Hit and Run Page 12

  Tee grinned, then disconnected. Just what she wanted to hear. Redford had deniability if she screwed up, but she had a nod and wink to sniff around.

  The guard cat hissed again when she disconnected the phone and made eye contact with her. The others milled around the dead owner’s legs, while one sat in her lap. “Karma, I don’t think the cats like us very much.”

  Karma whined and wriggled, her answer to a wag. As far as she knew, the dog’s only experience with cats was raising Gizmo. Her imposing form and foreign smell probably scared these fancy show cats to death, but Tee wanted a quick look at the computer before the locals arrived.

  “What would September do? She’s the animal expert. Wish she’d answer her damn phone.” At the thought, Tee texted the woman one more time, but didn’t wait for an answer.

  “Karma, let’s go.” Tee led the dog down the hall. Maybe if she moved the Rottie out of sight, the cats would calm enough to let her into the room. “Down. Wait.” The dog obediently dropped into a prone position. She whined but remained in place when Tee returned to the murder scene.

  Before attempting to move anything, Tee took additional pictures of the position of the body, the toppled cat tree, and the open cabinet that contained several accordion file folders. She cocked her head to one side, noting the caster wheels on the office chair in which the victim sat. Cats continued to mew and circle the chair. If she could roll the chair away from the door...

  Tee belatedly remembered Lia’s caution about making eye contact with strange dogs. Hard stares meant a challenge and could escalate aggression and attack in dogs. Maybe the same held true for cats.

  Karma whined, then yawned noisily from down the hall. “Karma, shush. Good girl. Wait.” Tee knew the dog meant the cats no harm, but if they’d never been around a big dog, they wouldn’t know that. Karma outweighed even these jumbo-size felines four to one. She’d never seen such fluffy, mammoth cats.

  Tee spied a dust mop, still fuzzy with cat fur swept from the floor. She grabbed it, hefting the slight weight of the aluminum pole, and walked slowly through the door. Tee kept her eyes focused away from the cats, and turned sideways the way Lia and September had taught her to deal with strange dogs. She hoped it worked for these creatures, too.

  The guard cat paused his kneading, stared hard at Tee, and growled. She froze and held her breath until the growl faded away. She extended the mop-end of the pole until it contacted one of the chair’s casters. With gentle pressure, the chair rolled forward.

  The cat hissed, but clung claws more tightly into the fabric of the chair back. He had no intention of abandoning Sissie.

  With continued pressure, the chair rolled farther into the room. It swiveled three quarters around so that the woman’s dead eyes no longer stared back at Tee. She sidled into the room, still clutching the dust mop in case the orange and white beauty launched an attack. But the distance seemed to have calmed the cat. Tee continued to avoid eye contact as she made her way into the office area.

  Unfortunately, she’d moved the chair in front of the file cabinet. She had to get the cats completely away from the body. Maybe food? According to Charlie, she’d been chased from the house late last night, so the cats hadn’t been fed in at least twelve hours. Karma loved bacon-flavor treats, and Tee had some in her kit. But did cats like the same thing? She doubted it.

  Opposite the desk, a small refrigerator stood on the counter beside the large sink. Keeping one eye on the now silent cats, Tee opened the door, and found an open can of stinky cat food. Yes!

  Two of the cats swiveled big-eyed faces in her direction when the refrigerator opened. One stood and meowed with anticipation. Tee grabbed the can of food and walked slowly past the toppled cat tree and into the cattery proper.

  The open doors on each kennel held a name tag, probably identifying each resident cat. Clean empty food bowls sat in each. So Tee tipped out a finger-size portion of nasty wet food into each bowl. “Hey cats, dinner time. Hungry, are you hungry?” She entered the one floor-to-ceiling playpen on the opposite side of the aisle and closed the door, protection in case they decided to coordinate an attack like a campy horror movie. “Hey, kitty-kitty-kitty, which one of you is Sherlock? Where’s Meriwether? Treats for the cats.”

  The magic “treat” word brought all running, each hopping up into respective kennels—all but the guard cat. Tee waited another thirty seconds before she slipped out the playpen door and closed the kennels of the resident felines. The two areas labeled for Sherlock and Meriwether remained empty.

