Wilma, always sensible, had subscribed at once. Wilma told Clyde there was no way he could stop Joe using the phone. She said if Clyde wanted to save himself acute embarrassment, he'd better go along with the blocking.

Out in the field, Clyde stood fifty feet away from Selig, his arm raised in an exaggerated signal, shouting "Sit! Sit, stay."

Selig grinned at him and bounced around, playing with the nylon line that was supposed to control him.

Max Harper stood looking on, trying not to laugh. Faintly, Joe heard Harper's phone buzz.

Harper picked up, and listened. An irritated look spread across his lean face. His replies were brief. But he didn't hang up.

Harper might not like these anonymous phone calls, might not like the unsettling and impossible suppositions that they stirred, but he didn't ignore them.

Behind Harper, Clyde walked across the field to Selig. With a lot of pushing, he made the pup sit. Then backing away, holding the line, Clyde didn't take his eyes from the pup. The object was to get maybe fifty feet from Selig, making sure he remained sitting, to wait for a little while, then call him. The trainee was supposed to sit still until summoned by the trainer, then run directly to him and sit again, facing the tall human god.

What actually occurred was that the pup kept moving his butt around, only barely remaining in the sitting position, wild to lunge and run, and when Clyde did finally call him, Selig ran around Clyde, circling until Clyde's legs were wrapped in the line. Harper, scowling into the phone, couldn't help a lopsided grin as the pup hog-tied Clyde like a roped calf.

So far Clyde had made five attempts at this maneuver. During the first four lessons, Selig, when he was called, had run in the opposite direction, his nose to the ground.

Harper still had the phone to his ear, his expression sour but thoughtful. Dulcie would be telling him that Raul Torres arrived in Molena Point the same day as Cara Ray Crisp. That Cara Ray was staying at the Oak Breeze Motel. Dulcie wouldn't elaborate on that point She'd probably say something like, I know it's not really police business. Yet. Unless, of course, Shamas Greenlaw didn't die naturally. Joe could almost hear her whispering into the phone, Don't you wonder, Captain Harper, why a PI from Seattle-where Shamas used to live, where Shamas still had a business-would plan to meet Shamas's lover in Molena Point just two weeks after Shamas was drowned?

Joe watched Harper tuck the phone into his belt and cross the field to Clyde. If Harper had paid attention to that phone call, and if he meant to head back to the village to check on Cara Ray, he'd have to take either Clyde's car or his own pickup; he'd left his police unit parked in front of Clyde's place. Harper hadn't made a call after Dulcie hung up, as if to send one of his officers to check on Cara Ray.

Harper and Clyde stood talking, then Harper headed toward the house. Joe, flattening himself against the metal roof, was about to signal Dulcie when Harper turned toward the stable, where his pickup was parked.

Joe beat him there. As Harper stepped into the cab, Joe had slid behind him into the back section of the king cab-avoiding the slamming door by a split second. There'd been no time to get Dulcie, she was still in the house.

He'd hoped she wasn't snooping around Harper's place, prying into the police captain's personal life. She was so nosy. Oh, that would be too low.

Joe had liked the feel of the big truck careening down the hills, had listened to Harper calling the motel office, asking the location of Cara Ray Crisp's room and if she had anyone with her. Not until Harper had stopped for takeout did Joe realize how hungry he was. The aroma of fish and chips had been almost more than he could stand. Then Harper was backing into the alley, Joe drooling for a bite of fried cod.

But now the cod was gone. And Cara Ray Crisp had turned out her light and left her room. Joe listened to Harper wad up the sack and napkins and stuff them in the trash bin. Wind swirled into the cab as Harper opened the door.

And Joe was alone, shut into Harper's pickup, the door slammed practically in his face.

Leaping to the back of the front seat, he watched Harper cross the street into the patio of the Oak Breeze and move on past the pool toward the manager's office, never glancing toward Cara Ray as she descended the stairs and chose a chaise by the pool. Dropping her towel across it, she stretched out.

Cara Ray was not the only sunbather. Half a dozen other greased bodies reclined like oiled sardines laid out on grids to dry. The sun was low, but the evening was still warm, the pool as blue as the eyes of a rutting Siamese.

The police captain, moving on into the office, would quickly find out when Cara Ray had checked in, what name and credit card she had used, if she had arrived in a car, if Raul Torres had been registered, if Cara Ray had registered for a single or double, if she had been seen with anyone.

But, Joe wondered, if she had come here to meet Torres, and Torres came up missing, why hadn't Cara Ray gone directly to the police? Why wasn't she looking for the guy?

With questions buzzing in his head as thick as flies on stale cat food, he watched a young man come around the corner from the direction of the parking lot, wearing loose swim trunks, flip-flops, and an open shirt, heading for the pool. Choosing a chaise near Cara Ray but facing the opposite direction, he adjusted the back to a moderate recline, made himself comfortable, and opened a newspaper.

Behind the paper, he spoke; he didn't look around at Cara Ray. He was a big-boned, wide-shouldered guy. Square jaw, sandy hair, and freckles-If this guy isn't a Greenlaw, Joe thought, yours truly is a ring-tailed gorilla.

And was he staying at the Oak Breeze? Or had he parked in the visitors' lot behind the motel? As far as Joe knew, none of the Greenlaws was staying in a motel; they were all too tight with their cash. Had this guy met Cara Ray at Lucinda's and made a date with her? Or were they old friends? And why the secrecy?

Dropping down onto the front seat of the king cab, Joe fought the door handle, pawing and pulling at it- but even his considerable tomcat strength was almost no match for General Motors. He got the door open at last, bruising his paws. Within seconds Joe was across the street crouching in the geraniums that bordered the wide tile patio, looking out at Cara Ray reclining on her chaise beside the long, blue pool.

8

THE GERANIUM thicket was dense and tall enough to conceal a dozen tomcats, but the long stretch of tiled paving beyond it, between Joe Grey and his quarry, offered no cover. Away across the open patio, Cara Ray and the man behind the newspaper were speaking quietly. Cara Ray, stretched out on her chaise on her stomach, had untied her bikini bra to avoid strap marks, her well-oiled body highlighting a golden tan. Joe, watching her lips moving, tried to tell what she was saying, but he wasn't any good at lipreading. He supposed, like most things in life, that skill took some effort to master. Near him under the geranium leaves, a sparrow was hopping, picking up seeds, forcing Joe to exercise every ounce of self-control not to snatch the dumb little morsel and chomp him.

The flowers were so pungent and spicy that his fur would smell like geraniums for the next week. Beneath his paws, the earth was damp; as he sauntered out onto the patio he left a trail across the tiles of dark, wet pawprints.

Cara Ray had her eyes closed. Joe lay down beneath her chaise, behind her visitor, stretching out on the warm tile paving. His view up through the webbing was of Cara Ray's cheek and a lot of her anatomy. She smelled like coconut oil. He couldn't see her companion's face, only the breadth of his shoulders, and his legs and feet, which were indecently hairy, for a human. Dark, curly hair, though the hair on his head was light. His body had the kind of tan that, once it has peaked, begins to look dull and flaking. Compared with Cara Ray's blond radiance, he looked like a dust-covered mannequin that someone had dragged from an attic and posed on the chaise with an open newspaper.