As the black tom turned and sauntered across the bricks and leaped onto the bench beside Consuela, Joe Grey came to the edge of the roof, listening.

"Well?" the black tom said, watching her.

Coldly Consuela studied him. "What do I get? What's in it for me?"

"You'll greatly impress our friend, I can guarantee that. I expect he'll split with you."

Jingling the key, she looked unconvinced.

"A blond wig, a little practice with the signature, you're in and out and no one the wiser. Banks don't bother to see if you have your checkbook or if you remember your account number. They just want you in there with your money. In this case they want you in and out fast. Opening the vault makes them edgy."

"You're an authority, you've cased a lot of banks." She whipped out a little mirror and applied another layer of dark lipstick, then spit on her little finger and smoothed a perfect black eyebrow. "What if she misses the key?"

"What if she does? She'll think she misplaced it. Who would come into her room there at the Getz house and know to look for a safe deposit key?"

"You did," she said fluffing her hair.

The cat shrugged. "She'd never think of that."

The two continued in this vein for nearly half an hour before Consuela agreed to pack a bag, gas up her car, and head for the city while Kate was still in the village. The three cats listened in amazement to Azrael's persistent and artful barrage; but only Joe Grey had the full story. Dulcie and Kit glanced across at him, impatient for him to fill in the blanks. As Azrael painted for Consuela visions of her wearing mink and driving a Jaguar escorted around San Francisco by any man of her choosing, both Dulcie and Kit had to clench their teeth to keep from collapsing in fits of giggles. Whatever scam Azrael was pushing, they thought he ought to stick to robbing antique stores and stealing the savings of little old ladies. Banks were big time, out of his and Consuela's league.

Or were they? By the time the two left the alley, Azrael was strutting beside Consuela lashing his tail with triumph.

Late September rains had turned the hills above Molena Point from summer gold to the clear bright green of winter. To visitors from the East Coast, where the summer hills are green and the winter hills brown, the reverse in color seems strange. Gold rules the California summers, green paints the colder months. High above the village rooftops the Harper pastures glowed as green as emerald.

Charlie stood at her kitchen window looking down the verdant slopes past their neat white pasture fences to the village and the far sea, waiting beside the bubbling coffeepot for Ryan Flannery's red pickup to turn into the long drive, waiting to go over the blueprints so that Ryan could start the new addition.

Having moved to the ranch as a bride just a month earlier, to the home where Max had lived with his first wife until she died, Charlie had been reluctant at first to suggest any changes in the house. But when she did broach the subject, Max had been all for it. This home was their retreat, their safe place, their serene and private world. The new addition would make that haven even more perfect, a lovely new space in which they were together, and in which she could do her own work while Max was off locking up the bad guys.

Max's wife, Millie, had been a cop. She hadn't needed space to work at home, other than the small study that she and Max had shared. That marriage had been nearly perfect. Max's friends, Clyde in particular, had thought Max would never marry again.

Charlie had no notion that she could take Millie's place, nor would she want to. She had married not only Max, she had married the good and lasting presence of Millie, the woman who so deeply loved him and had so strongly shaped his life. That was not a matter over which to be jealous, she wanted only to treasure Max as Millie had done and to love him.

The house had been Max and Millie's retreat. Now it was Max and hers; she thought the change would be positive and healthy.

There was Ryan's red truck, right on time. Charlie watched the big Chevy king cab, with its built-in toolboxes and ladder rack, approach the house between the pasture fences, watched Ryan park and swing out of it carrying a roll of blueprints. The big silver weimaraner that rode beside her did not leave the cab until Ryan spoke to him; then he leaped out, all wags and smiles, dancing around her. Laughing, Charlie watched Ryan cross the yard to the pasture gate, and carefully open it. Pushing the two resident dogs back inside, she released the weimaraner; the three took off racing the pasture wild with joy, secure behind the dog-proofed pasture fence.

This small ranch was Charlie's first real home since she'd left her childhood home. She'd lived in rented rooms while she was in art school, then in several small San Francisco apartments nattily furnished with a folding cot, a scarred old dinette set, and the cardboard grocery boxes that served in place of shelves and dressers.

At the pasture fence, Ryan stood a moment watching the three dogs race in circles, then turned toward the house. Coming in, she gave Charlie a hug and spread the blueprints out on the table, weighting the corners with the sugar bowl and cream pitcher, and with her purse. Ryan's dark hair was freshly cut, a flyaway bob curling around her face. Her green eyes were startling beneath her black lashes, her vivid coloring complemented perfectly by a green sweatshirt that she wore over faded jeans. Ryan's mix of Irish and Latino blood, from her Flannery father and her Garza mother, had produced great beauty, great strength, and vivaciousness.

"Anything more on the dead waiter?" Ryan asked, sitting down. "I haven't talked to Dallas."

"Nothing," Charlie said. "Strange that Max hasn't been able to reach Lucinda and Pedric, that they haven't answered their cell phone messages."

"That is strange. And what about James Quinn?"

Charlie had no hesitation in relaying information to Ryan. Max would do the same, as would Ryan's uncle, Dallas. "There were no prints at all on the handle of the gas valve," Charlie said. "The gas starter in the fireplace had been full open, apparently for some hours. When Sacks and Hendricks first arrived on the scene, the doors and windows were all locked. When Wilma and Kate and I got there, Sacks was very carefully working on the lock, and we were all afraid the place would blow. Just one spark… Well, when they got inside and opened up, when they were able to go through, there was no sign of forced entry."

Ryan shook her head. "What a pity, if it was suicide-and more the pity if it wasn't. This will keep Dallas and Max busy for a while." She turned the blueprints to a page of elevations, and laid it out facing Charlie.

The new addition soared to a raftered peak with long expanses of glass looking down the hills to the sea and, at the back of the room flanking the stone fireplace, plain white walls for Charlie's framed drawings and prints. Before they came down on a final design, Charlie and Max and Ryan had spent nearly an hour standing on ladders in the front yard seeing just how high the room should be raised, how it should be oriented for the best view.

From the new raised floor level they would see the village rooftops to the west with the wild rocky coast beyond. The old living room would become the new master bedroom, retaining the original stone fireplace and bay windows. Ryan would cut a new door to the existing master bath and closet, and those would need no change. The old master bedroom would become Max's larger and more comfortable study. Ryan was, Charlie had learned, very skilled at saving what could be saved, but running free with what should be added.