“Early to mid twenties.”
We went out through the reception area, and I was almost surprised to see that Jennifer had finally left. Short, stocky Sam appeared in the hall, and we said our good-nights to him.
Mark didn’t lose the thread of our conversation, though. On our way to the parking lot, he asked me, “Does Todd hunt?”
“Don’t know, but it wouldn’t surprise me,” I said.
“Like I told you the other night, some hunters have being going up on the ridge trying to bag the wildcat. Maybe Todd got the same idea. Thought he’d get his name in the papers and be a hero. Sound like something he might do?”
“From what little I know of him, yeah, it does. Jeez, maybe he had a hunting accident.”
Mark narrowed his eyes at me. “You sure you don’t like this guy?”
I laughed. “I absolutely don’t, but his parents are worried, and I feel sorry for them. Besides, I wouldn’t want to see anybody I knew get hurt or killed for such a stupid reason.”
We loaded Ayesha into the backseat of the RAV4. She had grown quiet and actually seemed to be dozing.
“I think she needs a cigarette,” I joked.
“You’ll see. By tomorrow, she’ll be a changed woman—demure and ladylike.”
Sliding into the passenger seat, I had an evil thought. Maybe Jennifer could use a shot of that stuff!
But I sure knew better than to say it out loud. Mark and I might still have a chance at that romantic night together, and I wasn’t going to sabotage it with any more witty remarks.
* * *
We finally did cash the rain check for our ill-fated Saturday night date, and I tried my best to drive any fantasies about the brunette bombshell receptionist from Mark’s mind. He certainly acted reluctant to leave me as he headed off for work the next morning. I wondered smugly if Jennifer would notice him arriving in the same clothes he’d worn the day before.
I went down to the shop still feeling lazy and dreamy, and was opening up a few minutes late when Sarah appeared at the front door. Wearing an ankle brace and using crutches, she nevertheless hopped over the threshold with a grin.
“My gosh, I wasn’t expecting you back yet,” I said as I let her in.
“Got Jay to drop me off on his way to work,” she told me. “Why sit home, doing nothing, when I can at least come here and accomplish something? I felt bad about leaving you on your own. The doctor said I should be able to drive my car home tonight, too.”
“Well, I’m certainly glad to have you here. You can staff the counter, but I’ll do all the heavy lifting until you’re fully recovered.”
Sarah said she felt comfortable enough on her usual stool, but I brought over one of the low, carpeted cat tunnels to support her injured foot. I also got her a cup of coffee, amused by the idea that I was assisting my assistant.
“You’ll be glad to know that your mugging is on Detective Bonelli’s radar,” I said, “though she admits the perp will be hard to finger, with so little to go on.”
“I know,” Sarah lamented. “I wish I’d gotten a look at his face, but I’m sure he arranged things so I wouldn’t. He had that hoodie pulled all the way forward.”
“Sounds like he planned it well, the jerk. I’m sure he was frustrated that, in spite of it all, he didn’t get your bag.” I poured myself coffee, too. “In other crime news, it’s occurred to me that maybe it was Todd Gillis who had the brilliant idea to break in here to steal Ayesha, setting off the alarm. But I can’t question him about it, because now his father says Todd has gone missing.”
“See why I couldn’t stay home? I’d miss all the action! This shop has more drama going on than any talk show or soap opera.” Sarah sipped her coffee. “And how is my girl, Ayesha?”
“Oh, that’s another news bulletin.” I recounted the Bengal’s lovesick behavior of the previous evening and Mark’s speedy solution. “You’ll notice it’s a little quieter around here today, and her condo also stayed cleaner overnight.”
“That’s good. Though I wouldn’t want to see her lose all her spunk.”
“Don’t think there’s much danger of that.” I perched on the other stool, with a full view of my assistant’s ankle brace, and raised a more sober subject. “I may have to forget putting out a table for Chadwick Day. Under normal circumstances, it would be tough enough to do a grooming demo and keep the store staffed at the same time. But now that you’re hurt . . .”
