“Whatisthat?” Dulcie said.
“I don’t know, but I mean to find out,” Joe said irritably. He didn’t like not knowing about such a useful invention.
“But they’re elderly,” Dulcie said. “They look like someone’s grandparents.”
“Maybe they are someone’s grandparents.” Joe gave her a wide-eyed look. “Does that make them law-abiding and honest?”
Dulcie preferred to think of criminals as young and rough, crude humans without any hint of gentleness. “And where are the cops? I thought they were all to have tails, I thought� Have they missed this one?”
Joe studied the crowd until he spotted a frail-looking young woman, slim as a model in her flowered skirt, boots, and suede jacket. “There. Eleanor Sand.” Sand was Harper’s newest rookie. Her companion was a clean-cut young man in jeans, with short hair and brown turtleneck sweater, on loan from up the coast. Standing in front of the cafe, glued to the music, they seemed unaware of the elderly burglars just three doors down. Fascinated, the cats watched Gramps and Granny within the dark store move directly to the inside meter box, where they threw the breaker, perhaps so that other alarms, within the store, wouldn’t be triggered.
“These old stores!” Joe said. “These old simple alarm systems.”
“You think the owners deliberately made it simple tonight? Deactivated some more sophisticated warning device? The whole idea is to let the perps get in and out again.”
The tomcat smiled. “Maybe.” He watched the old couple, working together, jimmy and empty nine glass showcases. “Those two might be grandparents, but they’re skilled at their trade.”
Leaving the store, the gray-haired couple wandered away into the crowd apparently confident they hadn’t been noticed. A half block behind them, Eleanor Sand and her companion wandered aimlessly in the same direction. All around the village, similar breakins were occurring in small, unnoticed corners, and similar teams of officers followed their progress, then made their arrests in other isolated retreats. The cats missed the action at Marineau’s Jewelry.
So did the Greenlaws, though Lucinda and Pedric were sitting on their terrace enjoying the tangled melange of music and watching the crowds below. Neither noticed a darkly dressed Latino man slip down the alley next to Marineau’s, open the shop’s metal-sheathed side door with a key, and slip inside. No smallest light shone. Nothing could be seen through the boarded-up windows. The Greenlaws did not see him leave, five minutes later, the pockets of his trench coat bulging with items taken from the safe for which he also had keys. Neither Lucinda nor Pedric was aware that, while the jazz group down the street at Bailey’s Fish House played the gutteral, funky music of the old Preservation Hall group, Marineau’s was being cleaned out a second time, with keys whose patterns had been taken the first time around. And meanwhile, four blocks away, the cats were intent on redheaded Tommie McCord and his Latino partner, as they strolled away from the last jewelry store on the list, walking along laughing and swilling cans of beer.
Neither man realized that Officers Brennan, who had already made one arrest, and Julie Wade, dressed as a frowzy pair of tourists, followed half a block behind, pawing each other and peering into shop windows, Brennan’s big belly and firearm covered by his loose shirt printed with palm trees. Wade was on loan from Santa Cruz PD. She wore a long, smock-like blouse and long, full skirt; very likely the officers’ garments concealed not only regulation automatics but radios, cell phones, handcuffs, and belly chains.
As Tommie McCord and his friend turned away into a dark residential street, leaving the scene, and headed up toward the crowded hillside cottages, the cats followed them over the rooftops. The cats watched as they were arrested. No shot was fired. Tommie tried to run, and got pepper spray in his face, which made him double up, choking. His friend got a dose of the taser that put him on the sidewalk, for trying to take down Officer Wade. Cuffed and helped into a squad car, they would be, as Kit said, “Locked in a cage themselves. Let’s see how they like that.” This kit was not big on forgiveness.
39 [��������: pic_40.jpg]
The cells of Molena Point jail were indeed satisfyingly overcrowded. Men were stacked in the bunks and sleeping on pads on the concrete floor. The department’s evidence room was equally full, its safe filled with sufficient small, sealed bags of jewelry and valuables to convict an army of thieves. The detectives’ reports had gone to the DA. All arrestees had been denied bail. It would be some weeks after the Greenlaws moved into their new house before the town would be treated to the full details of the sting-or to that part of the story that could be told, and that those in the department knew. Some facts would remain unrevealed even to the chief-forever, the three cats hoped.
The Greenlaws’ housewarming was impromptu but satisfying in its camaraderie and good cheer. The hodgepodge of treasures with which the old couple had furnished their new home formed an amazing collection, gleaned from used-furniture stores, garage sales, and the most exclusive shops. On a three-day shopping trip to the city with Hanni Coon, to the exclusive designer showrooms, they had purchased the last pieces; except for the bright primitive rugs, which had come from Hanni’s own showroom. Among their purchases was a large box marked “Kit,” destined for the tree house.
The night after the last deliveries were made and in place, George Jolly’s team arrived bearing trays of delicious selections; the Greenlaws’ front door was propped open, the department brought the wine and beer, and cops and civilians crowded the bright rooms. While out in the tree house, Dulcie and Joe and Kit reclined among a tangle of exotic new pillows.
Lori Reed and Dillon Thurwell had been eager to carry the pillows and the cats’ loaded plates up a ladder. The girls had wanted to have their own supper there, but Lucinda made it clear this was Kit’s exclusive property. Both girls had, however, begun dreaming of tree houses of their own, plotting how to accomplish that endeavor.
The cats, full of delicacies, sleepily watched the party from their cushions, through Kit’s open window, and listened to conversations and laughter too tangled together to make sense. Cop talk; woman talk; talk of children and clothes and cooking; cop jokes and excessive high spirits. The Rivas trial was scheduled for two days hence. The eighteen prisoners had decided on one group trial, perhaps because their sleazy L.A. attorney might charge them less-if they were paying him at all. Who knew what kind of favors Luis was calling in? Certainly the single trial would cost the county far less. Though Roman Slayter would stand trial alone for the murders of Frank Cozzino and Delfino Rivas. The evidence in both cases was solid. Ballistics showed that one of Slayter’s several guns had killed both men. Three other firearms were found in the trunk of his car, including a.22revolver. Chichi thought Slayter had killed Dufio because Dufio alone had seen Slayter kill Frank. Certainly Dufio had been near when Frank went down.
“And the gun that I found under Abuela’s dryer,” Dulcie said, “that didn’t kill anyone.”
Joe shrugged. “Not that they know of. But it was stolen. Who knows what might turn up later, in some other case.”
“There she is,” Dulcie said, peering out the tree house window. “Chichi. Just coming in.” The tabby cat stared, her green eyes wide. “How different she looks!”
Chichi stepped across the tile entry beside Detective Davis and Dallas Garza, just behind Ryan and Clyde. Since the department knew the whole story, since Chichi had furnished a preponderance of evidence, she was more than comfortable with the officers. She did not look hard now, not like the brittle Chichi Barbi the cats knew. She was dressed in a soft, pale, loose-fitting blouse belted over a gathered skirt, and sandals. Her pale hair was pulled back and caught at the neck with a simple clip. She wore little makeup, just a touch of lipstick.