Beside Max, Charlie glanced up, sensing the cats on the wall above her or hearing them stir in the vine. With a little smile, she pushed back her mop of kinky red hair and began to prepare an appetizer plate for them, tearing up a soft tortilla and dribbling it with mild, melted cheese. Max didn't miss her busy preoccupation, nor did Dallas and Hanni. Rising, Charlie set the plate atop the wall, chucking Kit under the chin and gently stroking Dulcie. The lady cats smiled and purred and rubbed their faces against her hand. Joe Grey gave her a twitch of the whiskers by way of thanks, and tucked into the rich appetizer.

Dulcie thought Charlie looked stunning tonight; the little cat did love beautiful clothes. Charlie was wearing a simple cotton print dress splashed with all the colors of summer, a combination of shades that made her hair look even redder. She'd tied her hair back tonight, with a tangle of multicolored ribbons. Even gorgeous Hanni Coon with her premature and startling white hair and dark Latin eyes, in her flamboyant and glittering silver stole over a low-cut black T-shirt, couldn't outshine Charlie.

"Up until this morning," Dallas was saying, "sounds like you had a good trip."

The cats stopped eating, they were all pricked ears. What happened this morning? They stared, listening, until Dallas glanced up at them. Immediately they lowered their faces again over their plates-though their ears remained cocked, their tails still, every fiber rigid with interest.

"A wonderful trip," Hanni said. "Nothing as restful as a few days away from people, just the horses and the open land." Hanni's interior design studio and large clientele allowed her little time when she wasn't "on stage," when she could relax with her family or close friends. Even when she was at home with her husband, their two boys created demands that kept her on her toes, that didn't give her much downtime.

"Beautiful country," Charlie said. "Not a house, just the few ranches. So green, after the rains." The land would turn brown in the summer when the rains stopped, when it lay burned by the California sun. "Next time," Charlie said, "maybe we'll take Lori and Dillon; Lori is doing well at her riding lessons, and the two girls get along fine. Cora Lee's right, Lori needs a challenge and some real freedom."

Twelve-year-old Lori Reed had gone to live with their good friend, Cora Lee French, after Lori's father went to prison on two counts of murder, both killings of such pain and passion that no one really blamed him. It had been a hard year for Lori. Now, with the child settled in, Cora Lee was deeply aware that a twelve-year-old girl without her father needed to experience a different kind of discipline and strength than she would enjoy in a household of four older women, that she needed to be outdoors doing something bold and new and demanding. She had asked Max if he'd teach Lori to ride, as he had taught Dillon Thurwell two years ago, when she was twelve. Dillon, too, had seemed at loose ends and needed some positive challenge in her life.

Of course Max had agreed to Lori's lessons, and the Harpers had borrowed a wise, gentle pony for her. Oh, Dulcie thought, Lori did love that pony. She had seen Lori and the pony together up at the Harper ranch, and even Joe said that child and pony were a perfect match.

"I'm glad Lori wasn't with us this morning," Charlie said, "when we found the body. She doesn't need that, after all the death last year."

The cats were rigid as stones. What body? The tortoiseshell kit was so curious she began to fidget from paw to paw, and couldn't be still. And Dulcie could see in Joe's eyes exactly what he was thinking: If the riders had found a body this morning before they arrived home, Max and his whole department knew about it, had known all day. So Joe's human housemate had to know. Clyde and Max Harper were like brothers. Why the big secret? Why didn't Clyde tell me} Joe would be thinking. And when Dulcie glanced at Joe, he looked mad enough to fight a pack of Rottweilers-almost mad enough to slash the hand that fed him-the moment Clyde walked into the restaurant.

Dulcie knew why she hadn't heard: her own housemate was in the hospital. Two days ago, Wilma had some routine surgery. Wilma had had to fight like a maddened cat herself to get Charlie to go on with her trip. "You have cell phones," Wilma had pointed out. "If I need you, you'll know it. It's a simple, routine operation. With Clyde here fussing over me, to say nothing of Max and Dallas and the senior ladies, I'll be smothered in attention. Go, Charlie! A few gallstones, for heaven's sake."

Even if Wilma called it minor surgery, Dulcie hadn't slept well, worrying. If she'd had her way, she'd have sneaked into the hospital and stayed there. Instead, she'd followed Wilma's stubborn instructions and gone to stay with Kit in the second-floor apartment above Ocean Avenue, which Kit's own two humans had rented.

When the cats heard Clyde's voice from down the street, Joe's eyes narrowed. In a moment, Clyde and Ryan appeared from around the corner, their footfalls quick on the sidewalk. Ryan would have left her truck at Clyde and Joe's house, where she would have shut her big silver Weimaraner in the patio. Likely, Clyde had put old Rube in the house where the ailing dog would have some peace, away from the energetic young hunting dog. The couple passed just a few feet below the cats. If they'd not had an audience, Dulcie was sure Joe would have leaped on Clyde, all teeth and claws and a lot of swearing. Kit reached out a paw as if to snatch at Ryan's hair, but Dulcie gave her a look that made her back off. Kit sat down again, looking innocent. If Clyde glimpsed the cats above him, he gave no sign. The couple disappeared around the corner, then appeared again, coming in through the front entry. They spoke with the hostess, then crossed the crowded patio, studying their friends' serious faces.

"What?" Clyde said as they sat down. "This is supposed to be a celebration that the girls are home-no one bucked off or kicked or itching with poison oak." He fixed on Charlie and Hanni. "Ryan told me about the body. Was it that bad? You've seen bodies before."

Ryan looked at her uncle Dallas. "Do you have anything yet on the prints?"

Dallas laughed. "You expect miracles? Eight hours, and you think NCI's going to snap to with an ID?"

"But if you told them…"

"You know them better than that. We put on as much pressure as we could; you know the lab's always jammed up. Everyone wants everything ASAP. It isn't like this guy just died, he'd been down there a while."

"We know he was dead for a while," Ryan said, making a face. Ryan Flannery's fine Latino features mirrored her uncle's, though his face was more square; same expression, same faint dimples, same stern, serious look that hid a smile. Ryan's stare could be just as intimidating as detective Garza's. She had the same dark hair, but where Dallas's eyes were nearly black, often seeming unreadable, Ryan had her father's eyes, Irish eyes as green and changeable as the sea.

"Maybe by tonight," Dallas said, "we'll have something." The detective scowled comfortably at his niece. "The ID we found on the body, driver's license, social security card, belonged to a Mario Salgado. Denver resident, died some ten years back.

"Good job of forgery," Dallas added. "He even paid into social security, a couple of quarters, to make it seem legit." The detective looked around the table. "Coroner wouldn't commit as to the wounds on the face and throat. Said they might be scratches from blackberry vines, but he doesn't think so. There were heavy brambles in the ditch, but the scratches were too deep. They seemed more like wounds from some kind of weapon-but they sure looked like claw marks."

Clyde was very still. The cats could see Charlie's hands clench beneath the table. What had Charlie seen that maybe Ryan and Hanni hadn't? The cats watched her intently. Careful, Joe thought. She had gone way too tense. Careful, Charlie. Be careful. No human in the world noticed as much about a person's reactions as a cop did, no one was as perceptive to another's emotions. A good cop was nearly as keen as a cat at picking up the smallest hint of unease, the faintest change of expression.