The Bengal Identity

by Eileen Watkins

  Sarah had taught high school herself, though not in Chadwick, and her son Jay still did, so I could understand why such a scenario troubled her. “Well, they say it’s not dangerous unless it’s disturbed. They’re just removing it now because they want to renovate—”

  I heard Sarah catch her breath, and she turned her phone toward me. “Cassie, look!”

  Leaning nearer, I saw what appeared to be a police sketch of Rudy Pierson with wide, staring eyes and a slack-jawed face. The headline beneath stated:

  STILL NO ID ON VICTIM OF DEADLY HIT-AND-RUN

  Chapter 4

  This wasn’t my first visit to the Chadwick Police Station, but it was my first time in an interrogation room. Sitting alone Wednesday morning, at a metal table in the stark, white-cinderblock space, put me on edge. Even though I certainly wasn’t suspected of any crime.

  I relaxed a bit when Detective Angela Bonelli entered and took the chair opposite mine. It helped that she’d brought coffee for both of us and actually remembered that I took milk and sweetener.

  I tasted it and smiled. Hazelnut, probably from the little red Keurig unit she kept in her office.

  Bonelli wore her virtual uniform of a navy pantsuit with a tailored blouse—pale yellow today. Her dark, chin-length bob needed a touch-up, the gray roots starting to show. Her large, soulful features always had a slightly world-weary appearance, offset by her dry sense of humor.

  “Cassie,” she said with a smile, “it’s been a while.”

  “Couldn’t stay away,” I joked nervously. “How are Lou and the boys?”

  “Busy, like me. Lou’s had plenty of construction work this summer, and the kids are always at their baseball or soccer games. Helps them burn off energy, though.” She set a manila file folder on the table between us, as a sign of getting down to business. “So, you think you can identify our dead man?”

  “From the sketch I saw online, he looks like a customer who left a cat with me yesterday.”

  Bonelli opened the folder to reveal the original forensic photo, printed out in color at eight-by-ten. I flinched. Unlike the sketch in the paper, it showed Rudy’s actual, dead face. He looked battered, maybe from being dragged across the road.

  “That’s him. He’s even wearing the same plaid shirt as when he came to my shop. Here’s the information he left with us.” I passed Bonelli the note with the young man’s name and cell phone number. “He definitely had a wallet at the shop. He paid us a deposit, in cash, to board his cat.”

  “And you told our desk sergeant that there’s something funny about the cat?”

  I explained what Sarah and I had discovered while bathing Ayesha and what Mark had turned up during his examination. Also that a cat of that breed and quality could be worth a lot of money.

  Bonelli jutted her lower lip thoughtfully as she took all this in. “It’s still possible that this Rudy was accidentally killed by a hit-and-run driver, and either that person came back to rob him or someone else did,” she said. “We had reports this summer about fights out at The Roost, a roadhouse that’s big with local hunters. He might have just gotten on the wrong side of a really mean drunk.”

  “I also wonder if there was anything to his house fire story,” I said.

  “We’ll look into that. And we’ll try to locate any relatives he might have had and question them.”

  I shifted in my straight metal chair to ease a cramp in my hip; Bonelli’s guest seating left something to be desired. “I thought, because the cat was dyed, that Rudy might have stolen her. Maybe someone followed him, found he didn’t have Ayesha anymore, and got angry enough about it to kill him.”

  “If he knew his killer, maybe the wallet was taken to hide Rudy’s identity. Makes it harder to track down his associates.” Pulling out a pen, the detective scribbled a note on the file in front of her. “I’ll check with some of the other PDs around here to see if anyone has reported a stolen cat.”

  “The killer could still be hunting for Ayesha,” I pointed out. “Maybe Rudy even admitted to someone, before he died, that he left her at my place.”

  Bonelli shot me a worried look in the same vein as Mark’s. “Let’s hope he didn’t. For the present, we won’t reveal any of these details regarding the cat to the press. But wouldn’t you rather turn her over to an animal shelter, where there would be more security?”

  I considered this for only a second. I’d already experienced problems with someone trying to break into my shop that spring, motivating me to install the new security system. But keep Ayesha caged at a shelter? That could be a miserable experience for everyone involved.

