Somewhere, on his shoes, Roman Slayter had picked up the scent of female dog, female in heat.

That was what Rock had been making up to! Dulcie looked at Kit and smirked. What a timely accident…

Or was it an accident?

Dulcie sat down, staring at the dirt beneath her paws.

Had Slayter acquired that scent on his shoes on purpose? Though the aroma was partially destroyed by shoe polish, it had certainly been strong enough to charm the young Weimaraner.

But now Rock, having found no lady dog to go with the distinctive message, lay in the sun, watching Ryan tear off shingles. Approaching him, Dulcie sniffed noses with him in a friendly way and lay down beside him. She so wished he could tell them what had gone through his thoughts when he'd snarled at Roman Slayter. As Kit uselessly chased a bird, Dulcie lay considering the accumulated puzzles of the last twenty-four hours: The jewelry store robbery, the high school fires, the dead cyclist, the return of the feral cats and their capture.

She thought how deeply afraid Kit was of that wild band, and how cruel they had been to her. Kit still had scars under her fur from their teeth and claws. In the car this morning, while Lucinda and Pedric went into the hospital to get Wilma, Kit had sat silent and worrying. "They haven't come back looking for me," she had said. "They wouldn't want me, Dulcie! Why would they?"

"They wouldn't want you, Kit. They didn't want you before, when you ran with them!" But Dulcie wondered.

Would the leader want to prevent any speaking cat from being out in the world, a cat that might give them away, might let someone know their secret?

She didn't want to consider such matters. Why would they wait until now? Kit had been in Molena Point for nearly two years. Dulcie tried to force her thoughts back to the fire at the high school, and the broken store windows. But it was hard not to worry and not to be frightened for the kit.

She made herself think about what they had learned at the PD, trying to tie the scattered facts together. Except that nothing wanted to go together. Too many pieces were still missing, so nothing made much sense. And it was not until that evening when the chief got home that they learned any more about the investigation-or, for that matter, about the feral cats.

The wind off the sea had calmed. Beneath the dropping sun, the water gleamed with an iridescent sheen; the Harpers' stone terrace and the green pastures beyond were stained with golden light. The cool air smelled of burning hickory chips and spicy sauce. Charlie stood at the barbecue, turning racks of ribs on the grill, their sweet-vinegar aroma prompting the two cats' noses to twitch and their pink tongues to tip out.

On the chaise Wilma sat tucked under a blanket, sipping a weak bourbon and water, possibly against doctor's orders. She could see Ryan through the kitchen window, tossing a salad and gathering silverware and plates onto a tray, and assembling Wilma's own supper. She'd be glad when she could eat more solid food. Well, it wouldn't be long. In Wilma's lap, Dulcie reared up as Max's truck turned onto the drive. Behind it Clyde's yellow roadster appeared, coming over the crest, its top down. Joe was standing up on the passenger seat of the Model A, his white paws on the dash, the white strip down his nose bright in the evening glow.

As Clyde parked by the house, Dallas's car turned in behind them. The scent of exhaust from the vehicles battled with the good barbecue aroma. As the cars killed their engines, the kit woke blearily, tangled in the blanket at Wilma's feet. She looked around her, fighting her way out of the folds, and her first thought was of disappointment that Lucinda and Pedric had not stayed for supper.

The older couple meant to look at four houses the next day. Lucinda said, at eighty-some, one tired more easily. Kit did not like to think about them tiring, could not bear to think about them growing older. She wanted to be with them all the time, but she just couldn't stand the house hunting. All those strange unfamiliar spaces with unfamiliar smells, where other people and animals lived. House after house after house, with the Realtor going on about the new roof and the hot-water heater. Who cared? Realtors had no notion of the important things-a nice tangled garden with sprawling oak trees to climb, plenty of deep windows with wide sills to lie on, a clean thick carpet to roll on and maybe a few hardwood floors for sliding. A nice warm fireplace and tall bookcases to sleep on, and a comfortable rooftop with a wide view down onto the village. Was that too much for a little cat to ask?

Lucinda and Pedric knew what kind of house she liked. And of course it should not be too far from Joe's and Dulcie's houses. Lucky they wanted much the same-except for the climbing part. Kit longed for them to find the perfect home and for the three of them to be settled in. Though Kit's true home was Lucinda and Pedric themselves; life with the old couple was the only real home she'd ever known.

Kit watched Max Harper and Clyde come across the patio, talking about hunting dogs. They both bent down and hugged Wilma, and drew chairs close to her chaise. Max said, "About time you got out of the hospital."

"Two days." Wilma laughed. "I'm a tough old bird. Is Jane Cameron out yet? I went to see her twice while I was there, she wasn't far down the hall. She wasn't sure when they'd release her."

"She should be out tomorrow," Max said. "She'll be tied to a desk for a couple of months, before she can go back on the street. Right now, I could use every officer. She'll be able to drive, though. And she can fire a weapon just fine."

Wilma looked a question at him, but said nothing. Across the patio, Dallas turned away into the kitchen to join Ryan and Charlie. Through the glass doors, the cats could see him hugging his niece, then petting and talking to Rock. He said something that made the two women laugh, and in a few moments he came out onto the terrace with Rock trotting beside him, the big Weimaraner pressing close to the squarely built detective. At sight of Joe Grey, Rock barked and bowed and gave the tomcat a lick on the face. Joe grimaced and hissed, but Dulcie knew he liked it. The tomcat, stubbornly extricating himself from the big silver dog, leaped to the arm of Wilma's chaise and settled near Dulcie, giving them both an inquiring look.

Dulcie looked back at him wide-eyed. So frustrating, that they couldn't talk in front of Max and Dallas and with Ryan there in the kitchen.

But really, she had nothing to tell him. She and Kit had learned nothing new at the station after Joe left. Now, all three cats waited impatiently for some news. The subject of hunting dogs could get old fast. But it was not until everyone was seated for dinner around the big patio table that Max and Dallas returned to the burglary and the school fires-sharing information unknowingly with their snitches. It was Wilma, glancing at the fidgeting cats, who nudged the conversation.

Setting down her drink, she straightened her robe, looking a bit embarrassed that she had not dressed properly. "Do you have anything yet on the prints from the jewelry store? Or an ID on the men you arrested?"

Max's leathery face creased into lines of amusement. "One is Dufio Rivas. Does that ring a bell? We have nothing on the other."

Wilma frowned, pushed back a pale strand of hair. "Does he have brothers? A Luis Rivas? Short, square, heavyset?"

Max nodded.

She said, "There were three brothers. Luis, Dufio, and I didn't know the third one."

"Hernando," Harper said. "Information came in about an hour ago. All three have long rap sheets, mostly around L.A. Petty burglary-small stores, home break-ins. Hernando is our John Doe, the body from up the hills."