"Caretaker says there were two men nosing around outside the fence a couple of nights earlier. He didn't see them clearly, didn't see their car." Harper opened his menu, looked it over. "There were some pieces of sculpture in the locker with the paintings, probably he'd put them in some time before. Early work that, Sicily said, Janet hadn't liked much, that she'd left behind when she split from Mahl and moved out. Maybe Mahl thought they'd be worth something now."

He closed the menu. "Think I'll have the filet and fries."

Clyde grinned. This was Max's standard order, filet medium rare, fries crisp, no salad. "It's a weird story, Max. Don't know what to make of it."

Max shaped the wet label more carefully, its front paws tucked under, its long tail curved. "Informant sees a watch where it's impossible to see it. Night watchman hears voices, but no one there. Call comes over a unit radio, and no trace of the caller.

"But we've got a positive ID of the handwriting on the locker file card and lifted a nice set of Mahl's prints from it."

"Then you've wrapped up the case," Clyde said. "Mahl's in jail. You have solid evidence. And you told me Marritt is off the case and in a bad light with the mayor."

"You bet he is."

"And a new trial pending. Sounds like you're in good shape."

"That watchman can't have heard voices."

"So if no one was there, was the old man lying?"

"One theory is, he was nosing around the lockers for his own purposes, maybe stealing. That when he looked over the wall into K20-or maybe picked the lock to K20-he realized the paintings were Janet's and knew he'd better report it to avoid trouble, so he dreamed up the voices routine.

"Good theory."

"But I don't buy it. I've known old Mr. Lent for years. That old man wouldn't steal if he was starving. And he was really upset by what he thought was a break-in.

"And there's the vent," Harper said. "Vent screen above those lockers was torn."

"A vent screen?"

"Vent about four inches by eight inches."

"So what does that mean? He hears voices through the vent and thinks they're in a locker?" Clyde thought he was getting good at this, at playing dumb-it was little different than lying. Though he didn't much like that skill in himself.

"First thing the watchman heard was a thud, when he was making his rounds. Said it sounded as if something heavy fell. He'd gone around to where he heard it, was standing beneath the vent listening, when he heard the voices, couldn't quite make out what they were saying. A man and a woman, he said, talking real soft."

Harper frowned. "That vent-Lent says the screen wasn't torn when he inspected the buildings earlier that day. Said he always looks along the roofline under the eaves, checking for any signs of leaks."

He settled back sipping a fresh O'Doul's, watching Clyde. "There were hairs clinging to the torn screen. Dark gray hairs, very short. And some white hairs and some pale orange."

"Whose hair was it?"

"It was cat hair."

"Cat hair? I thought you were going to say you had a make on someone besides Mahl. Why would a cat go into a storage locker? Mice? Remind me not to store anything up there. And how could a cat-how high was the vent?"

The waiter brought their napkins and silverware, and the condiments, and a complimentary bowl of french friend onions, and took their order. When he had gone, the two men sat quietly, looking at each other.

Max said, "Millie told me once, a couple of years before she died, 'Don't fool around with the far-out stuff, Max. It can put you right around the bend.'"

Max's wife Millie had been a special investigator. She had spent much of her time checking out odd reports, saucer sightings, nutcases, relatives returned from the dead. Once in a while she'd get one that wouldn't add up, that didn't seem to be a nutcase, and that upset her.

"That stuff she worked on, it always did give me the creeps."

A police officer's training made it hard to deal with the unexplainable. Cops were trained to remember every fact, see and remember every small detail, trained to smell a scam a mile away. A cop was totally fact-oriented, a good officer didn't go for the crazy stuff. So when the facts added up to the impossible, that could really be upsetting.

Harper wiped beer rings from the table with a paper napkin, wiped away the misshapen O'Doul's label from the oak surface. "Now I know how she felt. How easy it could be, given certain circumstances, to wander right over the edge."

"I don't know anything that would put you over the edge," Clyde said. "Hell, Max, be happy with what you have, a case wrapped up, solid evidence-take it and enjoy."

Harper wadded the O'Doul's label into a little ball and dropped it in the ashtray, watched the waiter approaching with their steaks.

26

The county animal pound stunk of dog doo and cat urine and strong disinfectant. Dulcie could smell it long before Wilma carried her inside. The barking and high-keyed yapping, the cacophony which had been triggered by the sound of their car pulling up in front on the gravel drive, deafened her.

The cement block building was located five miles south of Molena Point, isolated among the hills near a water treatment plant. A small patch of lawn surrounded it, neatly clipped. Beyond the lawn rose a tangle of weeds. Dulcie had never been inside an animal pound; it wasn't an experience she had anticipated with any great joy. But now, riding over Wilma's shoulder, she let herself be carried inside.

The office was small, the cement block walls painted a nauseating shade of pale green. Once the door was closed, the frenzied barking began to subside. Behind the counter a young, heavy, pear-shaped woman shook back her dark hair, looked at Wilma expectantly, and held out her hands to relieve Wilma of the cat.

Wilma drew back, held Dulcie against her. "I'm not bringing her to you. I'm not giving her to you. We-I want to look at your kittens. I brought her along to see if any of the kittens appeal to her." Wilma smiled winningly. "If she's going to have a companion, I want to be sure they're compatible."

The young clerk looked amused, as if she were used to patronizing the addle-brained elderly. As she led them back into the feline portion of the facility, the barking exploded again beyond the block wall.

She left them in the cat room among the rows of wire cages, abandoning Wilma to her own devices, but cautioning her that though she could wander at her leisure, she mustn't open any of the cage doors, and she gave Wilma a stern, proprietary look to make sure she would comply.

The abandoned kittens and cats crouched on cold metal floors, some looking unwell, some dirty, some very thin. But their cages and boxes were clean, and they had food and clean water. Dulcie supposed the sick ones, which were isolated at one end, were being treated. But she didn't like peering in at the hopeless, mute beasts. She had never been in a cage, she had never had any of the experiences that these strays had encountered, and though she wasn't particularly proud of the fact, she was grateful. Once, when Joe told her she was a hothouse flower, she had belted him so hard she drew blood.

She knew that the caged kittens were better off here, where they could be fed and cared for, than starving and alone, but it hurt her to see any cat confined. And the only stray cats she was familiar with were those few who lived beneath the beachside boardwalk and wharf, surviving on fish offal from the pier above, and fed by one or two villagers. Those cats were given shots by the local vet, her own Dr. Firreti; the cats were captured, treated, and turned loose again.