She waved a dismissive hand. “I could be back on my feet by then.”
“Sarah, it’s less than a week away. You probably need more time than that to recover. And even if I could groom Harpo by myself, I wouldn’t want to leave you alone in the shop. Not after we’ve had an attempted break-in plus an attempted mugging. If someone is targeting this place, for whatever reason, you’d be a sitting duck . . . no offense.”
“None taken.” She turned thoughtful. “Seems a shame for you to miss out on the street fair, though. Maybe you could find someone else to help you?”
I shrugged. “Dawn and Keith will both be holding down their own tables, and Mark will be at the clinic.”
Our brainstorming session was cut short by a summons from my phone. Bonelli again. At this rate, she might as well put me on the force.
“Everything quiet over there?” she asked.
“Just fine so far. And Sarah’s back, although on crutches. Can’t keep a good woman down.”
“Is she? That’s good news. So maybe you can come down to the station for a while. Say, around one o’clock?”
“I should be able to.” I played it cautious. “What’s up?”
“I’m meeting with someone else at that time, Scott Naughton of the county SPCA,” Bonelli said. “You two might want to compare notes, since you’ve got something in common: You’re both investigating crimes that involve big, spotted cats.”
Chapter 10
The traditional brick and limestone façade of the Chadwick Police Station always felt at odds, to me, with its sleekly modern and efficient interior. At least the light maple office furniture and plentiful ceiling lights dispelled any sense of an ominous jailhouse. That might not work so well for intimidating criminals, but as an innocent visitor, I appreciated the lack of menace.
I arrived a little before one, hoping to have a few minutes to talk to Bonelli alone before Naughton joined us. Her office had a glass wall along the main corridor. I guess this let her keep track of what was going on outside and also let passersby see whether or not she was busy. I knocked on the door anyway before going in.
A console table to one side held a Keurig coffee maker, which I knew had been a joint Mother’s Day gift from her two boys, and today Bonelli offered me a cup of almond toffee. Because the station was well air-conditioned, I accepted. I sat in one of the two straight-backed metal chairs provided for visitors and faced the detective across her Formica-topped computer desk.
I told her, “I remembered something else that might be relevant to Todd Gillis’s disappearance. The day I took my car to the garage, he got into an argument with a customer. I didn’t think much of it then. The guy was complaining that his van still wasn’t fixed, and Todd was saying it was just old.”
Bonelli stifled a laugh. “Not so hot at customer relations, eh?”
“Exactly—it was only making the guy madder. But this customer was a real character, too.” I described the tattooed man with the three-day shadow and long, graying hair. “He looked pretty rough. Like a biker, maybe.”
“Get the license number of his van?”
“No,” I admitted. “I didn’t even see it—it must have been parked somewhere out in the lot. Anyway, at the time I never imagined that might be important.”
Bonelli opened her legal-sized, vinyl-covered notepad and jotted. “I’ll call Gillis, see if he knows who the guy was.”
“Something else,” I said. “Did Bob tell you that Todd was reading the classified ads in the Chadwick Courier the morning before he took off?”
&n
bsp; “No, he didn’t.” The detective made another note.
“I read the Courier online now, but I’ve also seen the paper. From what I remember, there’s only one page of classifieds. If we could get a copy of that edition, maybe something would jump out at us.”
Bonelli considered that. “You can find all the ads that run in the county papers through the main Web site.”
“Okay . . . but that won’t help us pinpoint what Todd saw in the actual newspaper, that morning.”
She bent her head to acknowledge this. “It’s published Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday, right? So on Saturday, he probably was looking at the Friday paper. We may still have it with our recycling.” Using the old-fashioned, multiline phone on her desk, Bonelli asked a clerk to check for the issue. Then she paused to listen and responded, “Oh, good. Send him on in.”