  The guard cat finally left his perch and stalked toward Tee. He held his tail straight up with just the tip waving. His ears continued to swivel to the side like airplane wings, but he chirruped and seemed interested in taking the chance on her—if treats were involved.

  “Hey there, Sherlock?” He didn’t respond. “Meriwether?”

  The orange and white cat chirruped again, and his ears came forward. “Meriwether, good boy, cat. Sorry about your lady. Brave cat to protect her.”

  She didn’t try to touch him. Tee set the nearly empty can on the floor of the playpen, and stood back until he entered. With a sigh of relief, and feeling accomplished, she latched the door. With all the cats safely confined, she could take a closer look at the files.

  “Mahalo, Karma.” At the release word, Karma hurried to join Tee and sat in the doorway. Karma would give her a head’s up when the local police arrived. Until then, Tee quickly flipped through the paper files—some more than twenty years old. Other than cat pedigrees and show records, she found no outside bookkeeping records linked to Detweiller. One file held records of sales of the Maine Coon kittens, and when one name caught her eye, she looked closer.

  At her shocked intake of breath, Karma whined. “This can’t be a coincidence, honey-girl. Different last name, but I mean, how many people do you know named September?”

  Chapter 27

  WHEN THE SURPRISING text arrived, Southgate knew it had been routed through several intermediaries. Not from Wong, but probably one of her minions. He’d already heard about Detweiller’s demise.

  >Coat hanger?! Clean up your own mess. Meet in ten, or you’re done.

  He slumped in the front seat of his car and dropped his face into gloved hands. He’d set up Angela’s death to look like suicide, but slipped up somehow. He shook out an antacid, then two more, and chewed all three. Delay. Deflect. Think. He could still make this work. He had no time for this!

 
  Southgate stared through the fogged windshield at the entry into the gated community where he lived. Roxanne expected him for a holiday meal with her parents. They’d driven in special for an early Christmas celebration. Even the kids—Paul from Notre Dame and Sharon from her law job in Chicago—had set aside busy schedules for the rare family gathering.

  >Clock’s ticking. Cops on the way. Nine minutes.

  “Damn!” Decisions from the past left indelible marks on the future. He didn’t regret the path chosen. Those with weaker stomachs missed opportunities he’d embraced to get ahead. Look where it got him, successful beyond his parents’ wildest dreams. He’d overcome every roadblock, helped make others wealthy along the way, and now Angela would derail everything from beyond the grave.

  No.

  Southgate took deep, pained breaths, and silently fumed. His face heated and his hands tightened on the leather-padded steering wheel. He imagined revenge scenarios before dismissing them out of hand for the indulgent fantasies they were. He couldn’t touch Wong or her organization. She could have him swatted out of existence. But his message about Detweiller—actually a warning to her—granted him room to save his own life, and maybe his reputation. He texted back, lips curled in a snarl.

 
  He sucked in a breath when the reply came. Angela Day’s house. Clear across town. No way could he get there anytime soon, especially with the weather. “What the hell, I’m screwed anyway.” He dialed the number and expect
ed to be ignored.

  The phone picked up before the second ring. “Shut up and listen. Your faked suicide won’t stand. You’ll take the fall, and raise uncomfortable questions for our mutual employer. So fix it, or I will. Permanently.” The voice, obscured by some sort of electronic masking, was quickly disconnected.

  Southgate immediately redialed, but got a recording that the number had been disconnected.

  He hit the dashboard with his fist. Hell! He wasn’t a professional killer. What did they expect? He hadn’t planned to hurt Angela. How was he supposed to fix things? Southgate shoved the car in gear and drove as quickly as he could without sliding off the road, mind spinning.

  Nearly twenty minutes later, he arrived. Bright police lights strobed the snow, painting the ground bloody. Busy professionals trampled the front lawns and sidewalks of Angela’s block, and rubber-necking neighbors huddled in coats on nearby porches. Southgate had to park a block away and limp in. The bruise from the dog’s bite had left his leg tender. He composed his features as he hunched shoulders against the cold, mentally rehearsing a plausible story.

