Beneath his paws the shingles smelled of tomcat, of the worrisome intruder.

Flehming at the stink that was already far too familiar, Joe scanned the night, studying the dark shingled slopes and shadows, hoping he was wrong and knowing he wasn't. He moved on quickly, prowling block by block, searching, crossing high above the narrow streets along branches of ancient oaks as he scanned the streets below. Pausing beneath second-floor windows, he peered in where the tomcat might have stealthily entered. This tomcat could jimmy almost any lock, and his intentions were never charitable. Around Joe Grey nothing stirred, no faint sound, no hush of another cat brushing against a window frame. And though the shadows were as dense as velvet, they didn't move-shadows that could hide the black tom the way the darkest pool hides a swimming snake.

The cold wind off the sea blew up Joe's tail and flattened his ears and whiskers where he stood watching the shadows and convincing himself he'd been mistaken, that he hadn't scented the black tomcat. And suddenly a quick black shape slid into the gloom beside a penthouse. A big, muscled shadow vanishing into an ebony-cleft of night. A beast taller and broader than any village tomcat. Joe remained crouched, his gaze glued to the inky tangle of rooftop vents and air ducts and converging overhangs. It was over a year since the evil black tomcat and his thieving human partner had first appeared in the village, and Joe had hoped he'd seen the last of them.

He waited a long time. Was about to turn away when the animal reappeared, slipping through a wash of starlight, his belly caressing the shingles. He was quite aware of Joe, his ears flat to his broad head, his long thick tail lashing with menace. On the ocean breeze the tomcat's stink was as predatory as any hunting leopard. A subtle shifting of his weight, and Joe could see his yellow slitted eyes.

A year ago last month, the black tom had appeared in the village with his human partner, old whiskey-sodden Greeley Urzey, the pair having flown up from Panama to Molena Point so Greeley could visit his sister. The old man had taken Azrael's carrier right on board the PanAm 727, right into the cabin-an action tantamount, in Joe Grey's opinion, to carrying a loaded assault rifle across international borders.

But then, Greeley himself was no innocent. Ragged old Greeley Urzey, despite his resemblance to a penniless tramp, was highly skilled at his chosen craft. He could gently manipulate the dial of a safe, listen to the tumblers fall, smile that stubbled lopsided smile, and open the iron door right up. And his sleek black tomcat partner was equally skilled at his particular brand of break-and-enter. Wrenching open a second-floor window or skylight, slipping through and dropping down into a jewelry or liquor store, the black cat would fight open the front door's dead bolt. And voila, Greeley was inside with his clever drills and lock picks.

Joe Grey smiled. After only a few of those midnight raids, he and Dulcie had nailed those two like hamstringing a pair of wharf rats, and the thefts had stopped.

But Joe and Dulcie hadn't alerted the department. That one time, they hadn't called the cops. They didn't need news of an amazing talking black tomcat to hit the news media-to hit the fan big time. They had, instead, watched the thieving pair sneak quietly out of the village to return to their home in Central America, had celebrated Azrael and Greeley's departure praying they would never return.

Now, crouched low, intent on the shadows, Joe watched those burning yellow eyes scan the rooftops and he was filled with questions. Had these two stolen Clyde's Packard? Were they behind these clever thefts? Such virtuosity, and the sophisticated contacts needed to fence the jewelry, to say nothing of the resources to dispose of such a large item as a Diebenkorn painting or the Packard, did not seem in character for those two. Greeley liked to steal cash and disappear, liked to drink up the profits, then steal again, that was Greeley Urzey's style.

As he watched, the black tom disappeared as quickly as he had slid into view. Studying the darkness, Joe could taste the beast's testosterone-heavy stink. He remained still, listening for the nearly inaudible pad of a paw, for the scuff of a careless claw or the shift of a piece of loose gravel.

Tensely waiting, he heard nothing. Only the hush of the breeze among the oak leaves. Moving across the roofs he followed Azrael's scent, tracking him in a circuitous route up steeply slanted peaks and around platoons of chimneys, drawn on over the rooftops for three blocks, four, in and out of narrow clefts and across twisted limbs high above the empty streets- tracked him until the trail suddenly and insolently turned back to Joe's own roof. To the bright new cedar shingles of the Cape Cod cottage that Joe shared with his human housemate.

There on the roof Azrael stood boldly facing him, stood barring the entrance to Joe's private tower that rose above the new shingles, his cat-sized penthouse, his own private rooftop retreat. The tomcat blocked his entry with gleaming teeth and bared claws.

The tower, rising above the new master bedroom, was an architecturally pleasing hexagon four feet across and four feet high. Its six glass sides supported a peaked hexagonal roof. Within, Joe's aerie opened by a cat door to the master suite below. Joe's private tower was off limits to all village cats. It was marked by his own scent and defended when necessary, no prisoners taken. Only Joe's tabby lady, Dulcie, and their pal the tattercoat kit, were welcome here. Watching the black tom blocking his private property, Joe tensed to spring.

The second-floor master suite, which had doubled the size of Clyde's single-story cottage, included a large bedroom with wood-burning fireplace, a second fireplace in the spacious study, a bath, and dressing room. The contractor had included ample high shelves and beams where a cat could climb. The largest beam gave to a ceiling niche above Clyde's desk, from which opened Joe's door to the tower. Contractor Ryan Flannery had tackled the challenge of a cat-friendly structure with amused delight. Over a late dinner, she and Clyde had designed the glass-sided aerie, allowing ample space for deep cushions, a water bowl-and the door out onto the roof where the black cat had now insinuated himself, his acid-yellow eyes challenging Joe, his hissing smile as evil as the name he liked to call himself, the death angel.

Azrael's voice was as hoarse as scuffed gravel. "So, little kitty. Your Clyde… Damen, is it?… has added onto his house. Isn't he clever. And this little pimple sticking up here, what is this? A dovecote? Have you been reduced to raising tame pigeons for your hunting, birds too fat to fly away?" Azrael's sulfur-yellow eyes were as belligerent as those of an underworld gang leader.

Considering the defiant beast, Joe felt much the same as a cop would observing some street scum whose dirty hands were smearing his patrol car.

The fact that Azrael had been born far more skilled and intelligent than ordinary cats, had fostered in this animal not joy and goodness but a keen hunger for evil.

An ordinary cat was not expected to be moral, your everyday household kitty was not supposed to behave with the welfare of others in mind. Certainly many cats were blessed with sensibilities that led them to warn their families of burglars or fire or a leaking gas line. But for a speaking cat of Joe Grey and Azrael's talents, far more, it seemed to Joe, was expected-if you were dealt a winning hand, you were expected to sweeten the pot. That was Joe's opinion. If you were given the extra talents, you were committed by the power that made all life to give back in kind. Expected to make the lives around you brighter. To help take down the no-goods, not to join them.