Right on time, Chief Inspector Naughton appeared in the office doorway. He stood about six foot two, with a lean but athletic build. Probably in his late thirties or early forties, to judge by his slightly receding sandy hair. Square, clean-cut jaw, brown eyes with a determined squint. He wore tan chino-type pants and a black polo shirt with an SPCA badge embroidered above the heart.
Bonelli introduced me, and we shook hands. As Naughton took the seat beside me, I noticed that the back of his neck was sunburned and the tan on his arms stopped just below his short sleeves. He’d gotten that color from working long hours outdoors, I thought, not lying on a beach.
He said, “Angela told me about how much you went through this spring—taking in that cat after his owner was killed and trying to keep him out of the wrong hands. I was impressed. Not many people would go to so much trouble.”
I felt my cheeks warm. “Thanks. I just stepped up because no one else was very concerned about him. Anyway, he’s in a good home now—my assistant adopted him.”
“I also told Scott about the cat that was dropped off at your place last week, with the dyed coat,” Bonelli said.
I gave Naughton the full details on that, and also related what I’d been told about valuable cats being flipped for resale. “Our local veterinarian, who was doing some checking for me, heard that from another vet.”
“Unfortunately, it’s true,” he said. “Dyeing a spotted cat is a new one on me, but exotics are often stolen and resold by people trying to make a fast buck. A reputable breeder would question where they came from, but someone with a backyard operation might not.”
“That must be awful for the people whose cats disappear, and who have no way to trace what happened to them,” I said.
“And an unlicensed breeder isn’t the worst place to end up. Lately, feral cats and wild hybrids are in demand by urban dog-fighting rings, as bait animals to train the dogs. The gangs that run these fights will pay pretty high prices, because they think those cats make better fighters. Not that any of them would be a match for a pit bull.”
The scenario shocked and sickened me. “That’s horrible! Maybe Ayesha is lucky this guy never came back for her.”
On the one hand, Rudy had seemed so protective of the Bengal that I couldn’t picture him handing her over to a cruel and violent fate. On the other, the sort of person who would buy a cat for such a purpose might also have no scruples about running a man down and leaving his unidentified body on a lonely road.
“I heard he was found dead,” Naughton said. “Of course, investigating how he was killed is Angela’s area, but she and I are pooling resources. I’ve suspected for a while that someone in this area is breeding hybrids. My investigators have spotted blind ads in hunting and fishing magazines for wild pets. We tried answering one and leaving a message, to set up a sting, but so far they haven’t responded. My personal theory is, the cat that mauled the dog and the child might have escaped from that type of breeder.”
“Because it had no fear of humans and was hunting during the day?” I asked.
“Exactly!” He seemed to eye me with even greater respect. “You know your wildcats, too.”
The praise made me self-conscious again. “I just remembered what you told the Courier reporter. You also pointed out that it had a longer tail than the typical bobcat.”
“See, this is why I brought you two together,” Bonelli injected, with a restrained smile. “Sounds like there just might be a link between Cassie’s mystery cat, the breeder the SPCA is looking for, and maybe also the wildcat.”
“It’d help if I could find out if Ayesha really was stolen, and from whom,” I said. “I’ve reached out to about ten licensed catteries, but so far only two got back to me, and neither was missing a cat.”
“There are quite a few national groups online that run ads for lost or stolen pets,” Naughton told me, “though it might be tough to search through them all. But you can try National Bengal Rescue. They have regional chapters. For example, if the cat was stolen from New York or Pennsylvania, and the owner notified the national group, it would show up on their Web site under that region.”
I committed this information to memory. “Good idea, thanks.”
A slightly overweight young woman in a print blouse and gray slacks knocked on the doorjamb. “Detective, here’s the newspaper you asked for.”
“Oh, good timing, Maggie, thanks.” Bonelli took the Friday Courier from her, hesitated, and handed it to me. “Want to do the honors?”
Meanwhile, she offered Naughton his choice of coffees from the Keurig pods, and he chose the House Blend.