  “Sir? Sir, stop, you can’t go in there.” The police officer stopped him, as expected.

  Southgate raised his voice, wanting to be heard by those in charge. “But this is Angela Day’s house. She’s my client, what happened? I was just here, did something happen to her?” He’d slipped up somehow, better to let them know they’d find innocent evidence of his presence. He allowed his voice to break. “Please tell me she’s okay.”

  The police officer stood aside as the detective in charge stepped up. “Your client? And who are you, sir?”

  “George Southgate.” He stuck out his hand. “And you are...?”

  “Detective Franklin Steele. Of course, I know who you are, Judge. What brings you out in this weather?” He gestured back at the house. “Someone you knew?”

  “Oh no, what happened?” Southgate cleared his throat, his shaky voice no longer an act. Detective Steele had a reputation for clearing investigations that stymied others. “Angela Day is a family friend. Her late husband Peter and I knew each other for years.” He blinked when he finally took in the state of the house. The splintered remains of the garage door gaped open, offering glimpses of the interior.

  Steele registered Southgate’s surprise, and indicated the battered building. “Somebody didn’t bother opening the door. In a hurry to get away from the place.” He grimaced. “I used to work with their son, Detective Chris Day, before he died. The whole department takes this personally. I’m sorry to tell you that Angela Day is dead.”

  Southgate let his jaw drop open, then turned away. He didn’t want to overdo it. Steele would recognize theatrics. “How awful.” His voice cracked all by itself.

  “Looks like she hung herself. With a coat hanger—pretty bizarre. When did you see her? Recently, you say, as a client.”

  “More as a friend.” He corrected the man, mind racing. Thanks to the texts, Southgate knew the suicide wouldn’t stand. But Steele wouldn’t know he had reason to doubt the obvious conclusion. Maybe best to play both sides. He took a big breath, and gave his prepared spiel. “Yes, she’d been depressed, but I didn’t think to the point of suicide. Her husband died not long ago. And this week’s the anniversary of her son’s death. She seemed more angry than sad.” He baited the hook, and waited.

  “Angry? How so?”

  “She called me for advice to deal with an unwelcome visitor. Her former daughter-in-law invited herself to visit, making trouble.” He paused, as if debating whether to share, and concluded in a rush. “Angela blamed this woman for her son’s death. They hadn’t spoken in years, not since his funeral. Bad blood, there.” He turned to look deliberately at the shattered garage door. “I wonder if she drove off in Angela’s car. I’d like to ask her some questions myself.”

  “So would I. What kind of car, do you know?”

  “It’s a blue sedan, and it’s wrapped around a utility pole three blocks over. Thank God you’re here!”

  Southgate whirled at the voice and squinted into the night. A dark-haired woman stumbled into view, cradling an oversize belly.

  Steele brushed past Southgate to head her off. “And just who are you?”

  One of the neighbors called out. “She’s the one crashed Angela’s car out of the garage. Told us to call 911.”

  Southgate gaped, then quickly recovered. “It’s her! Detective, that’s the woman I told you about, Angela’s daughter-in-law. She must have done something. Why else did she run?” He shouted, pointing a shaking finger with outrage.

  She ignored him, focused on the detective. Her arms shifted and a cat’s face—a cat?!—poked out of the neck of her jacket. “I’m September Day, Detective Steele. We need to talk.”

  Steele looked nonplussed. The beginnings of a smile evaporated when a black flash of fur dodged past the outer circle of the police perimeter.

  The detective drew his weapon. Nearby officers followed his lead, all taking aim at the German Shepherd pelting toward them.

  Chapter 28

  “DON’T SHOOT HIM!” SEPTEMBER lurched between the aimed guns and Shadow. Her arms reflexively tightened, and Macy struggled, meowing in protest. “My service dog won’t hurt you. Shadow, down.”

  Shadow dropped at her feet, whimpers and cries of happiness spilling from his throat. His tail swept a single angel-wing in the snow, and he pressed his cheek against September’s ankle.

