Well, he guessed he was being cranky for no reason, out of sorts because a couple of cats had dragged her away on the one evening in weeks that he’d been able to come home early. But he had to smile, too, at her going down there to roust out a couple of cats. He’d grown to like those cats, and he sure wished them no harm. He’d gotten used to having them around the station, particularly Joe Grey, taking over like he owned the place, bumming Mabel’s lunch, sleeping on his desk. If that cat wanted to nap on a court order, you had to remove him bodily-independent as hell, and mule stubborn.
Looking into the fire, watching the big dogs twitch in their sleep, he thought again about retirement, about being home with Charlie, riding together, cooking together, working on the place. And while Charlie was writing, maybe he’d take a stab at writing his own book. He’d thought about it some. Something related to law enforcement, maybe a few suggestions for civilians on how to keep themselves safe in an increasingly dangerous world.
Or maybe they’d buy a few more horses, get some classes going for the local kids, get them away from TV and video games and too much computer time-help them do things rather than sitting around letting the spectator media numb their minds. Get them outdoors and make them responsible for a horse, help them see how strong they could be and how satisfying it was to become proactive in shaping their own lives.
The ringing phone brought him back. Glancing at the caller ID, he picked up.
“We’ve had a break-in,” Charlie said. “I called the station, told Officer Baker I’d call you. Davis is on her way. You don’t need to come, I just wanted to-”
“I’m on my way,” Max said. “I don’t need to tell you-”
“Not to touch anything,” she said impatiently. “They didn’t ransack the house, but Theresa’s miniature paintings are missing, and I’m worried about the other houses, Frances Becker’s beautiful antiques and Rita Waterman’s jewelry.”
“You’re still in the Chapmans’? Get out, Charlie. Get out now. And stay out. Keep your phone on, don’t hang up.”
“I’m already out, I just-”
The phone went dead. Scowling, he rang the station, told the dispatcher to get two more cars over there. Quickly he turned off the fire and raced for the door, snatching up his jacket and hardware, was out the door and swinging into his pickup, heading down the hills.
28
ENTERING THE CHAPMAN house, Charlie had gone into the laundry room first to check on the mama cat. Before she’d switched on the light, a low hiss greeted her. She’d paused, then thrown the switch for the single light over the washer.
Mango stood just outside her blanket-lined box, boldly facing Charlie, her tail lashing, her ears flat, shielding her kittens with a growl so businesslike that Charlie hadn’t approached her.
“Someone was here,” she said softly. “Someone scared you, Mango.” Nothing but intrusion by a stranger would have frightened Mango so. She peered around Mango to see if the kittens were all right. They seemed to be, two of them nosing at their mother, the other two curled up, yawning.
The laundry window was closed, as it should be. The room was as she had last seen it, nothing seemed different. Mango continued to face her, too upset to settle in again with her kittens. Leaving her alone to calm down, Charlie moved into the kitchen, her hand concealing her pepper spray.
Nothing seemed disturbed there, the small electrical appliances and the kitchen TV were all in place. But as she’d entered the dining room, she’d stopped cold and backed against the wall, scanning the living room and the hall beyond, then looking around with dismay.
The walls were no longer bright with the jewel-like rows of miniature paintings that she’d so enjoyed. All three walls were bare except for rows of small picture hooks marching across like dark insects poised in some miniscule military maneuver.
Warily she’d moved on through the house knowing she should leave, should go back outside and call the department. Removing her shoes and switching on lights as she entered the silent rooms, she’d slowly scanned each area, walking in the center, away from the cupboards and cabinets that a thief would have examined and where he might have left minute debris from his shoes.
She’d found nothing else disturbed beyond the missing paintings. No closet door had been left open, no drawers with their contents spilling out. The sliding glass door with its pry marks was securely locked; she used a tissue around her fingers to make sure. At last, certain that no one was there, she’d called out to Joe Grey and Dulcie, at first using only, “Kitty, kitty,” in the silly, high voice that she sometimes used to tease Joe, and that he hated. She’d called Joe’s name, and Dulcie’s, but there was only silence.
What if the cats were hurt, unable to answer her? Moving carefully from closet to closet, using a tissue to turn the knobs, she searched for them knowing Max would be furious that she’d prowled the house like this, playing cop.
When she was certain the cats weren’t there, and having found nothing more out of order besides the missing paintings, she’d hurried on to the Waterman house, stopping to fetch gloves from her Blazer. She was at the Watermans’ door when Clyde and Ryan pulled up.
“Chapmans were robbed,” she told them. “Looks like they took only Theresa’s paintings, but it makes me worry about the cats. I want to look in the other three houses before we call the department.”
“Not a good idea,” Ryan said. “Call the department now, Charlie.”
Charlie looked at her and knew she was right. She called the dispatcher, then she called Max. The phone went dead while they were talking, but that wasn’t unusual in this hilly area. She sat in the car with Ryan and Clyde, and Rock, waiting impatiently and worrying about the cats, worrying that the thief might have hurt them. It was a given that if those cats spotted the burglar, they’d followed him into the houses. Though they were only cats and shouldn’t draw his attention, those three had a way of attracting trouble.
When Detective Davis arrived, Charlie gave her the keys to the four houses, and they waited while Davis and four other officers cleared each house. Charlie wanted to go in with Davis, but only when all four houses had been cleared did Juana take her through, so Charlie could tell her what might be missing. Juana had found no sign of a break-in. When two more units arrived, Juana sent two officers to canvas the neighborhood.
In the Waterman house, Charlie found nothing out of order until, wearing gloves, she retrieved the hidden key for Rita’s jewelry cabinet. When Davis opened the carved door, they stared in at empty shelves.
“Rita’s beautiful jewelry. Her baroque and Byzantine pieces, the lovely cloisonné.” She turned to look at Juana. “That seventeenth-century faux emerald necklace I so liked.” She stood very still, touching nothing, her anger sharp and hot.
The house wasn’t torn apart as if someone had seen Rita wearing such jewelry and was looking for it. This thief knew not only where to look, but must have known the location of the key. Leaving the master bedroom, they went through the rest of the house again but Charlie could find nothing else disturbed, everything seemed to be in place. Certainly the electronic equipment was all there, televisions, the music system, and the computers. As they walked through, Charlie innocently called the cats, saying, “Kitty, kitty,” so they’d know she wasn’t alone.
No one mewed, she heard no clawing at a door, no faint cry of a cat in distress. She had a sick feeling that the burglar might have discovered the cats following him as he made his thieving rounds, that maybe Joe had followed too closely on his heels and the burglar had turned on him. Had an edgy thief, finding the big cat stalking him through the dark rooms, been startled into cornering Joe and hurting him? And what about Dulcie and Kit? Had the three cats been together, all three witnesses to the thefts? All three victims?