Cat in the Dark (21 page)

T
HE SMALL,
crowded room was shut tight, the window bolted, the door securely closed. Around the cats towered cardboard cartons labeled Scotch, rum, bourbon, and vodka, either the supplies for a huge private party or perhaps the extra stock of a nearby liquor store. The room stunk of booze as if Greeley had been happily sampling the various brands. The only light was from a battery-operated lamp of the kind kept for emergency power outages. Anyone who had been through a California earthquake or considered such matters maintained a stock of battery-powered lamps, a radio, bottled water, and emergency food and medical supplies. The cats saw none of these other essentials, only enough booze to weather any quake, and the squat lamp, its light reflecting from the eyes of the black tomcat where he crouched atop the tallest stack of boxes glaring down at them: an ebony statue, the great
el primo gato
.

In the far corner an old, stained mattress lay nested between the cardboard cases, fitted out with a limp pillow ticked in gray stripes, and a wrinkled army blanket
laced with moth holes. On a box beside the bed stood four cans of beans, with a can opener, a dirty paper plate, an open bag of chips, and a pair of dirty socks. The opposite corner of the room served as a depository for trash and empty cans.

Greeley's shirt and pants were wrinkled and stained, and he smelled not only of rum but desperately in need of a bath.

“What you want, you cats? You didn't come to this dump sightseeing. Why you looking for Pearl Ann?”

But then the old man's face crumpled. “You didn't come to make condolences, either.” He stared hard at them. “You saw her, didn't you. You saw her dead—
I
saw you looking!” He sat down on the mattress, eased a bottle of rum from under the blanket and upended it, taking a long pull. He was so pitiful that Dulcie wanted to pat his face with a soft paw.

“Ought to have swish 'n' swash,” he said and took another swig. “But you need a coconut for that.” He giggled at a joke the two cats didn't understand; they watched him, unblinking.

“What, for Christ's sake?” he shouted at them. “What you staring at?” He leaped up suddenly, lunging at them. Dulcie flipped away but Joe crouched snarling, ready to strike.

Greeley paused, uncertain.

“Pearl Ann Jamison,” Joe hissed. “Where does she live? Which room?”

Greeley's laugh blasted the air, drowning them in the stink of rum. “I knew it. What you looking for
her
for?”

He sat unsteadily on a carton. “She rented the last empty room. All
I
could get was this storeroom.”

He smirked at them, pleased. “Rental office let me have it cheap, when I tole 'em I was teetotal.” And he belched and scratched his belly.

“So what do you want with her?” he said roughly. “You tell me what's your business with this Pearl Ann, maybe I'll show you which room.”

For a moment, no one spoke; the three cats and the old man stared at each other, caught in a vacuum of silence. Then Greeley dug three paper cups from an open carton and set them in a row on the floor.

Pouring several inches of rum into each, he pushed two toward Joe and Dulcie. “Drink up, folks,” he said, cheerfully lifting the bottle.

The biting smell of rum burned the cats' noses, made them back away. The old man stood up abruptly, catching himself against the cartons, and on tiptoe he reached to slide the third cup across the cartons to Azrael. Azrael turned his head and slitted his eyes against the fumes.

Greeley drained the bottle. And his face crumpled, tears streaking down.

“They were into something,” he said softly. “Dora and Ralph. Playing cop maybe. Or maybe blackmail.” He hiccuped and leaned against the cartons, scowling at the floor. He was silent for so long they thought he'd gone to sleep.

But suddenly he snatched up the battery light. “Well, come on!” He glared down at them, his red eyes watery. “I got a key to Pearl Ann's place, if that's what you're after.”

His boozy laugh cracked. “
She
don't know I got it. Azrael fetched it. No trick at all for him to slip in through the transom. She thought she lost her key,” he said, smirking. “She got another from the rent office. And what do they care?” He unbolted the door and led them down a narrow, dark hall that smelled of mice and human urine.

Padding warily after him along the dirty linoleum, Joe and Dulcie heard a loud thump behind them as
Azrael hit the floor. They turned to see the black tom swagger out, taking up the rear like a guard walking behind two prisoners.

 

Pearl Ann's room was at the far end of the gloomy hall. Twisting a skeleton key in the lock, Greeley shoved the door open; when the cats hesitated, he laughed.

“Scared, huh? Scared I'll lock you in?” He slapped his knee, giggling, then crossed the room. Pounding on the window frame, he managed to loosen it. Lifting the bottom half, he propped it open with a dented metal wastebasket. “There, that suit you better?”

They padded into the close, sour-smelling room. In one corner stood an iron bed neatly made up with a worn chenille spread faded to the color of a grimy floor mop. The scarred dresser was of the waterfall era that had been popular in the forties, an incredibly ugly piece but one that had enjoyed a recent revival. Joe leaped to its top, onto a film of dust.

