by Tinnean
“Don’t get any ideas,” I warned the kitten. “I like this suit, and I don’t want it shredded. And pardon me for this, but I have no intention of referring to you as an ‘it’ when I call the Humane Society.” I didn’t really know how to tell a cat’s sex, but I figured balls were balls. I turned it around and raised… okay, no balls, so her tail. “With that out of the way, let’s see if your former caretaker actually got around to feeding you.” I stroked the kitten’s head and ears, and rubbed the spot under her chin. She made it obvious she liked that, slitting her eyes and purring, and I took her into the kitchen.
A can of cat food and a bowl were on the counter. I put the kitten on the floor, popped the lid off the can, and dumped the food into the bowl.
“Here you go, Pita.” I couldn’t help laughing at the temporary name. It would have been too convenient if she’d worn a collar with a name tag, but her neck was free of even a flea collar. “Now, I’ve got a couple of things to do, so stay out of my way.”
I pulled on a pair of latex gloves, went back to the door, and locked it before doing a thorough search of the apartment.
According to this complex’s listings, it came furnished, but Miss Smith/Jones/Godard’s personal belongings were gone: clothes and toiletries, books and music, knickknacks if she had any. And there was no sign of a computer.
Dammit. A dead end.
Although why the fuck had she left her pet behind?
I looked down. The kitten must have finished eating, because now she was winding herself in and out of my legs. I crouched down, and she sprang up, causing me to lose my balance and wind up on my ass. She made herself comfortable on my thigh.
She was a pretty kitten, maybe about six months old, with blue eyes that reminded me of Quinn’s mother.
Maybe I wouldn’t be calling the Humane Society. Maybe I’d give Portia this kitten as a Mother’s Day gift.
“Want to come home with me?” She butted my chin, and I assumed she had no objection. “Well, let’s see what kind of supplies you have.” She patted cautiously at the glove on my right hand, probably uncertain because of the texture. I scratched the spot between her ears, set her aside, and climbed to my feet. I might as well take whatever Miss Smith/Jones/Godard had for the kitten.
Which turned out not to be much. No bed, no toys, no scratching post, no carrier. Not even any more food. The can I’d given her must have been the last one. It was a good thing Pita was coming with me. I had a feeling Randy wouldn’t have spent a penny on her.
There was a half-filled bag of cat litter, but Miss Smith/Jones/Godard was using an Adidas shoe box as a litter pan. It was behind the door in the bathroom, piled high with litter, and the area surrounding it was covered with the clay granules. Jesus, was this kitten a shit machine?
“I saw a pet store on the way here. Looks like we’ll have to stop and pick you up some stuff.” The bowls for her food and water seemed to be cereal bowls, more appropriate for people. I washed them out and placed them next to the sink to drain. “But let me tell you something, cat. I’m not driving the car with you running around loose in it.” The last thing I needed was for her to wrap her tail around my eyes because she’d decided she liked the view from my head.
I went looking through the apartment again, this time searching for the lid to the box. I had a roll of duct tape in the glove compartment. I’d poke some holes in the box for ventilation and secure the lid with the tape, just until I could buy a cat carrier.
I found the lid under the bed. Maybe Pita had been playing with it, because otherwise I had no clue how it got there. I brought it into the dining area and left it on the table.
“Stay put, Pita.”
She opened her mouth in a soundless meow, before contorting herself, bringing her hind leg over her head in an almost ninety degree angle, and licking it industriously.
“Easy for you to say.” I found a box of trash bags under the sink in the kitchen, and I took out a bag and placed it in the trash can. Now all I had to do was get the “litter pan.”
Pita paused in what she was doing, then unwound herself and followed me into the bathroom. “This really isn’t something you need to keep track of,” I assured her. I cleaned up the scattered litter and then picked up the box.
She didn’t seem to think so. She trotted at my heels back into the kitchen and watched as I emptied the litter into the trash.
What the fuck? A baggie had fallen into the can. Drugs? “Maybe you’ve got the right idea, cat.” I retrieved it cautiously.
Not drugs. A diskette.
I had to get this home and check it out.
I stripped off the gloves, went out to the car to retrieve the duct tape, then returned and placed it and my pocketknife on the table.
Then I chucked the can and lid into the trash bag, and tied it up—I’d find a dumpster and get rid of it later—and stored it and what was left of the clean litter in the Dodge’s trunk. I couldn’t take a chance on anyone getting curious.
Back in the apartment, I punched some holes into the shoe box with my knife. I folded the knife shut, slid it into my pocket, and reached for Pita. She was fine until she realized I intended to put her in the box. That pissed her off, and she made me aware of how unhappy she was about that—I barely escaped having my hand clawed.
“This isn’t for long, I promise you!” I said as I wrestled the lid onto the box and wrapped the duct tape around it to hold it closed.
With that done, I used the cuff of my coat to pull the door shut behind me. Fortunately, Pita decided to plan her revenge in silence rather than yowl. I put the box on the front passenger seat, and the kitten and I got out of there.
