slayter was wearing it, and if an officer approached him…

  Had he seen a house phone on top the little table in the hall? But you couldn't call out on a house phone. Slipping back into the hall, he could see the cleaning cart down at the far end. Racing down, he paused by the open door, listening to water running and the TV tuned into a Spanish station. Before he could think better of it, he was inside the room and on the desk, punching in Harper's number. It crackled when Harper answered.

  "He retrieved the gun. Wearing it in a shoulder holster, left side. He's gone up on the roof." He waited to be sure Harper wouldn't ask him to repeat, then hung up and was gone, out into the hall again, his nose filled with the stink of disinfectant-and he headed fast for the roof.

  37

  Cars lined the curbs and
filled the streets, creeping slower than a cat would walk. Dulcie sat on the roof of the Gardenview Inn waiting for Joe and beginning to worry. She grew more certain each minute that she should go back, that Slayter had caught him. Below her in the street, drivers held up the single lines of traffic to let people out onto crowded sidewalks. The cacophony of a dozen jazz bands made her ears ache. Any sensible cat would be home, hiding under the bed among the dust mice.

  Dulcie loved the beat of the old classic jazz-she'd just like it not all mixed together. She was so awash in Dixieland that she felt giddy. Where was Joe? At last, losing patience, she spun around and raced back across the hotel's tile roof to the little raised portion of the building that housed the stairwell-but before she could try to fight the door open, she heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

  Fleeing away among the shadows of the chimneys, she watched the door swing in, and Roman Slayter emerge. He left the door cracked, did not let the latch click. Moving to the edge of the roof, he stood considering the street below.

  Had Slayter locked Joe in his room? But Joe could get out, he could turn the knob just as she had-if he hadn't hurt Joe. In a sudden panic, she crouched to leap for the door; she drew back when it began to swing open again, this time without sound.

  Joe Grey emerged silently behind Slayter, glancing across the roof to Dulcie.

  Slayter had a cell phone in his hand, and was looking away to the center of the village, across several blocks of rooftops. The cats could see, beyond an open lot where an ancient cottage had been torn down, that he had a clear view of the courthouse and PD. He could see the front of the station, and the back area beside the jail where the patrol units parked. They watched him punch in a preprogrammed call. He spoke softly.