It appeared that Pearl Ann had not lived here alone. Before the mirror were two rows of toiletries, one for a man, one for a woman: hair spray and jasmine cologne on one side, can of shaving cream and bottle of shaving lotion on the other.

Two pairs of men's shoes stood in the open closet next to Pearl Ann's jogging shoes, all as neatly aligned as the shoes of soldiers placed for inspection. Above these hung a man's trousers and jeans and polo shirts and, in her half of the closet, four pastel jumpsuits of the kind that Pearl Ann favored for work, a skirt, and two blouses. In the tiny bathroom, which had no counter space but only a basin, the thin scent of shaving cream and aftershave was mixed with Pearl Ann's perfume. The man's odor was strongest around the bed. As the two cats inspected the room, Greeley stood
leaning against the door frame with a strange little smile on his face, as if he was secretly amused. Azrael had remained in the hall, separating himself from their investigation with a barrier of disdain.

They had not told the black tom the results of their surveillance at Pander's restaurant, or who Dora and Ralph's host had been; they had not sought him out, to tell him, and Azrael had not come to them. Maybe, Joe thought, Azrael had gone to Pander's after all, had watched
them
watching Dora and Ralph. He didn't like to think that he had been so unaware, so blind to the dark tom's presence.

Now, searching for he knew not what, pawing open the drawers of the waterfall dresser, Joe found only a man's Jockey briefs and socks. No lady's panties or stockings or nighties—as if Pearl Ann didn't have much, as if she'd taken what little she owned with her to San Francisco.

In the doorway, Greeley looked increasingly smug, harboring his amusing little secret. Joe, losing patience, leaped onto the dresser and fixed him with a hard stare.

“You can keep your own council if you choose, Greeley. Or you can trade it.”

“What could a cat trade? What would a cat have that would interest old Greeley?”

Joe turned his back and began to wash.

“Well, what?” Greeley shouted.

“This is about your sister,” he told Greeley.

“What about my sister?”

Joe looked back at him, remote and ungiving.

“What about her!” Greeley snapped.

“She's gone,” Joe said. “She disappeared. You tell me about Pearl Ann—tell me what you're grinning about—and I'll tell you about Mavity.”

“Gone where? What do you mean, gone?”

“The cops are looking for her.”

“You're lying. Why would the cops…I don't believe you. Mavity wouldn't be into anything the cops care about. She's as straight as a fencepost. You cats are such liars.”

“What do you know about Pearl Ann?”

“You, first. Can't trust a cat to keep a fair trade.”

“She might be wanted for murder,” Joe said shortly. “Or she might have been murdered. Murdered, while you wallowed here frying your brain in rum.”

“You stupid cat—you think I believe what a cat says?”

“She vanished from Winthrop Jergen's apartment this afternoon.” Joe looked at Greeley with distaste. “Jergen was found with his throat torn open. And Mavity has disappeared.”

Greeley had turned very pale. “She wouldn't kill anyone. No matter what he did, she wouldn't kill him.”

Joe stared at him.

Greeley looked back a long time, his glance flicking to Azrael, to Dulcie, to the window.

“Fair trade,” Joe said. “Your turn.”

Greeley picked up a straight chair from beside the dresser and set it beneath the overhead light.

“Pearl Ann Jamison,” he said. “What a sweet little lady.” Standing on the chair, he tipped the plastic light cover askew, reached inside, and drew out a thick envelope. Climbing down, he nearly toppled the chair, caught himself against the bed. Glancing out the door at Azrael, almost as if asking permission and receiving only a haughty look from the black cat, he tossed the packet on the chenille spread.

“My partner saw her hide this. He loves looking in windows. He's a regular voyeur.” Withdrawing the con
tents of the envelope, he spread it across the chenille. Joe looked down from the dresser as Dulcie leaped up onto the bed. They studied with interest an airline ticket, a fistful of credit cards, and three driver's licenses.

The airline ticket was partially used, the stub indicating that the holder had traveled from Georgia to L.A., then L.A. to Molena Point. The date of arrival was about the time Pearl Ann had applied for a job with Charlie. The return portion didn't show any reservation. The ticket had been issued in the name of a Troy Hoke.

There was a Georgia driver's license and a Visa and social security cards for Troy Hoke, a second set for a Terrill John, a third set for William Skeel. The pictures were all of the same man: a thin, familiar face, long brown hair tied back in a ponytail. There was no ticket, and no license or charge card or ID for Pearl Ann; presumably she had her cards with her. Greeley leaned against the dresser, giggling.

Dulcie looked the cards over with widening eyes, her ears sharp forward, her tail twitching. Suddenly she leaped for the closet.

But Joe was ahead of her, sniffing at the lineup of shoes.

“All the same size,” Joe said.