***
“Goddamned son of a bitch bastard,” I growled under my breath. I’d parked the Dodge in front of my building, and now this was the third trip I’d had to make from my car up to my condo. The first one had been with Pita in the carrying case I’d bought for her, and the others were for everything else. Who’d have thought a little kitten would need so much crap?
Three hundred and fifty fucking dollars. A visit to the vet services in the pet store, where I was informed she was most likely a Maine Coon cat and if I had no plans to breed her, I should make an appointment to have her spayed. Then she was groomed, dewormed, had a microchip implanted beneath the skin at the back of her neck, and finally, had her claws trimmed. The whole process was something else that pissed her off… she turned her back on me and refused to acknowledge I was there.
Tough.
I had to find a shopping cart, because I couldn’t carry everything the sales associate assured me was essential for her to have: a bed, food and water bowls, an electric litter pan, the special litter for it, and extra waste receptacles, the carrier, toys, catnip, a cat condo I’d have to assemble....
When I got my hands on the Godard bitch, I was going to blow her fucking brains out.
I didn’t begrudge the money; I’d have had to spend at least that much on Portia for Mother’s Day anyway, but why the fuck get a pet if you weren’t going to take care of it?
Unless… I thought of the shoe box, of the people bowls. Was Pita a cover for what I’d found under the litter in the box?
Once I had everything inside, I opened the cat carrier and let Pita hop out. “Don’t get too comfortable,” I warned her. “You’re just visiting.”
I thought giving her to Portia for Mother’s Day would be a great idea. But first I’d have to find out if Portia was allergic. When she’d been brought to the emergency department of GW Hospital after that “accident” last fall, Quinn had told the ED doctor she was healthy as a horse, but did that include not having allergies? I’d check with him about that.
I fastened a black and green breakaway collar around Pita’s neck. It had a little bell on it. I didn’t want Novotny shooting her if she surprised him.
I set up the litter pan in the powder room off the entry and introduced Pita to it. Then I filled her water bowl. When Quinn and I had stopped at S
afeway the day before to get the grocery shopping done, I’d picked up some ham at the deli counter. Now I tore a slice into bite-size pieces and put them into her food bowl. She lapped at the water, sniffed the ham and then scarfed it down like it was going out of style. After she finished it, she washed her face and whiskers. Neat and tidy once more, she decided to go exploring.
She strolled into the master bedroom, her long, plush tail waving gracefully, and I followed her to see what she’d get up to. I couldn’t help smiling when she went up to Sam and swatted the piece of denim that dangled from his mouth. Quinn had given me the bronze statue of a Rottweiler last year to replace the ceramic Sam that had been destroyed when Sperling tried to break into my apartment in Forest Heights.
“Well, have fun. I’ve got things to do.” I took out the jump drive and was about to head for my study when I realized Pita was beside me. “Want to keep me company? Okay, but trust me, there isn’t anything in the study that will entertain you.”
Something was bothering her, though, because abruptly her back was arched, her ears flattened, and she stared at the French doors that opened onto the terrace and hissed. I crouched down and scooped her up.
“What’s going on?” I ran a knuckle back and forth under her chin. “There’s nothing there, cat.”
Just as abruptly, she relaxed and began to purr.
“Better now? Okay then.” I put her down. “Like I said, I’ve got something to do.” I walked into the study with Pita at my heels.
I booted up my computer and inserted the floppy, wondering if our Miss Smith/Jones/Godard had had enough smarts to encrypt it or protect it with a virus program. I wasn’t worried about that. My antivirus protection was the best R&D and Matheson could come up with.
Turned out I didn’t need to have any concerns about it, though. She was either sloppy, lazy, or in too much of a hurry to do anything but upload the documents and jpegs.
And it was all there: how Davies had approached her to undermine Matheson by whatever means necessary; how when she realized she couldn’t seduce him, she’d attempted to get past the firewalls he’d installed on his computer. How, with failure on both counts—I’d replaced her with Ms. DiNois—Davies had taken matters into his own hands.
There were copies of documents detailing Davies’s involvement with not only Sperling, but with other directors who wouldn’t have minded replacing The Boss.
I went cold. Also included was information about one Germaine Nero, who was a hit man for the diGiradi mob. The picture matched Matheson’s description: six two, one ninety, red hair and blue eyes. Huntingdon knew him as Jerry Black.
The last file contained a single document, dated this past Thursday and addressed to me.
Mr. Vincent—
My father, who was an excellent doctor, is a broken man. He sits and stares out the window but sees nothing. I blamed you for this, believing you’d ruined the sweetest, kindest man on earth. It was for this reason alone that I agreed to assist Anson Davies in his attempt to remove you from the WBIS. But you’re smarter than I gave you credit for, than Davies assured me you were. I should never have believed the Director of Public Relations.
He did help me get out of the building today, but he won’t help me any further. I have to get away from here. I’m leaving this information for you to find. If you’re as smart as everyone thinks you are, you should find it soon. What’s on this disc should settle all scores between us. I’m going to take my father away, and you’ll never hear from me again.
-Rebecca Godard
P.S. I have a degree in thermonuclear physics, among others. Did you really think I was as stupid as I acted?
