Dulcie leaped down and began to pace the balcony. "He must have been panicked about the watch. He wanted it back; he didn't dare let it be found in Janet's studio."
She smiled, smoothed her whiskers. "He got here to the condo sometime after midnight. All he could think of was the watch. Maybe he sat here on the balcony, with the binoculars, watching the warehouse area, watching for a light to come on in Rob's studio."
"But when a light did come on," Joe said, "maybe he couldn't be really sure it was Rob's studio. So he picked up the phone. That's what the phone call was."
"Yes. When Rob answered, Mahl hung up. Got in his car, drove down there, took Rob's Suburban, and hightailed it up to Janet's to get his watch."
Joe nodded. "But Janet was already up, lights were on in the studio, he didn't dare go in. All he could do was hope the watch would be destroyed in the fire, melted beyond recognition."
"And when the watch didn't turn up as part of the evidence, and when no one had testified to seeing him take Rob's Suburban or return it, he thought he was home free."
"Right. Except that this is all supposition."
"It won't be supposition if we find the paintings," she said.
Joe sighed. "You're imagining a lot. Talk about a needle in a haystack." He scratched a flea, then rose, trotted back inside across the thick oriental rug toward the kitchen. "But first things first. I'm not going to search two or three locker complexes, all those miles of buildings, on an empty stomach."
In Mahl's kitchen they polished off half of the remaining roast beef, hoping Mahl would assume that was all he'd left when he made his sandwich. They enjoyed a hunk of Camembert, but left the remains suspiciously ragged. They smoothed it out as best they could with neat little nibbles. They split the last yogurt and hid the empty container in the bottom of the trash can. Who would guess cats had been at the refrigerator? They licked up a few stray cat hairs and then, strengthened, searched the condo.
Looking into the cupboards, the dresser drawers, the closet, and the nightstand, they found nothing of interest. But when Dulcie pulled out a briefcase from behind Mahl's Ballys, they hit pay dirt.
The closet was neatly arranged. The hanging garments were sorted as to type and color with the help of one of those intricate modular systems designed for optimum space utilization. The white, wire mesh shelves beneath his slacks and suit coats held twelve pairs of perfectly arranged dress shoes and loafers, a leather overnight bag, a pair of golf shoes, and a small metal tool box. In the corner leaning against the wall was an expensive-looking golf bag and a three-foot-long pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters. The briefcase was on the bottom rack behind the shoes. They dragged it out, sliding the shoes aside.
The combination lock wasn't engaged. The briefcase contained a stack of letters, and a sheaf of paid bills and receipts secured by a rubber band. Dulcie pulled off the elastic with her teeth, and they began to nose through.
"I don't believe this," Joe said when, halfway through, they found a receipt from Shorebird Storage, for locker K20. Dulcie said nothing. She only smiled. The locker had been rented four months ago, for an annual fee of twelve hundred dollars.
They put the bills back as they had found them, closed the briefcase, and slid it behind the shoes, straightening the Ballys to perfect symmetry, as Mahl had left them. And within minutes they were down the bougainvillea vine and headed for Highway One, the locker combination firmly engraved on their furtive cat minds.
The golden October evening was deepening, the sky streaked with indigo. As they trotted up Sixth Street, enjoying the warmth of the sidewalk beneath their paws, they sniffed the good village smells of fresh-cut grass, crushed eucalyptus leaves, and the salty, iodine smell of the sea. And at this hour the air was filled, too, with the aromas of suppers cooking in the houses they passed, the scents of baking ham, of hot cheese and beef stew. That snack at Mahl's had been a nice first course; but who knew if there was anything edible in a concrete locker complex? Who knew how long they'd be occupied? Cats, as Joe had pointed out to Clyde on more than one occasion, needed frequent sustenance.
In an overgrown flower garden they stalked and caught a starling. The bird was tough, not tender and sweet like a robin or a dove, but it was filling. They finished their supper quickly, washed up with a few hasty licks, and trotted on into the deepening evening.
Crossing over the top of Highway One, where it tunneled under Sixth, they turned north. Traveling along through a string of cottage gardens, leaping through flower beds and watching for sudden dogs, Joe looked ahead lustily, his yellow eyes burning. Dulcie, watching him with a sideways glance, had to smile. He was all aggression now, hot for the kill-as if nothing would keep them from Mahl's locker even if he had to claw through solid wood.
And now they could see, a quarter mile ahead where the highway came up out of the tunnel, the Shorebird Storage Lockers sign, its red neon glowing brighter than fresh blood against the gathering evening.
Their plan was to slip into the complex before it closed, wait inside until the caretaker locked up and went home, until they had Shorebird Lockers to themselves. And Dulcie shivered with anticipation. They could be coming down, tonight, on some heavy stuff. If the paintings were there, this would blow Rob's trial wide-open. Detective Marritt's sloppy investigation, his lack of investigation, would be clear for everyone to see.
She would not even consider, now, that they might be disappointed, that the locker might contain something very different from Janet's paintings, she had put that unworthy idea aside. Dulcie felt success in her bones; she was afire with the same surge of blood, the same deep, sure excitement as when they trotted up into the hills on a fine hunting night-on a night she knew would be laced with some pure, hot victory.
24
Shorebird Lockers was a complex of twelve concrete buildings, each a hundred feet long, with wide aisles between. The roofs were of corrugated metal, and a six-foot chain-link fence enclosed the compound, its posts and bottom edge set securely into cement. The facility had all the charm of a concentration camp as seen in some old World War II movie, barren, chill to the spirit, hard to escape.
But there were no prisoners here, this camp was empty of humanity. The only life visible was the two cats trotting quickly up a wide concrete alley beneath the yellow glow cast by security lamps rising at regular intervals from the corners of the buildings. The cats avoided the center of the alley, where metal grids covered a six-inch gutter littered with refuse, scraps of paper, muddy leaves, bobby pins, an occasional lost key. The corrugated metal doors above them reflected their swift shadows flashing through shafts of harsh light. Some of the doors were narrow, some as wide as a double garage. Locker K20 was halfway up the last alley. The time was eight-fifteen. The complex had been closed for fifteen minutes.
Earlier, slipping inside the open gate, they had hidden behind a Dumpster, watching for the caretaker to come out of the office, lock up, and go home. The office occupied the far end of the building nearest the gate, and the lights were still on. They presumed the caretaker's car was parked beyond the fence on the street, one of several at the curb in front of the adjoining hardware and tool rental stores. Both those shops were closed.
Soon the man appeared, heading for the gate, a small, silver-haired old fellow. They watched him pull the chain-link gate closed from inside, snap the padlock, and turn back into the complex. He made no move to leave. Entering the little office, soon those lights went out and lights at the back came on, in the room behind, accompanied by the sound of a television, the unmistakable canned laughter of a sitcom.