"Hernando talked wild," Coyote said. "His brothers believed him. Foolish talk about performing cats on TV and in the movies, about Hollywood and big houses and expensive cars. Tons of money, like in the newspapers and on TV we hear through people's windows. He could never make us do those things; no cat I know would want to live like that." Coyote licked his striped shoulder, his circled eyes narrowed with rage.

"He might make you do those things," Joe said.

"What, torture us?" Cotton hissed. "What kind of performers would he have, if we were half dead?"

Dulcie said, "Maybe he thought that soft beds and servants and gourmet food…"

"He wouldn't ply me with such things," Willow mewed. She had a small little voice that didn't seem to match her elegant stature and markings. "I would not be slave to some hoodlum!"

"Luis has to know that's a foolish dream," Joe said.

"There's more to it," Cotton said, licking his silky white paw. "Hernando thought we knew something about them stealing cars and about two old murders, in L.A., wherever that is."

"We don't know anything," Willow said, growing bolder and coming to press against the bars. "We couldn't make much of what we heard. And what would we do about it? Go to the police?"

Dulcie and Joe exchanged a glance; they said nothing.

Cotton's blue eyes were filled with disgust. "They have wild ideas about us. But the truth is, we are different. Given their greed, and their superstitious fears that we could tell what they've done, they have no intention of letting us go."

Coyote flicked his tall, canine-like ears at a sound from the front of the house. They all listened. A car was pulling up the drive. Dulcie glanced toward the window, but Joe headed for the shadowed hall. Dulcie pressed close to him as he made for the front bedroom.

The unoccupied room stunk of male human and stale cigarette smoke. With its little damask chair and delicately carved dresser and vanity, clearly this room belonged to the old lady. Looked as if the men had evicted her, taken it for their own. Smelling fresh cigarette smoke from outside the open window, they slipped up onto the sill.

A blue Camry stood in the drive behind an old brown Toyota truck that was pulled off into the bushes. The windows of the Camry were open; cigarette smoke drifted out, and in through the bedroom window. Luis and Tommie sat in the front seat, their voices sharp and angry.

"Those dummies," Tommie said almost in a whisper. "Bringing the truck back here, parking it in plain sight! If the cops made that truck…"

"They didn't make the truck. No one saw the truck!" Luis snapped. "Dumb bastards. What was Anselmo thinking. Get over here and drive!"

"But if we can get it in the garage…"

"No damn room in the garage, old woman has junk in there up the wazoo."

"If I shove everything over, I can squeeze it in. Ought to set a match to that stuff."

"Shut up, Tommie. Go on, back the car out! Meet me over there!" Luis swung out of the car and into the truck, leaning down, apparently to fish the keys from under the seat. Tommie backed down the drive, hit the brakes, and squealed off down the street. Luis started the truck, swung a sharp U-turn in the drive, plowing down three rosebushes, and took off after him.

From the windowsill, the cats glanced down the hall in case Maria stopped clattering dishes and came out of the kitchen. "They were the ones," Dulcie said with satisfaction. "How many more men are there? Harper needs to know where they are."

"Let's see how much more we can pick up," Joe said, "before we call the station." And he dropped to the floor, to search the room.

The men were gone maybe ten minutes. When the blue car came scorching back and Luis and Tommie headed in the house, the cats were under the Victorian dresser, crouching at the back among the cobwebby shadows.

Luis hated that drive down from San Francisco. Too many damn trucks. They'd been up all night and he needed sleep. This stupidity with Anselmo and the truck didn't help his mood. Stepping out of the car, he hustled on into the house, Tommie behind him. He'd told Anselmo to keep the damn truck out of sight. Just because Anselmo's landlady came snooping was no excuse. Well, he'd knocked Anselmo around before, it was good for morale, let them know who was boss.

"Four men crammed in one room," Tommie said, "they were bound to get edgy."

"Edgy's not all they'll get." Luis wanted his breakfast. Shouldering down the hall, he yelled for Maria, then saw the light on in the kitchen, saw the dirty plates in the sink. He picked up the coffeepot and shook it. Still hot but nearly empty. Damn woman, lounging around in the kitchen when he was out, but never there when he wanted her. Shouting again for her, he sat down at the table and pulled a roll of bills from his pocket. Tommie had gone to wash, always had to wash when he got home, said staying up all night made him feel skuzzy. Said his hair itched. Well, red hair wasn't healthy, he ought to know that. Tommy'd said he didn't want a spicy Mexican breakfast. But he had no say in the matter. It was his choice to run with them, not theirs. If he didn't like it, he could cut out.

"Maria! Get your tail out here! Get us some breakfast." Man was up all night, driving half the night, he needed to eat. Why didn't she think of that!

Maria came into the kitchen sullenly, scowling at him. She jerked open the refrigerator, pulled out a box of eggs, a package of chorizo, pepper sauce, tortillas. As the frying pan heated and the kitchen filled with the spicy smell of frying chorizo, Luis counted the money.

On the floor beside the dresser under which the cats crouched was an overflowing wastebasket. Stuffed inside, among the crumpled candy and cigarette packs, was a wad of crocheted doilies that must have covered the dresser and vanity and chair arms. The cats pawed through these and through the trash but found no gas receipts, no receipts or bills of any kind. In the closet, jeans and shirts were tossed on the floor with a tangle of men's shoes. The twin beds were unmade, the blankets half on the floor. Dulcie imagined the room as it must once have been, with the care that Maria's abuela would have given it.

She had seen in Maria's room photographs of several generations, from Abuela down to babies and small children. She imagined this house full of children and grandchildren. Maybe little Luis and his two brothers before they grew big and mean, and the child Maria still innocent. She imagined them growing up and drifting away. It seemed strange for a good Latino family to wander apart. Dulcie preferred the loud, quarreling, close and happy Latino families who lived around Molena Point. From beneath the dresser, the cats could see straight down the hall, the kitchen table in their direct line of sight.

Dulcie's eyes widened as Luis removed a large bundle of greenbacks from his jacket pocket. "That's some bundle," she whispered to Joe. "How much has he got? There was no cash taken during the burglary."

"You want a closer look? Ask him a few questions?" Joe whispered back dryly.

Maria stood at the stove cooking breakfast; the house was redolent of frying chorizo. She glanced at Luis several times, her eyes wide at the stash of money. As if she, too, was wondering.

"Fence," Joe said softly. "I'll bet he fenced the jewels. Maybe he just got home."

Tommie emerged from the bathroom and went on down the hall to the kitchen. He looked unhappily at his plate of eggs and chorizo, ignored the tortillas, and took a slice of white bread from the package Maria handed him. Luis and Maria began to argue in Spanish. The cats knew only a few words, not enough to make sense of it. Tommie replied to Luis in Spanish; but he spoke the language without grace, with a flat American accent.