  “This is a special kind of cat,” I explained. “Very high-energy, very vocal. I think she’d go crazy in a place like that. Probably drive her handlers and the other animals crazy, too. We’ve got better facilities to give her the attention and exercise she needs.”

  Bonelli relented with a nod. “Then we’ll leave her at your place for the time being. If we find out that she’s stolen, though, or if anyone bothers you, we may have to move her. No sense putting yourself in danger over an animal that isn’t even yours.”

  * * *

  I was walking back to my shop, preoccupied with questions about the dead Rudy Pierson and the mysterious Ayesha, when a driver hailed me from the curb.

  “Hey, hot legs, want a lift?”

  Startled, I stopped and looked around. I’d been street-hassled a few times in cities, but never since I’d come to Chadwick. Couldn’t I even wear shorts on a sweltering summer day without having some jerk embarrass me?

  Even more bizarre, the car creeping along beside me looked like—was!—my own silver-blue Honda. My stomach clenched as I saw Todd Gillis smirking from behind the wheel. “Thought I’d return it to you,” he said. “C’mon, get in.”

  I really, really didn’t want to. But it was a broiling, humid July day—a New Jersey specialty. I figured Todd couldn’t pull anything on me in broad daylight on the way back to my shop, especially not if he wanted to get paid for his labors. Stepping into the car, I thanked Honda for placing a substantial console between the front passenger and the driver. Unfortunately, I still sat close enough to Todd to smell him.

  After we started rolling again, he asked me, “Not so bad, huh?” Gloating, as if this were a mini-date.

  I ignored the subtext. “Yes, the car seems fine. How did it check out? Any major problems?”

  “Nope. I changed the oil and the filters, rotated the tires, replaced your front brake pads and one of your belts. Everything else was pretty much okay.”

  I let out a breath; that didn’t sound too expensive. “Yeah, it’s been a good car. I bought it used, but even so, no big repairs so far.”

  Todd creased his nose with an air of disdain. “It’s not the ride for you, though, Cassie.”

  “Huh? Why not?”

  “It’s a soccer mom car!” he sneered. “You need something sexier.”

  “I need something reliable, with good cargo space,” I shot back, refusing to play this game. “I cart around grooming supplies, cases of cat food, extra-large bags of kitty litter, and cats in carriers.... This is my street, make a right.”

  Todd looked annoyed that we had arrived so soon. “C’mon. If somebody gave you, like, fifty thou to spend on a new car, wouldn’t you want something with more horsepower, more pizzazz?”

  I considered the hypothetical offer. “Actually, if that ever happened, I probably would upgrade. Let’s see . . . I could get a van with all the bells and whistles, so I could go wherever I wanted. Trick it out with a fold-down table, a hair dryer, a bathtub with a sprayer . . .”

  When Todd got a wild gleam in his eye, I knew he’d spun off into his own fantasy. “Now you’re talking!”

  “My name on the outside in purple, of course. And it would be completely lined in fur. . . .” I waited until his greasy cowlick was standing completely at attention before I added, “At least, it would be after I finished grooming my customers’ cats. Yeah, I probably
could do a lot more business with a vehicle like that.”

  He scowled at me. “Maybe you deserve a boring car.”

  “I absolutely do. This is my place.... Just pull up in front.”

  We stepped onto the sidewalk, where Todd noticed the purple lettering on the shop’s front window. Making the connection to my fantasy van, he sniffed in distaste. With a sullen air, he pulled out his paperwork and accompanied me inside to settle up.

  I spread the bill flat on the front sales counter and read the total. Man, if this was what Gillis’s Garage charged for routine maintenance, I hoped I never had a big repair job. I borrowed a ballpoint from Todd—metallic gold, of course—to write a check.

  Meanwhile, Sarah wandered in from the playroom with Ayesha. “Look, Cassie. She really does walk on a leash!”

  We keep lightweight nylon harnesses on hand for any cats that are especially hard to groom. My assistant had managed to strap one onto Ayesha and threaded some twine through the ring on the back, for a leash about four feet long. Although the big, elegant, brown feline seemed to be leading Sarah, instead of the other way around, she appeared perfectly happy to explore the area behind the sales counter for a minute. Then she paused and looked up, her brilliant golden eyes tracking the shiny ballpoint pen just as I handed it back to Todd.

