But behind the fleeing cat, nothing else moved in the green grass; and suddenly the preoccupied cat saw him. It disappeared at once. It would be crouching low in the grass-yes, he could just make out its dark shape, deadly still; as if it was more afraid of him than of whatever chased it. He watched until he was certain nothing approached it, then headed on down to the village. Maybe the cat had, like the horses and the two pups on this chill morning, only been playing-running for pure joy in the cold, early dawn.

Parking near the Swiss Cafe he moved in across the patio to the back table to join Dallas and Juana Davis. Clyde was there this morning, too. Stopping to give the waiter his order, he sat down with his back to the wall; he reflexively glanced above him.

From within the thick jasmine vine Clyde's gray tomcat peered down at him, his yellow eyes returning his stare as bold as some skilled confidence man.

Clyde grinned. "He was hungry. I get tired of cooking for him."

Max looked at the cat, and looked at Clyde. "You order yet? I'm surprised the cat doesn't order for himself."

"He orders too much. Gets expensive."

Dallas laughed, then went silent while their orders were served. Max thought the cook must have seen him walk in the door; he nearly always ordered pancakes. He watched Clyde set a small plate up on the wall. Clyde said, "Slayter called Ryan again last night, wanted her to meet him again, was really pushy. She turned the speaker on so I could listen, told him she was busy. He said he desperately needed her help." Clyde grinned. "She told him to call 911." He glanced at the other tables, but the people around them were deep into their own conversations, a bunch of guys arguing about baseball, one couple so involved with each other they wouldn't have known if an earthquake hit the restaurant. "He told Ryan he's up here looking into a shooting in L.A., that he followed the suspect up here, that he's working as a private investigator."

Davis said, "Did he tell her what shooting?"

"Something that happened during a bank robbery. Said the case is still open."

"If he's legitimate," Davis said, "he'd have come to us, share information."

"She told him that. Slayter told her LAPD was accused of killing the guy. Unnecessary force during a bank holdup. Said there'd been an investigation and two officers had been suspended-that it was those officers who hired him to find out who did kill him."

"Who was the victim?" Max said. "Did Slayter mention a name?"

"A Frank something."

"Frank Cozzino," Dallas said.

Clyde nodded.

Davis spread marmalade on her toast. "Slayter wanted Ryan to pass him departmental information. Wanted her to pump us. Interesting."

"Sleazebag," Dallas said casually.

Clyde was silent, looking from one to another. Above him, Joe Grey belched. Everyone laughed. Clyde looked up at the tomcat, scowling. He couldn't mouth off to Joe-with sufficient prodding, who knew what the tomcat might do. Joe looked back at him, smug as cream.

Max said, "Frank Cozzino was a snitch for LAPD. He worked for several gangs, gathering intelligence for them on some high-powered burglaries. Then he started passing the information on to L.A. Looks like that got him dead.

"He and the DA managed the cases so smoothly that it was a long time before anyone caught on that he'd furnished the information. When one of the gangs made him on it, someone took him out and tried to make it look like the uniforms did it. Of course L.A. got the blame." Harper finished his coffee and set down his cup. "L.A. has the bullet but they've never come up with the gun."

Dallas finished his breakfast and laid half a slice of bacon up on the wall, making Clyde smile. "Maybe those two guys did hire Slayter. But if he's up here for that, why hasn't he come to us? Why try to go through Ryan to find out what we have?"

Davis finished her coffee, wiped her hands on her napkin, and straightened her uniform jacket. Tucking a five and some ones under the ketchup bottle, she rose. "You want to go over that matter you mentioned, Max?"

Harper nodded, reaching for her money to add to his own.

"I'll make a pot of coffee," Juana said. "I made empanadas last night, we can warm them up later."

Dallas rose, too, handed Harper a ten, and he and Juana headed back to the station. From atop the wall, Joe Grey watched them as he dispatched Garza's bacon. He liked and respected Juana Davis; she was a thorough, no-nonsense detective, yet with a frightened victim or with a wrongfully accused arrestee she was warm and understanding. Juana's proper, dark uniform and regulation dark stockings and black Oxfords contrasted sharply with Garza's faded jeans and old tweed sport coat, and Harper's jeans and boots and Western shirt. In this casual village, it was Juana Davis who stood out. Wondering what "matter" Harper and the two detectives meant to discuss, Joe slipped off the wall into the alley and headed for the station.

By the time Clyde and Harper rose, and Clyde turned to speak to the tomcat, Joe was long gone. Not a leaf stirred atop the wall where the gray cat had crouched. He'd vanished like the Cheshire cat. Only the empty plate remained, tucked among the leaves and licked to a fine polish.

Juana Davis’s office was down the central hall, past Harper's and Garza's offices and past the staff room. If Joe had continued on, he could have entered the large report-writing room with its individual cubicles and latest electronic equipment, or the interrogation room. At the end of the hall was the locked, metal-plated door leading to the officers' parking area, and the jail. Having slipped in through the glass doors at the front of the station on the heels of a hurrying rookie, he double-timed back to Davis's office, hoping she wouldn't wonder why he'd shown up there so soon. But he might as well put a bold face on it. Strolling on in, he made himself comfortable atop her coffee table and stretched out, licking bacon grease from a front paw. Coming in behind him, Davis gave him a stunned look.

"You little freeloader. You spend all morning stuffing yourself, and now you think I have something to feed you?" She looked up as Garza entered. "Talk about pigs!"

Garza picked Joe up off the table and laid a stack of papers down in his place. Setting Joe on the couch, the detective made himself comfortable beside the tomcat. This kind of behavior never ceased to amaze Joe. All his life Garza had raised and trained gun dogs, their pictures were all over his office. Garza was not a cat person.

"There was a time," Juana said, "when you wouldn't be caught dead petting a cat."

"He's getting soft," Harper said, coming in. "You behave like this around those two old pointers of yours, they'll pack up and move out."

On the center cushion of the leather couch, Joe Grey washed his shoulder with deep concentration. He had to admit, he'd done a number on Garza. The guy was becoming almost civilized, turning into a regular cat fancier. For this, the tomcat had to congratulate himself. He had, very smoothly, charmed the department's upper echelon, while all the time maintaining a persona of simple-minded feline innocence. And as he lay purring and dozing beside Detective Garza, Joe realized he was smack in the middle of a major departmental planning session.

The confidential discussion he was witnessing was a brainstorming, nuts-and-bolts logistical plan of action, as the three officers laid out departmental strategy for handling a really big jewel heist-maybe the biggest jewel burglary this village had ever witnessed.

If their information was good. This wasn't intelligence that Joe or Dulcie had provided; Joe listened with curiosity and with rising anger. Why was it that the small, lovely village attracted these hoods? Why couldn't they leave Molena Point alone, go somewhere else to make trouble!