Azrael had slept quite comfortably on the roof of the Patio Cafe tucked between the steeply slanting shingles of a small penthouse and the restaurant's chimney, which had held its warmth until long past midnight. The brick-and-shingle cave, conveniently out of the wind, had been scented pleasantly with aromas from the restaurant, with the heady smell of steak and lobster and fried onions.
He hadn't slept hungry. Before he retired to the roofs he had taken a leisurely supper from the restaurant's garbage bins, probably scrounging the leavings, he thought sourly, of Charlie Harper's dinner party.
From the roof last night he had watched the party break up and emerge from the restaurant in twos and threes, Charlie and Captain Harper pausing to bid good night to Wilma and her houseguest. Very nice. Wilma had invited Charlie to an early breakfast, so that Charlie could then show Kate Osborne the duplex that Kate wanted to rent.
No one but these weird women would invite company for breakfast at six on a winter morning-all this human camaraderie made Azrael retch.
Now, swarming up an old, thick bougainvillea vine, he prowled the rooftops again. They were barely beginning to brighten. To the east, the first light of dawn smeared bloody fingers across the dark hills. Heading across the roofs for Wilma Getz's cottage, he shivered in the cold wind that whipped in off the sea-felt like it came straight out of the Arctic. He never would get used to the damp chill in these northern regions, he could never shake the longing to sidle up to a sunny wall or to a rooftop heat vent. This part of the continent was fine for a short visit, for a brief session of snatch-and-grab with one human partner or another, but he would never want to live here.
He had tolerated the chill when he knew that he and Greeley would soon be taking off again for warmer climes, but this trip without Greeley was another matter. Having severed relations with the old drunk, he now had no sure promise of a return to that comfortable latitude; he didn't in fact know just where he was headed.
But something would turn up, something always did. The longing for a place of one's own, that senseless yearning that beset most cats and most people, had never troubled him. Meanwhile, his present situation was more than tolerable. Excellent food, excellent sleeping arrangements when he chose to take advantage, and some most interesting ventures.
Staring over the gutter where the two homeless men had left their lair to check out the trash cans, Azrael understood perfectly their wanderlust: those two might be scruffy and smelly but they had the right idea. Adventure was far more important than walls and a roof. The lure of what was out there around the next bend, the challenge of whatever lay beyond the shadows, of thrills yet untasted, that was the true quality of life.
He had parted from Greeley in Panama City to look for just such fresh vistas after a bellyful of Greeley's newly wedded bliss, a sickening surfeit of Greeley's prissy bride and her attempts to domesticate Greeley's sweet little cat. Expecting him to drape himself around the house and purr on cue-he'd had enough of that in a hurry. Walking out for the last time, he'd taken up with that blond floozie in Panama City, had found her in a local bar, spent the evening winding around her ankles and had gone right on home with her to her poky little hotel room. By the time she headed stateside again, he'd not only revealed to her his conversational talents, he'd convinced her that he was the partner of a lifetime, that she couldn't take full advantage of her light-fingered skills without him. Oh, Gail had had a lust to steal. He'd greatly admired her talents. He'd picked her out of the crowd at the bar, as sure of her nature as if he'd caught her in the act.
Traveling with Gail to the States, he'd endured the kitty carrier and the nine-hour plane ride only because of the challenges that lay ahead. In San Francisco, where Gail had a boyfriend, they'd burgled a few shops and pulled off some amusing shoplifting gigs. And he had discovered a colony of cats that deeply interested him-he'd learned a lot in the city before they hit the road again traveling south, to enjoy a few easy heists along the coast. The weather had been warm for that part of California. Settling for a while here in the village while Gail entered a contest for would-be starlets, they had hit the jewelry stores and the upscale shops smooth as butter-until the dumb broad killed a guy and got herself sent to prison.
Then he'd split again, making himself scarce. But he hadn't gone far; this wealthy part of the coast was full of prospects. He'd remained on his own until he took up with his present associate, a partner far smoother than Gail or Greeley. Though both the blonde and the old man had been good for laughs.
His present colleague was much more talented than either of those two, a thief as cold as an Amazon boa. This partnership could, in fact, be the most interesting venture yet in his varied career. And now, concentrating his attention on Kate Osborne, he might really be onto something.
Leaping from a cafe balcony to the slanted roof of a bay window, he dropped down to a patio table, one of a dozen that the restaurant kept filled even in winter months. Tourists would freeze their figurative tails off to be seen eating al fresco in a sidewalk cafe as if they were in Europe. Thumping heavily to the brick paving, he headed up past the crowded shops, where cozy, close-set cottages took over.
Approaching Wilma Getz's small stone house, he slipped in among the masses of flowers that forested the woman's front yard beneath the oak trees. The old girl got up early; already the kitchen window was brightly lit, its glow reflecting blood-red from the bougainvillea flowers that framed the glass. The gaudy blooms stirred within the tomcat a painful longing for the hot streets of Panama.
Charlie Harper's van was not yet in sight; but Kate's car of course stood in the drive, the cream-colored Riviera silvered with dew. He found it interesting that she drove a seven-year-old vehicle. Maybe Clyde Damen kept it in running order for her. Azrael had learned a good deal last night about Kate Osborne.
Before the gallery opening, wandering in that direction to have a look, he'd been sidetracked by an appealing white Angora. She had insisted on leading him on a circuitous route of hide-and-seek, sickeningly coy. Why couldn't females simply accept what was offered and forget the foreplay? When he followed her under the deck of the Bakery Cafe, he had recognized Kate and Wilma's voices above him and caught a snatch of their conversation.
Promptly abandoning the Angora, driving her away when she returned to him coyly rolling over, he had listened with rising interest to the conversation above him. Kate was saying something about a cat museum, then mentioned some unusual pieces of jewelry carved with cats. That had brought his ears up.
The two women were apparently enjoying a light, early dinner on their way to the gallery opening. Lashing his tail with interest, he had settled under the deck just beneath their table.
The dining deck was crowded, all the tables were full, the tangle of conversations assaulting his ears like the dissonant caws of a flock of unruly crows. As he sought to isolate Kate and Wilma's discussion, he was nearly overcome by the aroma of broiled salmon-one didn't get fresh salmon in Panama, the waters were too warm, although the local fish and fresh prawns were quite superior. Pushing up between the supporting timbers of the deck, peering up through the cracks between the slats, he had studied Kate. The slim, blond young woman had an air about her that deeply interested him, that set her apart from other humans, that made him want to observe her closely. She was leaning across the table speaking softly, "Of course it's foolish. Why do I relate the jewelry to such an idea? Why do I keep imagining the jewelry linked to some impossible lost world? Except," she said uncertainly, "McCabe's journals-the man I think was my grandfather-speak of such a world as if he believed in it. Strange remarks, Wilma. Why do I keep returning to those entries? Surely I misread them. What is it in my nature, that wants to believe such things?"