“And all the same stink,” she replied. The cats looked at each other, their eyes dark with excitement.

Greeley began to laugh.

“You got it, you cats. You got it! You been looking for Pearl Ann Jamison.” He guffawed, emitting rum-laced fumes, rocking back and forth.

“You got it. This Pearl Ann Jamison,” Greeley shouted, spittling rum-laden spray, “this Pearl Ann fits them Jockey shorts just fine.”

A
T THREE A.M.,
Max Harper pulled into Sam's All Night Burger up on Highway One. He'd been looking for Mavity Flowers but, spotting Clyde's yellow '29 Chevy, he had wheeled in and parked beside it. He sat a moment admiring the car's gleaming finish and boxy, trim lines. Clyde had been working on this one for two years, and she was a beauty. Not many women had this much attention lavished on them—or turned out as elegant, either.

Clipping his phone to his belt beside his radio, he locked the unit and headed into the restaurant. Stopping at the counter to order cherry pie and coffee, he moved on back, where Damen sat hunched over a sandwich and coffee. Sliding into the booth, he picked up the menu out of habit. “Any luck?”

Clyde shook his head. He looked dead for sleep. “Not a sign of Mavity. And I haven't seen Wilma or Charlie for a while. If either one found her, they'd take her back to Wilma's. Her phone doesn't answer.”

“I saw Wilma around midnight, up on Ridgeview.
She had hoped Bernine would ride with her, said she guessed Bernine had gone out.”

“Only Bernine Sage would party while her latest love interest lies cold in the morgue.”

“He isn't her love interest anymore—he's no use to her now.” Harper reached for a cigarette, tamped it, stuck it in his mouth unlit. “I wired Atlanta on this Warren Cumming. As Mavity said, charges against Cumming were dropped. His partner, Troy Hoke, was convicted, did a year for theft by fraud against Dora and Ralph Sleuder and five other victims. He's been out just over six months.

“Shortly after Hoke's trial, Cumming left the state. Gave a Florida forwarding address, a private postal box. Forfeited on the lease of his Atlanta apartment, closed his bank account, took the balance in cash.”

“Big money?”

“Very small. I'm guessing he had larger accounts in other names and that the Florida move was a red herring.”

Billie, the straw-blond night waitress, brought Harper's pie and coffee. She was sixtyish and smelled of stale cigarettes, her thin face dry and deeply lined. Setting the pie down, she spilled cherry juice on the table. Scowling, saying nothing, she wiped it up.

“What's with you?” Harper said.

“Fight with LeRoy,” she said shortly. She looked hard at Harper. “What's with these guys? Does he have to mess around with that stupid motorcycle
all
the time?”

“Better than another woman,” Harper told her.

“I don't know, Max. Perfume is easier to get out of the laundry than grease.”

Harper tried to look sympathetic. When she'd gone, Clyde said, “Why doesn't she leave him?”

“Never will. She just likes bitching about him.” But he looked distressed, too. Despite dealing with the dregs of the world, Harper never got used to people staying in a bad marriage. His own happy marriage had ended far too soon, when Millie died of cancer; he didn't have a lot of sympathy for people who put up with anything less than a completely wonderful union. To Max's way of thinking, it was better to be alone. He tasted his pie, ate half of it before he spoke again.

“After Hoke was released, he received several phone calls to his Atlanta apartment.” He glanced up at Clyde. “All were placed from the Sleuders' phone. And a few days after the last call, he left the state. That was four months ago.”

Clyde had stopped eating, was quiet.

“Shortly before the Sleuders flew out here on vacation, they placed several calls to a Molena Point pay phone a block from the Davidson Building.

“The way I see it, Dora Sleuder stumbled onto Cumming's whereabouts by chance. Try this: Dora makes a casual phone call to her aunt—evidently they talked once or twice a month, family stuff, keeping in touch. During the conversation, Mavity mentions her new investment counselor, brags about how well she's doing.

“She tells Dora how wonderful Jergen is and describes him—you know Mavity, going on about Jergen's youthful looks and silver hair. The description fits Cumming, and Dora starts asking questions.”

Clyde nodded. “Like, how old is he? How does he dress and talk? How he furnishes his office, what kind of car he prefers…”

“Exactly. Now assume that Mavity's description was so much like Cumming that it got Dora and Ralph wondering, made them decide to check up on this Jergen.”

“But…”

“They knew that Hoke was just out of prison—they'd kept track of him. And they knew he'd be burning to get at Cumming, for setting him up. Hoke did all the time for that scam. Cumming didn't do a lick.

“Dora and Ralph decide that this Jergen could be Warren Cumming, and they sick Hoke on him, encourage Hoke to come on out here and take a look.”

“But how did they find Hoke? Through his parole officer?”

