It would be no use to try phoning the locker complexes, making up some story to get information: This is Kendrick Mahl, I've lost the number of my locker, I need to send it to a friend… because certainly Mahl would not have put the locker in his own name.
When Mahl turned away she slipped out from under the chair and slid behind the couch, beside Joe. He lay stretched full-length, half-asleep, as if without a care. She crouched beside him, depressed.
But when the music on the CD player grew stormy, she began to fidget, her thoughts circling. There had to be an easier way to find the locker.
Joe woke and glared at her. "Cool it," he whispered. "He's bound to leave sooner or later. Curl up, have a nap. A few hours-then we can take this place apart." He rolled over, closed his eyes, and went to sleep. She stared at him, unbelieving. Oh, tomcats could be maddening.
But she curled up against him, trying to think of a plan. The music progressed to the more powerful strains of Stravinsky, she knew that one from home. She could still smell that nice roast beef. Why did humans have to spoil everything with mustard?
She listened as Mahl made several phone calls. He ordered a grocery delivery of lettuce, some frozen breakfasts, a case of imported ale, and a loaf of French bread. He called his San Francisco gallery twice and talked to his assistant about some sales and about taxes. He made a date for an early dinner, before the local Art Association meeting. The Firebird finished, and Schoenberg's Transfigured Night lulled Dulcie into a little nap. The more familiar music eased her, soothed her jittery nerves. At five o'clock, Mahl put on a recording of the New World Symphony, and went to take a shower. Dulcie could hear the water pounding. She heard, from the bedroom, drawers being pulled out, and hangers sliding in the closet.
The discs had finished when he returned to the living room. He was dressed in dark slacks, a white, turtleneck pullover, and a suede sport coat. And though his clothes were handsome, Mahl still looked like a bad-tempered owl. He turned off the CD player, locked the sliding door to the balcony, and left the apartment. Joe woke as Dulcie raced to the balcony and leaped to unlock the door again, slapping at the latch.
Outside, they jumped to the rail to look down, watched him cross the parking lot, get into a white BMW, and head out. Beyond the parking lot and beyond the red tile roofs of the condo complex, the hills and the mountains were burnished gold in the late-afternoon light. They could not see the ocean, to the west, or the setting sun. But off to their right, beyond the village rooftops, the bay looked like melted gold. Along the bay sprawled the warehouses and wharves.
"Rob's studio is there," Dulcie said. "I bet, if Mahl had binoculars, he could see it from right here."
"And if he could?"
"I don't know-a funny feeling." She lay down on the concrete rail, batted at a bougainvillea flower. "Rob got home from San Francisco the morning of the fire around four. That's what he told the court. He said he partied late, drove home tired, and went to bed.
"But then a phone call woke him around four-thirty. He said he answered and he guessed it was a wrong number, no one was there."
"What are you getting at?"
She licked her paw. "It would probably have been easy for Mahl to get hold of Rob's car keys, maybe when Rob was in the gallery unloading paintings. Pick them up, step out for a few minutes, have them copied."
He waited, ears forward.
"Just assume Mahl did take the paintings. He might even have used Janet's own van, taken it out of the St. Francis parking garage late Saturday night. Say he drove down to Molena Point, used his key to her studio, loaded up the paintings. Hid them in that locker…"
"If there is a locker."
She flicked her ears impatiently. "He hid the paintings, drove back to the city, arrived before dawn Sunday morning. Put her car back in the garage…"
"So what did he use for a ticket, to get her van out in the first place?"
"Used his own parking ticket, for the BMW. Then when he drove her van back in Sunday morning, he got another ticket. Used that to take the BMW out, Sunday night.
"But somewhere along the way he realized he'd lost his watch.
"He couldn't turn around and drive back to Molena Point-it was nearly dawn. He had to be seen having breakfast in the hotel, that was part of his alibi."
"And then," Joe said, "it was daylight, he didn't want to be seen going into Janet's studio in broad daylight. And that night, Sunday night, was the opening, he had to be seen there."
Mahl had testified that after the opening he did not return to his home in Mill Valley, but had driven down to the Molena Point condo, intending to meet with two buyers on Monday morning. Both buyers, one a well-known collector, had testified that they did meet with Mahl late that Monday morning.
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.