Effie shrugged. “Some women are like that. Hate their kids when they turn bad, but then they go all defensive when the kid gets caught and has to pay for his sins.” She settled heavily back in her chair, buttering a scone. “And the police here, they don’t have any background on Gardner? Theydon’t know who might be connected to him?”
“Not that I can find,” Evijean said. “But now, this morning, they’re working on new evidence, something’s going on in there.” She sipped her tea, looked up at Effie; she went quiet as the waitress brought their check.
When Dulcie looked at Kit, Kit looked sly and smug. A look of triumph, as if she had her paws in the cream. “What?” Dulcie whispered. But the women had paid the bill and risen. With no more useful information forthcoming, and with not much traffic in and out of the tearoom, the two cats hurried out the door behind them.
Evijean went on into the station. Dulcie and Kit waited in the bushes until they could duck through, unseen. “What?” Dulcie said again. “What did you do?”
“The shoes,” Kit whispered. “I found thrown-away shoes. Dallas has them.” Quickly Kit told her about Sam’s “accident,” about the Bleaks’ charges against Billy. “And Joe,” Kit said, “Joe was mad enough to . . . I didn’t know what he’d do.” She peered in through the glass door. “Looks like the Bleaks are gone. They . . .” She hushed as Officer McFarland pulled up in his squad car. As he got out, they slipped up to the door behind him. Seeing them, McFarland grinned, his boyish brown hair mussed under his cap, and he held the door for them. They trotted through, glanced up at him with a flick of their tails, and hurried past the counter out of Evijean’s sight, quickly down the hall, to the safety of Max Harper’s door.
His office was empty, the door cracked open but no one there. They could hear voices from Juana Davis’s office. They crossed the hall and slid inside, halting inches behind Detective Davis’s black shoes and the chief’s western boots where they stood at a long, folding table. Kit slid in first. She knew at once by the smell that the shoes were there, the shoes she’d found in the Dumpster; the smell of pine pitch was so strong that she had to hide a grin.
24
Juana Davis’s usually neat office looked like a jumble sale. A long table stood in the middle of the room, her furniture pushed against the wall, the credenza, bookcase, and desk shoved together. Davis, Max Harper, and Billy stood at the table absorbed as Dulcie and Kit slipped into the room. Silently they hopped up onto the desk and to the top of the bookcase where they could look down.
Besides the shoes there were photos again: crime scene photos crowded the table. A set of pictures neatly arranged by each shoe. Now they had a match, the corresponding color shots marked with time, date, name of the victim. Kit looked smugly at Dulcie. She was so proud she could hardly help lashing her tail and grinning.
But Dulcie was looking for Joe Grey. Why wasn’t he in here scanning the evidence? She couldn’t even catch his scent.
She thought about the Bleaks’ scam, how they’d tried to incriminate Billy, how angry Joe had been—Kit said she didn’t know what he’d do. Oh, she thought, he hasn’t followed them, he hasn’t followed the Bleaks home?
But that’s just what Joe would do.
Stay outside, she thought. Just watch the house, see if they try to run, see if they try to get away from Harper. Then call the station. Oh, don’t go in there. She moved to drop down to the desk, to head for the door and follow him—but now even Dulcie herself was too wary, thinking of the kittens. She was feeling heavier, clumsier. She thought of running over the rooftops, maybe getting into a tight squeeze inside the Bleak rental . . . If anything happened to the kittens, to Joe’s kittens . . .
And somehow, looking at Kit, at the flighty tortoiseshell, she didn’t want to ask Kit to follow him. When he’s alone, he’s extra careful. Alone, he can sometimes plan his moves better, he’s not distracted. No, this time she would put her trust in Joe, in Joe Grey’s strength and macho intelligence. Creeping closer to Kit, snuggled against her, she watched Billy Young, standing at the long table beside Juana, answering her occasional questions. She was comparing the crime scene shots and their matching shoes with a handful of the pasted-up photos.
“Yes,” Billy was saying, “that’s just behind the remodel, under the bedroom window. Those two pieces of two-by-four? I tossed them there a week ago, and forgot them. Same shoe, though. Same torn pant cuff.”
Was this why Billy was here, a civilian looking at police evidence to verify the locations of certain photos? But these locations could be verified by police photos of the larger surround, they didn’t need a witness. Dulcie and Kit looked at each other. Was this an added experience for Billy? Max’s ongoing introduction to see if the boy was truly interested in police work? Billy said, “How long will the lab take?”
“Hopefully, a week or two,” Max said.
“That’s wishful thinking,” Juana said, laughing.
“If they’re as backed up as usual,” Max told Billy, “could take a month or more.”
“While the killer,” Billy said, “could be long gone.”
Neither Max nor Juana replied.
Near the shoes lay machine copies from a small, spiral-bound notebook. Though only the top, lined page was visible. Ben’s note was short, but was carefully dated.
Monday, November 4. Ten a.m. Blonde in back of gallery again, back row but different seat. No hat today, dressed kind of fluffy, full skirt and a blousy shawl. Nothing like that leather cap and bulky jacket. I guess she’s hiding her extra weight, she could stand to lose a few pounds. It’s the same woman. She walks the same, kind of slow and like maybe she has arthritis. Same blond hair . . .
That was all the cats saw before Max glanced up at them and they turned to wash their paws.
Near the notebook pages, three photos had been set aside. Each showed a running shoe with the bottom of a pant leg, a black satin stripe down the outside seam and a small tear at the bottom. One showed the print of the shoe’s tread on the concrete, a waffle pattern with stars in it. The second photo showed only the footprint, but it was the same odd pattern. Neat handwriting in the white margin at the top of each photo gave the date and identified the attack. The third photo was of the same jogging pants with the black satin stripe, the tear, but with different shoes. It was dated this morning, and in different handwriting, and marked with a file number and the name “Sam Bleak.”
Max was saying, “This is enough to bring them back in for questioning.”
“Enough to file charges?” Juana said doubtfully.
“No. Only as persons of interest,” he said. “We’re not filing charges on a dead man’s notes and photos, even our own crime scene photos. We wait for the lab, hope they come up with prints. And Sam’s false accusation of Billy isn’t much of a case against them. You read their statements, how they backed down.”
“But they’re tied into this,” Juana said. “You want to try for a search warrant? Before they try to skip?”
“With Judge Manderson? You know he wants hard evidence before we do a search.”
Juana sighed. “Wish we had the gun that killed Ben. And what was that about, that fake attack this morning, throwing themselves right in our faces?”
Max shrugged. “No one said criminals were smart.”
Billy said, “Did they think if Sam was mugged, that you’d see them as helpless victims? And I guess,” he said, grinning, “I guess they don’t like me much. But,” he continued, “even when they left the station, they looked nervous.”
Juana turned when her desk phone rang, and flipped on the speaker.