  Detective Steele’s aim didn’t falter, but neither did he shoot. “Put it on a leash.”

  September shook her head. “Can’t. Left his leash in my car.” She nodded at the nearby SUV. “During the attack, we got separated. Thought I lost you again, baby-dog,” she said, sotto voce, and then cleared her throat. “Now he’s with me, he won’t move from my side. Unless I tell him to.” Her chin jutted out. “We’re a package deal.”

  Steele grudgingly holstered his weapon and motioned the other officers to stand down as well. “Attack, huh? And you made it out, with a cat besides?” Steele pursed his lips and took in her bedraggled appearance, but to his benefit, he didn’t roll his eyes. “That’s a story I want to hear.”

  “Aren’t you going to arrest her?” The tall stranger’s face turned a mottled red. “That’s her, Detective. She did something to Angela.” He didn’t shout, but spittle flew from his lips with the intensity of his accusations.

  “All in good time, Judge.” Steele tipped his head at the tall stranger. “We’ll talk later.”

  September looked with surprise from the Detective to the Judge when Shadow growled and his body poised to spring at the stranger. She didn’t recognize his voice. His face showed no signs of coffee scald, either. Her shoulders relaxed. She placed a gentle hand on Shadow’s ruff. He looked up at her face, furred brow wrinkled with concern.

  The Judge took a limping step toward September, gloved fist raised and shaking. Shadow growled louder, and stood, placing himself between her and the stranger.

  “Judge Southgate. George.” Steele sharpened his tone, finally breaking through to the upset man. “I’ll get your official statement tomorrow. Thanks for your help. But I got my hands full here for the next several hours.”

  The Judge brushed snow from his wool coat as if shrugging off his outburst. He adjusted his hat and strode away.

  He must be Angela’s friend, maybe the lawyer they were supposed to meet. September didn’t blame him. Finding out about Angela’s death would be devastating to her friends. The circumstances made things worse. Adrenalin kept her own shock at bay, and Shadow wired, but would soon wear off. The vision of Angela’s suspended body would haunt her forever. Without Shadow by her side—thank God he’d returned to her!—she’d melt into a puddle.

  “It’s horrible what happened to Angela. Is the Judge a friend of hers?” Macy mewed and struggle in her arms, probably overheated within the down-filled coat.

  Steele nodded and narrowed his eyes. “What’s your story? Were you with her whe
n she died? Looks like a combat zone in there.”

  She shook her head. “She was gone when I found her. Hanging in the garage.” She shuddered, her arms tightening again. Macy objected and dug his claws into her middle. “Can I put him in my car? Then we can talk without distraction.”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  “Uhm, well...” September rocked from foot to foot. “See, I left my bag inside by the coat closet, with my car keys. That’s why I had to take Angela’s car to...to get away.” Damn, it sounded like a graphic novel invented by teenagers high on energy drinks. “Can I get my keys? And my bag? Big ugly green canvas thing.” She hesitated, then added, “There’s a spare leash in the bag, too.”

  The idea of a leash seemed to convince Steele. He motioned to a nearby officer. “Look for a green canvas bag near the front door and bring it here.” As the officer hurried into the house, Steele turned back to September. “We’ll need to vet the contents first.”

  “Of course.” With any luck, Mr. Bleak hadn’t managed to take all of Chris’s papers. Without them, she had no evidence to explain why Angela asked her to come.

  Her eyes welled. Chris, Dakota, and now Angela. All felled by the curse she carried.

  The officer quickly reappeared in the open front door of the house. She shook her head, holding out her empty gloved hands in a palm-up posture.

  Steele stared at September with a hard smile, opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it.

  “Maybe he took my bag.” Shadow whined and pushed against her thigh. Unconsciously, her hand dropped and clutched the ruff of black fur on his neck. She felt the dog relax and her own heart-rate slow.

  “Who? Oh, the guy who ambushed you?” He forced a laugh. “What, did your bag match his outfit?”

  She glared. “He wanted Chris’s files from the bank lockbox. I had them in my bag.” Disappointment made her throat ache. “Are you sure nobody could find car keys, or find my bag?”