Dulcie remained on the counter for some time, shamelessly purring and rubbing her face against Mabel's stroking hand, cementing their relationship. With the increased security in the remodeled department, Mabel and the two other dispatchers were going to be key players.
She just hoped one of the three didn't turn out to be ailurophobic. Smiling up at Mabel, she purred a song of delight that left the officer beaming, and left Dulcie feeling that she could tame the most timorous cat hater. All she and Joe had to do was hang around the department and make cute, and they'd soon be regulars. Maybe they could even become department mascots, and she could turn her gig as official library cat over to the kit for a while.
This morning, when Cora Lee was taken straight from the Emergency Room into surgery, the kit had been a basket case, pacing and worrying until Wilma, in desperation, took the kit to work with her at the library. The kit had seemed to like that. Cora Lee was out of surgery by noon, minus her spleen, which Wilma said was not critical. Otherwise, Wilma said, she was doing well. Wilma had promised the kit that, if she behaved, she'd smuggle her in when Cora Lee was ready for visitors.
A cat in a briefcase? Or maybe concealed in a pot of fake flowers? Smiling, Dulcie pictured a gift box fitted out with a little door and perforated with air holes.
Following Max Harper's scent down the hall, Joe tried to get the lay of the new design. The remodeling wasn't yet finished, but most of the drywall was up and plastered, and ready to paint. The new bulletproof windows were in place, as well as bulletproof glass between the offices. He missed the huge squad room crowded with desks, with all the officers doing their paperwork and taking their phone calls in communal chaos. Now that Harper and the two detectives had private offices, Joe's own life would be more difficult.
Dallas Garza sat at the desk in the first lighted office, deep in paperwork. But the instant Joe peered cautiously in around the door, Garza glanced up, suddenly all attention. "What the hell?"
Joe stepped out into plain sight, his paws sweating, telling himself to stay cool.
Garza laughed. "How the hell did you get in here?" He held out his hand to Joe. Annoyed, Joe approached him and rubbed his face against Garza's fingers. This was so demeaning, to have to ingratiate himself-but then, he did like Garza. It wasn't as if he was playing up to some stuffed-suit type.
"You trying to adopt me, cat? You move into my house, and now here you are in the station. What happened to our beefed-up security? You must really want to be a cop's cat."
Joe! The name is Joe!
Garza rubbed Joe's ears the way he would a dog's, gave him a pat on the butt, and turned back to his reports. Casually Joe trotted away, hoping the detective wouldn't think to mention the incident to Max Harper. Harper would not be so forgiving. He soon found the report-writing room with its six computers, each in a private carrel, with bulletproof glass between. He found the coffee room, and had a little snack of someone's leftover doughnut. But it was the small, padded interrogation room that really interested him.
The cubicle was just big enough for a little table and two chairs. A TV camera was mounted high in one corner. It would be connected to screens in other parts of the building, maybe in the communications room, Joe thought, and in Garza's and Harper's offices, areas where an enterprising cat might, with a cavalier smile and purr, pick up all manner of police intelligence.
The door to the basement was kept closed. He knew that the disaster center down there had been upgraded with state-of-the-art communications equipment, a large supply of emergency food and water, six narrow bunk beds lining one wall, and improved bathing facilities. Harper had described with some pride this brains of rescue operations, to be used in case of flood, earthquake, riot, or war.
Max Harper had created a new and improved crime-fighting plant with all the bells and whistles-efficient, but not cat friendly. Maybe Dulcie was right; maybe feline PR was the best antidote to all this upscale security.
Times change, Joe thought. Everything today hinges on good PR. Whether you're a writer like Elliott Traynor or just an everyday cat sleuth, face it, networking's become important. He guessed he could go along with the program, could put forth a little in-your-face chutzpah. If Dulcie could play lonesome kitty, so could he.
He didn't care to see the updated basement firing range; he'd rather just imagine the cavernous room from seeing similar ones on TV. He didn't like the smell of gunpowder. That stink brought back a couple of decidedly unpleasant moments in his career.
Harper had described very graphically to Clyde how the firing booths had been improved, with thicker barriers between them, and more sophisticated targets; with moving figures electrically operated and enough sound effects and flashing lights to unnerve any shooter. Joe was headed back toward the dispatcher, slipping past Harper's lighted office hoping the captain wouldn't look up from his desk, when the dispatcher buzzed Harper. "Long distance, Captain."
"Tell them-"
"It's New York. Some literary agent."
"A what?"
"Literary agent," she said. "An Adele McElroy."
Drawing back into the shadows, Joe listened with a thrill of interest. He heard Harper pick up and identify himself, then the captain was quiet for a moment. Then, "Of course I know Traynor. He's big news here in the village."
Joe didn't like hearing only one side of a conversation. He began to fidget. When Harper paused again, he beat it into the first empty office.
Leaping atop a makeshift desk of plywood balanced on sawhorses, he slipped the phone from its cradle.
Silence. Wrong line. He punched the lighted button.
"… all right," Harper was saying, "as far as I know. Yes, Mrs. Traynor's here with him. They've cast his play and are starting to rehearse. What is this about?"
"Maybe nothing," the agent said. "Elliott is three months overdue on this book, and that's not like him. He's always ahead of schedule. And he's acting so very strange, he has me worried. We're good friends, Captain, social friends. But now suddenly he won't talk to me. Won't tell me what's wrong, yet I have the distinct impression something's very much amiss.
"I'm concerned about him, Captain Harper, and I didn't know who else to call. Elliott's always been so conscientious, enthusiastic about his work, always had the material to me months ahead of time-and he has always confided in me.
"I know about the cancer, of course, I know he's continuing treatments out there. It may be nothing more than his not feeling well, the depression that can accompany ill health. I can't get anything out of the medical people here. I've called his doctors but they won't talk to me.
"I can't help thinking there's something really wrong-more than the illness. I know it sounds strange, but-do you know him well?"
"No, Ms. McElroy, I don't. I really don't see that-"
"This-this may sound like nothing to you, but he's sending me chapters-a few at a time, which I asked him to do. Chapters that are… they have me upset about his mental state. They're so… so inferior to his usual work…"
"That really isn't-"
"We're talking a half-million-dollar advance, here. I don't think he's in any condition to write this book. But he won't talk to me. Nor will Vivi. This isn't like Elliott. And I… I need help here, and I don't know who else to call."
Harper was silent.
"I called a friend of his, out there, a Gabrielle Row, asked her if Elliott was all right. She said she really didn't know, that she didn't see that much of them, that they were only casual acquaintances. I had thought differently, from Elliott. I had trouble getting her number, and I still haven't reached Richard Casselrod, though I've left messages."