The Bengal Identity

by Eileen Watkins

  I stepped away from my table for a better look. The back end of the parade had come to a halt, unable to proceed because of the fracas. The car holding things up appeared to be a red Camaro driven by a dark-haired young man. A couple of folks restrained an older guy who screamed and cursed at the driver.

  “You thief! That’s my son’s car—I’d know it anywhere. How the hell did you get ahold of it?”

  Chapter 16

  Jay came back around the corner just then. I asked him to watch my table and sprinted toward the knot of people near the Camaro.

  The freckled cop beat me there and took charge of the paunchy man with the mussed gray hair. “Sir, what seems to be the problem?”

  “That car belongs to my son, Todd,” declared the older guy, who had to be Bob Gillis. “He drove off in it a week ago, and no one’s seen him since. I wanna know how this kid ended up with Todd’s car, and what the hell happened to my son!”

  By that time, the cop must have recognized the garage owner. “Mr. Gillis, I understand why you’re upset, but how can you be sure this is the same car?”

  Bob stabbed a finger toward the top of the Camaro. “See that gap between the roof panels? We tried everything to fix that, but never could. And those 2002 OEM wheel covers, with the black trim, were special order. Too big a coincidence that this kid has the exact same ones!”

  Considering this testimony, the cop turned his attention to the driver. By now, the dark-haired young man had removed his cool, wrap-around sunglasses, revealing wide, terrified eyes.

  “You pull over to the curb,” the officer told him. “No sense holding up the rest of the parade.”

  The driver steered his car out of line, and the last few vehicles proceeded along the route. The cop, whose nametag read C. WALLER, tried to disperse all of us rubberneckers and eavesdroppers. I told him I’d been a friend of Todd’s (slight exaggeration) and had been working with Detective Bonelli to solve his disappearance (pretty much true). So Waller let me stand on the fringes.

  He asked the young driver for his license and registration. The dark-haired man produced the first from his wallet, and it passed muster. Then he handed Waller a folded yellow paper from the glove compartment. “Didn’t get to Motor Vehicles yet, to register,” he explained, “but here’s the title.”

  Waller unfolded the paper, studied it with a poker face, and did not give it back. “So, Mr. Lorenzo, you heard what this man said. Where did you get this car?”

  “I . . . I answered an ad online,” Lorenzo stammered. “Met somebody at a parking lot out on the highway, behind that Frosty Freeze that’s been closed for years, and paid cash. It looked in good shape, and they were selling it really cheap, so I didn’t ask a lot of questions.”

  “When was this?”

  “Coupla days ago . . . W-Wednesday morning.” His wide-eyed stare swung toward Bob Gillis. “Sorry about your son, man, but I got no idea where he is.”

  “Maybe he sold you the car?” Waller suggested.

  “Could be, but I wouldn’t know him to see. I talked to a guy on the phone, but a chick met me in the parking lot and gave me the keys.”

  Hearing this, Gillis protested. “That’s a load of bull—”

  “Does sound funny,” Waller agreed. “If you met out by the old Frosty Freeze on the highway, how was this ‘chick’ going to get home?”

  Lorenzo’s features twisted. “I kinda wondered about that, too. It was a big lot, though. Her boyfriend coulda been parked somewhere out of sight, behind the building.”

  Gillis, red-faced, began to storm again. “You’re making all this up!”

  Waller pulled out his radio and called for backup. Then he announced, “We’ll sort all this out at the station. Mr. Lorenzo, Mr. Gillis, you’ll ride with me. Another officer will bring the Camaro.”

  A moment later they had gone, and I started back to my table, my brain reeling with questions. It sounded as if someone had sold Todd’s Camaro under sketchy circumstances reminiscent of a drug deal. They hadn’t charged very much, as if they were simply trying to unload it. Ominous, I thought. Still, it was the business of the Chadwick PD to get to the bottom of it, not mine.

  I passed by the FOCA booth, staffed by four members of the animal rescue group, and did a double-take. The scary tattooed man had stopped at their table.