  In one fluid move, Ayesha leaped onto the counter and batted the pen from his fingers to the floor. She jumped down after it and began knocking it around like a soccer ball, until Sarah managed to rein her in.

  “Sorry!” My assistant handed the ballpoint back to Todd. “Hope she didn’t scratch it.”

  He accepted the pen back without ever taking his eyes off Ayesha, who now sat calmly at Sarah’s feet. “Wow. What kind of cat is that?”

  Uh-oh. The good news was, he’d probably given up all hope of scoring with me. The bad news: He might have spotted something else he felt driven to possess.

  “Just one of our boarders,” I told him. “We think she’s a Havana Brown. Y’know, one of those prissy, purebred show cats.”

  Catching my glance, Sarah hustled Ayesha back to the playroom, to Todd’s disappointment.

  “Doesn’t act like a show cat,” he said. “She acts wild! The way she grabbed that thing, right out of my hand—”

  “She’s just frustrated with being cooped up. Sarah was giving her some play time.” I tore off my check and passed it to him with a tight smile.

  He folded it and stuck it in the breast pocket of his work shirt. “Thanks, Cassie.” With a wink he added, “See you again soon.”

  “Could be awhile,” I warned him cheerfully. “Like I said, it’s a really reliable car.”

  “Bo-ring,” was Todd’s last declaration as he let himself out.

  Sarah returned to the front counter, minus Her Highness. “Did I mess up?”

  “Don’t be silly, you couldn’t have known. But it so happens that Todd Gillis has a fixation about owning a ‘wild’ cat.” I peered out the front window to make sure he’d continued down the block, toward his garage. “The last thing I need is for him to spread any rumors that we’ve got one. At least until they catch whoever murdered Rudy.”

  * * *

  Over dinner that night, I repeated Todd’s story about the “killer cat” to Mark.

  “That’s partly true,” he said. “Some big cat did attack a woman’s dog up on Rattlesnake Ridge. It didn’t eat the dog—your garage guy exaggerated that—but the shih tzu did die afterward from the attack. I actually know the vet who tried to save it.”

  We sat in a booth at Chad’s, an old diner not far from Chadwick’s original train station that had been refurbished in fifties style. It had become a favorite of ours for quick, inexpensive dinners. Since the day had been so hot, we both opted for light meals—a large Caesar salad for me, skewered chunks of fish over a curried rice for Mark.

  Even on a weeknight like this, the hip diner was pretty full. Still, our booth, upholstered in retro turquoise vinyl, gave Mark and me a fair amount of privacy. That could only be a good thing, I thought, since we were discussing the grisly rumor Todd had passed along to me.

  “Wow, that’s scary.” I speared a forkful of dark romaine leaves lightly coated with Caesar dressing. “Did the vet have any idea what kind of animal it was? Todd heard it was a mountain lion.”

  Mark gave a polite snort. “I strongly doubt that, around here. Most likely, it was just a large bobcat. That’s still strange, though, because they usually aren’t vicious and avoid humans. This one attacked the dog in its yard. Even after the owner came out and started screaming and hitting it with a broom, it took a while to give up and run away. Maybe it was rabid, but of course, the only way to know would be to kill it and test for that.”

  “Is anyone looking for it?”

  “Animal control has been, but without much luck. If it had attacked a person, I suppose they might ask the local hunters to help trap it, maybe even offer a reward. From what I hear, some guys are taking it upon themselves, anyway. Guess there’s not much for them to hunt in the summer.”

  I remembered something I’d read. “Isn’t killing a bobcat illegal in New Jersey?”

  Mark nodded. “If this is a bobcat, anybody who shot it would be in trouble with the law. But if it’s the ‘killer cat’ from the news, he’d probably also be a big man to his buddies.”

  I took a sip of my iced tea before voicing my darkest concern. “Mark, it couldn’t have been Ayesha, could it?”