I didn’t blame Godard for wanting revenge, but I did blame her for believing an asshole like Davies. If she were as smart as she claimed, she wouldn’t have.
I e-mailed the contents of the disc to The Boss, along with a note detailing what Matheson had told me. It would be his decision as to what we’d do about this whole situation.
I removed the disc from the hard drive and went to the laundry room, where I hid it away. At the same time, I removed the videotape. I had to give it to Theo and Matheson.
With that done, I gave Pita some toys to play with and opened the box that contained the cat condo. I laid out the pieces, and after about an hour, wondered if I should call Matheson to come put it together.
Pita decided what I was doing was more interesting than the catnip mouse, and she curled up on my lap to supervise.
Chapter 11
The cat condo was finally put together, and I’d only skinned my knuckles twice. I washed my hands and put on a couple of Band-Aids, then fed Pita, broiled a couple of pork chops, and baked a potato for my own dinner.
Afterward, I rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. Once the kitchen was tidied and the cardboard and bags from my shopping spree taped up to be recycled, I crouched down to have a conversation with the kitten.
“I’m going out for a few hours. Don’t get into mischief, okay?” I rubbed her head, but to be on the safe side, I made sure all the doors were closed, except for the powder room, which Pita would need access to.
I locked the door in the correct sequence and went down to get my car.
Son of a bitch! There was a sticker on it saying if I left it in front of the building one more time, the association would have it towed.
Oh yeah? Let ’em fucking try!
I ripped off the sticker, balled it up, and tossed it aside. Maybe I would run for a board position.
The drive into DC didn’t take long, and within fifteen minutes I was parking in front of the house where I’d lived a year ago.
The first floor was dark… no lights spilled out onto the sidewalk. The ladies must be either away or taking the evening off.
I climbed the steps, unlocked the front door, and let myself in.
“Well. Hello, Mark Vincent. It’s been a long time.” Tall, blonde, and curvy, Layla was one of the ladies who lived on the second floor and saw her clients on the first. I’d never been one, although she’d offered me a discount because we both lived in the same building. She’d taken it well when I’d told her I was involved with someone.
“Hi, Layla. I guess it has. How’ve you been?”
“Not bad. I’ll be getting out of the business in about a month.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“I’m getting too old for this.” She wasn’t more than twenty-five or twenty-six, but I knew what she meant.
“What will you do?”
“One of my clients is in the housing industry. She was impressed by the way I decorated the first floor and offered me a position in her firm. I’ll be staging their houses and condos. As a matter of fact, I’m going to see her for drinks right now.”
“Well, good luck. The housing market is booming now, and you may as well take advantage of it.”
“I know. Are you sure I can’t interest you in a little…?”
“Thanks, Layla, but—”
“—you’re involved.” She smiled, winked, and turned, and I watched as she headed down the stairs. She had a sweet ass, and if I ever decided to sail that side of the lake again, she might be one to tempt me. Of course the odds of that were nil while I had Quinn in my life.
I resumed my climb to the third floor.
This was an amazing house, built before the Civil War and turned into a boarding house during World War Two. The rent boys had it renovated after they’d purchased it twelve or so years ago. I’d enjoyed living here, even though my apartment was in the attic.
I thought again about what it would be like if Quinn moved in with me. Hell, I didn’t even know if he’d consider it. What I did know was that I wanted him sharing a place with me—every day, every night, and not just on the weekends.
Maybe next time I saw him, I’d casually broach the subject.
I reached the third floor landing, crossed to the apartment, and leaned on the bell.
After a minute or so, Math
eson opened the door. “Mr. Vincent.”
“Vince.” Theo was right behind him. “I wasn’t expecting to see you. Would you like a cup of coffee and some baklava?”
“Thanks, I’d like that.” It was a good enough excuse. And besides, “You make good coffee, Theo.”
“I’ll get another cup.” He seemed pleased by my compliment.
“His baklava is good.” Matheson said.
Theo preened. “You’ll try it, yes, Vince? I’ll get a dessert plate too,” he called as he headed for the kitchen.
Matheson tilted his head and stared at me. “I’m sure you didn’t come to sample Theo’s baklava.”
“No, I didn’t. I thought you might want this.” I handed him the video case.
“Is this....” I nodded. “You won’t mind if I check.” He gripped the case so hard his knuckles turned white.
I gave a brusque nod. I’d mind if he just took my word for it. He left the room.
“What’s Wills going to check?” Theo came in holding a tray with the extra cup, saucer, and plate. A cat with a short tail followed him.
“The video. I thought you might want it.”
“The…” His hand shook so hard I expected him to spill the contents of the tray onto the floor, and I caught it just in time and put it on the table. “Thanks.” He licked his lips. “… the video?”
“Yeah.”
“Why would I want it?” he asked bitterly. “To remind Wills of the kind of life I lived?”
He was really distressed, and I rested a hand on his shoulder. “It’s better you have the tape than that it’s out there for anyone to make copies of it.” Especially since this was tape number two.
“I… I guess you’re right. But the thought that he’s looking at it….” His eyes were bright with tears.