  They all chatted in an amiable way, sometimes laughing quietly and shaking their heads. I tried to slip by unnoticed, but the long-haired guy must have spotted me anyway. By the time I returned to my table, he was staring hard in my direction. He turned back to the FOCA crowd, as if maybe to ask about me, and I wanted to hide beneath the overhang of my new table runner. Instead, I turned to Jay and filled him in on the controversy over the Camaro, hoping his presence might offer some protection.

  “ ’Scuse me,” said a deep voice, and I knew there would be no escape. “You Cassie McGlone? You got the cat place around the corner?”

  I made myself face the tattooed man with a smile. “That’s right.” Up close, there was definitely something Charlie Man-sonish about his piercing, dark gaze, though offset by a glint of humor. Today, with his black jeans, he wore a faded Alice Cooper concert T-shirt, less garish than the tattoos it partially covered.

  “Arnie Lang. We ran into each other a coupla days ago up at PetMart.” I shook his big hand, with its ropey veins and scaled-down but still lurid illustrations, and introduced him to Jay.

  “I’m afraid I was kind of rude to you that day,” Lang added.

  A polite apology was probably the last thing I’d expected to hear from him. “Oh no . . . don’t be silly. I interrupted you. I should have seen you were busy.”

  “Mmm. Busy and in a real pisser of a mood, but that’s no excuse.”

  I wondered why he was going to the trouble now to set things straight. “You know the FOCA people?”

  “Yeah, they’ve been helping me out.” Lang hooked his thumbs in the waist of his jeans and sighed deeply. “I’ve been trying to talk my Aunt Gail into getting rid of some of her animals. She lives here in Chadwick. I visited her last month, for the first time since my uncle died, and her house was overrun with cats and dogs. ’Course, she didn’t want to give up any of them.”

  The situation began to sound familiar. Then I realized this could be the same house Nick had mentioned to me, where he used to make repairs for the owner.

  “That’s a shame,” Jay commented. “We had somebody like that on our block, a hoarder. When he died, they had to condemn the place.”

  “Luckily, with Aunt Gail it wasn’t that bad yet. Anyhow, somebody told me about FOCA, and they’ve been terrific, talking sense to her and offering to rehome her animals.”

  In spite of the day’s heat, cool relief swept over me. “So, the day you were stockpiling all of those carriers . . .”

  “I was taking them to her place. I knew she was gonna be upset, and I’ve been trying to keep it quiet what a mess she’s made of her house. It’s embarrassing for her, y’know? So I guess I didn’t want a stranger prying into our business. But now I see it’s kind of your business, too.”

  This story put a new slant on Lang’s sinister one-sided phone conversation at the diner. He’d been trying to keep the police from finding out about all the “damned animals” his aunt had been hoarding in her house.

  “Well,” I told him, “even though I don’t do rescue work, I have to admit I was curious. It looked like you were loading up Noah’s Ark!”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re not the only one who noticed. A cop even stopped by to ask what I was up to.”

  Probably in response to my call. I cringed. “Oh, gee. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Lang shrugged. “I’m used to it. The way I look, people tend to think the worst, especially in a quiet area like this. When I’m on the job, though, all this ink is good for business.”

  “What is your business?” Jay asked.

  “I just opened a new hard rock club about half a mile off the highway. I’ve got one in
the city that’s doing pretty well, and this’ll be my second. Didn’t know how it would fly in this area, but so far, so good.” In a well-practiced move, Lang reached into his back jeans pocket and pulled out two purple business cards, with the club’s name in agitated-looking white letters: NOYZ2.

  And that explained the van’s license plate.

  “Welcome to Chadwick, then,” I told him. “Are all your aunt’s animals taken care of now?”

  “FOCA let her keep a couple of her dogs, and a cleaning service is going to get her house back in shape and help it stay that way. At least now I’ll be coming around more often, too, and can keep an eye on her.”

  Jay grinned. “You’re a good nephew.”

  He was, I thought as Lang sauntered off. And not likely to be a secret breeder of vicious wildcats. Or the kind of guy who’d run somebody over and leave him to die on the road.

  I felt only a twinge of disappointment. Just when I thought I might have solved the case!

