Harry gave us a French press on the house, I treated Don to a scone, in honor of his performance, and we settled onto a sofa in the corner to watch everyone come and go.
I saw the man I had seen at the park yesterday – the grim one with the bulldog. He was sitting at one of the outside tables with his dog. There was a woman with him. She was knitting, and every once in a while they’d say something to each other, but mostly he read a newspaper and she would talk to people as they passed or stopped by the table. She seemed to know a lot of people. I pointed them out to Don, but he was unimpressed.
I heard a deep, unmistakable voice drift around the corner. “Is there somewhere more private where we can talk?”
I grabbed Don’s arm.
“Dude? What?”
“It’s him! He’s here!”
“Who?”
“The detective! My candle! It’s working already!”
“Or maybe he’s checking out leads in the area?”
I shook my head, my stomach fluttering. “Shh!”
He came around the corner, wearing a dark, tailored suit. If he saw us sitting on the sofa he didn’t say anything. He waited for Harry to come out from behind the counter and they passed us as they went to the small storage room behind us. I knew she couldn’t be far behind, but I still jumped when Detective Perez came around the corner. Her eyes narrowed when she saw us and she stopped as she passed.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, looking directly at me.
“Um, coffee?”
“Perez! Get in here!” I heard Detective Petreski call, and she moved on.
“She really -”
“Shh,” I shushed Don again. “I want to listen.”
“You can’t do that! This is an official murder investigation!”
“Then go away, but I’m listening.”
I knew Don was curious, too, because he shut up and we strained to hear what was being said. Bridger took a nap, so at least he was quiet.
The storage room had not been built for privacy, and being closer to the loose-fitting door I was able to hear most of what was being said.
“... same Harry Stiles arrested and charged with vandalism and assault in Austin in 1989?” That was Petreski.
“Yes, but -”
“And again in 1990, in Lubbock?”
“Yes, but I -”
“Have there been any more incidents since then?”
“No! Those were -”
“Were what?”
“Look, there was this girl...”
I heard Perez make a snorting sound before she said, “Yeah, isn’t there always?”
“Look, I’m not saying it excuses what I did, but I was... we were toxic together, you know? I figured that out, broke it off, and kept out of trouble ever since. Not even a parking ticket, I swear.”
There was silence for a few seconds, and then Perez asked, “Do you recognize this man?” They must have shown him a picture.
“Yeah. That’s Clarence Wilton, right? They found him in the bayou yesterday?”
“Close enough,” Petreski again. “He ever come in here?”
“Sometimes. I’ve seen him here before.”
“Mornings or evenings?”
“I’m mostly here in the mornings, that’s when I’ve seen him. You’d have to ask the evening staff if they’ve seen him.”
“You ever talk to him?”
“I guess. Chit-chat at the counter, that kind of thing.”
“Because, see,” Perez jumped in, “someone saw you talking to him day before yesterday, out on the patio.”
“Yeah, maybe. If I went out on the patio to check for cups or trash and he was out there, sure.”
“Our source tells us you were arguing.”
“Source?”
“Just answer Detective Perez, please, sir. Were you and Mr. Wilton arguing on the patio?”
I heard Harry take a deep breath and sigh. “I remember asking someone not to smoke a pipe out there. Did he smoke a pipe?”
I didn’t hear the answer, but it must have been in the affirmative.
“Then that must have been it. There was a guy out there lighting up a pipe. We don’t allow pipe or cigar smoking, so I asked him to put it out. He started complaining that no one else was out there so it should be okay. I told him rules are rules, we exchanged some words, and he left.”
“Was he driving or walking, did you notice?”
“I didn’t notice. He left and I got back to work. I didn’t have time to think about him after that.”
“And he was alone? You didn’t see him talking to anyone?”
A moment of silence, Harry must have been thinking, and then, “No, not that I noticed.”
“And where were you Tuesday night, between ten and midnight?” Perez’s voice.
“At home, asleep. I have to get here by five to open up.”
“Can anyone corroborate that?”
“No. I was alone.”
“Would anyone notice if you left your place? Neighbor? Landlord?”
“Not that I know of.”
Some more silence, and someone must have handed Harry a card. “Please call if you think of anything, and please don’t leave town without speaking to one of us first.”
As the detectives passed us on their way out, Petreski turned and looked at us. Bridger started to stir and the movement drew the detective’s attention.
“He’s a rescue,” Don said, on the defensive. “He has special needs.”
Petreski shook his head. “I’m not going to bust you over a kitten.”
He turned to me, a puzzled look on his face, like he was trying to figure something out. I smiled, because he was awfully nice to look at and I wanted to appear friendly and approachable, which I am, actually, but he looked like he needed a nudge.
“Petreski!” Perez called from the door where she stood, tapping her foot. I had to say something, so I said the first thing that popped into my head.
“He was there. At the scene yesterday.”
“Who? Harry?”
“No.” I shook my head and pointed to the front window. “That man with the bulldog. He was standing on the hill, watching, and then he left.”
“Do you know him?”
“No.”
“Was he with anyone?”
