Clyde stood at the glass, his expression a mix of amazed amusement and harsh disapproval. The next minute he burst into a belly laugh that made Joe leap away nearly dropping the can.

He heard Clyde come out the back door heading for the patio wall, as if to look over at him. Racing away around Chichi's house, gripping the metal can in his teeth, he headed for his cat door. He would never hear the end of this one.

But then as he was approaching his cat door, his nose twitched with the smell of burning bacon wafting out from the kitchen, and he smiled. Clyde's unwelcome curiosity had created a small and satisfying disaster.

Spinning in under the plastic flap, he dodged behind his clawed and be-furred easy chair, set the can down, and crouched, silent and still. While Clyde dealt with the bacon, he would just dump the receipts out on the rug and have a look.

But even as he reached a paw in, Clyde rushed into the room, flinging open the windows, turning the house into a wind tunnel that would scatter those papers clear to hell.

Taking the can in his mouth again, he raced away behind Clyde's back through the living room and up the stairs to the master suite. The smell of burned bacon followed him up along the steps. Bolting into Clyde's study and behind the leather love seat, he dumped the papers on the carpet and began to paw through them-until Clyde went racing into the master bedroom, opening those windows, too, then headed for the study.

"Don't open the windows in here!" Joe shouted, leaping to the back of the love seat. "Stop! Don't do that!"

Clyde stared at him. He took two steps toward the love seat. Joe dropped down again behind it. Clyde knelt on the love seat, peering over the back. "What have you got? What did you take out of her garbage? What the hell did you steal this time?"

"You don't steal trash. Things that have already been thrown away are…"

"What do you have, Joe?" Clyde frowned at the wadded papers. "Bills? Cash register receipts?" Despite his attempt at anger, Clyde eyed the little collection with interest.

Resignedly, Joe spread out the little bits of paper. Together, they studied a drugstore receipt that included two disposable cameras and a spiral notebook. He pulled out a Kinko's receipt for twenty machine copies. He put aside the wrinkled phone bills. It was the receipt from Kinko's that held him. "What did she make copies of?"

"Well I don't know, Joe. Business papers? How would I know? Just because you saw her slip into her house the night of the jewel burglary, just because…" A knock downstairs at the front door stopped Clyde. "That'll be Ryan with the faucets." And he headed for the stairs.

Pawing the papers back into the peanut can, Joe pushed it safely into the corner between the love seat and chair. And he followed Clyde. Twenty copies of what? It wasn't as if Chichi ran a business. And this was February, no one wrote Christmas letters in February. He could hear Clyde's voice, but not Ryan's. Hurrying down the stairs, hitting the last step, he froze.

That wasn't Ryan. It was Chichi.

Had she seen him in her room or in her garbage can, and come over to complain? Swerving into the kitchen, out of sight, he stood listening.

Sounded like Clyde had moved out onto the porch. Well, at least he hadn't let her in. Hurry up, Clyde. Blow her off, send her packing. Joe could hear her cooing sweet enough to make a cat throw up, and softly laughing in an insinuating way. Disgusted, but as fascinated as any eavesdropper, Joe trotted into the living room and peered out through the partly open front door.

Joe could see little more than Clyde's back, and their two pairs of feet on the porch-Clyde's old, dirty jogging shoes, and Chichi's little high-heeled sandals. She had taken time to change? He wondered what else she had put on, to vamp Clyde. Those shoes had to be cold and uncomfortable, had to hurt like hell if she walked a block in them. Her feet were very close to Clyde's- until, suddenly, Clyde backed away and turned as if to slip inside. Chichi laughed softly and moved against him again. Joe stared up indignantly as she tenderly stroked Clyde's cheek, petting him in a way that sickened the tomcat.

"Just to use your phone, Clyde? What's the matter? Just to report my phone out of order… What do you have in there that your neighbor can't see? I'll just be a minute, and I…"

"Don't you have a cell phone? Go on down to the corner and use the pay phone." Clyde went silent as Ryan's truck pulled up.

Slipping up to the windowsill where he could see better, Joe was glad he had a front seat for this one. Chichi glanced at the big red king cab, scowling. Ryan's lumber rack was stacked with big beams and two-by-fours, ready to build the end walls and place the rafters for the Harpers' new guest room. As Ryan swung out of the truck, Chichi snuggled. Clyde backed off like he'd been burned. Joe could see Dillon and Lori in the back seat staring out, wide-eyed. He watched Ryan hold the door for Rock to leap out. The big dog always rode in the cab, never in the truck bed. Ryan said it was barbaric to subject a dog to the dangers of riding in an open truck where he could easily be thrown out in case of a wreck, and cruel to leave him in a truck for hours tied up in the beating hot sun.

Ryan came up the walk, barely hiding a grin at Clyde's predicament and at Chichi's low-cut pink sweater, her big boobs half out, and her tight black pants riding up her crotch. Under Ryan's amused glance, Chichi looked uncertain and unsure of herself. Ryan was swinging a heavy paper bag bearing the hardware store logo, and her toolbox. She pushed past Chichi, giving her a cool, green-eyed look-over, and headed through the house as if she lived there, making for the upstairs bath. Joe rumbled with purrs. He was not only getting his own personal, cat-friendly water faucet, he was witnessing an entertaining moment of defeat for Chichi Barbi that made his day. The woman looked mad enough to chew off the old faucet for Ryan-or chew Ryan's hand off. As Ryan disappeared upstairs, Clyde fended off Chichi with frustrated finality, and closed the door in her face.

Watching her stalk away, Joe could hear Ryan upstairs unscrewing the faucet. From the bottom of the stairs, Clyde shouted, "Need to turn off the water?"

"Turned it off under the basin. I'll be just a few minutes." Ryan had installed the two upstairs basins, so Joe guessed she knew how to cut off the water. He had dropped off the sill and was heading for the kitchen when there was another knock on the door. Clyde stared at the closed door in disbelief.

Joe gave him a look that said, Don't open it. Clyde looked at him and shrugged. And the minute he foolishly cracked the door open. Chichi pushed inside.

"I never heard of a woman plumber," she said. "She's been around here before-you must have a lot of plumbing problems."

"If you want to report your phone out of order, go in the kitchen. Make it quick, I have to get to work."

"You're leaving a plumber in the house alone? Aren't you…"

Clyde just looked at her. "Where is your cell phone?"

"The battery…" she said, helplessly gesturing with upturned hands. Scowling, Clyde led her into the kitchen. Following them, Joe watched Chichi slip a scrap of paper from her pocket and punch in a number, then enter a series of numbers as a tape gave her instructions. Joe hated those taped replies. Though he seldom had reason to call a number that employed that particular form of dehumanization. Your highly skilled, undercover snitch didn't waste time on taped messages. Most of Joe's calls were directly to Molena Point PD, clandestine, short, and conducted directly between himself and the law, usually the chief.