In Joe's opinion, there was not a psychiatrist in the world who had half a cop's ability to correctly read a disturbed subject, who had the knowledge and skill to see through deception. You wouldn't catch a cat wasting his time on a psychiatrist's couch when all one really needed, for most emotional problems, was hard-headed logic, a dose of cop-style straight thinking.

Clyde would say he was inexcusably opinionated, that he didn't have a trace of compassion. Well, he was a cat!Cats weren't supposed to be socially correct. Cats could be as biased as they chose-or as right as they chose. A cat should be able to hold an unbiased opinion without fear of social censure.

But what was Charlie hiding? What had happened, up in the hills?

And what was making the kit so nervous? Beside Joe, Kit's eyes had grown huge. She looked so stricken and uneasy that Dulcie had to nudge her and lick her ears, trying to settle her down.

"No labels on the clothes," Dallas said. "No license on the bike. And those scratches…" The detective frowned. "Almost as if something leaped at him from the trail. Strange as it seems, I keep thinking he was attacked, that his bike was moving fast, something jumped on him, he swerved, lost control and went over the edge."

The detective looked at his friends. "But what? Not likely a bobcat would leap at a cyclist. Though a fast-moving bike would be a pretty tempting target, fast like a deer, and even the noise of a bike might not deter a hungry cougar if it was already used to such sounds.

"But those marks weren't made by a cougar; this was something smaller. Anyway, a cougar would have gone down into the ravine after him, would have finished him."

"Guy apparently died of a broken neck," Max said. "Forensics should have their report in a few days." He looked around the table. "Sheriff's been up there all day, going over the area."

Dallas said, "Scratches of a domestic cat? No small cat would attack a man, no small animal would be so bold."

Up on the wall, the cats glanced discreetly at each other. There was one kind of cat that might attack a grown man, if it cared enough about who the cyclist was, or what he had done. If it wanted him dead.

But what had the guy done to enrage his attacker? And where had such a cat come from? There should be no other cat like themselves anywhere near the village.

Joe wondered it the attacker could possibly be Azrael. That evil Panamanian feline had first shown up in the village nearly two years ago, with his thieving human companion, and had returned a couple of times later without the disreputable safecracker. When Azrael disappeared the last time, into a seemingly bottomless cavern, carrying an emerald bracelet in his mouth, Joe had hoped they had seen the last of him, that he had ended up too far away ever to return.

Joe was washing his whiskers, listening intently but keeping his eyes half closed as if sleepy, when he saw Chichi Barbi crossing the patio, making her way between the tables following the Latino host, the curvy young blond bimbo swiveling her hips provocatively. She was alone, accompanied by neither of the men who had visited her that morning. Swishing between the tables she played the room, giving the eye to every male within view. Max and Dallas and Clyde exchanged a glance that the cats couldn't read. Ryan and Charlie and Hanni watched her with quiet amusement. Heading for a small table beneath the farthest oak, Chichi sat down with her back to the wall and immediately raised her menu, pretending not to see Clyde, pretending not to stare across to their table.

Dallas gave her a dismissive look, and turned to his niece. "We haven't talked since you got back from the city, you ladies were out of here the next morning. How did the legal stuff go?"

"Fine," Ryan said. "It went fine. Beautiful weather in the city, the tide was in, and the coast…"

Dallas scowled impatiently, making Ryan grin. She had gone up to San Francisco to complete the sale of their house and the construction business she'd inherited from her philandering husband when he was murdered. "I wrapped up all the loose ends," she told Dallas, growing serious. "Sold the last of the furniture, cleared out the safe deposit box. Yes, deposited the checks," she said, giving him an unreadable look. Joe read her glance as a bit frightened.

Frightened of what? Of having all that money? Well, Joe had to admit, with the completed sale of the San Francisco firm, she would be rolling in cash. Maybe he'd be scared, too.

But it was money she could put into her new Molena Point construction business, and plenty left over to invest. Ryan could handle that. She should be as pleased as a kitten in the cream bowl. Yet he was sharply aware of her unease-as was everyone at the table.

"What?" Dallas said.

"Do you remember a Roman Slayter? A tall, handsome, dark-haired…"

"I remember him," Dallas said sharply. "I remember you sent him packing more than once while you and Rupert were married."

"He called me while I was in the city. Got the name of my hotel from a new secretary at the firm, who didn't know any better."

"Came on to you."

She nodded. "Wanted me to go out to dinner, then demanded to see me." Her green eyes blazed. "I blew him off, but… I don't know. He left me uneasy."

"The smell of money," Dallas said. "He knows everyone in the company, sure he knew how much you got for the business. Knew when the sale closed escrow. I thought he'd moved to L.A."

"Guess he's back. Nothing fazes him. I told him I was busy with job contracts, that I was working long hours with a new business, that I was involved with someone," she said, glancing shyly at Clyde. Clyde grinned.

"Told him I was just leaving the city, that I didn't have time for him. He knew I'd moved down here to the village. Finally told him my live-in was a weight lifter and a hot-tempered gun enthusiast."

That got a laugh. "And that shut him up?" Dallas said.

"Nothing shuts him up. Doesn't matter what you say. Showed up in the office anyway, tried to kiss me right there in the reception room. I nearly punched him. When he grew really stubborn and refused to leave, I called security.

"As they dragged him out," Ryan said, laughing, "he said he'd see me in Molena Point, that he'd just run down to the village for a few days, get reacquainted. I told him, he showed his face here I'd file charges of harassment." She was half angry, half amused. She had balled up her napkin and was stabbing it with her fork. Her uncle leaned back in his chair, grinning, but he put his arm around her.

All the while they talked, Chichi watched them from across the patio, glancing over the top of her menu; she never looked straight their way, but her full attention was on them. Surely she couldn't hear them at that distance, with so many diners in between, talking and laughing; but her rapt concentration was unsettling. Then, just after the waiter arrived with their orders, Chichi left her table and came across to theirs, all smiles and swivels. She paused beside Clyde's chair, resting her hand possessively on his shoulder.

"Dear me, I couldn't help it, I had to see what you're having, it smelled so good when your waiter passed my table." She gave Clyde a four-star smile and beamed around the table. "Hi, I'm Chichi Barbi! I just ran over for a little supper, it gets boring, eating alone. I'm living in the house next to Clyde's. You're Captain Harper! Well, I've heard great things about you! And you must be Detective Garza! It's so nice to meet you-you ladies, too." She looked down at Clyde's plate. "My goodness, is that on the menu? Green corn tamales?" She looked winsomely around the table. Clyde was still scowling.

"Well, I'll surely order the same," she gushed, waiting for an invitation to join them. When none was forthcoming, she stepped back, her hand lingering on Clyde's shoulder. "It's such an honor to meet you all. It does get lonely in that little back room, I just thought a nice dinner out, for a change…" Still she stood waiting, trying to look uncertain as she glanced from one to the other, managing the little girl act so well that even Joe began to feel sorry for her-or almost sorry.