“Not that I saw. A woman went up to him and said something, but he just shook his head and left.”
“Okay. Thanks, uh...”
“Jake. Jake Hillebrand.”
“Thanks, Mr. Hillebrand.”
He turned to catch up to his partner, and on their way out he stopped to speak to the man with the bulldog. I didn’t see what happened with that because Harry came out about then, looking shaken.
“You okay?” Don asked him.
“Huh? Sure. You guys need anything?”
We shook our heads, but Harry stayed where he was, and his eyes were drawn again to Don’s baby sling.
“You wanna see him?” Don asked. Harry nodded and we shifted to make room for him on the sofa. Don opened the carrier and we all looked down to see Bridger, curled in a ball with his front paws crossed over his face. He stirred a little and stretched, and I’m sure the sight of three grown men mooning over a sleeping kitten was something to see.
Harry reached over to stroke Bridger’s fur and I could feel some of the tension draining out of him. “I didn’t know you were an animal lover,” I said.
Harry nodded. “Yeah, that’s what got me into trouble in the first place.”
“Huh?”
“I know you must have heard – that –” he indicated the storage room with a jerk of his head. “I got involved with a couple of animal rights groups when I was in college. I hooked up with one of the girls in the group. You know how it is. Love makes you do stupid things sometimes.”
“Yeah,” Don and I said, in perfect harmony.
“Yeah. So we were picketing an animal lab and things got out of hand. After things went bad in Austin, we transf
erred to Texas Tech, but it was the same thing all over again. That’s when I realized I needed to get out.”
“But you did realize, and you did what you needed to do. Now you’ve got this place. Seems to me you’ve got your act together,” I told him.
“I guess so. But every once in a while my past gets stirred up again.”
Bridger was purring louder now, and rolled over to show us his belly. Harry give him a last scratch before standing up. “Okay, gotta get back to work. You can keep bringing him in, as long as he’s in the sling. Just be discreet, okay?”
“Okay,” Don agreed, and he wrapped Bridger back up as Harry headed towards the front. “How did he know?” Don said after a minute.
“How did who know what?”
“Detective Petreski? How did he know I had a kitten in here?”
“Maybe his tail was sticking out or something.”
“No, he was all the way inside. How could he have known it was a kitten?”
“What else could it be?”
“All kinds of things. A puppy, a rabbit, a guinea pig.”
“He’s a detective, right? He’s got all kinds of training and skills, probably. Or maybe he just guessed and didn’t care if he got it right or not.”
“Maybe.”
“You. You were at the crime scene yesterday.”
I looked up to see the man I had pointed out to Detective Petreski standing over me. I glanced out the window to see the knitting woman holding her bag in one hand, the dog’s leash in the other, and watching us, her face looking pinched.
“Um, yeah?”
“What did you tell that cop?” I shifted my gaze back to him. He looked angry – his face was red, his jaw thrust forward, even the little alligator on his green polo shirt seemed to vibrate with rage.
“I didn’t –”
“I saw him in here talking to you. Then he starts asking me questions. What did you tell him?”
“I was there. He asked me to tell him if I remembered anything, and I remembered seeing you in the crowd, so I told him I saw you. That’s it.”
His hands clenched into fists, and for a second I thought he might hit me. I wasn’t afraid, really – he wasn’t young and had the physique of a man who spent all day in a desk chair. I was younger, fitter, and a fast runner, but I was sunk in a low-slung sofa that would be hard to get out of and I didn’t want Don and Bridger getting hurt.
“Look, lots of people were there, you obviously live in the neighborhood, so there’s no reason for you not to be there, too, right? It’s a good place to walk your dog.” I glanced back out to where his companion waited, looking more agitated now. I really hoped she wasn’t concerned because this guy had a violent temper.
Maybe he’d been taking anger management courses. He closed his eyes, and I could see his lips move as he counted or talked himself down. After a few seconds he opened his eyes. He was still glaring at me, but his hands relaxed and he rolled his shoulders. “Just stay away from me and out of my business. Got it?”
I nodded, and he spun on his heel and stormed out of the shop. A few heads turned to watch him pass, and then things went back to normal.
Harry stuck his head out from the serving area. “You guys okay?”
We nodded and Harry went back to work.
“I think I’ve had enough excitement for one morning,” Don said.
“Yeah, me too. But I don’t want to bump into that guy outside. Let’s give it a few minutes before we leave.”
We finished our coffee and bussed our dishes. Don went on outside because Bridger was starting to get fidgety and he didn’t want to push his luck with Harry. I stopped by the service window to thank Harry for the coffee again.
“It’s cool, man. You sure you’re okay? Mr. Katz is, well, he can have a temper.”
“Yeah, fine. Is that who that was? I didn’t know his name.”
“Yeah, Josh Katz. He’s president of one of the local preservation groups. He’s kind of a regular here, but usually in the afternoon. Just FYI, in case you want to steer clear of him.”
“Thanks. We’ll keep it in mind.”
I caught up with Don outside and we waited for a break in the traffic so we could cross the street.
