repeatedly came to rest on the end table.
I continued, “I have a man, a certain janitor, who tells me he saw you put something in the back of Derrick Mason’s car on the night of Amanda’s murder. This janitor was later threatened by the same thug who threatened me.”
She was breathing quickly. “Fucking nigger comes to my school, bringing with him his fucking nigger attitude.”
“I assume you’re speaking of Derrick Booker?”
“The fucking nigger.”
“Yes, we’ve established that. Derrick loved Amanda.”
“Or so he says.”
“What did you put in the back of Derrick’s car?”
“Why would you believe I put something in his car?”
“Because the witness is credible.”
“Maybe he doesn’t like me.”
“Hard to believe,” I said. “Did you put something in the back of Derrick’s car?”
She looked at me, and her eyes were alight with tears and something strange. Something akin to triumph. “The knife I used to kill Amanda. Killed two birds with one stone really. Got rid of the skank-whore and the nigger in one fell swoop.”
I took in some air. I knew she had also hired the hitman, but that was a subject I was reticent to bring up, since the death of Johnny Bright was still an on-going murder investigation. The less said, the better.
“Why did you kill Amanda?”
“So she would leave my Bryan alone, the fucking skank-whore.”
“Did you kill any others?”
She tilted her head and smiled. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Boy, can I.”
“There was one up north.”
“What was her name?”
“Tabitha something-or-other.”
“You disposed of the body in the San Francisco Bay?”
“My my my, you are a good detective aren’t you?”
“That’s why I make the big bucks.”
“Do you really?”
“No. Not really.”
“So you just lied to me.”
“It was meant to be witty repartee.”
“I hate liars.”
She spun away rapidly, reached for the end table drawer, yanked it open. I was at her side in three long strides. I lifted my foot and kicked the drawer closed just as her fingers curled around a revolver. She screamed in pain and frustration, turned and lashed out at me. I avoided the swipe, managed to keep my foot on the drawer, trapping her.
She clawed at my leg, but jeans are a wonderful thing: snug, tight and protective. Finally, she pounded on my poor injured leg until she sagged to the ground, whimpering.
We stayed like that until Detective Hanson, listening in on the wire strapped to my chest, burst in through the front door.
63.
The black and white kitten was stalking my pencil eraser. It had white paws and a patch of white fur on its chest. It was slowly picking its way across my cluttered desk, around a Vicks Chloraseptic, over the latest James Rollins novel, and finally peering around my water bottle. From there it had a good view of the pencil eraser, which, coincidentally was twitching invitingly in my fingers. Now within perfect pouncing range, the kitten dug its hind paws into the grain of my pine desk, wound itself tight as a drum, then sprang forward, pouncing like a true champion. The eraser didn’t stand a chance. The kitten and pencil rolled together across my desk in a furry ball of black and white.
My door opened, and in came defense attorney Charlie Brown and his faithful assistant Mary Cho. Charlie was bald as ever and Mary Cho’s skirt still hung just above her knees. Nice knees. I looked up at her; she was frowning.
Caught again.
Charlie walked over and dropped an envelope on my desktop. The kitten pounced on the envelope. Charlie jumped back, surprised as hell that something on my desk actually moved. He straightened his tie and cleared his throat, tried his best to look venerable. When he spoke, he kept his eye on the feline just in case it should make an attempt on his jugular.
“A bonus,” he said to me. “For catching the bad guy.”
I looked at the envelope, which at the moment was feeling the unholy wrath of the furry critter. “You don’t give a shit about the bad guy. Your client’s free, and that’s all that matters to you.”
“I do give a shit, and I resent you saying that. That’s slander.”
“So sue me. Know any good attorneys?”
“Fuck you, Knighthorse. If you quit being such a hardass, I might throw you some more cases, seeing as you performed above expectations on this one.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere, Charlie,” I said.
He sighed. “Charles.”
I picked up the kitten and thrust it toward the attorney; he jumped back, stepping on his assistant’s toes, who stifled a scream.
I said, “Would you like to hold him, Charlie?”
“No, godammit. And it’s Charlie. I mean Charles. Fuck.” He turned and left.
“Assistant Cho, how about you: would you like to pet my kitty?”
“You’re a pig.”
When they were gone, I brought the kitten to my face and kissed his little wet nose. “What did I say?”
Cat Peterson left her abusive husband and she and her daughter moved in with her sister in a modest Spanish-style home in a city called Temecula, in a neighboring county called Riverside, a county made popular in many a Perry Mason novel. I pulled up in front of the house and, kitten in hand, walked up to the front door and rang the bell. As I waited, the kitten made every effort to kill my nose.
“It’s been fun having you around,” I said to him. “But you’re going to grow up with a little girl now. You take good care of her, okay?”
He gnawed on my thumb, purring.
The door opened and once again I found myself staring down at little Alyssa.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” I said.
“Tinker Bell ran away.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
I bent down and handed her the kitten. She gasped, then ripped the little booger from my fingers and hugged it with everything she had. The kitten, perhaps realizing that it had met its energetic match, submitted to the unabashed love. She twirled him around and around and dashed inside the house screaming for her mother to
