"I… Maybe a beautiful forty-some."
"I had a parolee who would fit that description. Let me do some checking. What do you know about her?"
"That they'd been living in L.A. for some years before they moved to the Bay Area, maybe a year ago."
"Did she say that she'd lived in San Francisco before?"
"Marianna doesn't chitchat. But she does know the city. She didn't ask directions when Hanni and I sent her to various out-of-the-way shops and decorator supply houses."
"What does Hanni think of her?"
"Cold fish," Ryan said, grinning.
"I had a woman on my caseload a few years back who would fit her description. She came out on parole after serving a conviction for bank fraud. I hadn't had her a month when she was into a complicated embezzlement operation. I told her to clean it up or she was going back. When she tried to make trouble, I sent her back. A vindictive sort. Served the balance of her sentence, when she came out I had no reason to keep tabs on her. I heard she'd moved down to L.A. and married into a fair amount of money, not all of it clean."
He cut some scraps from his steak and put them on a plate for Rock. Ryan watched him spoil the big weimaraner in a way he would never have allowed for his own dogs. "Seems far-fetched," he said, "but let me see what I can find out."
"But why would she-"
"Let's see what I can turn up. If this is Martie Holland, I'll tell you the rest of the story." Watching her expression, he laughed. "No, I wasn't involved with her."
"No," she said. "But Rupert was. Right?"
Flannery nodded.
"Dallas knows her, she's on me list he's investigating. I think she's one of the two supposedly out of the country. The Bahamas, I think he said." And she felt cold again, icy.
The Garza cottage clung to the side of a steep hill north of the village, its front windows looking down on rooftops and oak trees that now, at night, were a black mass broken by only a few scattered lights from the houses tucked among them. At the back of the cottage, the kitchen windows faced the rising hill, the steep backyard softly lit by ground-level lamps that Joe and Dulcie avoided as they approached the back steps- two neighborhood cats checking out the garbage cans.
No lights were on in the kitchen, but a glow from deeper in the house suggested that Garza sat at his desk, perhaps catching up on paperwork.
Approaching the back door, with quick paws Joe tucked the little purse under the mat. And as Dulcie curled down on the cool earth beneath the bushes to watch the door, Joe nipped down the hill to the lower-level guest rooms-family bedrooms from the time when they all came down for weekends.
Crouched on the windowsill he reached a paw through the burglar bars and through the hole in the screen, product of his own handiwork some months back, when he'd done serious spying on Garza himself. Flipping the latch and sliding the screen open, he jiggled the window until its lock gave.
He was through the bars and inside. Leaping to the small desk, he touched the phone's speaker button. This was the only phone in the house with two lines. The upstairs fax, and the main line, were on different instruments, the fax tucked away, he hoped, in a cupboard in the desk where Garza wouldn't see its telltale light blinking. Hitting line two, he pawed in the main phone number that he had long ago memorized. Joe's talents didn't extend to writing down phone numbers, he was forced to keep all such urgent information in his head-a living computer that, over time, had become strong and reliable.
Garza answered on the second ring.
Dispensing with polite formalities, Joe kept his message short. "I've shoved a little purse under the back doormat; it contains items taken from Marianna Landeau's closet that I hope will reveal her fingerprints.
"You may find the prints are also those of a Martie Holland. I don't know who this person is, but perhaps that information will be of interest when the lab has finished with the rug-the one you picked up from the Coldirons. And when you've had a look at the mantel in the Landeau cottage.
"You should find four more chips from the mantel on a leaf under a lavender bush just south of the Landeau front door. Those were removed from inside the fireplace before Marianna vacuumed there. She used the hand vac from the kitchen, and I don't believe she emptied it when she finished."
He felt as if he was spelling the steps out too clearly, insulting Garza's intelligence. But if Garza nailed Rupert's killer, that was all that counted. Police work was a cooperative undertaking, a team effort-even if part of the team was irrevocably undercover. He had hardly hit the speaker button to end the call when he heard Garza cross the room above him, and hit the stairs. And Joe was out of there, out the window sliding it closed, diving into the bushes as Garza switched on the light. Had the phone made a telltale click? Why did Garza suspect the caller was down there?