“What were you talking to Harry about?”
“He told me a little about that guy. His name is Josh Katz and – get this – he’s the head of a preservation group in the neighborhood!”
“So?”
“So, think about it. A guy with a temper, gung-ho about preserving the character of the neighborhood? Takes his dog for a walk and bumps into Clarence Wilton on a dark, empty trail?”
“You’re not seriously saying you think he killed Wilton?”
“It’s a theory.”
“It’s wild speculation.”
“Do you think we should call Detective Petreski?”
“No! You put Katz on his radar. If there’s a connection, he’ll find it. Stay out of it, Jake.”
I stepped over some tree roots that had broken through the sidewalk and focused on navigating the chunks of concrete. I looked up and saw a “For Sale” sign halfway down the block. Another bungalow, likely to be bought by a developer and torn down or moved. Every bungalow gone was another rip in the fabric of the neighborhood – it was unraveling before our eyes and a part of me sympathized with the thought of someone driven to violence to stop it.
“What is it?” Don had moved a few feet ahead of me and turned back to see what was keeping me.
“It could have been anyone.”
“You’re talking about Wilton?”
“Yeah. Half the people in this neighborhood are probably nursing champagne hangovers this morning. Can you think of anyone they’d rather see dead?”
“A few elected officials spring to mind.”
“But how many of them walk their dog on the bayou trails at night?”
“What you’re saying is that there’s no shortage of motive or opportunity in the area.”
“Yeah.”
“But how was he killed? You said you smelled blood. Did you hear a gunshot? None was reported – it would have been all over the message board if there had. You can’t fart walking down the street here without someone reporting you for firing off a bazooka at the middle school.”
“I didn’t hear anything like that. Stabbed, I guess?”
“I know we’ve got some gun nuts in the neighborhood. I’m sure they take their precious weapons with them when they walk in the park. But who walks around with a knife? If he was shot, it could be a crime of opportunity, or passion.”
“But a stabbing... yeah, no one just walks around with a knife, as far as I know. To meet up with him on the trail, and have a knife handy... that would have to be planned. Someone who knows him, knows his schedule? Lying in wait for him?”
“Or someone who does wander around with a knife, and Wilton stumbled across him.”
I didn’t like the implications of that. “You’re talking about some psycho with a knife. That maybe Wilton was a victim of opportunity, not a target, and anyone and everyone could be in danger.”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck.”
We started walking again.
“Where did you get a baby sling, anyway?” I asked.
“I made it out of an old sheet.”
“Of course you did.”
“Power of the internet, dude.”
“Yeah.” I was still thinking about Wilton, and whether he was convenient or a target. If I had bad dreams tonight, they might have a whole new cause.
Boo Barges In
I tried to put aside my gloomy thoughts for a few hours and get through class and homework and dinner. Don was off tonight, so didn’t ask me to watch Bridger for him. He’d suggested watching a movie, but I needed to study and I needed to think. The whole thing with the dreams and Wilton was doing a real number on my head and I thought maybe, if I could have one quiet hour with no interruptions, I could reach some kind of clarity. Or take
a nap. I’d settle for either at this point.
I had just settled into a corner of the sofa with a notepad and a pencil when I heard a scratching at the door. I had been thinking about knife-wielding maniacs all day, so my initial response was a squeak and my pencil flew across the room.
There was about a one-inch gap between the bottom of the door and the floor, and I could see a shadow there. Moving as quietly as I could, I crossed the room, then crouched down to look under the door. A bright green eye looked back at me, surrounded by black fur. A cat. I tried to remember whether any of my neighbors had a black cat, but came up blank. It was still looking at me, and then it stuck one of its front legs under the door, straining towards me, and meowed.
“You want in, kitty?” I asked.
Another meow. I guessed that was a yes. I decided a cat was probably harmless compared to a knife-wielding maniac, and stood to open the door.
When I opened the door the cat rolled to its feet and craned its neck to look inside. “Come on, then,” I coaxed, and it entered, fluffy tail held high.
He (I checked) was gorgeous – fluffy, shiny, jet black coat, bright green eyes, and when I picked him up he was solid muscle. This was no stray – this was someone’s well-cared-for darling.
“Now where did you come from, hmm? No collar. You got a microchip? Huh?” He melted into me and started to purr, so I didn’t have the heart to put him down. I walked around the apartment holding him. We looked out all the windows, and I took him in the kitchen and fixed him a bowl of water. “You want some water? Huh, Boo-Boo Kitty? You want some water?” Crap, I was already talking baby-talk and naming the furry intruder.
I finally plopped him onto the sofa and went across the landing to knock on Don’s door.
“What’s up?” he asked when he answered.
“Come check this out.” He followed me back across the landing and we stood in the door of my apartment, looking at my visitor, blinking back at us from the arm of the sofa.
“You got a cat?”
“No. He just showed up and, like, knocked on the door. Isn’t he gorgeous?”
“You gonna keep him?”
“I can’t keep him. He’s gotta be someone’s pet. Do you think we should introduce him to Bridger?”
Not a Werewolf Page 4