By the time it rusted and the bushes grew over, it might never be noticed. Who knew what was hidden down in these draws? A rancher could lose a wily steer down there, or an old cow hiding her calf-a smart cow who would bring her calf out again only when the riders were long gone. Charlie wasn't sure why she had thrown the trap down there. It made more sense to leave it for whomever had set it, let them see it crushed. Yet she felt, for some reason she couldn't name, that she didn't want the cage found.

Behind them when they left the woods, there was no trace of the trap, only the trampled grass that would soon right itself; and their hoofprints, which Charlie wished she could brush away. She would not do that in front of Ryan and Hanni, drawing questions to which she had no answers.

Back on the trail, Charlie rode nearest the woods, but saw no further movement. Maybe the cats, having regained their own, had headed away into the wild interior. She hoped they stayed away, prayed they wouldn't come down into Molena Point. Now, beneath the horses' hooves, where pieces of the macadam had washed away leaving only dirt, they found themselves following fresh tire marks. A single track, like that of a motorcycle.

Ryan frowned. "Do ranchers use motorcycles these days?" As they descended a steep slope, down into the blanket of fog, the horses began to shy and wanted to turn back. It was not the mist that made them spooky. Urging Bucky on into the thick mist, Charlie smelled the stench that had Bucky snorting and rearing.

Holding their breath, the riders forced their horses to the lip of the narrow ravine, and sat studying a swath of broken bushes and torn-out grass that led from the edge down to the bottom.

A motorcycle lay down there, flung onto its back, its bent front wheel pointing toward the sky, its rear tire stripped away in shreds leaving bare, twisted metal. The sweet stink of rotting flesh made Charlie want to throw up. A man lay beneath the bike, his black leathers dulled with dirt, his body swollen with the gases that form after death, his long black hair tangled in the ruined tire. The three riders reached for their cell phones.

"I'll call," Charlie said, leaning over Bucky, letting him spin away from the ravine as she dialed, giving him his head. She felt ice-cold. She prayed they had moved back into the coastal calling area. Listening to the first ring, she pulled Bucky up, and turned to scan the ravine and the land above it. She felt as if they were being watched. She was so unsettled that when Mabel Farthy picked up the call, Charlie had trouble finding her voice. Glancing at Ryan, tasting the sick, sweet smell, she told Mabel their location and what they had found.

Max came on the line almost at once. Her tears welled at the sound of his voice. All she could say was, "I need you up here, we need you." She could hardly talk. She felt so stupid, so weak and inadequate. You're a cop's wife, Charlie! Straighten up! "Can you get the cars up here?" she said. "On this old road? We could bring the horses down for you…"

"That's the sheriff's jurisdiction," Max said. "He has four-wheel, we'll be with them or in my pickup. You okay?"

Charlie nodded. "Fine."

"Hang on, we're on our way," he said. Was he laughing at her? Then, in a softer voice, "I love you, Charlie."

But Charlie, clicking off the phone, sliding off Bucky to hurry away and throw up in the bushes, felt like a failure, like she'd been no use at all to Max.

Twilight lasted longer on the rooftops than among the cottages below. Down along the narrow village streets dusk settled quickly beneath the wide oaks and around the crowded shops; as night settled in, the gleam of the shop windows seemed to brighten, casting darker the concealing shadows.

But up on the roofs, the evening's silken brilliance clung to the precipitous, shingled peaks and across little leaded dormers and copper-clad domes. Twilight washing across small balconies echoed the silver sea that lapped the village shore; and in the last glow, the gray tomcat racing across the rooftops seemed to fly from peak to peak.

Leaping shadowed clefts, dodging heat vents and chimneys, Joe Grey was not running simply for pure joy tonight, nor was he chasing criminals or the little brown bats that darted among the chimneys. He was heading across the village to supper, drinking in the heady scents of roasted chili peppers, of cilantro and garlic and onions and roasting meats-food that would put down most cats. Whiskers twitching with greedy anticipation, he sailed across the open chasm of a narrow alley and headed fast for the dining patio of Lupe's Playa. It was green corn tamale night at Lupe's.

He was approaching Lupe's rooftop, licking his whiskers, when suddenly from behind a chimney something leaped on him hissing and swatting him-and the tortoiseshell kit dodged away from him again, sparring. Behind her, tabby Dulcie appeared from around a chimney, her green eyes sly with amusement.

The kit rolled over, laughing.

Dulcie rubbed her face against his; and the three cats headed eagerly for Lupe's. Green corn tamales were a delicacy available only when the corn was young.

This early in the spring, they supposed the fresh corn must be coming up from Mexico, or maybe the hotter fields of southern California. It was still far too cold to expect fresh corn from California's nearby central valley. Racing past second-floor offices, it was all the three cats could do not to yowl with greed. Set apart so singularly from their feline cousins, these three had, along with human perceptions and human speech, stomachs as versatile as those of their human friends. Cast-iron stomachs, Joe's housemate said. Clyde told Joe often enough that their veterinarian would be shocked at what Joe ate. But there was a whole world about Joe Grey, and Dulcie, and Kit that Dr. Firetti didn't know.

Flying across the last narrow oak branch to the jumbled roofs of Lupe's Playa, they peered down among the overhanging oaks into the walled and lantern-lit patio. Lupe's was constructed of three old houses joined to surround a central patio, and closed on the fourth side by a high brick wall that offered diners privacy and warmth against the chill ocean wind. Within the patio, the pierced tin lanterns swinging from the twisted oak branches cast a soft, flickering light. The brightly painted tables with their red and green and blue chairs were already full of happy diners lifting beer mugs white with frost, and merrily chatting. Guitars played a Mexican melody sweet enough to bring tears. The dishes carried by hurrying waiters steamed and bubbled. The cats, dropping down to the wall, crouched just above their friends' regular table that stood like King Arthur's round table in the patio's sheltered northeast corner. Hidden within the wall's bougainvillea vine, the cats had a wide view of both patio and street.

Beneath them at the curb, having apparently taken the last nearby parking place, stood Captain Harper's king cab pickup, smelling strongly of the sweet scent of horses. Within the patio, at the round table, Max and redheaded Charlie sipped Mexican beer with Detective Garza and his niece, Hanni. Clyde and Ryan's chairs were still empty. Harper and Garza sat with their backs to the wall, with a clear view of the patio and the dining room to their left. Max Harper was not in uniform but dressed in the clothes that suited him best-soft jeans, a frontier shirt, and well-used Western boots-which set off his tall, lean, weathered frame.

The Latino detective wore jeans and his favorite old, soft corduroy sport coat, which, on anyone less handsome than Dallas Garza, might look like it just came off the rack at the Goodwill.