Checking out both bedrooms, and bam and closets, Garza cut the lights again and turned to the window. Standing just above Joe behind the burglar bars, looking out, he was still for a long time. Below him, crouched in a tangle of prickly holly, patiently Joe waited until at last the detective turned away. Joe heard him mount the stairs.
He waited until he heard the kitchen door open then close again. When he knew that Garza had the little evening purse and the compacts, he beat it up the hill to Dulcie.
Above them the kitchen light was on. Rearing up in the hillside garden, they could see Garza sitting at the table wearing cotton gloves, opening the little purse.
He didn't touch the compacts, he simply looked. He looked out the window at the rising yard, and sat for a long moment doing nothing. At last, rising, he fetched a folded paper bag from a kitchen drawer, dropped the purse inside, and marked the bag with his pen.
"What now?" Dulcie said. "Can he send the prints to AFIS electronically?" She thought the automated fingerprint identification system that California used should take only an hour or two.
"I think he can. But it will show only a California record. Maybe he'll send it to WIN too, for the western states. But if she had only a federal rap, it could take weeks."
The Western Identification Network, which supplied fingerprint identification for the eight western states, was usually prompt, as well. But if an officer got no results there, and had to go through the FBI that covered the entire country, he'd better be prepared for a wait.
"You think Marianna and Martie Holland are the same person?" Dulcie said softly.
"I'm betting on it. I think Larn Williams either works for Marianna, or they're good friends."
"You think she planned the bombing? But why? And how does that connect to Rupert? She knew Rupert in San Francisco, but…"
"My guess is, the bombing was all the Fargers' doing, payback for Gerrard's prison sentence." He turned to look at her. "But my gut feeling, Dulcie, is that Marianna killed Rupert. We just don't know, yet, why she killed him.
"Something tore up that fireplace, after the three niches were painted. If the mason had left it like that, she'd have pitched a fit. I think she installed those three pieces of sculpture to hide the flaw in the concrete that she tried to fix."
"But the woman is a stickler for perfection. Why didn't she do a better job?"
"If she was trying to get rid of the body, maybe she didn't have time. She wanted to be gone, out of there before anyone knew she was at the cottage. Maybe that plaster job was the best she could do, in a hurry to get it dried and painted. Maybe, in the artificial light, she didn't see the flaw. I didn't see it until the moonlight slanted at an angle. And remember, she had to sponge his blood out of the rug too. And dump that bottle of wine, trying to cover her tracks."
"But how did she get the body out of there? She looks strong, but-if she dragged it to her car, then dragged it into Ryan's garage, there'd have been marks."
"There were marks-those narrow tire tracks along Ryan's drive. Dallas photographed them. By now he has to know those weren't bike tracks. Maybe a wheelbarrow, or more likely a hand truck. Maybe she brought it with her from the city."
> "Grisly. She loads a hand truck into her expensive car, knowing she'll soon have a body to haul away. If the cops find it, and check out her car too, there should be plenty of traces for the lab."
"And before that," Joe said, "there should be replies on Marianna's fingerprints, and the lab report on the rug. I wonder how long that will take." He narrowed his eyes. "And what was the dog on about, when he pitched that fit there in the driveway? It sure wasn't Eby Coldiron who made him so mad."
28
Police dispatcher Mabel Hammond saw the gray tomcat slip into the station on the heels of two officers returning from lunch, strolling in behind them through the security door with all the assurance of the chief himself.
Glancing down over her counter, Mabel grinned at him. "Come on up, Joe Grey. I have fried chicken." The officers looked around laughing, and went on down the hall.
Mabel was fifty-some and inclined to be overweight. Her curly white hair was dyed blond. Her thick stomach didn't allow her to lean too far over the dispatcher's counter that defined her open cubicle on three sides. On the back wall was an array of computer and video monitors, radios, and other state-of-the-art electronic equipment that Mabel commanded. She not only handled emergency calls and dispatched officers, relaying all urgent communications, she juggled incoming faxes and the computers for vehicle wants and warrants and for wanted persons, and indexed officers' reports.