  While gazing off into the distance, I spotted the Schaeffer produce truck again, this time cruising just a block away. It turned off Center Street into a residential area behind my shop.

  Not time yet for him to pick up Teri, is it?

  I checked my watch—almost three. Still a couple more hours before the business vendors would pack up, though the food services and the live music would probably go into the evening. Things had grown a little quieter for the moment, though, at our end of the street. Feeling the strain of being on all day, I had just sunk into one of my pink chairs when I thought I heard someone down the block scream my name.

  “That’s Mom!” said Jay.

  Forgetting about my table, I ran back to the corner, where I could see my shop. In spite of trees and bushes in the way, I could make out Teri in her light-colored net top walking briskly across the small parking lot. Sarah leaned out of the shop’s rear doorway, on her crutch. When she sighted me, she yelled again.

  “Stop her, Cassie! She’s got Ayesha!”

  Both Jay and I dashed down the street, while Sarah gamely hobbled outside and tried to intercept Teri. I could see the younger woman had gotten Ayesha into her mesh harness and was walking her toward the far corner of the lot. Through the trees that edged my property, I glimpsed a patch of darker green. Rick had parked his truck there to meet them.

  In only a few more yards, Teri would reach the truck. Jay and I might not make it in time to stop the cat-napping.

  But Ayesha balked now, and Teri had to stop to pick her up. Meanwhile, Sarah closed in. Ever resourceful, my assistant swung her crutch and smacked the younger woman in the butt. Teri fell forward, and Ayesha, startled, tore the leash from her hands.

  Rick saw this, jumped from his truck . . . and stopped. He watched Ayesha streak off toward Center Street, then his eyes flicked back to me and Jay bearing down on him. Not one to gallantly come to his partner’s defense, he sprang back behind the wheel and sped off.

  Now our familiar friend Officer Jacoby, wearing his official police cap and dark sunglasses, came jogging up behind us. “What’s going on here?”

  Before I could explain, we heard furious barking out toward Center Street. I saw that Jay held onto Teri, so she wasn’t going anywhere. Out of breath, I asked Sarah, “Can you talk to the officer? I’ve got to catch Ayesha!”

  I sprinted back to the main drag, then paused to figure out where the Bengal might have gone. Since the FOCA dogs were all stirred up, she must have passed thataway. But with many blocks of canopies, tables, and crates of merchandise— not to mention strolling human bodies—she could be hiding anywhere.

  In theory, there are bush cats and tree cats, ones that like to hide low and others that prefer the high road. Any animal scared and desperate enough can break from its usual pattern, but still . . .

  My eyes scanned some of the tall maples that lined Center Street beyond the sidewalk. About eight people had clustered around one of them.

  An older woman in the group saw me staring and called out, “He’s up here.”

  I joined the group and peered straight up. Holy cow, Ayesha had outdone herself this time—she must have climbed at least fifteen feet. I could just glimpse her spots and her dangling blue leash.

  “Is he yours?” the woman asked with admiration.

  “She. Not exactly, but she’s boarding at my shop. Someone accidentally let her go.”

  A man in back of us yelled to his friends, “Hey, come see this! It’s the wildcat that attacked the kid!”

  My heart froze. “No, no,” I told the group loudly. “This is a tame cat, a show cat! She’s even wearing a harness and a leash. My . . . helper was walking her, and she got away.”

  Jay showed up at my side. “Find her, Cassie?”

  I pointed up. He squinted to see through the leaves, then whistled. “There’s a fire truck doing a demo about four blocks away,” he said. “Maybe they can get her for you.”

  I worried about how the Bengal would react to something as huge as a fire bucket coming toward her. This tree was tall enough that she could still climb a lot higher! “Maybe if we just had a good, long ladder. The hardware store . . . ?”

  “That’s a thought. I’ll go ask.”

  As Jay disappeared to my right, someone clutched my left arm. I jumped.

  “Easy,” said Mark. “What the heck happened?”

  I told him as briefly as I could. He gazed up at Ayesha with the same look Jay had worn, mixed bewilderment and amusement.