While it brewed, I searched through the newspaper. It wasn’t too thick, so I found the classified ads with little trouble. The items for sale were broken into categories, but it was hard to know what to look for. First I checked “Autos,” in case something along that line had lured Todd away from home, but none were offered for sale, only “Wanted to Buy.” After that, I went immediately to “Pets and Livestock.” Someone was trying to sell a “dead broke” (quiet and reliable) trail horse. There also were ads for puppies of all kinds. I sincerely hoped none of those would be bought as bait for urban dog-fighting rings.
Then I saw it: “Like to walk on the wild side? Our half-breed cats will blow your mind—they look and act like the real thing! Crosses you won’t see anywhere else.”
And there was a phone number.
“Got it!” I crowed, and showed the ad to Bonelli. “I’ll bet anything this is why Todd took off that day without telling his folks where he was going.”
Naughton, already on his feet to get his coffee, read over Bonelli’s shoulder. “That’s it, the same ad we’ve been watching.”
“You called the number?” I asked.
“Left a message and never heard back. Whether they managed to trace the call to our organization, and that scared ’em off, I can’t be sure.”
“Let me try.” I pulled out my cell phone. “Mine’s a private line, so they shouldn’t suspect anything.”
Naughton agreed to this, but spent a minute coaching me on what to say and not to say to the breeder. “We don’t want them to suspect a sting.”
Once I felt confident, I dialed. Got a familiar three-tone signal, followed by a recorded message.
“No longer in service,” I told Bonelli and Naughton as I hung up.
Bonelli frowned. “Burner phone. They either dumped it or deleted the number. Yeah, that’s a legit operation.”
Naughton shared her opinion, and told me, “If your friend did go off to answer that ad, who knows what the hell he got himself into!”
* * *
Walking back to my shop, I checked my phone again and found a message from my mother. “Just wanted to know how things are going,” she said.
Good Lord. It had been less than a week since we’d last talked, and maybe half a dozen crises had come and gone in the meantime. I’d have to review which ones I could tell her about, which ones I had to downplay, and which I dared not mention at all. No press secretary for a corrupt politician works harder than me when I spin the news that I release to my mother.
Sarah still sa
t at the front counter with her left foot elevated. I told her, “Guess what? Mom wants to know what’s new in my life. How much do you think I can tell her before she has a meltdown and insists I give up the shop and move in with her?”
My assistant, a mother of grown children herself, answered with a deep chuckle. “You might have to do some editing. Guess you’ll want to play down my little accident.”
“Among other things,” I agreed.
I multitasked by turning a Siamese named Mia loose in the playroom and keeping an eye on her while I returned the call. With some privacy, I gave my mother a sanitized version of the past week’s events, minus the melodrama: We had an exotic new boarder, a Bengal female who was very vocal and high-energy. I’d had dinner with Mark at his place, and he’d asked my advice on some problems he’d been having with his staff. Sarah had sprained her ankle in my parking lot; no, no, she wasn’t threatening to sue me, but now I wasn’t sure if I could take part in Chadwick Day, because Sarah would have to staff the shop all by herself.
“Oh, that’s a shame,” Mom said. “When is the event, this Saturday?”
“Yeah. Not much chance that she’ll be fully recovered by then.”
A pause. “Maybe I could come out and help you. If it’s just a matter of keeping an eye on things . . . or waiting on customers. . .”
The idea had never crossed my mind. When I was growing up and collecting pets, it had been mostly my father who shared my enthusiasm. Mom usually complained about the fur shed on the carpets and furniture, the birds that occasionally flapped around the ceiling, and the lizards that escaped to skitter up the walls. She had a stoic side and hated to show fear. At times, though, she’d seemed to have even more of an aversion to cats than to the cold-blooded creepy-crawlies.
Also, what if Mom was on duty when the person who’d tried to break in made another attempt? Granted, if that had been Todd, maybe I had nothing much to worry about, now that he’d vanished. But if it had been someone else . . .
“Thanks for offering, Mom, but I’d hate to put you out. I mean, you work hard all week long. And you just had that root canal. . . .”
The Bengal Identity Page 10