"Hot from Wilma's microwave. Dig in. I had my share, didn't want to carry it all."

"Wilma puts up the best leftovers in the village."

"Not leftovers, really. She cooks a big roast, all the fixings, then portions it out for future meals."

"The blessings of a woman's touch."

"That's very sexist. Is that why you want Clyde to get married?"

"It couldn't hurt," Joe said with his mouth full. And when he came up for air, slurping and purring, he said, "Frozen suppers, ready for the microwave. We could do that when the rabbits are out by the hundreds, bring home a brace, portion them out into little dishes…"

Laughing, she lay down on the shingles, soaking up warmth from the vanished sun. "Not even Wilma and Clyde would dedicate their freezer to our hunting kill."

"Does Wilma know why she fixed supper for me? Does she know I'm up here?"

"Of course. I had to tell her something. She didn't say a word, except did you have Clyde's cell phone up on the roof because Clyde's pitching a fit, trying to find it. He thought maybe he'd left it at her house." Curled up in the shadows of the overhang, she began to wash her paws. "You could call Clyde and put his mind at rest-so he won't think he lost it and someone's going to run up a big bill."

"He doesn't need the phone."

"So call him. He's not going to come up here on the roof to get his phone back."

"I wouldn't count on it. He's been so grouchy lately-and nosy. But what's happening at the station? What did you find out? Did you get in all right?"

Dulcie smiled. "I'm a permanent fixture. The day dispatcher's just as much a cat person as the lady on second watch. She made all kinds of fuss over me, made a bed for me on her sweater. All the officers stopped to scratch my ears and chuck me under the chin like some hound dog. They're so funny. Don't they know how to pet a cat?"

"Harper doesn't think it strange we're suddenly showing up there?"

"He gave me a look or two. Said maybe I was getting bored with being the library cat. But what would he suspect? A cat could shout obscenities in his face, and Harper wouldn't want to believe it."

Joe shrugged and licked the Styrofoam one more time in case he'd missed a drop of gravy.

"Clyde stopped by the department," she said. "Asking Harper about Fern's murder. Didn't even wait until they went out for coffee, just started asking questions. I think he's worried about you- about us. Maybe it's all this business of trying to decide whether to sell the house, maybe he's feeling insecure."

"Clyde's feeling insecure, so he takes it out worrying about us."

"Maybe, for humans, that's the way it works. Life gets uncertain, and every little frustration becomes a big problem. But listen to this," she said, her green eyes gleaming. "Garza brought the Traynors in."

"On what charge?"

"No charge. Just to talk to them. He couldn't hold them. Elliott was totally silent, didn't even complain about the inconvenience. You'd think he'd pitch a fit. You can bet Vivi whined; she said this would throw Elliott behind schedule, that he had to finish his book. She ranted on while Elliott sat there saying not a word and looking miserable."

"So how did the questioning go?"

Dulcie looked abashed. "I tried, Joe. I thought it would be a snap, that I could sit on the dispatcher's counter and watch the interrogation on her monitor, but I should have known better. Garza just took them into his office. And shut the door. Practically in my face. I lay down on my back against the door playing with my tail, but I got only part of it. Those doors are thick, maybe bulletproof. Garza asked about their leaving New York, about their movements just before their flight. Vivi sounded surprised, but then she got really mad."

Joe smiled. "Sounds like Adele McElroy did talk to the New York detectives. But why would Garza ask questions and alert Vivi? If there is anything to my theory, they'll pack up and skip."

"My thought exactly. But I really didn't hear enough to make sense of it. Garza drove them back to their cottage himself.

"But he put a tail on them," she said, grinning. "So maybe that's his idea, too, to catch them skipping."

"Who did he send?"

"Davis. She's good, but I can find out more than she can. I can look in the windows to see if they're packing, and I can slip inside."

"Watch yourself, Dulcie. Don't forget Elliott has that 'target pistol' as he calls it."

"I don't think he'll use that again." She gave him a whisker kiss, and left him, leaping into the pine tree and scrambling backward down the rough trunk carrying the empty Styrofoam dish in its paper bag. She dropped it beside the steps of Prey's landlord, next to the trash can.

Prey had turned the light off; only the glow of the TV remained. Across his windows the evening sky reflected in a glut of slow-moving clouds. Joe could smell rain. He hoped it would hold off. Even under the two-foot overhang, a sudden downpour would splash up from the shingles, drenching him and playing hell with Clyde's cell phone.

He watched Prey pop another beer, sitting on the bed leaning against the pillows. Playing with the remote, Prey began to channel-hop, producing a staccato of jolting squawks and flashing light. As the evening deepened, the pine tree that rose beside the roof turned from separate green needles to a black and shapeless mass, and the house walls darkened to nondescript shadows blending with the ragged bushes. Only the pale sidewalk directly below retained its sharp edges, the concrete empty now except for a scattering of dead leaves skittering in the wind. Stretching out, Joe rested his chin on the metal roof gutter, looking down, half dozing, his bored gaze fixed on Prey.

He stiffened.

Something dark was sliding among the bushes; a figure was approaching Prey's windows noiselessly from the street, Joe caught a glimpse of jeans and a dark shirt. Was it the rookie that Garza had sent to tail Prey? Had he pulled a heavier shirt on over his pale T-shirt, and put on a black cap? The man moved along beside the shrubs below the window, making no sound at all.

At nearly the same moment, Prey flicked the overhead light on again. As the harsh glow struck the bushes like a searchlight, the guy ducked away. Joe picked him out of the blackest shadows, crouching, watching the window above him. He looked bigger than the young cop. Inside the room, the glow of the single bulb shattered across the dresser's oval mirror, picking out Prey as he opened a third beer, the scar across his forehead angry in the artificial light. Staring at himself in the mirror, he moved to the bathroom and rinsed out a washcloth.

Returning to the TV, he lay down and folded the cool compress across the healing wound. Outside the window the silent watcher waited. Above the dark treetops, the clouds lowered and extended, cutting away the last of the fading daylight, casting the village into darkness. The watcher moved closer, peering in through the glass.

Snap, his shoe broke a dead twig. He crouched, frozen, as Prey swung up from the bed and switched off the light.

Prey stood for some time peering out, picking nervously at the scar, glancing behind him around the room.

When he pulled the blind, Joe could hear him moving, could hear drawers opening. Nipping across the roof, Joe dropped to the branch outside the bathroom window.

In the lighted bathroom, Prey was sweeping razor and toiletries into his jacket pockets, along with a pair of socks that he snatched from the shower rod where apparently he had hung his laundry. When he left the bathroom, Joe slid the window open. In a moment he heard Prey punch the phone, and listened to him ordering a cab.

Leaping back across branches to his own roof, Joe pawed at Clyde's phone, hitting the on button and the redial, the way he had set it up. In seconds he was speaking to the dispatcher.