  “It’s the killer cat!” someone else announced to the swelling crowd. “They’ve got it cornered.”

  “Oh crap, Mark,” I breathed. “These people are just going to make things worse.”

  He faced the group with an air of professional authority. “Folks, folks, this is not a dangerous cat. In fact, she’s a valuable cat, which is why we need to get her down without stressing her out. So please, give us some room.”

  Minutes later, Jay and a brawny guy from the downtown hardware store showed up with an extension ladder. Dawn, who by now had heard about our crisis, brought me a feathery wand from my sales table and a package of cat treats.

  “I asked one of the FOCA kids to watch your table,” she told me.

  “Good work,” I said. “Thanks.”

  The guys extended the aluminum ladder to its full sixteen feet and leaned it against the tree trunk. As it brushed noisily against the small inner branches, I saw Ayesha scramble a little higher. But so far, the top of the ladder still came pretty close to where she had perched.

  The hardware store guy put a foot on the first rung, but Mark stopped him. “I’m a vet, I’ll be able to handle her better.”

  I stepped in. “Thanks, Mark, but she’s used to me.”

  “No, Cassie. It could be dangerous.”

  “Please. I climbed shakier ladders than this when I was painting the ceilings in my apartment.”

  He frowned. “The ceilings in your apartment aren’t that high.”

  Great. Now the whole town would know Mark had spent time in my apartment. “If I blow it, you’ll have your chance. Meanwhile, you guys please just hold the ladder steady.” I lowered my voice. “And try to keep the spectators quiet.”

  Mark took a firm grip on the right rail. “You be careful.”

  With one more look up—way up—I drew a deep breath. What I didn’t confess to Mark was that I’ve always had a touch of acrophobia, or fear of heights. It had bothered me a little when I was painting my ceilings, and this climb would take me a lot higher. But if a total stranger or even Mark reached for Ayesha, she might get scared and retreat farther. I just hoped she’d trust me enough to let me carry her down, without clawing me to ribbons.

  I opened the package of cat treats, shook a few into my hand, and stuffed them into the front pocket of my shorts. I also stuck the wand toy through my belt. Then I started up.

  Chapter 17

  At this late stage of summer, the maple tree’s hand-sized leaves were very full, and they brushed my hea
d and shoulders as I climbed. This actually gave me more of a sense of being safe and enclosed, though, than if the branches had been bare.

  A woman’s voice floated up from below. “Why can’t the cat get down by herself? She ran up there okay.”

  I hoped Mark might explain that, the way a domestic cat’s claws curved backward, they gripped really well for climbing up but not for coming down, especially not head first. Of course, Mark probably would just ignore the woman because he was worried about me. Well, if he’d gone up, I would have had to worry about him. And Ayesha was my responsibility.

  When I reached about twelve feet, my calves began to feel the strain. A wide limb of the maple stretched almost horizontally at that point, and I thought I’d try my luck. I reached into my pocket for a few cat treats and held them up where I hoped the Bengal could see and smell them.

  I called to her in a high, soft voice. “Ayesha, see what I got here? Bet you’re hungry, huh? Come and get it!”

  She did peer down, pupils wide. But she couldn’t make a clear leap to the lower limb, and when she tried her grip on the tree bark, she drew back, not trusting it.

  I took stock. If I could lead her over to a narrower branch at the left, she probably could jump to the wide one from there. Stowing the treats for a moment, I pulled out the wand. I flitted the feathers through the air and made them land on the lower branch. That was still kind of a tricky jump, but Ayesha was a special cat.

  “Oooh, look, bird! Get the bird!”

  She crouched, the feathers even more tempting to her than the food had been. She vaulted across and landed neatly where I wanted her, her claws digging into the rough bark like grappling hooks.

  “Good girl! Now over this way . . . You can do it.”

  More confident now, she sprang onto the wide limb. I petted her, put away the wand, and fed her some treats. She seemed less frightened, which was a good thing, because now I was the one who had to trust her.

  I gathered up her leash and tucked the treats and toy away. Then with my free arm, I caught the cat tightly against my chest. I let her face backward over my right shoulder as I began to carry her down.