Die Again (Rizzoli & Isles, #11)(49)

The doorbell rang.

She washed and dried her hands thinking Die, microbes! and walked to the front door.

Jane Rizzoli stood on the porch. “I’m here for the cat hair,” she said and pulled tweezers and an evidence bag from her pocket. “You do the honors.”

“Why don’t you?”

“He’s your cat.”

With a sigh, Maura took the tweezers and went into the living room, where the cat now sat on the coffee table, staring at her with suspicion in his green eyes. They’d been together for a week and she had not yet bonded with the animal. Was it possible to actually bond with a cat? At the Gott crime scene, he had lavished affection on Maura, mewing and rubbing against her until she’d been seduced into adopting him. Since she’d brought him home, his attitude had been sheer indifference, even though she’d lavished him with tuna and sardines. It was the universal lament of disappointed wives: He charmed me, wooed me, and now I’m his maid.

She knelt down beside the cat, who promptly jumped off the coffee table and strolled toward the kitchen with an attitude of sleek disdain.

“It has to be plucked straight from the animal,” said Jane.

“I know, I know.” Maura followed the cat down the hallway, muttering: “Why do I feel so ridiculous?”

Maura found the cat sitting where his bowl should be and his eyes fixed on hers with an accusing glare.

“Maybe he’s hungry,” said Jane.

“I just fed him.”

“So feed him again.” Jane opened the refrigerator and took out a carton of heavy cream.

“I need that for a recipe,” said Maura.

“I need cat hair.” Jane poured the cream into a bowl and set it down. The cat instantly started lapping it up. He never even noticed when Jane plucked three hairs from his back. “When all else fails, try bribery,” said Jane, sealing the hairs in the evidence bag. “Now I just need to get a sample from that other cat.”

“No one’s been able to catch the other cat.”

“Yeah, that’s gonna be a problem. Frost’s been to the house every day this week and hasn’t even spotted it.”

“Are you sure it’s still in the house? It hasn’t escaped?”

“Something’s eating the cat food, and that house has a lot of places to hide. Maybe I can trap him. You got a cardboard box I can use?”

“You’ll also need gloves. Do you have any idea how many nasty infections you can get from a cat scratch?” Maura went to the hall closet and found a pair of brown leather gloves. “Try those.”

“Gee, these look really expensive. I’ll try not to ruin them.” She turned toward the front door.

“Hold on. I need a pair. I know I’ve got some more in here.”

“You’re coming, too?”

“That cat doesn’t want to be caught.” Maura reached into a coat pocket and found a second pair of gloves. “This is definitely a two-woman job.”

THE SMELL OF DEATH still lingered in the house. Though the body and entrails had been removed days ago, decomposition releases its chemical signature into the air, a ripe bouquet of scents that find their way into every closet and crevice, seeping into furniture and carpets and drapes. Like smoke after a fire, the stench of decay does not easily surrender its quarters, and it stubbornly clung to Gott’s home, like a ghost of the man himself. No cleaning service had yet come to mop and scrub, and bloody pawprints still tracked across the floor. A week ago, when Maura had entered, she’d been in the company of detectives and criminalists whose voices had echoed throughout the rooms. Today she heard the stillness of an abandoned house, the silence broken only by the hum of one lone fly circling aimlessly in the living room.

Jane set down the cardboard box. “Let’s go room by room. Downstairs first.”

“Why am I suddenly thinking about that dead zookeeper?” said Maura.

“This is a house cat, not a leopard.”

“Even cute little house cats are predators, deep down in their DNA.” Maura pulled on gloves. “One study I read estimates that pet cats kill almost four billion birds a year.”

“Billions? For real?”

“It’s what they’re designed to do. Silent, agile, and fast.”

“In other words, hard to catch.” Jane sighed.

“Unfortunately.” Maura reached into the box and pulled out a bath towel that she’d brought from home. Her plan was to toss it over the fugitive kitty and bundle him into the box without getting clawed. “This has to be done eventually anyway. Poor Frost can’t spend the rest of his life delivering cat food and kitty litter. Once we catch it, do you think Frost wants it?”

“If we take it to the pound, he’ll never speak to us again. Trust me, when I drop it off at his house, it’s there to stay.”

They both pulled on gloves. Mounted animal heads stared down at them as they began their hunt. Jane got down on hands and knees and peered under the sofa and armchair. Maura searched cabinets and cubbyholes where the cat might have retreated. Clapping dust from her hands, she straightened and suddenly focused on the mounted African lion head, its glass eyes agleam with such life-like intelligence that she half expected the animal to leap from the wall.

“There he is!” Jane shouted.