The Book of Cold Cases(27)

Packages were left in the mail room, so it wasn’t UPS or FedEx. Who had a code to the front door of my building? I heard another soft sound. Someone was definitely there.

“I’m calling the police,” I said loudly. “You need to go away now.”

Silence.

“I’m not opening this door,” I said. “You can’t get in here. The police will be on their way in thirty seconds. Leave.”

Still silence, but I knew there was a presence in the hallway. I dialed nine, waited a beat, then dialed one.

Finally, there was a sound. Whiny and growly, rather pissed-off. A cat’s meow.

I blinked. Canceled the call. Then I opened the door.

In front of my door was a plastic pet carrier and two large shopping bags. As I watched, the cat carrier shifted, as if the cat inside was turning in circles, tired of being trapped.

Taped to the top of one of the bags was a note:

    You were right. I decided not to come to my senses. I’m going to live with my mother for a while.

I agree he shouldn’t get the cat. Mom is allergic, so the cat is yours now. Sorry to do this to you, but he’s fixed and he doesn’t bite. I guess you can drop him at a shelter if you have to, but I couldn’t do it. If you keep him, let him sleep on the bed, because he loves it. He’ll do anything you want for tuna treats.

Sorry again,

Alison

P.S. His name is Winston Purrchill.





* * *



—

He was a gray tabby. Big and sleek, his markings dark, with a white expanse on his throat and chest. His face wasn’t pretty, and one of his ears was slightly bent near the top. When I opened his carrier in my condo, he walked out slowly, looking at me disdainfully from his muddy green eyes.

The shopping bags contained food, a litter box, a container of litter, and three packets of the promised tuna treats. I’d never owned a cat before, never had a pet of any kind. I’d never asked for this. What the hell was I supposed to do?

For the first time, I called Michael about something that wasn’t murder-related. I’d already had a lecture from Esther, and I didn’t know who else to call. “What do you know about cats?” I asked when he answered.

“I like them, even though most of them are assholes,” he replied. “Why? Does this have to do with something you’re working on?”

“No. It has to do with a cat.” I explained what had happened. As I talked, Winston Purrchill sauntered around the perimeter of my condo like he was inspecting it, his gait unconcerned. Then he hopped up to my kitchen table and sat, placing himself directly on top of the file I’d made of the Lady Killer case, where it rested in its permanent place on the table. From there, he regarded me silently, his tail wrapped just so around his feet.

“Hold on. I’m getting a beer from the fridge,” Michael said. I heard the sound of a fridge door opening, and the hiss of a beer cap being removed. The sound made me think he was wearing flannel. Plaid flannel. And the thought came into my head, as clear as if someone had spoken it: I really need to meet this guy in person, because I think I like him.

Michael came back on the line while I was still thinking that over. “Are you going to take this cat to a shelter?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” I looked into Winston’s unblinking eyes, lined precisely with black. He seemed to be waiting for an answer, like Michael was. “No,” I said. “It’s too cruel. I’ll keep him for a while.”

“Maybe it’ll be good for you,” Michael said. “I’d like a pet, but I’m away from the house too much.”

“It’s just for a while,” I told Winston, so we were both clear. “If I had a pet, I’d rather have a dog. A dog can ward off intruders.”

Winston blinked at me in disbelief.

“It’s easy, Shea,” Michael said. “Just feed him and give him somewhere to sleep. A window to look out of. Cats don’t ask for much.”

“Okay.” I reached a hand out. Winston sniffed it, running his nose along my skin. I relaxed my fingers and tried stroking his cheek, then the top of his head. He didn’t object, so I kept going, curling my fingers into a scratching position. Winston tilted his head so my fingers were behind his ear, so I obediently moved them. He closed his eyes. “You’re sitting on my file,” I told him.

“Me, or the cat?” Michael said.

“The cat. He’s parked himself on my Greer file, and now I don’t want to shoo him off.”

“Welcome to pet ownership. And I don’t think you need to go through it again anyway. You know it by heart.”

I did. Since my interview with Detective Black, I’d gone over my Greer papers again and again. The last time through, I’d read over the newspaper clippings that were the only public record of Beth Greer’s young life: her parents’ wedding announcement, her own birth announcement, and the brief and respectful notices of her parents’ deaths. Based on the wedding photo, Julian Greer had been tall and handsome, while Mariana was petite and blond, her face much like Beth’s except for a devastating sweetness in her features.

They both looked so formal in their wedding photo, and neither of them looked happy. It was unsettling to look at their faces and think of the fact that their marriage would be unhappy and then their lives would end, the groom killed in a home invasion, the bride dead in a car accident two years later.