Joe Grey, never one to refuse fried chicken, landed on the counter among the in-boxes of files and papers, just inches from Mabel's face, smiling and purring up at her, laying on the charm. Mabel's hair smelled of perfume or maybe cream rinse; he wasn't an authority on these matters. Rubbing against her outstretched hand, he made super-nice in deference to the promised snack, and in keeping with his and Dulcie's commitment to improved public relations.
Ever since Harper had remodeled the station, increasing security and locking all outside doors, Joe and Dulcie's only sure access was the quick leap inside behind a returning officer. Their previous technique of pawing open the unlocked front door was no longer an option. Everything had changed. The new, efficient reception area was totally empty of desks to hide under. Upon entering, one faced only me dispatcher's cubicle, the booking counter, the holding cell back in the corner, and in the other direction a long, blank hallway. And the dispatchers didn't miss so much as a fly coming through the glass doors. Fortunately, those good women were all cat lovers.
Mabel had three cats of her own and, having recently married, shared her home as well with her husband's two dogs and his parrot. But despite her domestic menagerie, Joe Grey always amused her. The tomcat seemed to Mabel the epitome of cool feline authority. Mabel's work could get stressful; to have a four-legged visitor smiling and purring, sharing a few free moments, seemed to make her day shorter.
It interested her that the tomcat and his two lady pals liked to prowl the whole department, slipping in and out of the various offices. And, as cats were among the few visitors that could present no breach of security, most of the officers made a fuss over them. No one knew why the cats had grown suddenly so friendly to the department after the renovation, but the little freeloaders did like to share the officers' lunches.
Reaching to a low shelf, Mabel opened the paper bag containing her own lunch and removed a fried chicken thigh. Tearing the chicken off the bone into bite-sized pieces, she laid these on a folded sheet of typing paper, on the counter.
The tomcat scoffed up the chicken, licked his whiskers, then padded along the counters investigating her cubicle as he often did. Pausing, he peered across the entry to the holding cell, which to a cat must smell to high heaven. She could still smell the fingering scent of the last occupant. Oh, not the boy. He'd smelled okay. But after they took the boy out to the regular cells, and brought that old man in, he 'd stunk up the whole building.
The tomcat, returning to Mabel's in-boxes, began intently to watch the piles of papers that she'd set aside to index, patting and feinting at the reports as if maybe he'd seen a spider. Hot weather always brought out a few harmless spiders. The deadly ones stayed more in the dark, but did not five long if she spied them. Pawing at the papers, Joe went very still, staring as if he would grab whatever had crawled underneath. He remained for some time fixed on Gramps Farger's arrest sheet and then on the AFIS fax that had just come in for Detective Garza. It was wonderful, these days, how quick you could get back fingerprint information, to speed up the department's work. She watched Joe turn away at last, as if losing interest in the spider. What a strange cat, so deliberate in his actions. Now suddenly his attention was totally on the front door where he could see, through the glass door, Detective Garza returning from lunch.
She buzzed the detective through. "Captain Harper's back, he just came in."
Garza nodded and headed down the hall; and Joe Grey dropped from the counter and followed, making Mabel smile. Too bad the captain and Charlie had to shorten their honeymoon, though it was nice to have him home. The department had seemed just a bit off-kilter with the captain gone, not quite steady or comfortable.
Following Detective Garza, Joe could hardly keep from turning flips; he was as high as a junkie from the fingerprint report on Marianna Landeau giving her real name as Martie Holland. Martie Holland Martie Holland Martie Holland… Joe thought, grinning. And the sight of Gramps's arrest sheet had almost made him open his mouth in a wild and unsuitable cheer.
