Solstice

Barnside asked for a closer look, so that was what he got. Jimenez flicked through the letters that had stood in the box in the apartment block mail area. Credit card bills, junk circulars, flyers from the local Chinese restaurant. Charlotte Pascal had nothing that could even count as personal in her correspondence, and the oldest item dated back to May 24. Jimenez shook his head and said, 'Vernon, we're wasting time here. We can get the lab people in, see what they say, if Langley's so keen.'

'Yeah.' Sixsmith nodded. 'In a month's time when they get around to typing the stuff out. You heard what Barnside said. He wants this stuff now.'

'Well, maybe he can tell us how we're supposed to get it, because for the life of me I don't know. This woman looks like she was some kind of hermit or something. No letters from boyfriends. The German kid says she never saw anyone coming or going ever. She thinks maybe Pascal wasn't even here most of the time she was supposed to be in residence. And just take a look at this apartment. What do you get out of it? It's like…'

'It's like she cleared it all out knowing we were coming,' Vernon Sixsmith said, trying to think this through, trying to put himself in the woman's shoes.

He walked over to the angular metal framed bookcase that still had some things in it: a couple of Stephen King paperbacks, some books on solar physics with titles he didn't understand, and a copy of something called the Linux Bible. And on the top shelf- this had nagged him ever since Jimenez pointed it out — the picture of a cat alongside a cheap tourist ashtray from Acapulco, a three-inch model of the Eiffel Tower that looked as if it had been cast in lead, and a pair of Mexican salt and pepper pots made to resemble desert cacti.

'Ugly fucking thing,' Jimenez said. 'The frame and the animal. Who the hell would want to bring that home from vacation?'

'A cat lover, I guess,' Sixsmith said, and took the photograph down from the shelf, turned it over, unpicked the back, took out the print.

'Hey,' Jimenez grunted, 'that's not some piece of tourist junk after all. That's her cat.'

'You don't say?'

There was nothing on the back, not the photographer's logo he'd hoped for. But this was a posed picture, Sixsmith was sure of that. The animal was seated against a pale blue background, the sort you got in studios, and it was craning its long, almost hairless neck as if someone, just out of reach, were holding out a piece of smoked salmon, teasing it into a nice pose.

'Get that German kid in here again, Pete,' Sixsmith said, still staring at the picture.

A few moments later Jimenez was back, standing behind the German girl, making movements with his head that said, This kid is not cooperating, this person has not yet joined the Friends of the CIA.

'You know what that is?' Sixsmith said, holding out the picture.

'Cat,' the German girl said flatly, her voice sounding mannish, not even looking at the photo.

'Yeah. I know that. But any cat in particular? Was it her cat? Miss Pascal's?'

She shrugged her shoulders, stayed quiet, and Jimenez walked out from behind her, smiled, and said, 'You know, for someone with no green card who's been working illegally and has a couple of ounces of dope stashed behind the CD player, you are being mighty unhelpful, young woman.'

'Fucking cops,' the girl grunted. 'I got a green card. I earn more money than you two put together. And I don't use dope. Go see for yourself if you really want to rifle through my panty drawer.'

Sixsmith closed his eyes for a moment and wondered how much more of Jimenez he could stand. Then he said, 'Fine, thank you very much. Now, before we declare war here, can I repeat myself? All I want to know is this: Is that Charlotte Pascal's cat? And if so, what the hell is it?'

She thought about it just long enough to irritate them. 'Sure. It's her cat. Loved the goddamn thing. Something rare too. Weird name. Let me think.'

Sixsmith prayed that Jimenez wouldn't blow this one.

'Colourpoint Shorthair,' she said after another infuriating pause. 'Name of Michael. I guess I should have known she was gone for good when it stopped waking me up at night scratching on her door and meowing. She never let the damn thing out of the apartment. Scared it would get run over, I guess.'

"This kind's rare?' Sixsmith asked.

'So she said. Cats aren't my thing. I took her word on it there.'

'Thank you.'

'Can I go now?'

'Surely.' Sixsmith smiled, wondering what this was worth. 'And thanks for your cooperation.'

The German girl went back to her apartment, leaving the two men fuming silently at each other in Charlotte Pascal's onetime living room.

'Well,' Jimenez said in the end, 'we know what kind of cat she likes.'

'Yeah,' Sixsmith muttered, but he was already dialling, straight through to the Agency information desk, where some clerical assistant in the city office sat permanently glued to the computer.

'Sixsmith here. I want you to look up a breed of cat for me.'

The line went dead for a moment, then a young female voice said, 'A cat?'

'Hey, you can hear me! Do we get to do some typing now too? A Colourpoint Shorthair. I want you to see if you can pull out some names of breeders, owners' associations, any kind of links you got.'

'Colourpoint Shorthair,' the woman said, then paused for a second or two. 'My, that is a pretty pussy. Looks like ET.'

'I been there already, friend. You got some numbers we can call?'

He heard typing down the line.

'You ought to be grateful for this stuff,' the voice said down the line. 'Most of the networks are down right now. Only a handful of us can access anything. That sun thing, I guess.'

'I'm waiting.'

'Yeah. Got a whole list of registered breeders here on the Cat Fanciers' Association site. Where do you want me to cut this off?'

'How many breeders have you got in the Bay Area?'

'Ten, fifteen or so.'

'E-mail them straight to my pager. We need to start calling right now.'

'Okay. One more thing as well.'

'Yeah?'

'Got some number in the city for the secretary of the Northern California Colourpoint Shorthair Owners' Club. Mrs Leonie Hicks, fine-sounding address out in Pacific Heights.' She gave him the phone number.

'Got it,' Sixsmith said, and cut the line, then dialled straight out again. An elderly female voice that sounded like the rustling of old tissue paper said, very cautiously, 'Yes?'

And Sixsmith was so glad he hadn't handed this one over to his partner.

'Mrs Hicks? Mrs Leonie Hicks,' he said, his voice a little higher than usual.

'Yes?'

'My name is Harold Levinson. I do so hope you can help me.'

'If I can.'

'You see, it's about poor Charlotte's cat. It's a beautiful Colourpoint Shorthair called Michael.'

'Finest cat in the world, Mr Levinson. A feline sans pareil is the Colourpoint Shorthair, but then you seem to know that already.'

'Quite. And so loyal too. Which is the point. You see, Charlotte moved out of her apartment next door to me in Redwood a month or so ago and took Michael with her. And now — I just don't know how to explain this — the poor creature has come running back to his old home, looking very sorry for himself. And I just don't know how to return him, you see, since Charlotte, in her hurry, never left me a forwarding address.'

'My oh my,' said Mrs Leonie Hicks. 'These cats never cease to surprise one.'

'So I was wondering if you could help.'

'Mr Levinson, my home is always open to any Colourpoint Shorthair in need of a bed for the night. It is pedigree, I gather?'

'Well, I am sure that is most generous of you, Mrs Hicks. But I was rather hoping you might have Charlotte's address. Her being so fond of this kind of cat, you see. I was wondering if she just might be on your books.'