  He stopped a square morsel of cod halfway to his mouth. “No . . . what makes you say that?”

  “Well, I gather this happened about a week back. Rudy showed up at my place a couple of days ago with a disguised cat that he wanted to keep safe. Maybe he knew she killed the dog and was afraid animal control would catch her and put her to sleep.”

  Mark seemed to consider this idea, but only for a second. “That cat? She’s tame. She had no problem with me examining her, and you said she even was fine with being bathed. I know she’s large, but from what I heard, the animal that attacked the dog was even bigger. And it had kind of a ruff, more like a bobcat.”

  I trusted Mark’s judgment, because he had plenty of experience with both domestic and feral animals, in both urban and rural locations. He’d grown up just outside Philadelphia—which accounted for the way he still sometimes shortened his a’s and dropped his r’s—and he’d gotten his DVM degree at the U of Penn. But afterward he had spent a few years with a larger veterinary hospital in South Jersey, where he’d doctored his share of farm livestock. I knew he’d decided to start his own clinic in Chadwick because it seemed like an underserved area and the small-town atmosphere appealed to him.

  If Mark didn’t believe Ayesha could be responsible for the violent attacks, I could breathe easier. I couldn’t picture her being so aggressive, either. It was just the timing of Rudy’s appearance at my shop, so soon after the wildcat’s attack, that had worried me.

  “Weird coincidence, though,” Mark admitted, “that the guy who brought you the cat was found dead. I can see why you’d wonder. . . .”

  “If one thing might be connected to the other? Yeah, I do.”

  I had finished as much as I could of my salad, and I sensed Mark might be about to warn me against keeping Ayesha at my shop. Hoping to avoid this, I excused myself to freshen up in the restroom.

  I followed the black-and-white checkered floor past my fellow diners, who sat at the counter on one side and in more of the turquoise booths along the other. Conversations were slightly raised to be heard over the fifties and sixties music playing in the background. One man’s harsh voice caught my attention, even before I reached his booth, because of its agitated tone.

  “Look, admit it. You got in over your head, so you need my help. We can’t keep this situation quiet much longer. If we don’t do something soon, the cops are gonna come sniffin’ around. Is that what you want?”

  The speaker paused briefly, as if listening to a response, while I passed his booth. I recog
nized him as the same scary, tattooed guy who had been arguing with Todd at the garage.

  “Trust me,” the guy said into a cell phone. “I know people who can get the job done. Nice an’ quick, off the radar.” His voice sank lower, and as I walked on toward the ladies’ room, I only heard him mutter a last phrase: “. . . damned animals!”

  I had no idea whom he might be talking to, or about what, but I carried away the impression that he must be one stressed-out guy. The few snippets I’d heard gave me chills. He was involved in something he didn’t want the cops to know about, maybe something criminal. He and someone else wanted to “get the job done . . . nice an’ quick, off the radar.” And did that last line refer to actual animals, or just vicious people?

  In the restroom, I built up a dread of walking past the long-haired man on my way back. Fortunately, by the time I emerged, he already stood by the cashier, facing away from me and paying his bill. Before I had to pass him again, he stalked out of the diner, slapping the door open with his palm and letting it slam behind him.

  I began to wonder again what his problem was, then told myself to forget it.

  Nothing to do with you.

  When I slid back into the booth across from Mark, I saw the waitress had removed our dishes. He greeted me with a warm smile, but a slight darkness under his eyes hinted that he hadn’t been sleeping so well. That reminded me.

  “You were going to tell me about the problems you’ve been having at your clinic,” I said. “Your staffers have been screwing up?”

  He ran a hand through his dark hair, which was shaggier than usual, as if he’d missed a couple of trims. “It’s so hard to understand. Either I misjudged all these people when I hired them, or they’re all getting burned out and cutting corners.”

  Mark ticked off the issues that had developed over the past month or so: A normally reliable, middle-aged receptionist frequently coming in late and/or leaving early. A young but formerly meticulous male vet tech slacking off on safety procedures. Another vet tech handling sick and injured animals too roughly. There had even been reports of his partner in the clinic, Dr. Margaret Reed, saying brusque and callous things to some clients who expressed concern about their animals.