Harper nodded. “We have the parole officer's phone record, and we've talked with him. He remembers a woman calling him, said she was Hoke's niece, that Hoke had some things of her mother's that he'd put away before he went to prison, that she wanted to get them back. Parole officer wouldn't disclose any information, but he took her phone number, passed it on to Hoke—he's obliged to do that. Figures he'll watch developments. This officer keeps good records, the Sleuders' number was there in his logbook.

“So Hoke calls Dora, and she tells him about Winthrop Jergen. According to Hoke's phone bill, they talk for over an hour. The next day Hoke moves out of his apartment, leaves Altanta.”

Harper slipped a photograph from his pocket, handed it across.

The man in the picture was thin and pale. Light brown hair, long and tied back. One low shoulder. A bony face, thin eyebrows.

Clyde stared. “The guy who hangs around the apartments. Mavity calls him ‘the watcher.' This is Troy Hoke?”

“Yep. And we have Hoke's prints, from the Atlanta file.” He mopped up cherry juice with a forkful of crust.

“Did they match the prints from the murder scene?”

“The only prints we got at the scene were for Jergen himself, and for Mavity and Charlie.”

“You didn't get Pearl Ann's prints? They should be all over the place. She cleaned for him regularly, and she did the repairs. Except…” Clyde thought a minute. “Pearl Ann wears gloves. Has some allergy. Gloves to work on the Sheetrock, to clean, to paint.”

“Charlie told me that. Rubber gloves or sometimes a soft leather pair.”

Clyde nodded. “She takes them off several times a day, to put on some kind of prescription hand cream.”

He looked intently at Harper. “Sounds like this will nail Hoke—but what about Mavity? It won't help us find Mavity.” They were speaking softly. At three in the morning, the restaurant was nearly empty. Down at the far end of the counter two men in jeans and plaid shirts sat eating, intent on their fried eggs. In a booth near the door, an elderly couple was drinking coffee, each reading a section of a newspaper. At the counter near them, a striking blond was nibbling at a sandwich and sipping orange juice. As Harper signaled for a refill of coffee, his cellular phone buzzed. Picking it up, he started to speak, then went silent.

Watching him, Clyde thought the call was being transferred. The blond got up from the counter, wrapped her unfinished sandwich in a paper napkin, paid her check and left. Clyde watched through the window as she swung into a Chrysler van with the windows open and a huge white dog hanging his head out, watched her feeding the dog little bites of the sandwich. Across from him, Harper had stiffened.

 

Harper felt his blood go chill. The voice on the line was female, a smooth voice, a velvety, insinuating voice that
made the hackles on his neck rise. He could never get used to hearing this woman. He didn't know her name, had never seen her, didn't know anything about her, but every time she called, the nerves in his stomach began to twitch.

“Captain Harper? Are you still there?”

He said nothing.

“Captain Harper, you have just sealed the scene of a murder up on Venta Street.”

“Have I?”

“Your men didn't touch the computer. You left it on, and you have a Bureau man coming down early in the morning to check it out.”

Harper remained silent. The pie in his stomach had turned sour.
No one
could know about the Bureau man except his own people and Charlie Getz. He tried to figure who, in his own department, would breach security, would pass along such information. The officers at the scene had been Brennan, Wendell, Ray, and Case. The two medics had left before he called the Bureau.

The caller was waiting for him to respond. He motioned for Clyde to listen. Clyde came around the table and sat down, shoving against Harper, jamming his ear to the phone.

“Captain Harper, there are two code words for the computer that your Bureau man will want. Jergen's code, to open his financial files, is
Cairo.

“The second code word was used by Pearl Ann Jamison. It should open a set of files that Pearl Ann seems to have hidden from Jergen, on his own computer. That word is
Tiger.
I believe those are both Georgia towns; I looked them up on the map.

“In looking for suspects,” the caller said softly, “you need to be looking for a man. Pearl Ann and he are…”

She gasped, Max heard a faint yelp of alarm and the line went dead.

Harper sat frozen, staring at the phone. Clyde exploded out of the booth like he was shot, threw a five-dollar bill on the table and fled out the door.

“Hold it,” Harper shouted. “What the hell?” He stared after Clyde perplexed, watched the yellow roadster scorch out of the parking lot moving like a racing car and disappear down the hill toward the village.

He wanted to go after Clyde. Instead, he sat thinking about that soft voice.

You need to be looking for a man, Pearl Ann and he are
…And then the gasp or yelp, a strange little sound, and then silence.

The two are
what
?

Working together? Pearl Ann and a man are working together? Involved? Involved in Jergen's death? Pearl Ann and who? Troy Hoke? And then that startled yelp, and Clyde taking off like his boots were on fire.

He motioned for more coffee, and dug in his pocket for some antacid. He didn't want to know where Clyde was headed. He didn't want to follow the yellow car. He didn't want to know who the caller was, with the soft and velvety voice.