Though even without the arrest sheet he'd know that Gramps had recently occupied the holding cell, by the stink that emanated from that corner. Didn't the old man ever bathe? Did the shack where Gramps lived have no running water? But it must have, if Gramps was making drugs up there. He guessed the old man was just naturally slovenly. You wouldn't catch a cat, even a very old cat, stinking that bad. A dog maybe. Never a cat.
The time of arrest was recorded as 7:15 last evening. The place of arrest was that cliffside shack up the mountain above the Pamillon estate. The charges on the arrest sheet were possession of explosives, evading custody, and manufacturing illegal drugs.
Well done, Kit! Joe thought, smiling. The kit had fingered Gramps Farger all by herself. Had practically wrapped him up, helpless as a slaughtered mouse, waiting for Garza to come find him. Phoning Garza, placing her first call, her first hard-won and important tip, she'd been so excited she hadn't thought how scared she was. She'd given Garza the facts just as skillfully as he or Dulcie would have done. And she'd hit gold. She had helped nab the bomber that Garza might never have found-that old man had ditched the law once, as slick as if the shack in the hills wasn't his only place to hide.
The tattercoat was growing up, Joe thought with a twinge of sadness. That fanciful youngster capable of such wild and passionate dreams was developing a solid, hardheaded turn of mind. This was all to the good, the kit was learning to take hold of a problem and deal with it. But he was going to miss her scatterbrained enthusiastic plunging into trouble that had so far marked the kit's approach to life.
Following Garza to Harper's office, Joe lay down in plain sight in the doorway. Garza had already seen him on the dispatcher's counter, so why not? Might as well try a little feline indolence, play the four-footed bum.
Harper glanced out at him, and shook his head. "That cat been hanging around?"
Garza laughed. "Off and on. I let him stay, he doesn't do any harm-keeps the mice away."
"You get Curtis to talk?"
Garza shook his head. "Tight-mouthed. He's been an unhappy kid since we brought Gramps in. You can bet he's scared of the old man. Well, he wasn't too happy before, either. He blames us and the whole world for his dad being in prison. But he wasn't like this, we need to move him somewhere. Even separated the way they are, the old man's been threatening him, hinting as much as he dares, figuring we have a bug on him, back in the jail."
Which of course they would, Joe thought. It was perfectly legal, once a man was arrested, to bug his cell.
"You think the boy's scared enough, now, to ta
lk if we get him away from Gramps?"
"He might. I'm sure he could use a friend. I was thinking of bringing Ryan back with the dog, try that again before we send him to some juvenile facility farther away."
Harper said, "I was thinking of taking him over to drug rehab, give him a tour of the juvenile section, let him see what his daddy's and grandpappy's drugs did to those kids."
"Might work," Garza said.
Why, Joe wondered, would a boy who tried to kill several hundred people care about the suffering of drug addicts, even if they were kids his own age? Still, though, what could it hurt?
Garza said, "You find Hurlie?"
"He found us. I arrested him on obstruction of justice, sheriff took him in. We tossed his place. Didn't find any link to the bombing, but I have a nice list of purchases in the area, and three shopkeepers made Hurlie, from his brother's mug shot. Sheriff says Hurlie works sometimes for the Landeaus. At first, Landeau said he couldn't place him. Then I pressed a little. Not a friendly welcome."
Garza nodded.
"I left Charlie in the car with the keys and phone and radio. She was more scared than she let on. Landeau's guard dogs watched her the whole time, while Landeau jived me along. Sheriff said the feds are spotting marijuana patches up there, that they took out a couple last week, over in the national forest. The sheriff was… maybe holding something back. Telling me what he knew I'd learn anyway."
Max leaned back in his desk chair absently reaching for a cigarette though it had been more than a year since he quit. "I talked with DEA. They think the Landeaus have been backing small meth labs in several counties, using the take to finance some marijuana operations. Good chance Hurlie could be involved."
"As could the sheriff?"
Harper grunted. "I hope not. Maybe intimidated- that's a political appointment, you well know. Important thing is, you have enough on Gramps to go to the grand jury."
"I have more than that. I might have Rupert Dannizer's killer."
"Oh?"
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