“Yes, of course.”
Joe glimpsed the headlines for only an instant as Max folded the articles into his notebook and slipped it in his briefcase.
. . . dies when car goes over cliff north of . . .
. . . on a rainy street south of . . .
Bonnie said, “Would first thing in the morning suit you? Say, eight o’clock?”
“That’s change of watch,” Max said. “I’m tied up until, say, nine?”
She smiled. “Nine’s fine. That will give Celeste and me a chance to have breakfast out, splurge a little.”
When Max rose, the tomcat backed deeper into the petunias. Though the evening was growing dark, his white paws and white nose were always a problem, too bright in the gathering dusk, even among the tangled leaves. Watching Max head for his pickup, Joe wanted to leap in the truck, ride home with him unseen, slip into the Harper house, paw through Max’s briefcase and read the clippings. What trial was this? What was the offense? Who was the plaintiff? If someone was out to kill the jurors . . . a friend or relative of the plaintiff . . . then he must have received the ultimate sentence . . . life in prison or the death penalty. Joe wished he had run faster over the rooftops, that he hadn’t missed half the conversation, missed the telling facts.
But now, as much as he wanted to know the rest of Bonnie’s story, he decided not to hitch a ride, not chance getting caught snooping up at the Harper ranch. He’d see the clippings in the morning, once he hit the station. Though even that wait annoyed him, he was wired with curiosity. He watched the chief cross the yard, step into his pickup and back out—and Joe Grey hit the rooftops, his paw-beats thudding across the shingles of the neighborhood cottages as he headed not for the Harper ranch, that long haul up the hills, but for Ben’s place.
Maybe Juana had missed nothing at all—and maybe not. Either way, she was sure to have cleared the scene by now.
Maybe, in the process of removing crime tape, she had aired the apartment of cat-box smell, had opened the windows and, if luck were with him, she had not relocked them all. Not likely, knowing Detective Davis, but he meant to find some way inside.
Up across the roofs and oak branches, racing above the dropping canyon until he saw the tall old house ahead, Ben’s small basement apartment at the back. The outdoor security lights were on, but no interior lights at all, even in the big house. He came down two gardens away.
There was no sound from within as he crossed the darkening yards onto the brightly lit lawn. Juana had removed the crime tape, and luck was with him. She, or maybe the landlord, had left the apartment wide open, to air. Strange, he thought, to leave it unlocked at night. Maybe that’s why the security lights were on, shining brightly into the tiny room, brighter than Joe wanted. His nose twitched at the lingering stink as he leaped to the sill of an open window.
The screen was old-fashioned with just the kind of latch he liked. With careful claws he ripped a small hole in the bottom. Reaching through, he flipped the hook, pulled the screen open, ducked under, and dropped down inside.
The room was just as it had been except for the empty space before the windows where the two big cages had stood. Dent marks from their stands marked the carpet. He scanned the room looking for a hiding place that Juana could somehow have missed. Though still he found it strange that Ben would have left notebook and phone at home that morning. There was a better chance the killer already had them. Joe couldn’t get it out of his head that Ben had secretly taken pictures that he felt might lead to perpetrator of the street crimes—pictures that Ben didn’t know might lead to his own killer?
In this little square room, could there be some hiding place so small and out of the way that even Juana had overlooked it? She had surely gone over the carpet feeling for lumps underneath. Beside the narrow bed was a little writing desk that served as a night table, cluttered with cough drops, a battery-operated travel clock, a couple of paperback mysteries. Marks in the thin coating of dust described the shape of a laptop and what could be the feet of a small printer. Maybe one of those giveaway color jobs where the company made most of its profit selling cartridge replacements. In the far corner of the room a tiny refrigerator stood beneath a small counter with a bar-sized sink. On the counter were a dozen cans of cat food, a few clean mugs and plates, and a microwave. And now, even with the windows open to air out the lingering stink of cat kennels, another scent touched Joe. He could smell, when he took a good whiff, the whisker-licking aroma of young mice.
Having missed supper, he spared a few moments to stalk the trail, hoping to assuage the hollowness in his belly. Slipping across the room following the mousy enticement, he had doubled back where it was stronger—when a swift small shadow fled past his nose. Damned mouse exploded right past him! Enraged to have missed it, he leaped where the shadow paused for an instant. He missed again, the tip of its tail vanishing beneath the bed. Well, hell!
Bellying under the bed among inert dust mice, he found where the little beast had disappeared. Where the molding was warped, concealing a sizable hole behind the wooden trim.
Crouching to peer in he saw a tangle of chewed-up paper, and the smell of mouse was strong. He was staring at the edge of a mouse nest: torn papers deep and cozy. He tensed when something small stirred within. Hungrily he flashed his paw in, fast as lightning he grabbed—and drew back faster, hissing, pain shooting through his paw.
A half-grown mouse clung to his paw, its sharp teeth sunk deep in his tender pad. The tiny animal glared at him with rage. Joe shook his paw and backed away, the angry mouse clinging.
In all his days, in all his battles with enemies twice his size, from fighting raccoons to enraged dogs, he had never been attacked by a mouse. He stared at it, shocked; he was about to pull the cheeky youngster off his paw and crunch and swallow it. But it was so small and so damnednervy. The stupid mouse had way more courage than sense. Joe bared his teeth over it. One chomp and it would be gone, warming his hungry belly.
In the second that he hesitated, the mouse bit him harder. Angrily Joe swatted the little bastard off with his other paw. It was so bold he couldn’t eat it. It stared up at him, squeaking angrily, then fled back into the hole.
Peering in, Joe prayed the little varmint wouldn’t charge out and grab his whiskered nose. He couldn’t believe the nerve of the creature.
But now the nest was empty, the mouse had vanished. There were no others. Had they run away at his disturbance? Nothing there now but the soft paper bed itself. Joe studied the tangle of chewed-up paper, each piece colored as bright as Christmas wrappings. Tiny scraps gleaming red, green, blue: a nest of scraps as brilliant and shiny as . . .
As brightly colored photographs.
Photographs, diligently chewed into hundreds of pieces, torn to line a rodent’s nest.
Gingerly he reached a paw in, hoping the coast was still clear. Carefully he examined the edges where the mother mouse’s mastication had not been so thorough. She had created a soft bed in the center, but had left the outer portion in larger scraps only lightly torn apart. Joe clawed out a few pieces, some nearly an inch across.
Yes, torn photographs. A shot of green grass with a streak of muddy path. The toe of a jogging shoe, mud-stained. The cuff of black jogging pants. All common items, but views that had, for some reason, stirred Ben to record them.
Once he’d printed them, had Ben hidden them in the hole not thinking about mice? And the mouse, typical opportunist, had begun at once to line her nest. Or had Ben hidden them somewhere else in the room, and the mouse dragged them here to make her nest?
He imagined Juana, in her straight black uniform skirt, having to crouch low, her face to the floor to peer into the opening beneath the warped baseboard. Crouching so low might have put more stress on her mechanical knee than she wanted, and she’d made short work of the search.